A Family's Duty (10 page)

‘The rolls of curtain material are over there on that shelf, madam. Shall I bring them over to the counter?’

‘Well, yes, of course.’

Mr Richardson heard the sound of footsteps, and silence as the customer cast a sharp eye over the expanse of
lace-edged
curtain netting spread out over the counter.

‘I don’t think we’ve got it in any other colour but white,’ said Doreen with a nervous smile, and Mr Richardson, silently sitting in his office, winced. He had recognised Mrs Seabrook the butcher’s wife by her voice, and knew that she would spread the news all over North Camp that Richardson had got that poor, backward Nuttall girl in the shop to replace the Pearson girl, but that it was clearly a well-meant mistake.

Everybody was listening to the news: it was as if the whole nation was holding its breath. The Tradesmen’s Arms had a wireless set that the publican had placed on the bar counter, now tuned in to the six o’clock news on a warm summer evening, and apart from the newsreader’s voice the patrons stood immobile and silent, straining to hear every word. They heard the same as had been heard that morning: the British Expeditionary Force was fighting a rearguard action in northern France, and French families were fleeing before the advancing German hordes.

‘This is all because of Belgium caving in,’ said a man’s voice at the bar. ‘It made a gap in the British and French front line, so the buggers’ve come pouring through.’

‘You can bet our boys will give as good as they get,’ remarked Tom Munday.

‘Yeah, but they can’t get any further back than the sea, and then watch out! They’ll be surrounded by the Jerries like rats in a trap.’

‘Hey, we don’t want that sort o’ talk,’ Eddie Cooper called out. ‘They’ll fight to the last ditch, our boys will!’

There was silence. Nobody wanted to talk about what would follow after such a calamity.

At the Rectory Agnes Allingham listened constantly to the news, which gave her small comfort and no reassurance.

‘Don’t lose hope, my dear,’ said her husband. ‘The latest news said that the enemy had suffered heavy losses.’

‘That won’t help my Howard, lying wounded and dying on some beach!’

‘Agnes, my love, we must place them
all
in God’s hands, and not imagine things we can’t know.’ Roland Allingham was showing more patience than at any other time in his life, and tried to pray for the safe return of his son Howard; Lester was still in training to fly an aircraft. The rector reminded himself that he must pray for the other sons of other parents, and shivered at the thought of having to visit the bereaved; he might not be able to console them because of his own fear.

It was haymaking time at Yeoman’s Farm, and all hands were needed in the field; the weather had been kind so far, but Billy Yeomans said that rain was on the way, and that they were already late due to the absence of the two farmhands who had gone to the war, and Dora who had let them all down by clearing off to join the ATS, of all the stupid ideas. He reserved judgement on the Neville girl and her posh accent, though so far she seemed to be earning her keep. She had spent the last two days hand-hoeing the mangolds, swedes and turnips grown as winter feed for the cows, and
now followed his tractor with a rake, with Sidney Goddard behind her to fork the cut grass into haycocks.

Rebecca’s face and arms were tanned, and she had exchanged the Women’s Land Army breeches and aertex shirt for shorts and a sleeveless cotton blouse. Working from dawn to dusk, her mind was also exercised; her brother Paul Storey, Geoffrey Bannister and John Richardson were all with the British Expeditionary Force, and just before his departure Geoffrey had declared his love for her, and Richardson had written a letter so full of praise and admiration that a proposal was clearly planned on his return. How would she receive it? Whose safe return did she most long for?

She straightened her back and brushed the wisps of hay from her clothes and hair; she had dust in her nose, mouth and ears, and she itched all over. She exchanged a grin with Sidney, plodding along behind her: what a decent sort he was! His wife Mary would soon be here with cheese and pickle sandwiches, new ripened tomatoes and the welcome flasks of tea.

And there she was, coming across the field, accompanied by Pam and little Sam. Sidney and Rebecca gave a cheer, and Billy halted the cutting for half an hour’s rest and refreshment. The two women brought the latest news.

‘It’s hell let loose across the Channel,’ Pam reported. ‘We’ve just heard it on the wireless – they say if you stand on the south coast you can hear the bombing and see the smoke on the other side!’

‘Oh, my God.’ Rebecca paled beneath her tan.

‘But they’re sending out boats to rescue as many as they can,’ said Mary with a frown at Pam. ‘So there’ll be a fair number saved.’

‘Yeah, but they reckon they can only save a few hundred, out of all the thousands,’ added Pam, smiling at Sam who was happily rolling in the cut hay.

‘Be quiet!’ Mary Goddard said sharply. ‘You haven’t got any thought for those who – for those who have chaps out there.’ She turned to Rebecca. ‘There you are, dear, a nice swig o’ tea to keep your spirits up. They’re bringing back as many as they can.’

