The Caxley Chronicles (31 page)

All this made Joan realise that her duty really lay with these young children and the job with which she had been landed. In some ways she regretted it. Her dream of being posted somewhere near Edward, perhaps even learning to fly one day, was doomed to fade. Nevertheless, this job was one equally valuable, and one which she knew she could tackle. It meant too that she could keep an eye on her mother and grandmother. Winnie was more active than ever, it seemed, but there were times when old Mrs North looked suddenly frail, and her memory, until now so acute, was often at fault. The oven would be left on, telephone messages were forgotten, spectacles and bags mislaid a dozen times a day and, worse still, the autocratic old lady would never admit that any of these little mishaps were her own fault. Physically, she was as active as ever, mounting the steep stairs to the flat in the market square as lightly as she had done when she lived there as mistress of the house so many years before.

All three women found the quarters somewhat cramped after Rose Lodge, but they all enjoyed living again in the heart of Caxley, close to their neighbours, and with the weekly market to enliven the scene each Thursday. They were handy too for the shops and for Sep's restaurant down below where they frequently called for a meal.

They found too that they were admirably placed to receive visits from their family and friends. Buses were few and far
between, but the market square was a main shopping point, and friends and relations from the villages could call easily. Old Mrs North's sister, Ethel Miller, whose husband farmed at Beech Green, frequently came to see them bearing farm eggs, butter, and an occasional chicken or duck—treasures indeed in wartime.

It was her Aunt Ethel who first introduced Michael to Joan. He was one of three junior army officers billeted at the farm, and Joan had heard a little about them all. They seemed to be a cheerful high-spirited trio and her aunt was devoted to them—indeed, so fulsome was she in her praise, that Joan had tended to think that their charms must be considerably overrated.

'Michael is picking me up at six o'clock,' said Aunt Ethel, glancing at the timepiece on the mantelpiece. She had been ensconced on the sofa when Joan came in from school at tea-time.

'He's had to collect some equipment from the station in the truck,' she explained, 'and offered me a lift.'

At ten past six they heard the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs and Joan opened the door to admit the young man. He was full of apologies for being late, but he did not look particularly downcast, Joan observed. Aunt Ethel, anxious to get back to the family and the farm, made hurried farewells, and the two vanished after a few brief civilities. Joan, in spite of herself, was most impressed with the stranger.

He was exceptionally tall, a few inches over six feet, slender and dark. He had grey bright eyes with thick black lashes, and his face was lantern-jawed and pale. He was an Irishman, Joan knew, and he looked it. In the few words which he had spoken, Joan had recognised the soft brogue and the intonation full of
Irish charm. A heart-breaker, if ever there was one, commented Joan amusedly to herself!

They did not meet again for some time, but one Saturday early in October, Joan offered to take some wool to the farm for her aunt.

'It will do me good to get some exercise,' she said, trundling out her bicycle from the shed where Bender had once kept mangles and dustbins, buckets and baths, in the old days.

It was a still misty day. Cobwebs were slung along the hedges like miniature hammocks. Droplets hung on the ends of wet twigs. There was a smell of autumn in the air, a poignant mixture of dead leaves, damp earth and the whiff of a distant bonfire.

Halfway to Beech Green a sharp hill caused Joan to dismount. She stood still for a moment to get back her breath. Above her a massive oak tree spread gnarled wet arms. Looking up into its intricacies of pattern against the soft pale sky she noticed dozens of cobwebs draped like scraps of grey chiffon between the rough bark of the sturdy trunk and the branches. Far away, hidden in the mist, a train hooted. Near at hand, a blackbird scrabbled among papery brown leaves beneath the hedge. Otherwise silence enveloped the girl and she realised, with a shock, how seldom these days she enjoyed complete solitude.

What a long time it was too, she thought, since she had consciously observed such everyday natural miracles as the cobwebs and the blackbird's liquid eye! Engrossed with the children and their mothers, walking to and from the nursery school along the pavements of Caxley, restricted by war from much outside activity, she had quite forgotten the pleasure which flowers and trees, birds and animals had subconsciously
supplied. She free-wheeled down the long hill to the farm, exhilarated by her unaccustomed outing.

