Dark Harvest (13 page)

‘But that was many weeks ago, and these are unusual times. It’s hard to get staff, as you know, and Mrs Lilley would be most distressed if you left.’

‘But it’s the hours, you see, sir. And the pay, if you don’t mind my saying so.’ Evidently, Harriet thought she had been deeply wronged.

‘We could review—’

‘No, sir, it would be more of the same. I’ve quite decided.’ She had, but only a minute ago.

‘Have you anywhere to go?’ the Rector asked.

‘Yes, sir. Mr Swinford-Browne’s munitions factory.’

Two-thirty, the official time for the gathering of the hordes on the Embankment, ready for the three-thirty start of the WSPU march. To everyone’s disappointment the weather was far from kind. Not only was it raining, with lowering skies, but the rain was of the cold, driving type that chilled them to the marrow. Rain meant muddy roads, and there was no sign of it lifting. No matter, Caroline told herself, for if the sun did not shine, the colourful streamers in red, white and blue, the forest of umbrellas, not to mention all the flowers that covered everything and everyone, would compensate.

At two o’clock Ellen, her VAD friend from Dover days, had arrived. She took one look at the milling crowd of white-clad marchers, and commented, ‘Like a load of blooming water lilies, ain’t we?’ She peered out from under a huge umbrella—a man’s—which Caroline recognised as belonging to the home where they had boarded. She felt as if two old friends had joined her instead of one.

At the head of the procession, behind the band, was the main feature of the demonstration, the Pageant of the Allies, and Caroline’s particular responsibility. Behind the band marched a girl dressed in a Grecian robe and carrying a trophy composed of all the flags of the nations at war with Germany and Austria. Then came a representative of each nation: first Belgium, for which a tall,
slender lady in her thirties had been selected. Clad in black, with a purple veil round her head which streamed out behind her, she carried her country’s torn and tattered flag. To Caroline’s admiration, she had insisted on walking barefoot for greater effect, despite the mud on the roads. In contrast to Belgium’s sad, expressive face, the girl representing France almost danced along, arrayed in the bright hues of the tricolour and a red cap; behind her came women representing Montenegro, Russia, Japan, Italy and Serbia. Bringing up the rear was Great Britain with a woman representing England dressed in white carrying roses. Three women surrounded her in the national costumes of Scotland, Wales and Ireland. Oh, how Caroline wished Reggie were here to see it. He would be so proud of her for being part of this great effort.

‘This’ll knock ’em in the Old Kent Road,’ Ellen commented as, at three-thirty, the band struck up with the ‘Marsellaise’ and the whole procession moved off to coil itself round Bridge Street and prepare to march up Whitehall.

‘I think it’s me knocked in the Old Kent Road,’ replied Caroline ruefully. Was it twenty-five thousand the WSPU had hoped for? There were more like fifty thousand, and helping to marshal the crowds into formation, Caroline felt exhausted. The excitement of the waving crowds dispersed her tiredness though, as they paraded through the London streets, up Park Lane, carrying banners declaring ‘Shells made by a wife can save a husband’s life’ and ‘Women’s battle cry is work, work, work’. Nurses cheered
from the windows of all the temporary hospitals in Park Lane’s private houses, and recruiting officers took their opportunity to drum up candidates in the watching crowds.

Eventually they reached Whitehall again, where the elected deputation of leaders, led by Mrs Pankhurst, left to be received by Mr Lloyd George, for a private discussion. Then the main procession went back to the Embankment, to wait for him to address them. Caroline found herself wedged so tight in the waiting crowd that one umbrella served for four or five women. Were they just words, or did Mr Lloyd George mean what he was saying, she wondered, when finally he appeared to make his speech.

‘Without women victory will tarry, and the victory which tarries means a victory whose footprints are footprints of blood,’ he declared.

She, Angela and Ellen dined together that evening in the Hotel Cecil to celebrate the success of the day. By then news had circulated of the more solid proposals Lloyd George had put forward to Mrs Pankhurst and her delegation. Ellen was not convinced. Conservative attitudes to women could not be changed overnight, quoth Lloyd George, which she declared to be more Welsh soft soap. So far as munitions were concerned, the government was taking control of privately owned companies which meant no more sweated labour. Now that was something, Ellen agreed. There was enough of that kind of sweat where she grew up to grease the rifles of Fred Karno’s entire army.

