Dark Harvest (20 page)

What was she to do? She had worried and worried these last two weeks when she hadn’t heard from Harry. And now she knew why. What did very poorly mean? It meant he was dying, she realised, and he wanted her at his side. But Father would never understand, never let her go to see him. She could, she supposed, appeal to Caroline. Caroline worked in London and would surely go to see Mrs Darling. But suppose Caroline came over all big-sisterish and told Father? No, she could not risk it.

If she was to get to see Harry, as he wanted,
she must plan this very carefully.

‘Mr Dibble!’

Percy, who was about to go into the Rectory vegetable garden, stopped in amazement. He hadn’t seen Daisy—his pet name for his wife—running since he chased her round that hayrick before they were wed. Then he became scared. ‘Joe?’ he asked.

‘No, no. Percy, you’ve got to go up there and hit him.’

‘Who?’ Percy was bewildered. He wasn’t much given to hitting. ‘The Rector?’

‘No! That, that …’ Mrs Dibble choked, ‘hop man. He’s seduced our Lizzie.’

‘He’s what?’ Percy tried to take this in.

‘Had his way with her. Seduced her.’

‘Did he tell you?’

‘No, you daft lummocks.
She
did.’

‘He’s hurt our Lizzie?’ Slow anger began to rise in him.

‘Not hurt,’ Mrs Dibble admitted with some reluctance. ‘She’s moved in with him.’

‘You said he’d seduced her.’

‘She’s a married woman, living in sin with an unmarried man. What do you call that?’

‘What does
she
call it?’ Percy was still cautious.

‘She says she’s his housekeeper. A likely story,’ Mrs Dibble snorted. ‘My Lizzie’s been ruined. You’ve got to go and hit him, Percy.’

Percy thought about it. ‘I don’t think I can do that.’

‘You’re going, Percy. You’re going.’ She burst
out crying. ‘Oh, the shame of it. I’ll never live it down, and she coming from a good Christian home. Poor, poor Rudolf.’

He patted her awkwardly. ‘Maybe it’s not what you think, Daisy.’

‘Then you go and find out what it is, Percy Dibble.
Now.
’

In the hospital conservatory, Reggie looked up as Daniel was wheeled in by their mother. ‘I’m off to say goodbye, old chap.’

‘Roehampton?’

‘By ambulance tomorrow.’ Daniel turned to his mother. ‘Ma, leave us alone, will you?’

No one else would have the nerve to order Mother out, Reggie thought.

‘By Christmas I’ll be able to push
you
around in one of these,’ Daniel continued.

‘That’s the best reason for getting back on my feet I’ve heard yet,’ Reggie said promptly.

Daniel laughed. ‘And then you’ll go back to the front?’

‘Of course.’

‘I wish—’ Daniel broke off. Did he wish he could go back with Reggie? Half of him told him he might as well; the other, that when he had a peg leg he might be able to get on a boat and travel. Perhaps even ride a horse, or fix a car so that he could drive it one-legged. And even if not, he could study. Go back to Oxford. Anything to get away from Ashden, away from himself, anywhere where he would not have to think of Felicia and whether he’d been right to send her away. Every day he scoured the
newspapers for mention of the ‘Two Lilies of the Field’ as they were now known. He still couldn’t connect the stories he read with the calm, contained girl whom he had rejected.

‘I saw Felicia—’ Reggie began, as if reading his thoughts.

‘Where?’ Daniel’s voice was harsh.

‘In the casualty clearing station. She’d heard I was there and came to see me. She asked how you were.’

‘Good of her.’

Reggie’s patience snapped. ‘Don’t you have any feeling for her? She’s doing this because of you, you oaf.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Daniel whipped back.

‘Why, for heaven’s sake? You’ll only have an artificial leg, now the paralysis is passing.’

Daniel did not answer him. Pride would not let him tell his brother what only he, his doctor, his mother—and Felicia—knew. ‘And what about you, Reggie?’ he retaliated.

‘Me?’

‘And Caroline. I knew she wrote to you. Why let Mother ruin everything? Don’t you love her?’

