Songs of Spring (22 page)

‘What are you doing here?’ Felicia stopped in surprise at seeing Daniel waiting for her outside the hospital.

‘
Not
very welcoming. I thought we might have dinner if you’re off duty now.’

‘I am.’ Felicia was suspicious. ‘This isn’t bad news, is it?’

Daniel raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you implying that’s the only reason I’d make such an offer?’

‘Usually, yes.’

Daniel laughed. ‘Pure imagination. Not to mention a slur on my noble character.’

An hour later, dining at Rules, Felicia asked politely once more: ‘Why are you here?’

‘Caroline’s afraid you’ll scuttle back to Ypres now the offensive has begun again there.’

‘I was considering it,’ she admitted.

‘Then Caroline said “slug” to you. Don’t tell me what it means,’ Daniel added hastily when he saw the look of thunder on her face.

‘I see dear Tilly has been talking.’

‘Er – what about?’

Felicia hesitated. ‘Promise you won’t laugh.’

‘On my honour.’

‘Out at the front – well, you know what it’s like, and our job was gruesome. One day last summer it was particularly bad. We’d been working for eighteen hours without a
break and – to say the least there was a lot of blood and gore around. Then I found a slug when we at last crawled into our blankets to sleep.’

‘Well?’ he asked when she stopped.

‘I screamed out in terror for Tilly to take it away. It was only tiredness.’ Felicia was defensive. ‘Tilly thought it was funny, and after a moment or two so did I. It was an antidote to laugh, I suppose. She said to me, “Now I know you’ve an Achilles heel like everyone else. Felicia, promise me something.” I could hardly refuse. “Learn when to stop,” she said. “How,” I asked brightly, “will I know when that is?” “You will,” she whipped back at me, “for I shall tell you.”’

‘And now she has,’ Daniel said thankfully.

‘Yes, I promised, so I must stay here.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose I’ve done my bit to atone for Mons.’

Daniel stared at her. ‘Is
that
why you chose that part of the line? Because I was wounded at Mons?’

‘Yes.’

‘It wouldn’t work, my love.’

The calm certainty that had been with Felicia all her life that she and Daniel were inseparable suddenly deserted her. He had his own life, his own choices to make, and soon the time would come for decision.

‘It will, if we so choose.’

He looked at her compassionately. ‘And if I do not choose?’

‘You must choose me. Remember what you said to me when you brought me back from France? Choose life, Felicia. Now I say it to you. Choose life.’

‘I’m not so selfish.’

‘Is it selfish to grant me my dearest wish?’

‘Darling Felicia, damn you, Felicia. You know why I won’t. We can both choose life, but not with each other. We can’t be Abelard and Heloise. Nor, incidentally, have I any intention of going into a monastery after the war, and you shouldn’t be thinking of that way out either.’

‘I’m not. That decision was made a long time ago.’

‘Right. So if – when – I walk away from you, you’ll marry Luke.’

‘You have no right to ask me that.’

Daniel sighed. ‘Look, I don’t regard myself as a war-wounded cripple.
My
war work has been in London, it wasn’t the five minutes I spent at the front before a shell put paid, as I thought then, to any hope in my life. Now I know it didn’t, and the reason for that is you. You made me see there was life beyond what had happened to me. And there is, even without marriage. Would you want to take away what you gave me?’

Felicia listened, and certainty returned to her. ‘I thought,’ she said demurely, ‘you might like both, with me.’

Daniel surrendered, shouting with laughter. ‘I might. Oh, I might indeed.’

Yves returned as the leaves began to fall in earnest, tired and dispirited. The Germans were retreating, but far from defeated. A new assault on the Belgian Front was to begin the next day, 14th October, on the River Lys and the Deynze Canal, but he had been sent back to London because of the diplomatic situation. Ludendorff and the German High Command were at odds with the Kaiser and the Reichstag,
but the army were still backing their commander. President Wilson’s admirable Fourteen Points for Peace a few days earlier had in theory been accepted by the German government, but there was little confidence in their acceptance, since Ludendorff was adamant that Germany should continue to occupy Belgium after the war was over. The enemy had just sunk a passenger steamer off the Irish coast with great loss of life and, worse, intelligence reports suggested that even if the Fourteen Points were accepted and Germany evacuated Belgium, the terms would leave Ludendorff free to devastate Belgium and other occupied land as they retreated to Germany, in order to hold up the Allies from following them there too quickly. Agreed peace therefore looked impossible, but there was no sign of the German High Command being willing to surrender.