Ellen loudly carolled the popular soldiers’ song to the amusement of the officers at the next table, before pointing out that although from now on women would receive the same rate as men for piece-work, despite all Mrs Pankhurst’s arguments, Lloyd George could not guarantee the same for time-work.

But Ellen must agree it was a start, Caroline argued. ‘You’re very quiet, Angela,’ she added, seeing her cousin’s abstracted look.

Angela jumped. ‘I was just thinking that before the war we’d have been taken for women of the streets, dining here without gentlemen.’

Caroline laughed, more at the idea of the respectable Angela as a lady of the night than at what she had said.

‘Much better than ’aving men along,’ said Ellen approvingly. ‘All the pleasure and none of the old gorblimey.’

‘The what?’ Angela’s brow wrinkled.

‘The gorblimey what’s he doing now?’ Ellen amplified.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Look at that terrible hat over there,’ Caroline said hastily.

In a sudden wave of affection, Isabel wound her arms round Robert’s neck as he leaned from the train window. All that was safe and secure seemed to be steaming out of her life. Last year, marriage had taken her from the Rectory, with
all its comforting shelter, and plunged her not into the life she had expected but into a dull routine of household problems. Now Robert himself was leaving yet again, and this time not just for St Albans for further training but to go abroad, where she could not reach him no matter what went wrong.

As the train puffed out of Ashden station, Isabel felt truly alone for the first time. She had to run the house with the sole help of Mrs Bugle. Even the butler had been purloined to work at The Towers. The only good aspect about Mrs Bugle was how terrible she was—at least The Towers wouldn’t want to steal
her.

She walked slowly along Station Road and turned past The Towers into the track towards Hop House. Towards home, towards the hopgardens. The hops would be ripe in another six weeks, perhaps less if the weather were favourable. Should she go to see Mr Eliot? Of course she should, she told herself: he needed all the help he could get this year. The bookings from the East End had not been up to usual levels, and there was a question-mark over the use of troops. They might be going overseas, for there were rumours of an offensive in the autumn.

Long days stretched out in front of her, imprisoned by the boundaries of duty: the daily battle with Mrs Bugle, the forbidding disapproval from The Towers for her failing to move in with them, the unspoken anxiety of her mother, the knowledge that after Robert’s leave her mother-in-law would soon be eyeing
her once more to see if a baby were on the way. It wouldn’t be. To her relief, Robert still made sure of that on the grounds that it wasn’t a world he wanted to bring children into. So if she was to have a baby while this war was on, it wouldn’t be his …

Appalled, she said a prayer of apology. She was only a year married and here she was thinking of another man already. She tried hard to thank the Lord for all His gifts (even for Mrs Bugle, as many people had no servants at all now), for her loving family, and for Robert about to fight for his country in a foreign land. That night she stayed on her knees much longer than usual in the hope that her sinful thoughts would vanish. But they didn’t. They nestled in one corner of her mind, while she battled with her conscience. She would go to help her mother-in-law with her gas masks, she decided. Surely that was sufficient a peace offering even for God.

The Rector tried not to laugh when he saw the Julius Caesar cartoon. George undoubtedly had a flair for drawing, and he had initiative. He had sold three cartoons this month to London newspapers and magazines, receiving in all £9 3s 6d. But, for the moment, he had more important matters to discuss with his son. He found him in the garden, slouching, hands in pockets, talking to Percy Dibble. One glance at the Rector’s meaningful face and Percy decided the potting shed could do with a tidy-up.

‘When are you breaking up for the summer, George?’

‘The twenty-fourth, Father,’ he answered cautiously.

‘And what plans do you have for the holidays?’

‘Chipping Major has asked me to stay.’

‘When?’

‘Late August. Over the Bank Holiday. I meant to mention it.’ George was defensive, realising this was no casual enquiry after his welfare.

‘And before that what plans have you?’

