Summer's End (24 page)

‘Suppose you play a game and imagine these aren't just normal fears but real. How would you feel in two weeks' time if you were still here and not in Paris, if there were no wedding because you'd changed your mind?'

Isabel considered this, then brightened up. ‘I do feel a little better. You're a dear, Caroline, you really are. I hope you're as happy as me one day.'

I am now, Caroline thought to herself. Much happier, in fact. She was surprised it was not written all over her face: ‘
I love Reggie
.'

In those final days before the wedding, Caroline's concentric circles spun furiously and independently. The King's intervention to break the Irish deadlock had failed, and the bitter episode of the gun-running
Asgard
and the Dublin Shootings poised the country on the brink of civil war, Father told them gravely. Meanwhile, Austria disregarded Serbia's apology and seized the excuse to mobilise and invade; Russia snarled and the Kaiser snarled back. Goodwood took
place in stifling heat without the King's presence, but society floated on in chiffon, satin and top hats waiting for the date when it could thankfully retire to the seaside. Her birthday passed with scant Rectory attention – unsurprisingly since she chose to spend the day on a picnic with Reggie, her excuse for being alone with him
all day
being that she would feel selfish dragging her family away from the Rectory at such a vital time. Eleanor dutifully failed to put in her ‘offered' appearance as chaperone. The Rectory larders groaned, the refrigerators and ice-house filled with raspberry ices (red, not white, though, Mrs Dibble snapped), bridesmaids' dresses were fitted and pressed, the bridal gown allotted a room of its own. Now the wedding fever had gripped Caroline too, quite apart from her own reasons for looking forward to it. Within her there lay a deep nugget of joy, as, bursting with excitement, she waited for Saturday when Friday's grey skies would lift and the long hot summer would reach its climax.

‘P
raise we the Lord!' In the interests of the rest of the household Mrs Dibble refrained from bursting into song and maintained a continuous and energetic hum of gratitude. Not only had the Almighty dutifully provided a warm, dry day (the sun would undoubtedly soon be shining), but He had also arranged for her junkets and jellies to set, a matter about which Mrs Dibble had been uneasy. Cautiously she went to investigate her snow cheese left in the larder to drain all night, with strict instructions that that blessed dog was to be kept out of the kitchen. There had been one terrible occasion when Ahab, strolling into the kitchen from his appointed bed in the scullery in search of nocturnal amusement, found the snow cheese merrily draining away its surplus liquid, ate the lot and was promptly sick, lying wanly and reproachfully by the cause of his downfall when she arrived in the morning. This time all was well. One by one Mrs Dibble tweaked off the muslin covers from the lemon cheesy mounds to find a satisfactory amount of liquid beneath each sieve.

She drew in a satisfied breath, made herself a strengthening cup of tea, and prepared to finalise the tactics for her battlefield while the troops slumbered on.

‘Morning, Mrs Dibble.' She was wrong. Even Harriet was prepared to be down early today, her handsome face for once looking excited rather than sulky. Myrtle tumbled in a few minutes later, just as Harriet had finished her tea and was setting forth to start on the drawing room armed with Globe polish, cloths, tea-leaves and brushes.

‘And disinfectant in the pigwash tub, if you please, Myrtle. We don't want an army of bluebottles joining in the party. And I thought I told you, Myrtle, to empty the grease-bucket strainer. I can
smell
it from here. And change the fly-papers. And you'll need some more Monkey soap out.'

‘Morning, Mrs D.' Agnes came in, trying not to yawn, ten minutes
later. Once again she hadn't slept, but she was determined to do her best for the Rectory today.

‘I want a word with you, girl,' Mrs Dibble said as Myrtle departed to the scullery, in what passed for her as a motherly tone. She pushed a cup of tea towards Agnes. ‘Young Jamie Thorn's coming here today to help Percy out.'

Already Agnes was back in torment and it was only twenty to seven. ‘Here?' she repeated stupidly. She'd been trying to see Jamie for days, but he wouldn't open the door, not even to her, not after the rough music. He was never in the shop, never at home apparently, and the door was never left open now like it usually was. His mother always pretended not to know where he was, but she must, she
must.

‘The Rector asked him to come and help Mr Dibble with the wine.' Mrs Dibble offered no further explanation.

Agnes nodded as if the news were of no interest to her, though she was filled with instant hope and despair at the same time. She didn't care now if he'd done it or not, she still wanted Jamie. She realised this was the Rector's way of showing Ashden what he thought of their nasty habits; he was allying himself openly with Jamie Thorn. She wondered vaguely why, and then forgot about the Rector in the dilemma of her own affairs.
He
would be here; she would see him, that was all she cared about. Today somehow or other must settle things between Jamie and herself; every problem had a climax, and today was hers and Jamie's.

She rose to her feet. ‘Thank you, Mrs Dibble,' she said, and went to lay dining-room breakfast. ‘Breakfast for us at seven-thirty today, Agnes,' she heard Mrs Dibble shout after her. ‘And Miss Caroline's going to take a tray up to Miss Isabel at eight o'clock, remember.'

