Dark Harvest (14 page)

She found herself speaking the truth. ‘I was lonely.’

He got up from the grass beside her, pulled her to her feet and kissed her. ‘Lonely for me or for Robert?’

‘For you—I think.’

‘Isabel.’ He held her close, so close she could feel the tenseness of his body and hear his breathing deepen. ‘Come inside,’ he said after a while.

This was what she’d expected, wasn’t it? And he’d promised she wouldn’t have a baby. He led her upstairs to a bedroom, as sweetly scented with lavender as the Rectory itself. Expertly unbuttoning her delicate dress, he brought it swiftly to the ground, and he embraced her again. Sudden panic seized her, and she drew back. She wanted to, oh how her body wanted to, but what would
Father
say?

‘What’s the matter, Isabel?’ He kept his arm round her.

‘I’m worried,’ she began, and broke off
because she did not know how to finish.

‘About Robert? Because we’re here and he’s on his way to battle?’ His hand cupped one of her breasts.

‘Oh, no.’ Preoccupied with the odd feelings he was arousing, she was startled at hearing her husband’s name. ‘He chose to go.
And
he chose to go as a private soldier. Not even as an officer. He could have stayed here longer if he’d accepted a commission.’

The hand was still. ‘Isn’t it rather admirable of him to go then?’

‘Why?’ she felt a sudden chill between them. ‘What’s the matter, Frank?’ She was alarmed as he released her and walked over to the window.

‘Do you care so little for him, Isabel?’

‘Of course I care for him.’

‘Then why are you here with me?’

‘You knew he was going out to the Dardanelles. You encouraged me to come here. It’s
your
fault.’

‘Yes.’ He passed a hand over his face. ‘I’m sorry, Isabel.’

Isabel felt vulnerable, foolish, standing in her underclothes. ‘What Robert means to me is my business,’ she said shaking.

With an effort Frank turned round to face her. ‘He may only be a private soldier but at least he has had the courage to volunteer to fight for his country, while a skunk like me seduces his wife.’

‘I don’t understand you,’ she cried. ‘I thought you loved me.’

He kissed her gently. ‘It’s not you, Isabel. It’s my fault. Only mine.’ He knelt down to pick up her dress and cover her.

‘I hate you,’ she screamed, pulling away from him. ‘You’ve insulted me. You’re not a gentleman.’ She ran from the room, still endeavouring to button the dress, then fled from the house, the scene of such humiliation.

Shaken and concerned, Frank blamed himself for being a fool. For having let it get this far, for acting so callously, even for not making love to her the way she so obviously wanted. Then he remembered her indifference to her husband’s plight, and the remnants of desire ebbed from him. He poured himself a whisky although it was only four o’clock, and then walked out into his garden to look at the flower borders he had created. He had believed he could find love again after Jennifer, but he couldn’t. Only mutual need, and that for him seemed not to be enough.

Mrs Dibble burst into the study between callers for Rector’s Hour, without so much as a knock. ‘It’s those Thorns, sir.’

‘What
do
you mean, Mrs Dibble?’ Laurence was becoming irritated at being called upon to solve every crisis. Spiritual problems, village welfare, servants’ welfare—it was all laid at his door.

‘The Thorns are marching to protest against that new lady doctor. I thought you’d want to know.’

Laurence was already out of the study and
running for the front door, not even stopping to pull on his hat. As he raced to the gate he could see the Thorns and their supporters marching along the High Street from the Red Lion past the forge and ironmongery proudly bearing a banner: ‘Ashden says get out lady doctors. Men’s jobs for men.’ Len Thorn was swaggering along at the column’s head. Spilling down Bankside from the Norville Arms came the Mutters. As Laurence reached the Rectory gate, the two groups met; the shouting intensified and, after a struggle to seize the banner, fighting broke out.

To his horror, Beth Parry ran past him towards the fracas. As both sides saw her, there was a moment’s pause, and Laurence heard her say, ‘If men are to go to the front, women must do their jobs. And the front is where some of you should be.’

With a roar, Len Thorn dropped the banner and seized her by the arm, shaking her violently.

‘Let that lady go, Len,’ Laurence yelled, pushing his way through the fighting bodies. Two Mutters grabbed Len from behind and Beth was released.

‘Isn’t there enough war in the world, Len, without you stirring up more?’ He turned to Beth. ‘Has he hurt you?’

‘There was no need to intervene, Rector,’ she replied stiffly. ‘I can stand up for myself.’

As she stood rubbing her arm Len Thorn brushed the Rector aside and made for Beth again. Quickly Laurence interposed himself between the two of them. ‘Come with me,
Dr Parry. Into the Rectory. And don’t you dare try to prevent us, Len Thorn.’