‘Mother wants me to help out with harvesting.’

‘Can she do without you for a few days?’

George looked wary; he hadn’t the slightest idea what Father had in mind.

‘I would like you and Phoebe to pay a visit to Grandmother Buckford with me.’ Laurence winced as he saw the look of horror on George’s face. ‘Merely a few days. I am concerned about her. Your mother is worried about the Zeppelin threat in Dover, but since there have been no raids over London or the south-east since early June, I feel they must be waiting for the longer nights. I don’t think we will be in any danger.’

‘But Mother needs me here,’ George argued. Surely Mother would support him since Grandmother Buckford disapproved of her son’s marriage and still refused to meet Elizabeth. The abandonment of the annual visit to Dover had been one of the bonuses of the war so far as he and his sisters were concerned.

‘I should be grateful, George.’

Put that way, George had no option. But Dover—ugh. Memories of childhood horrors and humiliations flooded back: Grandmother seizing him to point out the dirt behind his ears in front of cousin Robert, his hero; being sent to his room because he didn’t like playing with regiments of toy soldiers—‘The Buckfords have always been an Army family, George.’

Suddenly an idea occurred to him and he beamed. ‘All right, Father. It would be rather jolly to see Grandmother again—’

His father looked at him suspiciously but did not follow it up. George had remembered that Tim Marden was stationed at RNAS Dover, and had issued a vague invitation to ‘take him up’ in a ‘trainer’ if he were in the neighbourhood.

‘I’d like to enquire what’s a-happening, Mrs Lilley.’ Mrs Dibble broke off relations with the pastry for the rabbit pie to seize this rare opportunity for A Discussion.

Elizabeth wilted under Mrs Dibble’s accusing eye. ‘I’ve still had no applicants, Mrs Dibble. I’ve asked around the village and I’ve pleaded with the
Courier
to put in an advertisement—they’re refusing most now for lack of space. The only person who came from the Tunbridge Wells agency was most unsuitable.’

‘I saw her, thank you, Mrs Lilley. I don’t want no retired scarlet women here, even if it means doing without.’

‘No one seems to want to do domestic work, I’m afraid. I thought I would get some response from the village, at least.’

‘If you don’t mind my pointing it out, ma’am,’ Mrs Dibble picked up her rolling pin again, ‘you’ve been asking them to work in the fields.’

‘It’s a job that needs doing. We all depend on our food supply being maintained.’ Elizabeth felt even more guilty.

Mrs Dibble sniffed. ‘No good will come of it, you mark my words. Percy said there was trouble at the Norville Arms last night. Them Thorns are spoiling for a fight and now it’s got out that Miss Caroline helped organise that march in London, there was words spoken. It’s that Len Thorn behind it all, you mark my words. He’s a good for nothing scamp, and that new lady doctor don’t help. Disgusting, I call it.’

Elizabeth was more perturbed at what Mrs Dibble had said than she felt it wise to reveal. Edith had mentioned the march to her in tones of marked disapproval, and now the whole village was talking of it. ‘Women make very good doctors. Look at Dr Flora Murray and the Garrett Andersons,’ she pointed out.

‘Oh, in hospitals and over there, I daresay it’s different. But this is Ashden and it’s not decent.’

‘That’s enough, Mrs Dibble.’ Elizabeth tried to keep the sharpness out of her voice, but did not entirely succeed. ‘It’s no different to men examining lady patients.’

‘You know where you are with a man,’ Mrs Dibble maintained cryptically, and to this, Elizabeth could find no reply.

Home; home for her birthday, or rather to
celebrate
her birthday. It fell on a Tuesday this year, so Caroline and Angela had marked the day by going to see Elsie Janis in revue at the Palace. Then, at the weekend, Caroline was going to Sussex for a ‘dinner dance’ Rectory-style; in other words, Mrs Dibble’s special buffet, and a hop around the terrace to George’s gramophone if weather permitted. Last year she had … No, she would not think of last year.