‘The war will crawl on into 1919,’ Yves told her. ‘Perhaps a spring offensive might end it.’ His voice was tired and without hope, but against her will, Caroline’s heart leapt with pleasure at the thought of one last Christmas with Yves. One last Christmas at the Rectory.

If war was doomed to continue, was that so much to wish for?

The maroons boomed out over London. At eleven o’clock French time on 11th November the guns had fallen silent.

‘It’s over.’ Caroline’s words sounded flat and unreal, even to her.

It had seemed just another Monday morning in Whitehall until shortly after ten a.m. news had come through Military Intelligence that four years of war were ending this very day. It was impossible to pretend their work still mattered. On the other hand, until those maroons sounded, it was impossible to quieten the instinctive caution that said, wait, this may be one more false alarm. They had compromised by telephoning Ellen to join them.

She needed no second urging. ‘Someone can pinch me to convince me it’s really happening,’ she’d said.

‘Look!’ Yves had been standing restlessly by the window, and she went to join him, looking down into the street. A few
minutes ago the streets had been almost deserted, but now, like moles greeting spring, every door was opening and more and more people flooding out to join the crowds. What began as little more than a hum, was growing to a crescendo of one deep roaring cheer from Trafalgar Square and Whitehall.

‘Let’s go.’ Caroline was caught up in the excitement. ‘Let’s
all
go!’ Luke and Ellen were already disappearing through the door, but Yves was waiting for her.

She took his hand and pulled him along with her. ‘Just for today, let’s be happy,’ she cried.

They were swept along by the surging crowd into Whitehall, for so long a grey sombre place, but now with the balconies full of red-tabbed high brass, and different coloured uniforms, and the crowds below them waving Union Jacks, colour had returned to it. All buses and taxis were being commandeered by the celebrating crowds; tin hooters were blaring, trays were being banged with zest, and a hundred and one different songs of spring were being hummed, whistled or yelled.

‘Where are we going?’ Yves shouted into Caroline’s ear.

‘The Palace, of course. Where else?’

Where else but to go where the people had gathered when the war began over four years ago, where else to go when four years of slaughter, waste and suffering had ended almost unexpectedly? Despite the increasing military successes in October, despite the surrender of Turkey, and even despite the news two days ago of the armistice with Austria and Hungary, no one truly believed that Germany would have accepted all the Allied terms for peace.

‘One last push,’ everyone had said. They had said it so
often, however, that few had really believed it. Even when the newspapers confirmed some of the wild stories flying round London (Ludendorff had collapsed, he was dead, he had resigned, the Kaiser was dead, the Kaiser had abdicated, Prince Max was in charge, Hindenburg was in charge, no one was in charge, the German fleet had mutinied) they still did not believe it. It was true, it was now known, that Ludendorff had resigned, the Kaiser had abdicated his throne and left for Holland, and that Prince Max had accepted the regency and then resigned from it in favour of a chancellor, but even this news was treated with caution. Ludendorff’s understanding of an armistice, after all, had included Germany’s right to continue to occupy Belgium, and his obstinacy on this point had been unshakeable. Even though he had resigned, Yves was still naturally concerned that Ludendorff’s views might prevail.

No longer, yet there was little to rejoice at in the armistice save that the war was over. The eleventh stroke had chimed, but the known and unknown dead rested silent in the poppy fields of France, in the deserts of Palestine, in the seven seas and wherever the butchering hand of war had stretched.

In Ashden Margaret shifted awkwardly on her knees in the Rectory dining room. They hadn’t had family prayers at the Rectory for so long, it seemed strange indeed to be solemnly filing in to join the Rector, Mrs Lilley and Lady Buckford.

‘We thank you, Lord, for an end to the suffering of so many people all over the world …’

Margaret listened while the Rector led the prayers, but most of her attention was on a prayer of her own. She was praying for Joe. How proud she’d been to know that it had been a battle in Italy at the River Piave that had forced the Austrians to ask for an armistice. To her it seemed Joe had won it all by himself – and that was a kind of justice, to make up for what the war had done to Fred. Margaret found herself choking, as tears unexpectedly flowed. It must be the relief that it was all over, and she tried not to blow her nose too loudly. Then she heard a loud snort from somewhere, and opening one eye with an apology to the Lord she saw it was Lady Buckford. Mrs Lilley wasn’t crying. She had the same set faraway look on her face as ever. Agnes was busy shushing Elizabeth Agnes, who was asking what an armistice was.

