Summer's End (41 page)

‘What shall I do, Father?' Caroline paced up and down her father's study. ‘I don't want Reggie upset by my problems, but I must do what I feel is right.'

‘And what does God tell you is your duty?'

She answered readily. ‘To help bring this war to an end by doing what I'm training to do, menial though it is.'

‘Did He mention Antwerp?'

She managed a smile. ‘Not quite so loudly.'

‘Very well then.'

She threw her arms round him. ‘How do you always manage to cut through to the heart of a problem and find a solution, Father?'

‘I don't, my love. God does it for me; my task is to find and then convey it.'

‘And how do you know that you've found His answer?'

He considered for a moment. ‘How do you decide what and what not to include in the parish magazine?'

‘I stumble and hesitate over everything, put them in this order and that, and when I finally decide on the right order I wonder how I could have been so stupid as not to see it in the first place.'

‘That's how I do it too.'

She laughed, her mind at ease now, for she knew on what lines to think. ‘Talking of the parish magazine, how was George's effort?'

‘I took a few liberties in correcting his style and spelling, and toning down his more melodramatic cries of war, but he has interesting ideas. Oh, and I left in one of his caricatures to please him. It was finely observed – Kitchener's finger pointing from one side, Cyril Wilson with his miller's hat from the other, the Kaiser's fist threatening overhead, a bewildered creature bearing a remarkable resemblance to a Mutter scratching his head in the centre, claiming, “I be valiant dinlow surely”. Pictures are more telling than words at times. He has some talent.'

Agnes sat down harder than she meant to on the edge of her bed; she didn't even notice the iron side hard against her legs, nor did it register that it was twenty minutes to seven and she was ten minutes late downstairs. All she registered was that her monthly flowers still hadn't shown. She should have had her monthlies three weeks ago and no amount of pretending in the world could persuade her it was all the upset over Jamie's going away. She had been put up the spout, was, as her mother would say, expecting, and there wasn't going to be a father. She was, it struck her with sickening force, in exactly the same position as Ruth Horner, now waddling round the village bold as brass and only days to go. But Ruth was lording it in a cottage of her own with money enough to keep her, by generous gift of her former employer. She, Agnes, was parlourmaid in a
rectory
, whose occupants, however kind, could hardly be expected to house her in her present condition, unblessed by the Church. Nor would her parents tolerate such shame under their roof. She would be the laughing stock of the village. Jamie was in camp, preparing to move to Dover, then go overseas, with never a mention of leave, only cheery words about his mates. He wouldn't be very cheery when he heard about this. She supposed she ought not to tell him. He'd be upset, and there was nothing he could do about it. Her contribution to the war effort, she thought wryly, would be not to worry a fine upstanding soldier. Perhaps he wouldn't care; perhaps he was already stepping out with another Dover lass. She'd heard women were supposed to be encouraging their menfolk to join up, so she
must be the only one that wasn't. Men and women were parading the streets in Folkestone, and now other places, encouraged by some admiral or other, to hand out white feathers to young men not in uniform. They should come to Ashden and give them to the likes of Len Thorn.

With resolution she stood up. If she hadn't had her flowers by next week when the next one was due, she'd have to do something. What, she wasn't sure yet, but that was her deadline. She slipped her print gown over her head, covering up the location of the problem. She'd put it out of her mind for a week or so.

‘Morning, Mrs Dibble,' she said brightly as she entered the kitchen, moving towards the teapot always ready at this time of the morning.

‘You're looking pale, Agnes.' Mrs Dibble looked at her sharply, interrupting her rendering of ‘The seed-time and the harvest, Our life, our health, our food.'

Agnes poured her tea, then caught sight of the kedgeree and breakfast dishes being prepared for the family breakfast; vast globules of food that made Agnes's throat close up even to look at. Eggs, enormous in size, broken into dishes ready for cooking, seemed to wink evilly at her; armies of kidneys lined up in menacing columns. She took a hasty drink of tea, but in vain. ‘Excuse me,' she said primly, rushing outside to the privy they used during working hours.