Reggie had remembered her birthday—he had sent a letter to join the others which she kept locked up in Grandmother Overton’s box and, with it, an oil painting. It was not a Rembrandt exactly, but to her it was just as precious. He explained in the letter that it had been the idea of a local artist; a photograph of him was set side by side with one of her, pasted on to an oval-shaped piece of wood, and then the whole surface had been painted over, fitting the two of them into a garden scene with flowers and grass and trees. Reggie must have described Ashden to the artist for in the background was a house bearing a remarkable resemblance to the Manor. ‘This is how it will be when this hiccup in our lives is all over. Just shut your eyes, darling, and imagine it. Or, rather, look at this …’

She obeyed his instructions but doing so brought more pain than pleasure. Such a future seemed a Shangri-La, beautiful but unattainable, and far removed from the busy life she was leading now. Since the demonstration, which had been supported by
over
fifty thousand women, the WSPU had been overwhelmed by the size of its postbag, and every letter had to be dealt with. Most were from women asking for work, although there were also occasionally letters of abuse which were ceremonially burnt. Then there were offers of jobs from factory owners and small traders, all of which had to be sorted out with the relevant Ministry. She’d even seen an application from William Swinford-Browne for women to work in his East Grinstead munitions factory, and with great satisfaction tucked it at the bottom of the pile.

She had been able to leave the office promptly this Friday afternoon. The walk down Station Road worked its usual magic on her, as she happily greeted each tree, saluted The Towers, and picked a wild scabious for her buttonhole. As she approached the corner, she said good evening to Mrs Thorn who was on her way to Bankside, and was a little puzzled that she did not appear to see her. She soon forgot it, however, in the pleasure of rushing into the Rectory.

On Saturday evening about twenty of her friends gathered for the ‘dinner dance’. Mrs Dibble, despite dire prognostications of ‘running short’, had drummed up an excellent supper,
and as for the dancing, well, she had brought some jazz records down from London in the hope that she could get away with anything on her birthday. She had slid them surreptitiously to George with the strict injunction he was to leave them till Father had had his supper. Eleanor and Dr Cuss wheeled Daniel round in his invalid chair, and Caroline sat beside him in the drawing room as the dancing began outside on the terrace.

‘Do you mind watching, Daniel?’

He grinned. ‘Not in the least, Caroline. Don’t worry about me. Especially now.’

‘Why now?’ she asked curiously, as Eleanor joined them.

‘Go on, tell her, Daniel.’

‘I think, we think,
they
think, the paralysis is really lifting at last. We thought it was earlier, but nothing much seemed to happen. Now it hurts like hell—or, since it means I’m feeling things again, perhaps I should say it hurts like heaven.’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ Caroline cried. ‘How long will it take, do you think?’

‘No one knows. But if, if,
if
it lifts, they’ll be able to fit me with a peg leg straight away, either at Queen Mary’s Roehampton or in a Belgian hospital near Rouen which specialises in re-educational work.’ His eyes were alive with hope.

‘You’ll be almost as good as new,’ Caroline said. ‘You’ll be able to travel, and do all sorts of things.’ His face clouded, and she realised she had blundered. She then compounded her
mistake by putting her other foot right in it. ‘Have you heard from Felicia?’

‘No.’

‘She can’t have much opportunity to write. We only get a note now and again.’

‘I asked her not to.’

‘You’re a prize idiot, Daniel,’ Eleanor informed him. ‘Talking of which—’she glanced at her brother—‘shall I tell her?’

‘Tell me what?’

Daniel nodded, so Eleanor continued, ‘We want to warn you Mother’s got her warpaint on, and she’s after your scalp, Caroline.’

‘That’s not unusual.’

‘It was your London demonstration that set her off. Edith Swinford-Browne told her about it.’

Trust William Swinford-Browne to cause mischief where he could, Caroline raged. He must have rushed to discredit her in Edith’s eyes by telling her of Caroline’s work with the WSPU, in case she took it into her head to try to discredit
him.

‘But the press said how well organised it was. She can bathe in the reflected glory of her future daughter-in-law.’

‘It’s no joke.’ Daniel added his note of warning to his sister’s. ‘You know how violently she’s opposed to women having the vote—’

‘The march was about work, not the vote.’