‘An armistice is when Daddy comes home for ever,’ was Agnes’s answer, and that kept the little girl quiet.

Margaret thought of Lizzie and what she would be saying to little Frank. Whatever it was, Lizzie most certainly needed a prayer too, but before Margaret could frame her own, the Rector did it for her.

‘Lord, let us pray for Lizzie and for Rudolf, far away in Germany …’

At Lake’s Farm, Lizzie was alone in the cowshed. To her astonishment, Farmer Lake had given them the rest of the day off, and the Land Girls and POWs had quickly vanished. Even that miserable so-and-so must think there was something to celebrate. Lizzie was in two minds about it. She was glad the fighting was finished with, but the thought
of the problems that now had to be faced overwhelmed her, and she found herself reluctant to go back to Frank. Joachim had been working at the farm today, and she’d said to him: ‘It’ll mean you can go home.’

‘
Ja
.’ His eyes had been filled with homesickness.

‘Your sweetheart must be happy today.’ Joachim had showed her the photograph of his sweetheart, a stalwart German
mädchen
with a pleasant face, and soon she would make Joachim a good wife. Not like Lizzie had been to Rudolf, although she loved him. The trouble was she loved Frank too. The time had come to write to Rudolf and tell him about her son. She wasn’t any great shakes at writing, and Rudolf would be hurt. He was a kind man though. If he accepted the situation he’d be good to the child. But what about Frank? He’d always wanted a son too, and now he had one he adored. There was going to be no armistice in her problem; it was only just beginning, and had to be faced. Slowly she began to walk back towards her home where Frank and their son would be impatiently waiting for her.

‘And for Frank Eliot who has made himself a part of this village with his work at the cinema and on the memorial garden …’

Frank Eliot knew exactly why Lizzie hadn’t yet returned. He didn’t blame her, for fine words were one thing, and facts another. ‘One day when the war ends’ had a splendidly far-off ring to it. But now it had ended. What would he do if Lizzie chose Rudolf? It would tear him in two to have to leave his son, and Lizzie too he had come to love, even though she had never replaced Jennifer, his first wife. Had
he the strength to leave? He might not have any choice. He could hardly hang around Ashden like a spectre at the feast. He supposed it was but one more blow in a life that had dealt him many. Or would it be one blow too much?

‘Let us pray for Joe Dibble in Italy …’

Half past seven the news had come through that the war was over not only in Austria, but everywhere. Their war had been over for a week now, but Joe was going to keep his head down being in a pioneer battalion, for the fighting had been far more bitter than any he could recall on the Western Front. Mines didn’t know there’d been an armistice, and snipers didn’t care. Nothing was going to prevent his getting back to Muriel and the kiddies, he vowed. In fact, maybe he’d pray. It must be being brought up in a rectory, he supposed, because public praying in the Army wasn’t common – except at gatherings held by the padres. He didn’t know anyone who didn’t confess to praying privately though.

‘Keep me – keep us
all
safe,’ he asked God vehemently, as he ate breakfast, if you could call this chow breakfast. He thought of the huge breakfasts his mother used to serve at the Rectory, and wondered if she were still doing it, despite the rations. If not, she would begin again soon. The Rectory would go on for ever, just as it always had. Nothing could change there.

‘A prayer for our son George.’

How were they supposed to know when the war was over? George wondered. Carry on as usual were the orders – until eleven o’clock – and by jingo they had. The
squadron was still bombing German airfields, the only difference was that the enemy weren’t putting up much resistance. No sign of a Fokker in the sky. Where were they now, the von Richthofens and the Udets? Their day was over. And so soon would his be, he realised thankfully, consulting his old pocket watch.

He landed and walked into the mess. No one noticed, such was the hubbub and the drinking going on. His solitary flight in the sky had more to do with armistice than this din. Still, he had to be sociable. Soon the rightful owners would be back in the chateaux so eagerly commandeered by the military and air forces, and signs of war would slowly vanish. It was over.

