Winter Roses (5 page)

‘If it’s still there.’

‘What
do
you mean, Lizzie Dibble?’ What was this? Margaret watched her daughter, stirring her tea a little too carefully. For a start, there was no sugar in it, not even consip, the nasty stuff they gave you instead.

‘Now old Swinford-Browne is leaving Ashden, he’s letting the hop gardens go. Miss Caroline says that he’ll pay for the pickers for one last season, and then they’ll be under the Army, and sold when the war ends. Mayhap there’ll be no job for Frank to come home to, and perhaps no cottage. We’ve no rights.’

Margaret saw to the heart of the problem, and spoke right out. ‘You don’t know which of them to choose, do you, Lizzie? Rudolf or Frank. You want ’em both.’

‘Oh, Ma.’ Lizzie’s eyes filled with tears like they hadn’t done since she was a child in short pinafores.

‘You can’t have ’em both, love, but if you’re thinking that Frank might ever let you down, I’ll say this for him, I don’t think he will. He’ll be back for you.’ Margaret paused. ‘Trouble is, so will Rudolf. Best be prepared.’

‘All right, Mum, I’ll come.’ Lizzie glared just to show she wasn’t entirely convinced.

‘Come?’ Margaret’s imagination was now busy defending Lizzie against two men with rights over her.

‘Here to have the baby,’ Lizzie patiently amplified.

Margaret managed to hide her pleasure. ‘You’ll have to mind your p’s and q’s, my girl.’

‘Can’t promise that.’ Lizzie giggled.

When she had gone, Margaret sat down again to recover from the shock of having had a mother–daughter talk at last. And a baby in the house again. Fred would have liked that. That brought unhappy thoughts rushing back, which usually only troubled her during the long nights when she woke up at three or four in the morning. It was like having a continuous tooth being pulled out. Perhaps if Myrtle left, Lizzie could even be persuaded to stay on and … no, she couldn’t ask that of Mrs Lilley. They had one child in the house already, running about everywhere now she was over a year old. Elizabeth Agnes was a good baby, but even good babies had to be watched. At any hint of trouble, she knew Agnes would suggest she went back to live with Mrs Thorn while the war was on, but Margaret knew how much she’d hate it, and couldn’t blame her. Living with them Thorns was a fate she wouldn’t wish on nobody.

It suddenly occurred to her that Lizzie had never said exactly what she’d visited for this morning. Could it be that
accepting Mrs Lilley’s offer was in her mind all the time? Her Lizzie was an obstinate little thing, and would want to be talked into it. Margaret was momentarily incensed, and then she thought what Percy would say – he always did: ‘She’s a chip off the old block, Daisy.’ That was his pet name for her, not that it was used much now. He’d use it when she told him the grand news, though. A baby in the house.
Their
baby. She laughed with pleasure. Then she resumed mincing the meat with renewed zest. ‘Ye belong to Jesus, Children of the Lord.’

Her voice bawled out in triumph over the gardens, and she bustled happily around her domain until the late afternoon when she suddenly remembered that Master George would shortly be back from school and was bringing one of his chums back to tea. She supposed she ought to stop thinking of him as Master George now he was becoming famous for his cartoons. The Rectory saw little of him, for at weekends he was off taking flying lessons at Brooklands, paid for by Sir John Hunney. What a rumpus there’d been about that. Master George had been so keen to join the Royal Flying Corps as soon as he was old enough at seventeen, but luckily they put the age limit up to eighteen. That would be in December, and meanwhile Miss Caroline had told her Sir John was keeping a close eye to make sure George didn’t jump the gun by telling a fib about his age. Death came quick enough to those in the clouds, so Joe said, and there was no need to bring grief to Mr and Mrs Lilley sooner than it might otherwise. That magazine
Punch
had taken several of his cartoons now, and Master George was as proud as anything when he talked
about it – which wasn’t often, because he knew his father didn’t altogether approve – and a lot of his cartoons had been made into postcards. Master George never could wait to get good news off his chest, and, to her pride, he often popped into the kitchen to tell her first.

‘You’re the only one really interested,’ he had said ruefully to her one day, and she’d swelled with pride. ‘Caroline and Mother are too busy with their blessed farmers. Father’s out all the time, Phoebe isn’t interested, and Isabel – well, who’d want to talk to Mrs Misabel?’