He hurried her into the Rectory kitchen. ‘Mrs Dibble, kindly make some tea for Dr Parry, and I want a knife, a sharp knife—’

‘What for?’ Beth cried, aghast.

‘You need have no concern, Dr Parry. I don’t intend to become Ashden’s Jack the Ripper.’ Seizing the knife, Laurence rushed out once more.

By the time he reached the fracas, punches were being freely distributed, Len Thorn was using his banner to knock Harold Mutter senseless and more and more onlookers were threatening to join in. It was now or never if he were to remain Rector of Ashden. Laurence jumped on to the seat around the oak tree to gain height above the fighting mob.

‘No sermons, Rector. We know what we want,’ Len Thorn shouted.

‘I don’t want you to listen, I want you to watch. As Our Lord is most surely watching you.’

Reluctantly, they all paused as Laurence turned to the trunk of the oak tree and began to carve as high up as he could reach.

‘There.’ He pointed as he finished carving. ‘The initials T.H. Now I’m going to carve J.H. and then P.C. What for? T.H. stands for Tim Hubble, J.H. for Johnnie Hay and P.C. for Percy Combes. These men were here a year ago drinking in the Norville Arms and now they are dead. I’m going to carve the initials of all our fallen men here. They died fighting
for peace in this land and you honour them by brawling in the place they loved. From now on, every man who volunteers can carve his initials here before he leaves to remind you what’s happening overseas. Honour the dead by respecting the living—man
or
woman.’

Too impatient to wait to buy her own copy, Caroline snatched
The Times
from the morning-room table, and assuaged her guilty conscience by reminding it that Simon had not been to Norland Square for some days now. She had lain awake worrying much of the night. Why hadn’t she heard from Reggie? There had been silence for three whole weeks. The last letter she received had been written on 10th July to thank her for her birthday present. It was now August 5th.

At first she had not worried greatly since he had explained that letters could be held up, or even blown up, if the Field Post received a direct hit. Now, however, after reading in the newspapers about the terrible attack last week at Hooge, she was deeply concerned. Not content with using gas in April, the Germans had not only continued their bombardments with Moaning Minnie heavy shells but brought in a new terror, spouts of petrol and flame called flame-throwers. The slaughter had been
for nothing. And the tactical objective, a mine crater, had not even been won. That hole in the ground had been a château before this war began, peopled with human beings and surrounded by gardens. Not now.

Had Reggie been caught up in that battle? Had he
died
in it? Each day she turned fearfully to the officers’ roll of honour, dreading to see the familiar name leap out at her. H—she ran her eye quickly down the list, aware of her thumping heart. There was no Hunney. Yes, there
was.
With relief she saw the name was not Reginald Hunney, but Gerald Hunney-Beresford, another branch of the family. She remembered Reggie talking of his cousin Gerald. She had even met him ages ago when they were all children. Now he was dead—just for a mine crater.

‘All right?’ Angela came up beside her.

‘Yes, but why haven’t I
heard?
’ She lifted a stricken face to her cousin. Was Reggie one of the dead, but still unidentified for some reason? Carefully, she refolded the newspaper to as near a state of flat perfection as she could manage, and replaced it on the table.

‘My brother, Robert, is there too,’ Angela pointed out. ‘And I’m even more worried about Registration Sunday on the fifteenth.’ All men and women aged between fifty and sixty-five were to sign, stating their occupation and what they would be willing to do if called upon to serve the country. ‘Father is convinced that it’s the first step towards general conscription, and if so, what will happen to Willie?’

Caroline understood immediately. Angela’s younger brother had refused to join the regular Army, saying he was more interested in preserving life than destroying it. His passion was flowers and he worked for the Royal Horticultural Society.

‘He told Father he’s prepared to go to war, but not to fight,’ Angela added. ‘Still, the war can’t go on much longer, can it?’

Caroline said nothing. It seemed to her it could. Neither side was getting anywhere. Simon had said the only hope of breaking the stalemate on the Western Front was to attack elsewhere, in Turkey for instance, in order to join up with Russia on that front. But that brought another anxiety. Although she and Simon had both had cheerful letters from Penelope in Serbia assuring them all was peaceful and the hospital growing splendidly, Simon, through his Foreign Office contacts, was concerned that another invasion, this time by Germany and Bulgaria as well as Austria, was imminent. And Penelope refused to return to Britain.