‘Of course I damn well love her,’ Reggie said angrily. ‘I love her here. But over there—I’m too damned punch-drunk when we’re out of the trenches after our stint to think of anything save the nearest brothel. And now, I’m forgetting wonderfully. Thanks to Isabel. She’s a dear.’ It was true. When he was with her he could forget all about Caroline; but as soon as she
went, back came the memories.

‘That’s bally selfish.’

‘All right.’ Reggie came to a decision. ‘If the war ended tomorrow I’d heave myself out of this chair, hop to the station, rush up to London and drag Caroline to the nearest church. But it won’t end tomorrow. It’s going to go on and on. This battle is over, it will be quiet while we regroup over the winter, and then we’ll start again. And again. And again. And by the time it’s over she will have a life of her own and she’ll fret at being a squire’s wife. I can’t throw the old place up and adapt to what she wants.’

‘Then marry her now.’

‘And be blown up in the next push forward? No.’

‘You might not be.’

‘But I might, and it could be worse. I could be incurably maimed and she would be stuck with me. No children, a eunuch for a husband.’ He caught sight of Daniel’s face, and put his head in his hands. ‘Dear God, is that it? Is that why—?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does Felicia know?’

‘Yes.’

‘Daniel—’ He put out his hand.

‘Don’t pity me,’ Daniel jerked out, pulling backwards in his chair.

Reggie swallowed. What he said now would affect the rest of their lives. ‘You can’t afford—we can’t afford for me not to pity you,’ he replied. ‘You’ll take my hand, Daniel.’

Daniel glared at him, and Reggie thought he
would refuse. But after a moment a hand came out to clasp his.

‘Hello, Pa.’ Lizzie did not look surprised to see him as she opened the door of Hop House.

Percy cleared his throat nervously. ‘Your mother’s not happy, Lizzie.’

‘I am, though.’ She grinned.

‘With a single gentleman?’ Percy was shocked.

‘I’m housekeeper, Pa,’ she proclaimed loudly. ‘Just like Ma to the Rector. No one says things if she and the Rector are alone in the house, do they?’

‘No,’ Percy agreed doubtfully.

‘Well then.’ She looked as if she were about to close the door, but Percy got his foot in it.

‘I’d best have a word with Mr Eliot,’ he muttered.

‘It’s not called for.’

‘It is by your mother, Lizzie.’

At that moment, attracted by the noise, Frank Eliot came down the stairs.

‘This is my Pa, Mr Eliot,’ Lizzie said resignedly.

‘My wife thinks we ought to have a talk.’ Percy said miserably.

‘Certainly.’ There was a glint of amusement in Frank’s face. ‘Come in, won’t you? Lizzie, you too.’ He led them into his parlour.

Half an hour later Percy walked down through the fields and past the mill to the Rectory. He had had two glasses of an excellent port which the Rector would have appreciated. He was also convinced that Frank Eliot was a good man and
that Lizzie could not have found a better place to work. All he was uncertain about was what he was going to tell Daisy.

As he walked in the kitchen door, however, Daisy flew at him. ‘Haven’t seen Miss Phoebe, have you?’

‘No, why?’

‘We’re that worrited. She hasn’t come home from work. PC Ifield is out looking for her, the Rector’s had Dr Marden drive him to Crowborough camp, and not a word. She’s missing.’

Elizabeth paced round the drawing room, fiddling with magazines, adjusting the framed photographs and running to the doorway at every slight noise from the entrance hall. Laurence had been gone for two whole hours, and there had not even been a telephone call. This afternoon she had been helping with the preparations for the harvest supper which was due to begin in thirty minutes, and she had come home to hear the news about Phoebe. ‘Why didn’t your father come to find me?’ Elizabeth had moaned.

‘Because he knew you were busy,’ Isabel soothed. ‘He expected to be back before you came home.’

‘Then why isn’t he? He has to bless the harvest in an hour’s time. I shall have to ask
Charles Pickering to do it. Shall I telephone him? Or should I walk round to see him?’ Elizabeth’s eye fell on a new cause for concern: the corn crown and regalia for her role as Harvest Queen. She made up her mind. ‘I shall telephone PC Ifield. Then Charles.’