‘Now, now, Master George,’ she’d said, ‘you speak respectfully of your sister.’

Though why he should, when she herself found it hard to talk respectfully of Mrs Isabel, goodness only knows. In Margaret’s opinion, she was nothing more than a scrounger. Right from a little girl, she could twist you round her little finger, and didn’t she know it. She had been spoilt owing to Mrs Lilley having lost a baby in infancy. Marriage hadn’t changed Mrs Isabel. Even a big house of her own, and money didn’t satisfy her; she wanted parties and excitement, and the fact that her parents couldn’t afford it didn’t seem to enter her head. Luckily Miss Caroline had her head screwed on right and kept her in her place – most of the time. Poor Miss Caroline, she worked so hard, and what that girl had been through. That Mr Reggie was nice enough, but he was never worthy of her, and sooner or later she’d discover that for herself.

Her speedy preparations for George’s tea were interrupted by the bell on the tradesmen’s door, and she sighed heavily, annoyed that scones must take second place
to anyone who happened to be passing. In this case it was probably only the evening post. Now if only Fred were here. He used to enjoy opening the door, she reflected wistfully.

None of that, Margaret Dibble. Briskly she dried her hands and hurried to the door. To her surprise, it wasn’t the postman; it was Miss Phoebe.

‘I’ve brought your post.’ Phoebe’s hand shot out from behind her back with a bunch of letters.

‘Thank you, Miss Phoebe. That lazy lummocks Jim Curtis lost the use of his legs, has he?’

‘He’s been called up. He left yesterday.’

‘One of your jokes, is it?’ Even as she was speaking, Margaret noticed Phoebe’s armband and hat crammed over the mop of dark hair. She’d taken it for some kind of uniform in connection with her army canteen work at first. ‘Miss Phoebe, what are you playing at now?’

Phoebe laughed delightedly. ‘I’m the new village postman. Isn’t it splendid?’

‘You don’t mean you’re delivering the post round the village like … like—’ Words failed her and this was rare.

‘Why not? I didn’t want to be serving tea all my life, and the YMCA people wanted to send me to a new camp, so I left. I thought about going into the new Women’s Army Forage Corps, but I decided I’d prefer to do this for a while.’

‘Well I never did.’ Margaret sat down to absorb the true horror of it all. ‘What’s your father going to say?’

‘I don’t know.’ Phoebe suddenly lost her grin. ‘But it’s war work, isn’t it? And,’ she grew excited again, ‘I get sixpence an hour
and
a small weekly war bonus.’

‘There’s war work and war work, Miss Phoebe,’ was
the only reply that came readily to her lips. In any case, she realised thankfully, this was not a problem she had to solve. It was up to the Rector. To her mind, young ladies should be young ladies, postmen were postmen, and farmers were farmers, Kaiser or no Kaiser.

‘I suppose,’ Phoebe said less happily, ‘I should go and tell Father now.’

‘That you should.’ Whatever next? This place was like the picture palace films, full of Keystone Kops, what with everyone tumbling in with news. Not that she’d ever been to the cinema, but she heard enough about it from Myrtle and Agnes. Even Lizzie had been, and didn’t come to no harm. Thinking of Lizzie made her remember she hadn’t told Percy the good news yet. He’d been out this morning, and then it had slipped her mind. She found him down at his blessed hives.

‘You got something to tell them bees, Percy. Our Lizzie’s coming to have the baby.’

‘When?’ Percy wasn’t one to waste words.

She hadn’t asked, but she wasn’t going to tell Percy that. ‘Just you wait, Percy,’ she said loftily.

In fact, Lizzie didn’t waste much time. She was down with her bags the next morning, almost before Myrtle had her room ready – the ‘confinement room’ Agnes had joked, for it was the one she had had when Elizabeth Agnes was born, on the far side of the house, so the noise didn’t travel so much.

‘You can give me a hand with servants’ luncheon, Lizzie, now you’re here,’ Margaret told her once she’d dumped her baggage. She wasn’t going to let her have any ideas about her being here for a holiday.

Lizzie grinned. ‘I’d like that, Ma,’ she said, and was down half an hour later to take her turn at the vegetables. She was just delivering the peas to her mother when the kitchen door opened and Mrs Isabel sauntered in.