Her aunt was busy making a new chicken run and, with a quickening of the heart, Joan saw that Michael was wielding the mallet which drove in the stakes.

'You dear girl,' exclaimed Aunt Ethel, proffering a cold damp cheek to be kissed, while her fingers ripped open the package. 'Four whole ounces! I can't believe it! Now I shall be able to knit Jesse a good thick pair of winter socks. How on earth did Hilda manage it?'

'Sheer favouritism,' replied Joan. 'It was under-the-counter stuff, and passed over with much secrecy, I understand. They only had two pounds of wool altogether, grandma said, and you had to be a real old blue-blooded Caxleyite to nobble an ounce or two.'

Michael laughed at this, and Joan found him more attractive than ever.

'Now hold the end of this wire,' directed Aunt Ethel, returning to the business in hand, 'and we'll be done in no time. Then you must stop and have lunch. It's rabbit casserole with lots of carrots.'

'S'posed to keep off night-blindness, whatever that is,' said Michael jerkily, between powerful blows with the mallet.

When the job was done and the excellent rabbit demolished, Michael and Joan sat in the warm farm kitchen and talked. Uncle Jesse was in the yard attempting to repair a wiring fault in his ancient Ford, while Aunt Ethel had gone upstairs 'to sort the laundry', she explained, although Joan knew very well that she was having the nap which she refused to admit she took every afternoon.

Michael talked easily. He told her about his home in Dublin and his family there.

'My old man keeps a hotel. Nothing in the five-star range, you know. Just a little place where the commercials stay overnight—but we've a quiet decent little house there and a grand garden.'

He had two sisters and a brother, he told her. His mother was an invalid, and he wanted to get back soon to see her.

'And what do you do,' asked Joan, 'when you're not in the Army?'

'I'm not too sure,' answered Michael. 'You see, I'd just got my degree at Trinity College when war broke out. Maybe I'll teach. I read modern languages. Oh, there now, I can't tell you what I'll do, and that's the truth!'

Joan was intrigued with the way the last word came out as 'troot'. Despite his vagueness about the future, it was apparent that he intended to do something worthwhile. She told him a little about her own work and he seemed deeply interested.

'You're lucky,' he said. 'You know where you're going. Maybe I'll know too before long, but let's get the war over first, I think. Somehow, it's difficult to make plans when you may be blown to smithereens tomorrow.'

He spoke cheerfully, his wide smile making a joke of the grim words.

'I wish I could see you home,' he said when at last Joan rose to go. 'But I'm on duty in half an hour. Can I ring you one day soon? Are you ever free?'

'I'm completely free,' Joan said.

'Good!' replied the young man with evident satisfaction.

They walked together to the front door of the farmhouse.
Joan's dilapidated bicycle stood propped against the massive door-scraper which had served generations of muddy-booted Millers.

Across the lawn a copper beech tree stood against the grey-fawn sky, like some old sepia photograph, framed in the oblong of the doorway.

'It's a grand country,' said Michael softly.

'Lovelier than Ireland?'

'Ah, I'm not saying that! Have you never been?'

'Never.'

'You must go one day when the war's over. I'll look forward to showing it to you.'

'That would be lovely,' said Joan, primly polite. She mounted the bicycle and smiled her farewells. He saluted very smartly, eyes twinkling, and watched her ride away.

She reported on her visit to her mother and grandmother as they sat by the fire that evening, saying little about Michael. She was more deeply attracted than she cared to admit, and felt that she could not face any family probings.

Old Mrs North's sharp eye, however, missed nothing.

'An attractive young man, that Michael,' she said, briskly tugging at her embroidery needle. 'Even if he is Irish.'

Joan smiled.

'Pity he's a Roman Catholic,' continued the old lady. 'Off to seven o'clock mass as regular as clockwork, Ethel says. But there,' she added indulgently, 'I expect it keeps him out of mischief.'

Joan nodded. But her smile had gone.

E
DWARD HAD
been posted yet again. This time it was to a station in Wales where he would be a staff pilot, instructing others in the art of flying bombers. This was a rest period, for six months or possibly longer, between operational tours.