‘Yes, but it involved the same people, the same principle,’ Eleanor explained. ‘I’m afraid that as far as Mother is concerned, Eve was put on this world solely to tend to Adam’s needs.’

‘I seem to remember Eve rebelled,’ Caroline muttered.

‘But God won.’

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ Caroline looked in dismay at her friends.

‘It pays to be where Mother’s concerned,’ Eleanor said ruefully.

‘I’ll remember not to talk about it any more,’ she promised.

‘Not even to Reggie,’ Eleanor suggested, so quietly that Caroline hardly bothered to listen. In any case it was too late. She’d already written a full account of the demonstration and her part in it. ‘And there’s also been some feeling in the village about the march. Strong disapproval of the Rector’s daughter being mixed up with such shenanigans.’

‘But that’s ridiculous. Ashden doesn’t care what goes on in London and, in any case, why should they object to my helping women to find work, when I did just the same here?’

‘Yes. But only half the village supported you.’

‘The Thorns,’ Caroline exclaimed, remembering Mrs Thorn’s odd behaviour. ‘They’re stirring up trouble and using me as the battering ram. Ah well,’ she tried to joke, ‘I’d better raise an army of Mutters to escort me everywhere.’

‘Until the weathercock changes,’ Eleanor said pessimistically.

Phoebe was dancing with Charles Pickering. She hadn’t dared invite Harry here again, in case it drew Father’s attention to him, but although her
feet were occupied in waltzing with the curate, her thoughts were still with yesterday.

She and Harry had gone to Ashdown Forest. Phoebe was not an enthusiastic walker, but with Harry it was different. At first, faced with what seemed impenetrable woodland, he had been nervous at the wildness and space around him and, trying to see it through his eyes, Phoebe had to admit he had a point.

‘It’s like an army,’ she had told him. ‘Taken all at once it’s terrifying, but when you look at the trees one by one, you can see the wood is made up of individual soldiers.’

He’d laughed at that, tripped over a root and sworn. ‘I don’t go tripping over me mates’ boots,’ he told her.

‘That’s an oak tree,’ she said, wanting to make him part of the life she’d always known.

‘Like the Royal Oak?’

‘The one where King Charles hid.’

‘Did he hide in a pub?’ He was perplexed and they had giggled when they disentangled their meanings.

When they emerged on to open moorland, he grew more interested. His sharp brown eyes were everywhere. ‘What’s that?’ He pointed to a chaffinch. ‘And what’s
that?
’

Harebells in the grass were so common that Phoebe had hardly noticed before how delicate and beautiful they were. Then, reluctantly, she broke the terrible news to him. ‘Father says I’ve got to go to Dover for a few days soon. My grandmother lives there. We hate her. She’s a monster.’ She wondered if God were listening,
and added hastily, ‘She’s very generous of course. Just, well, you know.’

Harry didn’t. His grandmother—the other was dead—had the foulest mouth and the warmest heart of any of his family. ‘Why go then?’

‘She’s our grandmother and Father says we have to.’

‘Like the Army, eh? All drill and duty. When do you leave?’

‘Eighth August.’

He kicked a stone from his path. ‘We might be going overseas around then.’

Why hadn’t it occurred to her that soldiers were in camps only temporarily? Phoebe’s face puckered up with distress. ‘I don’t want you to go,’ she cried.

‘I don’t want to leave you either. Will you write to me, miss—Phoebe?’

‘Every day,’ she promised.

He smiled at the chaffinch, at the harebells, at the forest around him, and at Phoebe who was looking as lovely as the lady in that picture, ‘April Love’, his mother liked so much. He could see tears in her eyes, though. He’d seen them there in temper, when she quarrelled with old Ma Manning, but never before had there been tears for
him.
He found himself kissing her, although he had told himself he shouldn’t. He ran his hands through the muslin over the curves of her body. He could see her ankles peeping out under her skirt; and the way her breast curved before it disappeared into the white prison of her underclothes. ‘Let’s lie down, Phoebe,’ he said hoarsely.