‘Mrs Dibble—’ She stopped short as she saw Lizzie, and Margaret saw her face change. ‘This is an odd time to visit,’ Mrs Isabel said sharply.

‘I’m moving in,’ Lizzie replied levelly. ‘Mrs Lilley says I can have the baby here. Isn’t that kind of her?’

Mrs Isabel didn’t reply. She just stared at Lizzie as if she had something against her, then turned round, went straight out, and slammed the door.

‘Well I never.’ Margaret was taken aback. ‘What’s wrong with her high and mighty ladyship
now
?’

‘How could Mother do it?’ Isabel screamed.

‘What’s wrong?’ Caroline asked crossly. Isabel had transgressed the rules of the house which included a privacy law that if one’s bedroom door was closed, one wished to be alone. Caroline’s had been closed. She’d already had to cope with Phoebe bouncing in in triumph having unexpectedly met with Father’s approval for her latest venture. The idea of Phoebe getting up at five o’clock to be at the post office at six for sorting was incredible to Caroline, but she didn’t want to spoil Phoebe’s own blind confidence in her abilities. It would be one in the eye for Lady Hunney, and she suggested Phoebe deliver the post to her personally in order to see how she took the idea of the Rector’s daughter being a postwoman. Now she had Isabel on her hands.

‘Lizzie Dibble coming
here
to have her baby. It’s not fair on Father.’

‘He agreed immediately, in fact,’ Caroline told her briskly. ‘And anyway, she’s not coming for ever, only a few weeks.’

‘Upsetting the household. Really, I think it’s too bad of Mother.’

‘I think it’s too good of her. Why are you so upset? You’re not usually so – concerned.’ She’d nearly said selfish. ‘Lizzie won’t be in your way.’ There was something between her and Lizzie. She’d been right.

‘I don’t approve of babies out of wedlock.’

‘Nor do Mother and Father, but it doesn’t stop them having compassion.’

Isabel fumed. ‘I shall go back to Hop House immediately.’

Was that meant to be a threat? Caroline wondered. If so, it failed, for the house ran a lot more smoothly without Isabel’s tantrums, and they both knew that her days in Hop House were numbered. However, Isabel still clung to the belief that Robert would never have agreed to her going to East Grinstead with his parents. His silence in answer to her queries proved her point, she said; the very idea of it was ludicrous. In any case, she seemed to be in the Rectory all the time now. Last year—

Last
year, Caroline suddenly remembered, the Rectory hadn’t seen so much of Isabel. She had spent most of her time at Hop House until she began to get friendly with Reggie. What had been the attraction there without her husband? Not housekeeping, that was obvious, and Hop House was awfully near Hop Cottage, where Frank Eliot
had lived alone until Lizzie moved in as his housekeeper. She tried hard to dismiss the logical conclusion of her line of thinking, horrified when she recalled her fleeting suspicion last year. Had Reggie had a predecessor?

By servants’ dinnertime, Margaret had recovered her good spirits. Lizzie was coming, maybe no news was good news so far as Fred was concerned, and the Rectory was running much more smoothly now her ladyship had had her nose put out of joint. The Rector had arranged for the flower festival to be pulled forward a week without telling her ladyship until the day it happened. Margaret had the whole story from Mr Bertram. Lady Hunney did all the presentations as was only right, her being from Ashden Manor – and Lady Buckford had stayed in her rooms all day, eating nothing. You couldn’t have pleased her with smoked salmon and oysters, Miss Lewis said, she was that annoyed. Wicked waste of food in Margaret’s opinion. Just when they were supposed to be saving all the food they could in this Voluntary Ration Campaign.

Lady Buckford, so Miss Lewis said, wanted to cancel the Sunday School treat then, but the Rector wouldn’t let her. He had a few plain words to say to her, and it was all Mrs Lilley could do to keep a straight face. So they all went on the treat, and her ladyship had to sit on the ground and pretend she was enjoying herself drinking lemonade in the rain.

Margaret remained good-humoured until Myrtle came in, looking extremely pleased with herself. Her heart sank.
How could she have forgotten? ‘Given in your notice to Rector, Myrtle?’ she asked sharply.

‘Lizzie says there’s going to be a baby in the house.’