‘I'll remember,' she shouted back.

Old Dibble had called her Agnes, she suddenly realised. That meant a lot. She was on her side, then. Right. Agnes straightened her shoulders. This would be The Day.

Caroline jerked awake, took a second to realise that this was really The Day,
her
day, jumped out of bed and rushed to the window. The sun wasn't out, but on the other hand there was no sign of rain on the terrace. It was going to be a glorious, glorious day, it had to be. Happily she seized her water jug, splashing water with alacrity into the bowl, and glad she had had a bath last night for this morning no
one would dispute Isabel's right to the bathroom. She decided she'd go down to the kitchen to collect Isabel's breakfast, and remembered family prayers at eight-thirty this morning. She'd have to dress properly. Bother. Today of all days she didn't want her usual rush. She opened her door and craned her head out, sniffing in the atmosphere. Already the Rectory was excited. She could hear George crashing about in his room, the comforting hum of her mother's voice downstairs, despite the almost tangible tension. They could make enough electricity from the Rectory air to light Piccadilly – or Ashden. That would be the day; they hadn't got gas in the village yet, let alone a public electricity supply. Not that she minded. She loved the glow of oil-lamps, the sight of Fred slowly working his way round the Rectory lamps each evening; and who would give up the warmth of the fires of the kitchen ranges even for the excitement of gas stoves? To be fair, she thought ruefully, Mrs Dibble would. It must have been terrible for her all this hot summer to have to cook on the range; she never complained, though there were frequent raised voices in the servants' quarters.

Fifteen minutes later Caroline dashed downstairs, complete with wedding camisole, petticoat, knickers and stockings and her old yellow dress. She stopped short on the threshold of the kitchen, beheld its mountains of ordered chaos and tried to bite back laughter.

‘Mrs Dibble, it looks like the Carlton's kitchens. Mr Escoffier himself couldn't do better.' Mrs Dibble visibly preened herself. ‘Master Dabb didn't need to help you out,' Caroline added for good measure, and was rewarded by seeing Mrs Dibble blush with pride.

Servants' breakfast had been relegated to the servants' hall in order to make as much room as possible in the kitchens where china, cutlery and the best damask table linen were all laid out to Mrs Dibble's despair. Time after time she'd pointed out to those dratted girls sometimes to fold the napkins in three, sometimes four. That way linen lasted longer, for creases didn't grow into holes. But would they listen? No. And it was she – or rather Agnes – who sat mending it with ‘flourishing thread',

Trays of pattie cases were lined up, hard-boiled eggs lay cooling in preserving pans, the boiled lobsters were assembled for shelling and creaming, pies and canapés lay awaiting garnish and toppings. Bowls of pastry mix stood purposefully on the table for cheese straws and anchovy puffs.

Even as Caroline surveyed the scene, there was a thump on the tradesmen's door, and Joey Sharpe staggered in with two huge buckets full of cream taken off his yoke. ‘Reckon the Ritz will have to do without till Sunday. Ashden do have it all, surely,' he joked.

‘Be off with your cheek,' Mrs Dibble replied automatically, eyes darting suspiciously over the cream to ensure it was a satisfactory colour.

Agnes hurried in from the servants' hall, complete with tray for Isabel, decked with teapot and a rose.

‘Her favourite,' Caroline said appreciatively. ‘Thank you, Agnes.'

‘When you gets married your trouble begins,' observed Mrs Dibble without rancour. ‘That's what they do say. Best enjoy life while she can, poor lass.'

Kidneys were unlikely to do much to alleviate Isabel's problem, Caroline thought ruefully as she negotiated the staircase carefully and arrived with the tray relatively unscathed save for a minor slop of milk. She wondered if she too would be excused family prayers on her wedding day. This, she hugged to herself with excitement, was her own engagement day, though as yet only she and Reggie knew it.

‘Good morning, beautiful bride.' Caroline set the tray down on a side table in Isabel's room and drew it up to the bed.

Isabel, still fast asleep, awoke and struggled up, yawning and stretching her arms luxuriously. ‘Lovely. Just think, I can have kidneys for breakfast every day from now on if I like.'

‘Almost worth getting married for.'

‘It certainly is.' Isabel tucked in with relish, all sign of her earlier nerves vanished. People, Caroline decided, were extraordinary, especially one's own family.

‘Shall I come to help you dress?'

Isabel considered rather too long for tact. ‘Just you and Mother. I don't want Phoebe jumping about or Felicia mooning around.'

Happy families, thought Caroline, in such a good mood she was amused rather than irritated on behalf of her sisters.

‘Come along in, Rosie, don't be shy.' Mrs Dibble waved the girl into the kitchen, neatly dressed in the Ashden mauve print, her black for this afternoon carefully tied in a parcel. She looked her up and down.
Skinny, small little thing she was, yet a hard worker. ‘Servants' breakfast is in the hall. Have you eaten yet?'