Mrs Dibble watched her exit without comment, noted the time she was away, and the even more wan face that came back in, and decided it was time to speak.

‘Milk or water. Kaolin. One of them will settle it. Your stomach, I mean. Not the reason for it.'

Agnes slumped in her seat. ‘Thank you, Mrs Dibble.'

‘Don't thank me. Thank the lad that got you into trouble.'

Agnes raised anguished eyes. She could not speak. Her whole body seemed one mass of choking worry, stifling every word.

Mrs Dibble's eyes softened. ‘What you and me need, Agnes, is a nice chat. You get on with your work, can't have the Rectory suffering, and this afternoon when you're feeling better, we'll have tea.'

Agnes nodded and, making a brave attempt at normality, picked up the Keating's powder.

Felicia reported for duty at Ashden Manor nervously. It had all seemed too easy, a step towards an end. Now she began to realise that the step in itself would not be easy. Long hours, night duty, perhaps actually helping to nurse the men in time, not just fetching and carrying under orders. A fully fledged operating theatre complete with X-ray apparatus had sprung up in the grounds, built within the disused carriage house at the end of the stable block. All this within a few weeks, she marvelled. Such a little time to turn the manor house she knew so well into a strange and awe-inspiring citadel, where she knew no one – save Daniel. The thought strengthened her. She was the lowest of all ranks and, although there were only half a dozen patients here at the moment, there was already a regimented, disciplined atmosphere. Soon all twenty-four beds would be filled, for more casualties were arriving all the time at the Channel ports. She rang the bell hesitantly; last time she had been a ‘visitor', now she was a worker. The formidable face of the middle-aged woman in dark blue who opened the door did little to reassure her.

‘Good morning. I'm Felicia Lilley, a VAD.'

‘No, Miss Lilley. A Voluntary Air Detachment is composed of approximately fifty persons, a commandant, medical officer, quartermaster, lady superintendent, pharmacist, and forty or so other ranks. You are a probationer nurse
in
the VAD. Kindly remember that. I am the superintendent. Follow me.'

‘I'm sorry, ma'am.' Felicia stepped inside, following the broad swaying back up the well-known stairs, bleak without the Hunney family ancestors adorning them, into the ‘office', the library where Caroline used to work. Many books still remained, looking down at these intruders into their quiet domain.

‘We are not yet fully operational – and I emphasise
operational
, Miss Lilley. We are run on military lines and I expect military discipline.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

‘I understand you know Lady Hunney. And our patient, Mr Hunney.' The tone of voice suggested this would be no benefit to Felicia.

‘Yes, we are neighbours. I live in the Rectory.'

‘Then I emphasise even more strongly that we are a military hospital and the owners of the house have no authority or influence here. Is that clear?'

‘Perfectly.'

The superintendent looked at the composed face in front of her, and foresaw trouble ahead, but in the days that followed she found she was mistaken. The girl proved competent, willing, and surprisingly strong. She was assigned to kitchen duties, as far from the patients as possible, and carried out her work uncomplainingly, proving adept at collecting contributions from the village in the form of bedding, kitchen equipment and even some matting for the newly tiled floor in the large ward. As an experiment, she got her reward – if reward it was. She was put on night duty when one of the regular nurses was ill.

Felicia sat by Daniel's bed as he slept, just as she sat by those of the other patients for a while, willing them all to fight, and be strong. One night he opened his eyes, saw her and fell into sleep again. The next night he did the same. The night after that he turned his head away from her, towards the window, through which moonlight was creeping through a gap in the curtains. Then he spoke – or rather whispered: ‘Agamemnon's moon.'

She did not know what he meant, if indeed it meant anything. ‘Yours too,' she whispered back.

‘Not now.'

‘It shines on everyone.' Foolish words, and indeed he was already asleep again. She crept back to her official post, with its one dim oil lamp. The exchange had meant nothing, and everything; the healing had begun.