‘End of August. Looking forward to escaping the hard work it’ll mean, are you?’ Margaret was a little ashamed of herself for speaking so forthrightly.

‘Oh no. I couldn’t leave while there’s a
baby
here.’ Myrtle beamed with pleasure.

It seemed strange to be back in the Norland Square house. Caroline had only left it in April of this year, five months ago, yet it felt like a different life. It was the London home of Lord Banning, where Caroline had lived while she was working in London for the WSPU, the pre-war suffragette movement, now heavily engaged in the cause of war work for women. Tired of endless negative discussion over use of funds, Caroline had returned to Ashden to take up the reins of her work there again. Back in London, if only for the weekend, Caroline vividly recalled the good times she had enjoyed here. Unfortunately memories of the bad ones came trooping after them, like the night she and Simon Banning had been caught in the Zeppelin bomb attack. To banish them, she concentrated hard on the evening ahead.

This promised to be memorable indeed, and not even the dull rainy day could dampen her spirits. Nine days ago, on
31st August
Chu Chin Chow
had opened at His Majesty’s Theatre, Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree’s famous theatre in Haymarket, and Simon had managed to acquire tickets for this Saturday evening in the dress circle. His daughter Penelope had telephoned her in great excitement and Caroline had leapt at the chance to come. The reviews for this new musical had been ecstatic. Sir Herbert was abroad, but the present actor-manager’s earlier production
Kismet
had ensured a warm welcome for this one, which was also set in the East. In essence it was a pantomime based on the
Arabian Nights
story of ‘Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves’. But what a pantomime! Not only
Kismet
, but Diaghilev’s Ballet Russe had created a craze for the Oriental, with music halls enthusiastically presenting Chinese conjurers and Japanese jugglers. Caroline’s own contribution to the fashion was a snake bracelet, bought somewhat guiltily in these days of austerity, especially since she was by no means sure she liked it, à la mode or not.
Chu Chin Chow
had reaped the benefit of the craze – perhaps because the more exotic the setting, the greater the escape. Caroline had not changed her views on the need for
that
during this war, despite Captain Rosier’s sermonising, which still rankled.

What could be more fun than a real family outing? Simon had been prompted to arrange the evening because Aunt Tilly and Felicia were home for two weeks’ rest. Fighting was now concentrated on the Somme, not Ypres, but reluctantly they had been dissuaded from moving their base south in favour of rebuilding their strength. By happy chance, Robert was also on leave, and had booked a hotel room in London for himself and Isabel so that they too
could come to the play. On the strength of that, Simon had invited Phoebe and George too, both only too eager for a weekend in London. George had even rushed back early from his Brooklands flying lesson.

No Zeps would have the nerve to attack London tonight, Caroline thought happily, whisking round to the mirror to admire herself in the blue empire-line evening gown. Once upon a time full evening dress would have been essential. Now anything that looked reasonably smart passed, partly because of the prevailing feeling that ostentation in dress was unpatriotic and partly because many of the audience were in uniform anyway. That made it all the more exciting to be able to don her long lace gloves, new button-bar shoes, and wear a décolleté gown once more, even if thin chiffon chastely covered the exposed flesh. Not tonight, she informed the Kaiser’s airship commanders. I’ve other plans.

They wouldn’t dare come again so soon, though George was ever hopeful of a repeat performance. On Saturday, 2nd September, seven days ago, the Zeppelins had at long last been given their marching orders by the Royal Flying Corps. They had had their own way for far too long, and the Royal Flying Corps and anti-aircraft defences had seemed powerless to stop them roaming the skies and bombing at will.

‘You should have seen it, Caroline.’ She wished she had. It would have stopped George talking endlessly about it during the week. By chance, he had been staying at Norland Square after his Brooklands flying lesson last week, and from his graphic descriptions you’d have thought he’d been in the cockpit with Leefe Robinson. He had been the pilot
of the aeroplane that brought down the first Zep to be destroyed on British soil.

‘Masses of fighters were after it,’ George’s words tumbled over each other, ‘and everyone was out in the streets watching the searchlights, and then when he chased the Zep from London over Hertfordshire – well, you could see the red glow. Crikey, we all knew then what had happened. You wouldn’t get that glow from an aeroplane. Buses were stopping to spread the news, taxis – everyone. Oh, you should have been there. Everyone starting singing “God Save the King”. It was spiffing.’