Rosie Trott shook her head, her great brown eyes looking round her in wonder. She'd never been in the Rectory kitchen before, and it was nothing like the kitchens of Ashden Manor. This looked so old-fashioned with its copper saucepans and pots hanging on the wall – those that weren't over the two-ovened Hattersley range or on the table-tops. An old cabinet refrigerator, a tongue presser, meat screens – in Ashden Manor it was all seamless steel and smart black gas-stoves. It was a different sort of kitchen and she rather liked it; she felt comfortable here, for all she'd heard about Mrs Dibble being a terror.

‘That would be lovely, Mrs Dibble.'

‘You know Harriet, Myrtle and Agnes, of course,' Mrs Dibble hurled at her as she bustled the girl along to the servants' hall.

Rosie nodded. ‘I were at school with Myrtle.'

‘In with you then.' Mrs Dibble decided not to overdo the friendliness. ‘There's a lot to do here, and I've heard you're not afraid of hard work…'

‘What is the news, Laurence?'

Elizabeth, unusually, went anxiously into the study where, again unusually, her husband was reading
The Times
before taking family prayers. Matins had been especially early today, a fact Ashden rewarded by leaving the Rector to recite to himself – to his great amusement. ‘The children must not be upset, but I want to know,' she continued.

‘It is not good, Elizabeth. The Lutine bell was rung at Lloyds yesterday to announce that Russia had carried out its threat and mobilised. There is little hope now that Germany will not retaliate and declare war on Russia. Belgium has recalled its army, and fears German invasion naturally enough if –' He broke off. ‘And in France, there is bad news also. Monsieur Jaurès, the influential French Socialist, who has done so much to try to avert war, has been assassinated.'

‘Then there is little hope for poor Europe,' Elizabeth sighed. ‘It will once again be dragged into war. Thank goodness we are an island.'

‘There is worse news. The Stock Exchange in London was closed yesterday afternoon in response to the international financial crisis.'

‘But what has it to do with England?'

‘Let us hope nothing.'

There was a pause. ‘Then
we
might be drawn in? And France? Oh,
Laurence
!'

‘It cannot be coincidence that Winston Churchill has sent the British Fleet into the Channel on manoeuvres. We are rattling our own sabres, and Sir John has telephoned already to say he cannot be with us today. He is needed in Whitehall during the present crisis. He is close to Haldane, you know, the former War Minister, who did so much to restructure the army.'

‘Oh, but that's terrible.' Unable to grapple with the wider horror, Elizabeth seized on the particular. ‘Today of all days. I take it Lady Hunney is coming?'

‘Yes. I doubt if a mere international war would keep her from adding her lustre to our celebrations.'

‘That is not like you, Laurence.' He must really be worried, she realised.

‘Exports of food from France and Germany will be stopped.' Laurence was not listening. He was still reading on. ‘The bank rate has risen to eight per cent and the country has only a month's supply of meat.'

‘I shall speak to the farm immediately,' Elizabeth declared. ‘There may be a rush. We are fortunate in Ashden to be so near at hand to our supplies.'

‘The price of bread goes up one halfpenny a loaf next week. Gold is being called in –' Laurence lay down his newspaper. ‘The situation is very serious.'

‘Any European war must be serious for our imports. Thank goodness we have the Empire to supply us. How
can
they take our gold coins away? That is
our
money.'

‘They will issue us with paper money instead.'

‘I don't like the sound of that,' Elizabeth declared, then bravely came to the heart of her fear. ‘Laurence, Isabel and Robert are going to
France
tonight.' There was a question mark in her voice.

‘France is a long way from Russia, my dear.' But there was little to reassure her in the Rector's voice.
The Times
had written of England's duty, and that the Empire stood ready. Furthermore, what he had not told his wife was that although the Foreign Office had so far issued no formal instruction to travellers to stay at home and was
reassuring those already abroad that there was no danger, merely possible inconvenience in countries that had mobilised, Sir John had privately suggested he advise the couple to stay at home. He must speak urgently to Swinford-Browne and Robert.

Percy Dibble happily hummed down in the cellars as he carefully rearranged his treasured bottles, his moment of supreme happiness before him. A Frenchie had once come to see the Rector, and complimented Percy
in person
on his rhubarb wine. He was a
sommelier,
he said, and whatever that was precisely it was obviously a splendid thing to be, so Percy duly elected himself
sommelier
of the Rectory from that time forth. He never bothered to mention this to Daisy. He still called Margaret by this pet name even though seventeen-year-old sparkling, pert little Daisy was now forty-five and they'd three kids, two of them with kids of their own. But there was Fred of course. Percy carefully blew the dust off a bottle of Château Margaux that the Rector had been saving for something special. ‘Rest you there, my lovely,' he crooned. ‘Today's not special enough.' Today, as well as his fruit wines, there'd be foreign wines, not to mention the cases of champagne lined up in martial order, the bottle necks sticking out like so many hens in a wire coop waiting for supper. Miss Matilda's gift, so Mus Lilley said, and now Miss Matilda wouldn't even be here. Not right a lady like her being in prison. Hardly bore thinking of what the world was coming to. Percy's view was that everybody should know their place and stick to it, otherwise the world got in a valiant pickle.