Phoebe walked down Station Road, well content. She had donated eleven whole pounds to the post office box for the Red Cross fund now. True, now the hoppers had gone, turnover was dropping, but if Ashden Manor was mobilised as a hospital, it would pick up again. It occurred to her she should liaise with the authorities there, otherwise she could find herself supplanted by one of the VAD vans, though perhaps Ashden was too small a station for that. She was very pleased with herself, and proud of finding there were possibilities in Ashden as well as Paris. When the war was over, as surely it must be soon, she'd be glad she had had this experience instead of going straight to finishing school. She was going to provide more than lemonade as winter approached. She had arranged to borrow a tea urn, and to provide soup, to be kept hot on Mrs Chaplin's range. She could charge
a penny, perhaps. What about pies? She walked along, busily calculating costs and profits. She had never been able to see the sense of mental arithmetic at school but now it had a new relevance.

She was so preoccupied that he was there before she realised it. Just her, and
him
strolling towards her, Len Thorn. A wave of panic engulfed her, making her dizzy, until she controlled it by telling herself he would not dare accost her here. She would simply march past him.
Now.
The steps were long ones, and her legs leaden, as if she were running in a dream.

‘Good morning, Len.' She continued on her way. Coldness was better than ignoring him.

‘Morning, Miss Lilley.'

His obvious wariness gave her confidence. She had faced the monster, and she had beaten it. The monster, she told herself, had only been Len Thorn, and nothing more. Perhaps that was how the troops felt about the Kaiser – he was the bogeyman, and if you sang rude songs about him, it reduced him to size. Kaiser Bill and Len Thorn were the same, really. It was a question of degree and power. Len Thorn had no power over her. Not now. And perhaps what Mr Eliot said was true: there was sweetness as well as darkness between men and women. Christopher Denis and Len Thorn were the past; the future was hers. She marched home to the Rectory with a confident swing, singing to the hedgerows,
It's a long way to Kaiser
Billy, It's a long way to go.

She, too, was a soldier on the move.

The Dover visit had rebounded on her head. Never had Caroline envisaged making it under these circumstances and, worse, alone, since the rest of the family had seized the excuse of war to escape it. When she was offered the chance of a transfer to a Voluntary Aid Detachment in Dover, it had seemed the perfect solution to her problems. Not abroad, but near to the pulse of the war, for it was one of the chief ports for refugees and for the wounded troops. But it had disadvantages and the proximity of Buckford House was one.

On the death of her husband, the Dowager Countess had reluctantly been forced to make way for her eldest son, daughter-in-law and three children; she had moved, not into the Dower House, but into one wing of the main building, and since then her presence had given the façade of Buckford a lopsided appearance in her
granddaughter's imagination. It looked to her like a giant, with an all-seeing enormous eye on one side. ‘You're being quite ridiculous,' Caroline rebuked herself, as she took the branch path to the porch of the side entrance. The latter still seemed to Caroline to be doing its best to convey that the real hub of the house was here – as indeed it probably was. In Grandmother's entrance hall hung the forbidding portrait of her late husband by Sargent. In life, so her father had told Caroline, the earl had been a man of Pickwickian build and presence, but in death he seemed to have taken on his wife's aura. Caroline made a face of fellow sympathy with him, but the Earl stared gravely back.

‘Her ladyship will see you now, Miss Lilley.' ‘Pecksniff', as Caroline had dubbed her grandmother's butler, graciously ushered her in. He pretended she was a stranger, as usual, though she had been coming every year since she was born.

Perhaps Miss Havisham in
Great Expectations
looked something like Grandmother, sitting spider-like in the midst of her web. Spiders must presumably look attractive to their prey, and so did Grandmother. Most old ladies of eighty-two were shrunken in size if not in character. Not Grandmother. Most old ladies of eighty-two had lined faces mellowed into wise compassion. Not Grandmother. Most old ladies of eighty-two had long since retired into black silk and lace gowns. Not Grandmother. She was as tall and imposing as the days when she had alternately terrorised and intrigued Victorian society; her features, if standing out more sharply, only impressed more deeply; and her gown, today royal blue, proclaimed she was still an active force in the world. How, Caroline wondered, not for the first time, had Aunt Tilly stood it all these years?