‘Isabel!’ Elizabeth was surprised. Isabel rarely came to the Rectory now, save for Sunday luncheon after church and perhaps once during the week. ‘Is anything wrong, darling?’ The poultry quota must wait if her eldest lamb were in trouble. And to Elizabeth’s eye, it was quite clear she was. Isabel looked strained and, worse, had that hurt look which her mother remembered from her childhood, when the world denied her what she wanted. It was not
an attractive look and would one day plant bitter lines on her flawless complexion. But that was where mothers came in, in Elizabeth’s view. My child, right or wrong, and alas, with Isabel—

‘Tell,’ she commanded.

‘Oh, Mother,’ Isabel burst into tears. ‘I’m lonely. I miss Robert so much.’

Elizabeth held her in her arms to comfort her. ‘Everyone is suffering because of this terrible war, Isabel. Now,
why
are you lonely? You have your friends in Tunbridge Wells and Forest Row. And here in Ashden you have Edith and William, besides us. And Janie of course.’

‘No one likes me. Robert has disappointed everyone by refusing to be commissioned and his parents see as little of me as they can. I think it’s wonderful of Robert to be a private soldier.’ By now she had convinced herself that she did. ‘But it means he’ll be away for ever.’

‘He’s not missing, is he?’ Elizabeth was alarmed.

‘No, but he’s on the other side of the world.’ Isabel’s misery broke out anew. ‘Gallipoli—it’s so far away. And he doesn’t get home leave like the officers. Suppose I never see him again?’

‘You will, pet.’ Elizabeth had an idea. ‘Would Robert mind if you came back to the Rectory for a little while?’

Isabel looked happier and plumped herself down on the old familiar sofa. ‘Oh, Mother, I’d love to.’

‘There’s your Mrs Bugle to consider, of course, and the Swinford-Brownes. They’ll
have to be consulted.’ Already Elizabeth was planning.

‘None of them will care. I’ll keep Mrs Bugle on and go up there once in a while.’ Isabel dismissed that as a minor problem, now her own was solved. A deep wave of relief flooded over her. Mrs Dibble would replace Mrs Bugle’s awfulness. Mother would replace Edith Swinford-Browne’s carping comments and she, Isabel, would be safe again. Safe from the constant recollection of the humiliation of her treatment by Frank Eliot.

Phoebe fidgeted in the train. Father was reading, George was sketching. Da, da, da,
dee,
da, da, da,
dee
… In Dover for
tea.
How I hate to be me, I wish I were
free,
Phoebe thought crossly, as the monotonous rhythm drew her ever closer to Dover. Of the five of them she got on best with Grandmother, partly because she and Isabel had been the ones to appreciate her offer to send them to finishing school in Paris. Isabel had gone with great eagerness, Caroline had refused, for Felicia the experience had been a disaster, but Phoebe had been looking forward to it when war broke out and prevented her going. It was not the school that attracted her, of course, it was merely a means of escape from Ashden.

How long ago that time seemed! Now Phoebe wanted to stay in Ashden for ever, or at least until Harry returned. He might not, she thought with dismay. Here she was being dragged away to Dover, not even knowing when his battalion
would be leaving, or from which port. It would probably be Southampton, but suppose it was Dover? How agonising to be in the same town as Harry and not even know he was there. And suppose, just suppose, Harry were killed? Soldiers were daily. Lots of them. They marched off, leaving their girls behind them, and then never came back. Phoebe had a sudden inspiration. She would ask Uncle Charles, whose favourite she was, to find out. He had a home command in Dover. And he wouldn’t tell Father.

George was sketching, but inside he was choked up with his secret. Tim had replied to his letter, and told him to come along to the RNAS station at Guston Road. Things were quiet, so he might be lucky, and Tim could take him up. If not he’d show him round the station. George decided not to tell Father. Not yet anyway.

In theory Laurence was reading
The Times
but in practice he was bracing himself for the coming ordeal. It was by no means easy for him to face his mother from whom he’d parted so bitterly when he married Elizabeth nearly thirty years ago. It said, he supposed, a lot for his mother’s strength of character that she could maintain such a rigid disapproval over so long a period. In all that time she had never met Elizabeth, and so there was as little pleasure in this visit for him as there was for Phoebe and George. Nevertheless it had to be endured; his five children were part of the Buckford family and should therefore maintain contact.

It was at least an opportunity to see Charles, the present earl, though they had absolutely nothing in common. Laurence often hankered to visit his brother Gerald, to whom he had been closest as a child, and had occasionally toyed with the idea of visiting him in the United States if the Lord would provide him with the means to do so. So far He hadn’t made it His priority.