Isabel too was anxious. She had never been as close to Phoebe as Caroline but, now that her sister was missing, she felt panic-stricken. Had she been attacked while bicycling home? Surely not. Of course, there was Old Harry, a waygoer who often appeared on the Withyham. road and hurled abuse at passers-by, but he’d never been known to attack anyone. It was far more likely to be one of those rough, common soldiers at the camp. She’d warned Mother it was dangerous for Phoebe to work there; she was hardly more than a child and very naive. But if they’d found her bicycle on the road, Father and PC Ifield would be here by now with the bad news.

Therefore, she reasoned, they were still at the camp searching for her.

Elizabeth returned from her calls. ‘PC Ifield isn’t back either. Oh, I do wish Mrs Ifield wouldn’t bawl down the telephone as if she were marshalling a herd of cattle. I’ve been in touch with Crowborough police and Tunbridge Wells and they’ve no news. Should I contact the hospitals, do you think?’

‘No.’ Isabel was practical. ‘If she were in hospital, PC Ifield would be told and Father would have telephoned us.’

‘I suppose you’re right. But what if there’s a
message waiting for Joe Ifield and he’s not—’

‘You must go to Harvest Supper,’ Isabel cut in quickly and firmly. ‘You can’t miss it.’

Elizabeth stared at her. ‘How could I sit there as Queen of the Harvest, smiling as if nothing were wrong, when Phoebe might be—’ She broke off and then added ‘—missing? Of course I’m not going.’

‘Then why don’t I go as queen in your place? Everyone would understand.’

‘Don’t tell anyone the reason. Say your father and I have been called out suddenly and may not be back in time.’ Elizabeth hesitated. ‘Are you sure?’ Unlike Caroline Isabel had always been so dismissive about church festivals. But Caroline, alas, was far away.

Isabel looked noble. ‘I’ll go to change into something more, well, queenly.’ As Robert’s wife, it was only right she should be seen at village events. Moreover, it was probable that Frank Eliot would be there. The news that Lizzie Dibble had moved in as his housekeeper had filled her with disgust. If it were true, she told herself, she had had a narrow escape. She ran up to her bedroom and selected a full-skirted white voile summer dress, decorated with hand-painted roses and cornflowers. She tried to ignore the fact that it had been exceptionally cold all week, and that today temperatures were even lower.

‘Will I do?’ she asked, reappearing twenty minutes later in the drawing room.

‘You look lovely.’ Elizabeth’s mind was elsewhere.

Slightly disappointed, Isabel picked up the regalia, kissed her mother, told her not to worry, and went to find a torch to light her down Silly Lane.

Elizabeth flicked through the
Illustrated London
News
but saw nothing of the pages. Phoebe danced before her eyes: the duckling of her brood, the one most resembling her physically, the one she understood least.

A long half-hour later she heard the front door open. She rushed out into the hall. ‘Well?’ she cried.

She had hardly needed to ask. One look at Laurence’s grey face told her there was no news. Laurence put his arm round her in silence, and led her back into the drawing room.

‘It is not as bad as it might be,’ he began. Elizabeth looked at him in sudden hope. ‘There was no sign of her bicycle along the road to Crowborough. The entire camp has been searched, and Mrs Manning tells us that Phoebe left work at four o’clock at the end of her shift, though she admits she didn’t actually see her leave the camp. I think we may be reasonably certain she has disappeared of her own accord.’

‘But where?’ Elizabeth’s cry was one of despair.

‘Mr Chappell hasn’t seen her at the railway station. Nor have either of the carriers. I went to The Towers since Patricia is home but they have not seen her either. There will be an announcement in the recreation hall this
evening for anyone with any information, and Joe Ifield is continuing local enquiries.’

Elizabeth buried her head in his shoulder, and he held her tight.

‘Laurence,’ she managed to say after a moment, ‘Isabel has gone in my place, I cannot, but perhaps you should go.’