But Rebecca had dropped her rake and stared at Mary. ‘My brother – my brother Paul – oh, I must go to my mother. I must go to her.’

‘Of course you must, dear,’ said Mary. ‘Just have a drink first, and then go.’

‘And who’s going to take her place?’ demanded Billy.

‘I’ll send somebody up from the manor,’ Rebecca gasped, wanting only to get home and share her mother’s anguish. Hot and dusty as she was, she broke into a run.

‘And meanwhile, what about Pam doing a turn with the rake?’ asked Mary suddenly. ‘It’s time
she
did some work on this farm.’

‘
And
to give you a hand in the house,’ added Sidney, who usually never complained.

Pam flushed darkly, and called for her husband to stand up for her, but Billy Yeomans too had been shocked at the news of the terrible massacre on the beaches of France. He recalled how he had lost his elder brother over there in the trenches of the Great War, his brother Dick who had been killed at the time of his own birth. He frowned, shook his head at Pam, and bit into a thick cheese sandwich.

Four days into June, the truth about the evacuation of British troops from the beaches of northern France, known as Operation Dynamo, was becoming clearer. The latest news on the wireless was that the last survivors were arriving on English soil, exhausted and filthy, some wounded, but all full of praise for their rescuers, the skippers of boats great and small, from naval destroyers to lifeboats, fishing boats, river cruisers and pleasure boats, all pressed into service at the request of the War Office and hastily made ready to sail. This motley fleet had crossed the Channel to pick up survivors from Dunkirk beach, crossed back and unloaded their human cargo on the beaches of southern England, then set sail again to pick up more. Overhead German Junkers were strafing the beach and the crowd of boats in Dunkirk harbour as they arrived and left. The nation heard with incredulity that far from rescuing a few hundred troops, more than three hundred and sixty thousand had been saved.

At Hassett Manor, Lady Neville waited with the faithful Sally Tanner at her side; they heard that the survivors were being put on trains to take them home or to their barracks or to hospital. The news came through that Howard Allingham had returned home, as had John Richardson. Of Lieutenants Storey and Bannister there was no word.

Rebecca had been warmly received on her arrival back at the Manor, but after one night spent at home, her mother had sent her back to Yeomans’ Farm.

‘Your first duty is to give all the help and time that you can to the necessary work of haymaking, Becky,’ Isabel said. ‘It’s your service to your country. I’ll telephone the farm immediately if there is any news.’ She spoke in the tightly controlled voice that was meant to give an impression of calmness, though Cedric was not deceived; he longed to break down the barrier that she had erected around herself to ward off questions and expressions of sympathy. He felt her silence as a rebuke, a refusal to accept any consolation from a man who could not share her fear for the son of her first husband; Sally Tanner seemed to be closer to her than he, having shared her life at the time of Paul’s birth and ever since.

On the following morning the news was that Operation Dynamo was nearing an end; there had been hundreds of deaths, including crews of the rescue boats; when Isabel again telephoned the Bannisters at their Berkshire home, there was no news; they too were waiting, their hopes fading by the hour.

John Richardson made an early visit to Hassett Manor, though his father advised him to wait a day or two, as there had been no news of Lady Neville’s son.

‘But I must see Miss Neville, to let her see that I’ve returned
in one piece,’ John said impatiently, being anxious to see her before her university admirer turned up. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tread warily until there’s news of her brother.’

But there had been no news, and the Manor was silent, shrouded with dread. There seemed to be nobody about but Sally Tanner who informed him in no uncertain terms that Lady Neville was resting and not seeing any visitors.

‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs Tanner,’ he said with due respect. ‘May I enquire about Miss Neville? Is she at home, by any chance?’

‘No, she isn’t, she’s working dawn to dusk as a land girl,’ Sally said curtly.

‘Really?’ He was genuinely surprised. ‘May I ask where?’

‘No, you may not. I’m not here to give out family matters to all and sundry, so I’ll wish you good-day.’

Seething with indignation at this set-back – that fellow Bannister would have had a different reply, he guessed – he went back to North Camp to call at Thomas and Gibson’s, where poor little tongue-tired Valerie Pearson would surely greet him with shining eyes. But again he was disappointed, for her place had been taken by a very young girl who rattled out a greeting as she had been taught.

‘Good afternoon, sir, how may I be of service?’

He frowned, shook his head and walked out. Why on earth hadn’t his father told him about the change of assistant?

‘I shall return to my work with the Women’s Voluntary Service tomorrow,’ Isabel announced at breakfast. ‘And today’s Wednesday, so there will be the Ladies’ Hour at the Rectory, and I must be there.’