Amid a torrent of emotions, Phoebe realised she was lying on the grass again with a man, and liking it. She wanted to be close to Harry. His cap was lying on the ground, and she loved being able to see every detail of his short gingery hair and the freckles on his face. As his hand rested hesitantly on the dress covering her legs, she tensed, then relaxed again. She felt his hand pushing up her skirts, warm on her thigh above the stockings, and the tingling where before she had known only harshness. His fingers went on touching her, but just when she thought she would burst, he stopped and sat up, white as a sheet.

‘What’s wrong?’ She meant what was wrong with her.

‘This is,’ he replied after a moment. ‘With you.’

‘Why me?’

‘You’re a lady.’

‘I’m me. I’m Phoebe.’

‘I know, and that’s why too. I love you. So it’s wrong.’ He was staring straight ahead, very red in the face.

Phoebe sat up beside him almost shyly, and smoothed down her skirts. ‘I love you too.’

‘Do you?
Do
you, Phoebe?’

‘Yes!’ With a joyful shout, she hugged him again. Laughing, they tumbled around like puppies, till he rolled over a sharp stone and swore once more. He kissed her on the nose and the cheek, and she closed her eyes. Love was wonderful, life was wonderful and this moment was what happiness meant.

Isabel had not dared invite Frank Eliot to Caroline’s dance for the same reason as Phoebe. Consequently she had been forced to rely for dancing partners on Martin Cuss, when duty prised him away from Eleanor, and Charles Pickering, or George. Even Philip Ryde was preoccupied with someone else, in his case the new doctor. Eleanor had driven her home after the dance, but had not come in, so Isabel was left to face the silence and darkness of Hop House alone.

She woke up on Sunday morning and came to a decision. True, she then spent the morning wrestling with it, but while she was doing so she was changing into suitable attire. She dressed with care, choosing to wear an old voile dress, the only gown to accompany her from the Rectory to marriage. It suited her, was unostentatious, and presented the image she wished.

She knew Frank Eliot had a fine baritone voice, and could therefore contribute to the Entertainment for the Troops concerts. They could sing duets.
Why
hadn’t she thought of that before? They’d need rehearsals of course, but she had a piano. That decided her. It was her duty to call at Hop Cottage this afternoon.

He attended church infrequently, and Isabel’s heart leapt in confusion when she saw he was there. She avoided him after church, and chattered all the more gaily at lunch in the Rectory. When Caroline said she had to leave to return to London at three o’clock, Isabel
made an excuse to leave with her, and they walked up Station Road together. She soothed her conscience by remaining to wave Caroline off, standing well back in case the smuts from the train smoke sullied the pale green gown, and then walked quickly back along the lane to Hop Cottage.

Frank Eliot was lazing in his garden in a hammock slung between two trees. A battered old straw hat lay over his face, one hand dangled over the hammock’s edge, the other rested peacefully on his stomach. Hearing the small cough she gave to announce her arrival, he sat up with a start, the hat fell off, the hammock tipped perilously, and he slid to the ground.

‘Isabel!’ Pleasure was replaced by caution. ‘Do sit down.’ He brought up a deckchair. ‘Have you brought me a rota?’

‘No. Just myself.’ Then, realising this might be too easily misunderstood, Isabel said hastily, ‘This garden is lovely.’ It was, and, she thought, surprisingly well tended.

‘Yes.’ His eyes wandered round. ‘My wife taught me to love flowers and how to create a garden.’

‘Your wife? But I thought—’

‘She died ten years ago.’

An instant vision of herself and Frank singing ‘The Ash Grove’ together flitted through Isabel’s mind. Or perhaps she would play the piano, while he sang at her side. ‘That’s very sad.’

It had changed his life for ever. Caution steadied hope, reality optimism, and cynicism love.

‘You’re a strange man. You look—’ Isabel re-phrased what she had been going to say, ‘you don’t look as though you would be interested in flowers.’

‘You’d like some tea?’

‘Ginger beer would be nice.’ Isabel felt pleased with herself. This afternoon she didn’t want to be an elegant lady of fashion, but a simple country girl.

He disappeared inside the cottage and re-emerged with two glasses full of ginger beer. ‘Why are you here, Isabel?’ he asked.