‘Go where, my darling?’

‘To the harvest supper. If you hurry you can be there in time, though I’ve asked Charles to stand in for you in case.’

‘Let him do it. My place is here with you tonight.’

Isabel sat in state at the head table with Charles Pickering on one side and Philip Ryde on the other. She was enjoying herself. Of course, there had been general disappointment that Mother was not there, and a certain amount of initial suspicion of her as a Swinford-Browne, but after the first glass or two of elder and small beer, the villagers, packed into the tithe barn at long tables, forgot about her marriage and remembered only that she was the Rector’s daughter. Everyone said what a lovely queen she made. The barn, even with the help of some paraffin heaters was very chilly and Isabel shivered in her thin dress; but it was worth it, she told herself, her goose pimples would disappear when the dancing began.

The timbered barn sprouted produce from every niche: hops curled from the beams and down the supporting timbers, cereals, vegetables and fruit decorated every corner and alcove,
filling the air with a fresh rich smell which was dissipating now pipes and cigarettes were being lit. Charles had led the procession of several hundred farmers, workers and families into the barn and round the produce in a blessing ceremony, and then had come the Hollering Pot. Strictly, this custom should be honoured when the last hay was safely home, but if William Swinford-Browne wanted to abide by the custom and provide a pint of ale for every man in the village then no one had any objection. Even Isabel could see that it had been a good harvest. She remembered Mother gloating over the Board of Agriculture’s statement that it was well up on the previous six years, and saying that this was due to Caroline’s and her hard work.

After the Hollering Pot, the serious business of supper had got underway. Isabel was not used to meals of sausages, bread, potatoes and cheese, accompanied by ginger beer, cider or small beer, but pretended she enjoyed it greatly. Indeed, she almost did. It was such a change to be in a large gathering, especially one of which she was the queen. For the first time for over a year, she felt like one.

Usually, Sir John put in an appearance during the evening as squire, but now he was away most of the time in London. Or was he here after all? Isabel saw that the group round the door was falling back to make way for someone. Aunt Maud probably, or Father. No, it was Reggie, she realised with delight, in an invalid chair pushed by a nurse. She jumped up from the
table and made her way over to him.

‘How splendid, Reggie. Now you can sit beside me.’

He grinned. ‘Honoured, ma’am.’

The tables were being cleared and the village band began to take their places. Isabel longed to dance; the ‘Lambeth Walk’, a few fast waltzes and ‘Sir Roger de Coverley’ would at least warm her up. Nevertheless she was prepared to sacrifice all this for Reggie’s sake. He needed a companion, and as king of the village to her queen, she should be it.

Late that evening the sound of the telephone bell shattered the silence. Laurence raced to answer it with Elizabeth hard at his heels. Mrs Dibble came to the kitchen door, hovering, trying not to overstep her place in her anxiety.

‘Yes … What?’

Elizabeth waited in agony until he hung up. ‘Good and bad, my love. Her bicycle may have been found at Crowborough railway station.’

‘May?’

‘One has been discovered. And the stationmaster recalls a young lady who took a ticket to Uckfield late this afternoon, carrying a suitcase.’

‘But she doesn’t know anyone in Uckfield,’ Elizabeth wailed. ‘It can’t be her. And if it was, oh, Laurence, was she on her own?’

‘Apparently, yes. Surely Phoebe will telephone to tell us she is safe. You are certain she left no note here?’

‘I’ve searched her room twice and there’s nothing downstairs either. Only the missing
clothes I told you about—a skirt, a blouse and jacket, and a nightgown. Enough for a night. So perhaps she’ll be back tomorrow.’ Phoebe would have told them if she had planned to spend the night with a friend, or had she simply forgotten? It would be just like Phoebe …

‘And you’re sure she has no friends in Uckfield?’

‘Yes.’

Uckfield, which lay on the far side of the forest towards the Downs, was almost alien territory to the inhabitants of Ashden. It was a charabanc stop for the Sunday School treat to Eastbourne, but did not otherwise enter into their lives.