Laurence’s income was becoming an increasing problem. Before the war, his living had covered their essential needs and Elizabeth’s small private income had topped it up. Even then there had been little left over for jaunts. Now, his finances were being squeezed by reduced tithes, as local farmers struggled with rising prices, and by increases in his own taxes and food bills. What with uncollectable tithes, income tax, local tax, and tenths (by which a tenth of his income was kept back by the church body, Queen Anne’s Bounty, to top up the salaries of clergy in an even worse plight than he was), country rectors were amongst the hardest hit in the land. When Caroline was a child, she had asked him why, if Queen Anne was so generous, he couldn’t ask Her Majesty for some more. If only it were that simple! Although Caroline and Isabel no longer had to be supported, and Felicia was away, this seemed to make little difference to the amounts flowing out of the Rectory on food and other living expenses. He was almost at the point of considering an appeal to his mother. But so far pride had always held him back.

‘Laurence, I am glad to see you.’ Black eyes, once the toast of London, snapped their attention back to Phoebe and George. ‘You have grown, Phoebe.’ Phoebe blushed, and tried to hold her chest in. ‘George,’ she continued, ‘I am glad to see you take more and more after the Buckfords.’

George did not feel complimented. Who wanted to look like Grandmother anyway? She may have been a beauty; well, so was Mother, and
she
still was. Grandmother Buckford sitting so erect in her straight-backed chair, dressed in royal blue, hair beautifully coiffured, looked like a gargoyle. He had never actually seen a gargoyle, apart from the small one on the rainspout at St Nicholas, but surely Grandmother must be like the horrors he had read about in
The Hunchback of Notre
Dame.
Or perhaps she resembled She in Rider Haggard’s novel, the beautiful, immortal woman who shrivelled up into an ancient crone when her power was gone. Unfortunately Grandmother’s power had not, ancient crone though she was. ‘You’re looking well,’ he faltered.

The eyes snapped back to him, as though she could read exactly what George was thinking. ‘We shall have a long talk this evening, children. You may go to your rooms.’

The visit had begun.

Under the pretext of purchasing new gloves, Phoebe, sick with mingled excitement, fear and desperation, had found her way to Dover Priory,
the town station. She had had difficulty because Dover town was a military area, but mention of Major Charles Buckford had acted like a charm. Uncle Charles had been ripping: he had found out that Harry’s battalion of the London Regiment was leaving for the Western Front on the ninth from Dover, not Southampton, and since the Marine Station was in use for landing the wounded, Harry’s train would be coming in to the town station. So here she was.

She had been waiting for an hour already and was relieved to see that others were there too, on what she assumed was the same mission. Then with a triumphant hoot of steam the train puffed in. From outside the station she could see troops beginning to pour along the bridge over the platforms and down on to the nearside. They were coming out, not through the booking hall but through the side gates, close to where she was standing, in order to assemble in the yard outside. She stood to one side, feeling vulnerable amid this crowd of khaki, despite her experience at the camp. At Crowborough she had been someone. Here she was just Phoebe Lilley, and the soldiers’ whistles of approval flustered rather than amused her.

How could she hope to spot Harry amid these thousands of men? She was beginning to feel panicky at the sheer numbers milling around her. Suddenly, there he was, his familiarity startling her, as her dreams became fact.

‘Harry!’ Her voice came out as a croak but heads turned all the same as they lined up, packs on backs.

Private Harry Darling, jerked from one world into another, couldn’t believe his eyes as he moved towards her uncertainly. They stood, looking at each other, until a stentorian shout recalled him to ranks. Boldly, he planted a kiss on her cheek, just missing her lips. Then another, only this time he found them. Another shout, roars of approval from his pals, and he was gone again. Leaving her happy, oh so happy.

Phoebe picked a wild rose from the hedgerow on her way back from the station, determined to press it in a book, as she had a flower from Ashdown Forest. She’d never forget today, never, not even when they were old and had babies of their own.

George was sleeping peacefully. He was dreaming of Grandmother piloting a Fokker, flying further and further away from Dover, until she reached Gallipoli, whereupon she landed, took Uncle Charles’s knobkerry from the Boer War, and began to smash all Nanny Oates’ eggs. Only George could stop her. But where was he? ‘George!’ George!’ the cry went up.

His father rushed into the room and George jerked awake. He was being called. ‘There’s an air raid warning,’ Laurence cried. ‘I should never have brought you here. Quick. Into your dressing gown and downstairs to take shelter.’

Shelter? With a Zep around? Not likely, George thought. In five minutes he, Phoebe, Grandmother, helped down the stairs by Father, and the staff, were gathered by the cellar door.
Grandmother’s hair was all down her back, and she didn’t look nearly so formidable in her dressing gown.

She struck her stick on the ground. ‘I will not cower in my own cellar at the whim of Kaiser Wilhelm, Laurence,’ she declared. ‘You may all go, if you wish. I shall remain here.’ She took a seat by the window.

‘I’ll go and see what’s happening outside,’ Laurence said, anxious about her proximity to the glass.