George suddenly felt giddy with relief as he realised this was indeed so, and he was ready for the pint of beer pushed into his hand. Tonight he’d see Florence, and life would begin once again.

‘Lord, we ask you to bring Jamie Thorn back to his family again …’

Jamie hadn’t felt much like rejoicing, just a great thankfulness that they could pack up and go home. Stupid, having orders to carry on fighting till eleven o’clock. Some poor sods would get shot all for nothing. He wouldn’t be one of them though, for he’d get home to Ashden if it was the last thing he did. This trench in which he was bivouacking was disgusting; it was a German one now overrun by the Brits, and the way it was constructed showed the Germans weren’t good at everything. There was no sound anywhere for everyone was keeping his head
down, determined not to be wiped out at this late moment. They’d been ordered not to fraternise with the enemy after eleven o’clock. To hell with that. 1914 was over, and so were these outdated attitudes. As he and his mates looked at each other in wonder when the gup shot round that it was eleven o’clock, Jamie had decided not to wait.

‘Come on, mate.’ He hauled Jack Wilson over the top with him. In the distance they could see German helmets cautiously emerging from their lines. Jamie wanted to run to meet them but he couldn’t somehow. His legs seemed heavy, like in a dream. He got there in the end though.

‘How are yer, Fritz?’ He clapped one enormous German on the back.

Funny, he thought of him as Fritz, not the Boche any longer. Not Huns. Just old Fritz, away from his family, like Jamie was. He wouldn’t be away from Agnes much longer though. Jamie felt faint at the prospect and almost stumbled.

‘What’s up, mate?’ Jack asked.

‘Feel odd,’ he mumbled. He swayed again, propping himself up with his rifle. Then he realised Jack, his old mate, was drawing away in horror. What was wrong? The truth struck him with sudden and terrible irony. The men had been dropping dead like flies in the last few days,
and he’d got it
. The sodding Spanish flu.

‘
No!
’ A great wail tore itself from him. He’d come through four years of war, fought at the Somme, Cambrai, every bloody where. He’d won a fucking medal and he was going to die of fucking
flu
.

‘Lord, we pray for my daughter Phoebe and her coming baby and thank you for the happiness Billy has brought to her.’

‘We’ll have to celebrate at lunch, love. I’ll be at the Britannia tonight.’ Billy kissed her, as the maroons died away. ‘Think of me. It’s going to be lively.’

‘Think of you? I’m
coming
,’ Phoebe replied.

‘No, love, it won’t be safe, not with the baby.’

‘Then
make
it safe,’ Phoebe commanded. ‘The war’s over. I’ll ask Caroline and Yves to come with me. Oh, I know.’ She beamed. ‘I’ll ask Tilly to take me by ambulance. Even the thickest crowds will let that pass. And if you’re really worried, we’ll take Felicia too.’

‘Lord, we pray for my daughter Felicia …’

‘What will you do tonight, Felicia?’ someone asked as she dashed to the cloakroom.

‘Nothing in particular.’

‘But you must, it’s
special
. The war’s over. Come with us.’

‘No, thank you.’ She was exhausted. With all the flu patients in addition to the war wounded, life was hectic and did not stop being so just because eleven o’clock had struck and the fighting had stopped. As she walked out of the hospital at lunchtime, a voice said quietly:

‘Hello, Felicia.’

‘Daniel!’

He grinned, then waved his stick threateningly. ‘I’ve come to take you out to lunch, young woman. And I’m taking you to dinner tonight.’

‘There won’t be a restaurant seat in London,’ she laughed, well pleased.

‘I’ve booked lunch for two at the Carlton for Admiral Beatty. If he doesn’t show up, and we do, the restaurant won’t care.’

‘I’ll have to change.’

‘Permission granted.’

‘Lord, we pray for Lady Hunney and her family …’

Maud Hunney sat alone in her morning room at the Dower House. John was in London, of course, and no doubt she could join him later in the day if she wished to do battle with the crowds and delays that train travel would bring. John had telephoned the news earlier, and the Rector had called too. He had said he knew how she must be feeling. Did he? Perhaps so, for he was a perceptive man – and, she realised with some surprise, not being in the habit of thinking this way, a good friend. Times had indeed changed, even for her. Before the war the Manor did not think of its rector as a good friend, since it was the patron of the living. Perhaps that too would change now the war was over. That meant no more mothers would be put through what she and most families in the land had endured.