‘Oh,
no
, my dear, nobody will expect you to go,’
remonstrated Cedric. ‘There’s really no need to face—’ He hesitated, and she finished the sentence.

‘To face other women whose sons have come back to them, and those who have
not
,’ she replied stonily. ‘We bereaved mothers need each other.’

Joan Kennard made an effort to appear calm as usual when Lady Neville appeared at the door, asking if she might have a word with young Mr Allingham before the meeting.

Howard came at once, and was led by Mrs Kennard into her husband’s study where Isabel Neville awaited him, clasping her hands tightly together. She motioned him to sit down at the curate’s desk; he looked pale and had lost weight.

‘You’ll have guessed why I’ve asked to speak with you, Mr Allingham,’ she said. ‘Thanks be to God that you’ve returned safely – and have you any news of Lieutenant Storey? Had you seen him at all lately?’

Howard Allingham wished with all his heart that he had positive news for her, but he shook his head. ‘No, Lady Neville, I did not see him, but neither did I see him among the – the dead or badly injured. It was difficult to recognise anybody in the confusion.’

He closed his eyes briefly as he remembered the noise of gunfire, the dead bodies and parts of bodies that had to be trodden underfoot as the surviving men made their way into the water and towards the waiting boats.

‘I’m deeply sorry, Lady Neville, that I have no news for you.’

‘Or of Lieutenant Bannister?’

He shook his head.

‘It must have been hell for you all.’

He shrugged at the memory of the stench of death, the groans of the fallen.

‘Thank you, Mr Allingham,’ she said, rising. ‘Your parents must be rejoicing. Please convey my compliments to them. And now I must return to the ladies. Good afternoon.’

‘Lady Neville.’ He made a brief bow.

Mrs Kennard had told the members of the Ladies’ Knitting Circle to avoid the subject of Operation Dynamo, and to treat Lady Neville with their usual respectful friendliness, not alluding to the war as she gave out the thick grey yarn for them to knit for the forces, and collected the finished items, the gloves, scarves, balaclava helmets and sea-boot stockings for which there was a particular demand, she told them. Philip Saville provided a discreet musical background to their conversations, choosing Brahms’ Lullaby and Solveig’s Song from
Peer Gynt
; as he played he imagined the notes rising up like prayers for this brave woman who was keeping her emotions under iron self-control.

A telephone rang in Alan Kennard’s study, and the room fell silent as Mrs Kennard rose to answer it. Philip changed his choice of music to the old American song ‘Shenandoah’, playing it quietly and slowly.

The ladies looked up as Mrs Kennard returned from the study, holding the door open.

‘It’s a call for you, Lady Neville. Sir Cedric is asking to speak with you.’ She gestured towards the open door, and Isabel rose with hope and fear in her eyes. The ladies silently awaited for her return, while Philip continued to play ‘Shenandoah’, giving it a special poignancy and tenderness. Mrs Kennard put a finger to her lips, and rose quickly when Isabel Neville came back into the room, white-faced and shaking. They all held their breath.

‘My son’s in hospital at Southampton,’ she whispered.
‘He’s alive and – and coming home!’ She almost fell into Joan Kennard’s arms as the flood tide of repressed emotion broke through her self-control, and she sobbed out her joy, her relief and thankfulness. There were sympathetic tears in the room as Philip continued to play, turning the melancholy old song into a hymn of rejoicing in which some of the ladies spontaneously joined.

Somehow the quaint, unexplained words fitted the occasion, and stayed in every woman’s memory of that summer afternoon.

Rebecca was called to the farm telephone to be told the news.

‘He got left behind with Geoffrey Bannister who walked miles with a machine-gun bullet embedded in his right foot,’ her mother explained in a voice that shook. ‘They finally got picked up two days later by a lifeboat that crossed the Channel and eventually they were taken to Southampton General Hospital. Geoffrey’s foot was septic, and he was feverish and delirious, and Paul waited until his parents arrived, and then telephoned us. Oh, Rebecca, he’s coming home to us! He’s coming
home
!’

‘Thank God, Mother. And do we know anything more about Geoffrey?’

‘Paul says he’s very ill with blood-poisoning, and may
have to lose that foot, so we can only wait and hope. I don’t know if you’ll want to visit him, Becky, or whether—’

‘Thank you, Mother. I’ll visit on Sunday when I get the day off.’

It was potty time, and Valerie braced herself as a row of two- and three-year-olds were seated on the white enamel pots provided for their use after mealtimes. Some sat down obediently, used to toilet training, but others loudly protested and struggled. Nurse King would stand no nonsense, and ordered Miss Pearson to hold down Georgie Tonks firmly until he did his job, as the process was called at The Limes.