‘Tomorrow I will go there and make enquiries. In the meantime we can only wait.’

Wait! Was there a more terrible word in the English language?

Frank Eliot and Lizzie Dibble walked home together after the harvest supper with only the aid of dim torches to guide them. Ashden was completely dark at night now for, in a burst of patriotism, it had elected to follow London’s example and extinguish its one street light in case that Zep came looking for the village again. Frank had restrained himself from taking Lizzie’s arm to help her along, until a stumble over a stone hidden in the undergrowth by the stile brought an immediate reflex action from him to save her. After that, he kept his hand there. It was strange having a woman on his arm again, especially one so much shorter than he.
Jennifer, his lovely Jennifer, had been tall and slender.

Frank unlocked the door to his cottage, then listened to the sound of Lizzie’s feet climbing the stairs to the second-floor attic room. He poured himself a brandy to warm himself up. It was cold outside and the fire here had long since died. Had he made a mistake in bringing Lizzie here? No, he couldn’t accept that; if Ashden wanted to believe the worst about them both, so be it. Lizzie was a married woman, and his housekeeper, whatever the village chose to think. He’d soon be gone anyway, when they began to call on his age group of unmarried men under the Derby Scheme.

As he got into bed he reflected how odd it was that he now hated Ashden for the very things he’d loved about it when he first came: its insularity, its own set of judgements, its blind obstinacy to see farther than the limits of Seb Grendel’s farm astride the parish boundary. Look what had happened when the Rector’s sister came to stay, militant suffragette that she was. Dr Parry was another ‘foreigner’ fighting her way into some kind of acknowledgement that she breathed the same air as the other Ashden villagers. What was going to happen when soldiers who had experienced different countries and different ways of life came marching home? Now, that would be interesting—

‘Frank.’

He sat up. The door opened and Lizzie’s dark shape, lit only by a candle, stood on the threshold.

‘Miss Florence Nightingale, I presume,’ he said carefully.

‘Only if you want her. I don’t mind.’ Lizzie sounded defensive.

‘Don’t you, Lizzie?’ He jumped from the bed, took her into his arms and kissed her lightly. Not too close, just in case. ‘Are you
sure?
’

‘Yes, I am sure.’ Her voice shook. ‘I’m tired of being alone. I think you are too.’

He undid the cord round the neck of her thick nightgown and gently slid it off. He looked at the full heavy breasts and sturdy hips; it was a body made for loving. He reached out a hand and touched her breast.

For a moment he thought he had been mistaken as she caught it and took it away.

‘But I mustn’t—’

‘Be in the family way,’ he finished for her, understanding now.

‘No.’

No child of Jennifer, he would have none of Lizzie either. He’d settle for love, a privilege he’d thought would be denied him for ever after Jennifer’s death. Now it might have come again, he was deeply grateful.

George was walking on air. He had taken the parish magazine into Tunbridge Wells to be printed, because Jacob Timms was ill and couldn’t manage it this month. But this printer was not wizened or grey like the lead of his type-setting characters, and he wasn’t a man; it was a woman. At first he’d assumed she was an assistant, but it turned out she was
Mrs Wilkins (of Wilkins and Son) who was taking over while her husband was at the front. He was an NCO, she explained, and a pound a week separation allowance didn’t go far with four children nowadays, so she had to keep the business going. She was a brisk lady, with sharp eyes, ratherlike Mrs Dibble only sturdier, almost plump.

‘This cartoon, young man,’ she said, turning the pages over, smearing smudgy ink everywhere. ‘You’ve been copying them from “Sergeant Trench’s” in
Bystander
and the
Sunday Pictorial
, haven’t you?’

‘No.’ George was indignant. ‘Sergeant Trench is my
nom de plume.
’ Father hadn’t forbidden him to submit cartoons to the general press, only the parish magazine. However, it had occurred to him that Father might well notice the number of aeroplanes and RFC personnel appearing amongst his drawings and he had decided to pre-empt trouble by adopting a pen-name.

‘Good,’ she replied, not a whit abashed. ‘Any more?’