George had telephoned the Rectory from London to say he was going down to Cuffley to see the remains of the Zep on the Sunday, much to Father’s disapproval. Caroline had borne the brunt.

‘It was history,’ George had pointed out, much aggrieved when she tackled him. ‘I had to be there. It wasn’t just me going, you know. There were whole armies of sightseers on the trains from King’s Cross, and everyone was looking for souvenirs for miles around.’

‘Like the dead bodies of the crew?’ Caroline had asked quietly.

George had had the grace to blush. ‘They’d been taken away to the local church,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t be such a wet blanket, Caroline. This is important. It means something. Think of all the bombs they’d dropped before we got them.’

We
, Caroline noted. He was right, of course. The shooting down of SL11 had been a rally call. Since then everyone had been more hopeful that the Zeps could be beaten and one day the Kaiser overcome. All the increasingly
bad news from the Somme battlefields needed an antidote to lift morale, and this had been it.

Chu Chin Chow
was her antidote. As they entered the vestibule of His Majesty’s Theatre, Caroline was intrigued to see a familiar face. Captain Luke Dequessy came forward to greet them, and it was obvious he was to be in the party; she noticed a distinct flush on Felicia’s normally pale cheeks. He was still limping, and was clearly not fully recovered yet.

‘I believe you’ve met Captain Dequessy, Caroline,’ Felicia said levelly.

‘Indeed, we have met.’ Caroline bowed, as Luke grinned cheerfully at her, and followed suit.

‘Before you ask,’ Felicia hissed crossly, as Luke went to chat with Aunt Tilly, ‘no, I’m not going to marry him just because he’s coming to the theatre with us. If you must know, Daniel was invited and backed out at the last moment, when he realised I would be coming.’

‘Oh.’ It wasn’t much of a response, but Caroline could think of nothing positive to say. ‘Perhaps he is self-conscious about his leg,’ she ventured.

‘He’s not, and you know it. He doesn’t want to see me.’

‘He loves you, I’m sure of it.’

Felicia immediately whisked round and marched towards the ladies’ retiring room and, uncertain of her welcome, Caroline followed. Once there, Felicia turned on her. ‘You don’t understand, Caroline, that’s the trouble.
No
one does. Daniel is stubborn, and can’t see I want him on
any
terms, because my life without him has no purpose.’

‘So why Luke?’ Might as well be bold, Caroline decided.

Felicia hesitated. ‘He says he still wants to see me, although I’ve told him I love someone else. The ridiculous thing is that he seems as obstinate about me as I am about Daniel, but I can’t see why.’

Can’t you? thought Caroline, looking at her sister’s madonna-like face. All the rough life on the front could not obscure or harden Felicia’s beauty. Indeed, indications of her hard life, etched on by experience, seemed to intensify it, and the old black evening gown that Caroline had seen countless times before, set it off. Only her uncared-for hands and sunburned arms betrayed how gruelling her work was. Or so she thought until she saw Felicia pull off her old-fashioned tulle cap, in order to conduct a painstaking examination of her hair in the mirror.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, astonished.

‘Lice.’ Felicia peered even more closely. ‘Life at the front presents hygienic surprises that even Mrs Dibble’s powers can’t solve. Especially for women.’

‘How do you manage?’ Caroline asked curiously, since the subject had been raised.

‘Tilly brings back supplies of these new disposable ones and I burn them when I can. If I can’t, I bury them. Don’t look so horrified, Caroline. That’s the least of my problems. It’s war and war is my job at present, not Daniel. Love has to be a luxury. Now, tell me about Fred.’

Felicia had always had an affinity with Fred, often preferring to help him in his workshed than to join in the boisterousness of the Rectory. Caroline obliged with the latest news. Father kept in regular touch with the station commander, and though Fred was not due for leave, it
was arranged that Mrs Dibble and Percy would be able to visit him. The idea of the Dibbles travelling as far as Hertfordshire when Tunbridge Wells was a great adventure was hard to entertain, but they were going to do it, as soon as Lizzie’s baby – now ten days late – was born and she was back on her feet. Agnes, Mrs Dibble reluctantly agreed, would be able to cope with managing the Rectory.