‘We need to save nappies, Miss Pearson! And it’s a disgrace that boy isn’t yet trained at three years old!’

Valerie hated potty time, and tried to whisper placating words to the naughty boy, telling him that if he did a wee-wee or poo-poo in the potty, he would be allowed to go outside and play on the lawn of The Limes in the sunshine. Apart from Nurse King who was in charge of staff and children alike, the assistants addressed each other as Miss or Mrs
So-and
-So, while the children had to say ‘Auntie’ followed by their Christian names. Auntie Valerie was the oldest and the least experienced, relying on Nurse King’s sharp tongue to instruct her, and copying the other assistants.

The Limes had been a large and imposing family residence in the early years of the century, the home of an Everham general practitioner; it had now been taken over by the Red Cross as a centre for the training of Red Cross nursing assistants who learnt First Aid and basic nursing skills in the event of an air raid, when The Limes would become a rest centre for the injured and homeless. At the present time most
of the ground floor was being used as a crèche for under-five children whose mothers worked at the munitions factory a mile out of Everham. The children were mainly from the poorer classes, though a few doughty housewives from the residential area worked as factory supervisors, and their children tended to be better fed, better dressed and better behaved than the sometimes malodorous products of the council estate. Valerie Pearson felt as if she had been pushed in at the deep end of child care, and would hardly have survived a week of Nurse King’s tongue and the strict routine of mealtimes, potty times and playtimes if she had not been determined to justify Lady Neville’s efforts on her behalf, and picturing John Richardson’s surprise – and admiration? – when he heard of this change in her life. She’d heard that he had been with the survivors from Dunkirk, but so far he had sent no word to her.

Mary Goddard was surprised to see the curate’s wife on the doorstep, all smiles.

‘Mrs Goddard! It seems a long time since we last met. May I have a word with you? It’s all good news, I promise!’

‘Well, yes, all right – come in, Mrs – er – Kennard.’ Mary stood aside and showed her visitor into the old-fashioned farmhouse parlour, indicating an armchair. She sat herself down on a sagging sofa with antimacassars over the back and arms, hoping that she was not going to be invited to join the Ladies’ Circle.

‘We hear that your Dora has gone to join the ATS, Mrs Goddard,’ said Joan Kennard, privately shocked to see how Mary had aged. ‘Am I allowed to ask where she’s stationed, or is it all hush-hush?’

‘She went to the reception centre at Lynchford for the first
two weeks, with a dozen other girls who had to sleep in a long hut with not much hot water for washing,’ Mary said dully. ‘They had to drill and collect their khaki uniforms, and sign for their own knife, fork, spoon and mug to take to the canteen, and wash them up afterwards.’

‘Mercy on us, what a change for those girls,’ marvelled Mrs Kennard. ‘And I expect you miss her very much, don’t you?’

‘Yes, we do, Mrs Kennard,’ said Mary with a sigh. ‘Now she’s been sent to a Maintenance Unit, they call it, near Gloucester, to train in electrics and wireless.’

‘Good for her – and isn’t it a miracle that so many of our men were rescued from Dunkirk!’ Joan went on eagerly. ‘Lady Neville’s son Paul finally reached these shores with a badly injured friend, otherwise the news has been better than expected. The rector’s son, Howard Allingham, has made it home, you must tell your Dora; they had many a game of tennis on the North Camp courts this time last year, so she’ll be glad to hear he got away.’

Alan Kennard had instructed his wife to pass on this piece of information, which was the real purpose of her visit. ‘Dora must be missed on the farm, too,’ she added.

‘Yes, but Lady Neville’s daughter has come here as a land girl, and according to Sidney she’s as good as a man – but there’s no pleasing Billy Yeomans.’

Joan Kennard smiled. ‘If I know Rebecca Neville, she can stand up to Billy! Well, I’ll be on my way. Do let Dora know about the boys – and you know you’d be welcome to join our Wednesday afternoon circle at any time.’

‘Thanks, Mrs Kennard. Good of you to call.’

‘Auntie Vally! Auntie Vally!’ howled naughty little Georgie Tonks, running up to Valerie with outstretched arms, wanting to be picked up. Nurse King was not in sight, so Valerie lifted him in her arms and tried to find out what was the matter. Straying into the strictly forbidden territory of the flower garden, he had tripped over an inverted flower pot and fallen headlong into a prickly rose-bush. He knew he would get no sympathy from Nurse King, so turned to Auntie Vally who comforted him as well as she could; she carried him indoors to the washroom and gently dabbed moist cotton-wool over his scratches, smiling and telling him he would soon be better. He calmed down and put his arms around her neck, pressing his dirty face, wet with tears and runny nose, against hers.