Angela was more than usually disgruntled at the move. She insisted on accompanying her husband wherever he might be, and was beginning to get heartily sick of other people's houses and unending domestic problems. As the war dragged on, she became steadily more discontented with her lot, and Edward was sincerely sorry for her. He knew how long the days were, cooped in two rooms, in someone else's home. He realised, only too well, the anxiety she suffered when he was on operations. And he was beginning to see that Angela had very few inner resources to give her refreshment and strength to combat her tedium.

She seemed to spend most of her time in the company of other young wives as bored as she was herself. They met for innumerable coffee parties and games of bridge. Edward had suggested more fruitful ways of spending the time. There was plenty of voluntary work to be done, helping in hospitals, schools, A.R.P. centres and so on but Angela's answer had been disturbing and illuminating.

'I married you to get out of the W.A.A.F. Why the devil should I put my head into another noose?'

It was not very reassuring to a newly-married man, and as the months lengthened into years Edward began to realise that Angela had meant every word of that remark. Perhaps they should have started a family, foolhardy though it seemed. Would things have been more satisfactory? He doubted it. Edward was too wise to pin his hopes on motherhood as a panacea to all marital ills, and he had observed other young couples' problems with babies in wartime. It was difficult enough to obtain accommodation without children. Those who had them were definitely at a disadvantage.

No, thought Edward, they had been right to wait. But would the time ever come when they both looked forward to children? With a heavy heart, he began to face the fact that Angela might have waited too long.

It was at the end of May when Edward and Angela made their next visit to Caxley.

'No family yet then?' Mrs North greeted them, with devastating directness. 'Why's that?'

Angela pointedly ignored the question. Edward laughed, hugged his diminutive grandmother and pointed out of the window to the market square.

'That partly,' he replied.

A steady flow of army transport was travelling across the square heading south to the ports. Lorries, armoured cars and tanks had been pouring through Caxley for days now, and the thunder of their passage shook the old house and caused headaches among the inhabitants.

But there was no heart-ache. This, they knew, was the start
of a great invasion—an invasion in reverse. The time had come when this mighty allied force could cross the Channel and begin the task of liberating oppressed Europe. "Who would have thought it? they bellowed to each other, against the din. Four years ago it was the British Isles which awaited invasion! The tables were turned indeed.

Edward was now stationed within eighty miles of Caxley and was back on operational duty. He had no doubt that he would be busy bombing supply bases and cutting the communications of the retreating enemy. He should see plenty of activity, he told himself. It would be good to support an attacking army in Europe.

'Make no mistake,' he told his family, 'we're on the last lap now. Then back to Caxley and peace-time!'

That afternoon, while Angela was at the hairdresser's, he walked through the throbbing town to see Bertie who was also on brief leave. He found him pushing the lawn mower, his fair hair turning more and more ashen as the grey hairs increased, but still lissom in figure and with the same gentle good looks.

They greeted each other warmly.

'Kathy's out on some W.V.S. ploy,' said Bertie, 'and the children are still at school. Come and have a look at the river. It's quieter there than anywhere else in Caxley at the moment. But, by God, what a welcome sound, Edward, eh? Great days before us, my boy!'

It was indeed peaceful by the Cax. The shining water slipped along reflecting the blue and white sky. Here and there it was spangled with tiny white flowers which drifted gently to and fro with the current. On the tow path, across the river, a cyclist pedalled slowly by, and his reflection, upside down, kept pace
with him swiftly and silently. The moment was timeless and unforgettable.

'Tell me,' said Bertie, 'has Joan said anything to you about Michael?'

'Not much,' replied Edward, startled from his reverie by something in his uncle's tone. 'Why, what's up?'

'They're very much in love,' said Bertie slowly. 'And to my mind would make a very good pair. He's a Catholic, of course, but it doesn't worry me. I wondered if it would complicate matters with the family.'

'Grandfather'd hate it,' admitted Edward bluntly. 'And probably Grandma North. I can't see anyone else losing much sleep over it. Surely, it's their affair.'