‘
There
you are.’ Aunt Tilly pounced as they returned to the group. Unlike Felicia, her face did display what they were enduring on the western front. The Aunt Tilly of her childhood had always looked so meek and mild, and in the selfishness of youth Caroline had never observed the underlying strength in her aunt’s face. That strength, which had seen her through several terms of imprisonment for her suffragette militancy, now supported her in France, and shone over the weather-beaten complexion and deep lines. She looked more fulfilled and content than Caroline had ever seen her.

Simon, who pursued a so far fruitless courtship of her stubborn aunt, obviously agreed, for the moment she moved away to speak to Caroline, he followed. Tilly opened her mouth to protest but he forestalled her:

‘No use, Tilly. I don’t see enough of you to be generous nowadays.’

Caroline laughed. ‘You told me you were over there at Divisional HQ two weeks ago.’

‘That was work, not pleasure.’

Tilly eyed him grimly. ‘The Foreign Office seems to have a great deal of business in the Ypres sector at present.’

‘It does.’ Simon smiled.

Isabel and Robert had arrived by the time they took their seats, and for once Isabel seemed to regain her old animation, her face alive and sparkling with pleasure, whether at being reunited with Robert for a brief while or at being out for the evening in London. No mention was made of the Swinford-Browne move to East Grinstead, with or without Isabel, and Caroline was certainly not going to risk spoiling the evening with questions.

Sitting next to Felicia, and with Aunt Tilly on her other side, Caroline felt she would burst with pleasure. What could compare with the anticipation before the cherry-red velvet curtain rose on an entertainment which one knew would be enjoyable? As the curtain rose to reveal the exotic eastern palace of Kasim Baba, as his servants prepared the feast to welcome the great Chu Chin Chow, colour hit her immediately, not the subtle tones of English decoration, but a blazing stark colour against the white of the palace. She felt almost scorched by the desert sun. From the first burst of song in ‘Here be oysters’ to the unforgettable first appearance of Lily Brayton bursting upon the stage as the sensuous desert woman Zahrat, right through to the Robbers’ March which Caroline immediately recognised from hearing it whistled in the streets, she was entranced.

By the time the performance ended, his sister was amused to see George was almost speechless with wonder, though Caroline thought this was more likely due to the numbers of apparently naked young ladies on stage who plunged in and out of baths, rather than a tribute to the acting of Lily Brayton.

On the whole it was as well Father hadn’t come, Caroline reflected. Had it not been Sunday on the morrow, she was sure he would have done, for he had once had a hankering to go on the stage himself. She tried to imagine him cavorting around in a musical such as this and failed. He had services to take tomorrow, and on Monday she too would be back on duty. She wasn’t looking forward to it, for the hop-pickers from London (far fewer nowadays) had arrived a week ago, and she was exhausted from the extra time and organisation it took to oversee them, let alone the soldiers too.

She had hoped Phoebe would be helping her, but Phoebe claimed she was too busy now she was working as a postwoman. Caroline suspected that Phoebe, after the death of her young soldier sweetheart, could not adjust to the company of other soldiers. She had returned to her previous job at the Crowborough army camp canteen, but had seized the first opportunity of leaving, even though this had meant helping Caroline again. Agriculture and Phoebe did not mix well, even in wartime, and at Caroline’s first mention of soldiers to bring in the hops, she had rushed off to take another job. How long would that last, and what would be next? Caroline dreaded to think. Father had remarked rather sadly to Caroline that times were not only changing, but if his post was to be delivered by his own daughter, they were metamorphosing into something unrecognisable.

‘I had hoped to play Horatius,’ he had said to her, ‘stemming the rush across the bridge of time, but instead I find myself playing King Canute, demonstrating that the tide of time can’t be held back. You were right, Caroline.’ A rare admission indeed.

‘Where now, Simon?’ Tilly asked, after they had made their way out after the dazzling finale. ‘The Carlton?’ Simon’s addiction to its restaurant was a standing joke.

‘No. We’re taking a few rickshaws up west.’

‘Just as well,’ Tilly retorted drily. ‘It looks rather unwelcoming over here.’

Looking upwards, Caroline could see the sky criss-crossed with searchlights some way away.

For a moment Simon’s eyes met Caroline’s, both thinking of last October. ‘We must go,’ he said lightly. ‘The chow mein will be getting cold. I’ve booked at one of these new Chinese restaurants.’