Dark Harvest Read online

  Isabel, she suddenly realised, was looking remarkable pretty this morning, quite her old self again, her fair hair and blue eyes sparkling in the chilly sunshine. She listened while her sister earnestly impressed on her the advantages of the new ‘military curve’ in corsetry, until she grew bored.

  ‘How is Robert?’

  Isabel’s mouth twisted down immediately. ‘Enjoying playing soldiers. Excited at the idea he might be going overseas soon. Never a thought of me.’

  ‘Surely he’ll have some leave first?’

  ‘I suppose so. I think he mentioned it in his last letter, in between lamentations that he wouldn’t be able to get to Wimbledon this year.’

  ‘You don’t seem very enthusiastic about it.’

  ‘Oh, I am,’ her sister assured her. ‘You’ve no idea how dull life is. Organising concerts for Ashden Manor is the most exciting thing I do. Maud is talking about arranging them for the soldiers billeted in Tunbridge Wells. I might even sing there too. She’s a splendid organiser.’

  Yes, thought Caroline bitterly. Of everything and everyone. Between Lady Hunney and Mrs Swinford-Browne the whole village was sandwiched, squeezed on both sides. To Isabel, Lady Hunney had been first ‘Aunt Maud’ and now ‘Maud’.

  She was becoming uncomfortably aware of a gulf between her and her elder sister brought about by more than Isabel’s marriage. She did not understand her any more. The old Isabel, careless, transparent and laughably selfish, seemed to have given way to a more petulant, determined woman who could no longer laugh at herself.

  Frank Eliot’s eyes flickered in surprise, even as he bowed his head, when he saw Isabel. He ushered them into his parlour.

  ‘I appreciate your taking an interest in the hop gardens, Mrs Swinford-Browne.’

  Caroline never knew what to make of Frank Eliot. He had the reputation of being a hard manager, yet stories of individual kindnesses kept circulating round the village, and Phoebe, curiously, would not hear a word said against him. He had a slightly rakish, ungentlemanly appearance, and dressed gaudily, with a brightly coloured cravat that resembled a costermonger’s scarf. This didn’t help his reputation, Caroline decided, nor did his piercing tawny-brown eyes which had no hesitation in staring at you till they had taken in all they wanted.

  ‘Not at all,’ Isabel replied graciously. ‘I have already told Caroline I’ll be only too happy to help her organise workers for the hopgardens.’

  Caroline tried not to look surprised. It was the first she had heard of it.

  ‘How kind.’ Frank Eliot was staring at Isabel in a way that suggested to Caroline he was echoing her own amazement.

  ‘I’ve agreed daily and piecework rates with Mr Swinford-Browne.’ Caroline decided it was time to establish her position. ‘And now I’ll need a list of your requirements, numbers of workers, how many days and which months.’

  ‘I’ll draw one up, Miss Lilley.’

  ‘My mother will supply you with a copy of the rota as soon as possible after you let us have your list.’

  ‘Give me a few days to sort out my own men. Some are still talking about leaving the land to volunteer or go into munitions. I’ll bring the list down to the Rectory, say next Monday, and you can reckon to have three at work next week.’

  ‘If you let me have the list, Mr Eliot,’ Isabel said quickly, ‘I’ll take it down for you. I could call for it on Sunday, when I’m dining at the Rectory?’

  Such thoughtfulness was rare in Isabel. Curiouser and curiouser! Caroline began to feel the gulf between herself and her sister might be more like Alice in Wonderland’s rabbithole.

  ‘Have you seen the Courier, my dear?’

  Laurence put his head round the boudoir door, only to find his wife absent. Surprised by his own annoyance at this departure from routine, he remembered she had said something at breakfast about organising the women assigned to potato planting at Owlers Farm. He went down to the morning room to try to find the newspaper. It was an established rule that he should read the Courier first. It wasn’t there, and so, he deduced, someone was reading it. The Dibbles had their own copy, but he wasn’t going to ask to borrow it when he had one of his own. George was at school. Caroline and Elizabeth were out … He marched upstairs in search of Phoebe.

  ‘And where, young woman, is my Courier?’ he asked as soon as she answered his knock.

  She jumped up guiltily. Not only had she taken his newspaper, but she had been sprawling on the bed. ‘Here,’ she said carelessly. ‘I’m sorry, Father.’ Laurence took the bundled heap of newspaper without comment.

  After he left, Phoebe, who had gleaned all she needed from the Courier, wondered whether she had the courage to go ahead with her plan. She decided she did—only she wouldn’t mention it to anyone just yet.

  Returning to his study, Laurence wondered idly what Phoebe had found so fascinating in the newspaper. Mrs Dibble cornered him in the hall.

  ‘If you please, sir, Mrs Lilley not being here, I’ll have to trouble you for some money. The coalman’s called unexpected.’

  Laurence looked at her sharply. ‘He normally submits his account.’

  ‘I said unexpected, sir.’ Her voice was heavy with meaning, by which he gathered the Rectory was being favoured above other residences during the current coal shortage. ‘That’ll be three pounds ten shillings. It’s up again. Thirty-six shillings for the ton of best, and thirty-four for the kitchen. I don’t know what things are coming to.’

  Nor did he. Reluctantly Laurence counted out the required one pound notes, wondering if he would ever get used to this paper money forced upon them by war. He was tempted to tell the coalman to take the coal away again, but decided discretion was the better part of valour: if the village persisted in stealing his lumps of coal, he had at least some moral right for turning a blind eye. Nevertheless his conscience remained troubled. Before the war the path of right had been comparatively clearly marked; nowadays it was becoming increasingly overgrown.

  But he had no right to be vexed over such trifles as coal and newspapers beside the problems being faced by many of his parishioners. Three had gone in the village already. Quite apart from the personal tragedy, there was the financial aspect. How could a widow support a large family on the meagre five shillings a week pension she would receive? Parish Relief was already stretched to breaking point, and he had to top it up from his own equally stretched income. Swinford-Browne, the greatest tithe-payer on the Union committee, had vetoed any increase. Elizabeth had pointed out gently that Caroline’s scheme could produce valuable income for the needy. He could only agree, but he still fretted at Elizabeth’s frequent absences from home. He had understood that Caroline would do the running around and Elizabeth work in the Rectory. It seemed he was wrong. His wife was being constantly called out to the village for some emergency or other. At that moment she came through the study door in such high good humour that he felt ashamed of his annoyance.

  ‘I called in on Nanny Oates on the way back.’

  ‘And how is she?’ He put his arm round her and kissed her on the mouth, rather to her surprise. ‘When did I last tell you I love you, Elizabeth?’

  She smiled. ‘In bed?’ she asked daringly, for Laurence liked to separate the twenty-four hours into compartments and, passionate though he was, he seldom liked to be reminded of it during the day.

  ‘No,’ he answered gently.

  ‘Then it was at Christmas. I remember because—’

  ‘Far too long ago. Why have you not complained?’

  ‘Because I know you love me, Laurence.’

  ‘That’s true. I sometimes think—’ He broke off. ‘Tell me about Nanny Oates.’

  ‘You won’t believe it. She’s determined to help the war effort.’

  He broke into laughter. The idea of his once formidable nanny, now in her early eighties and rheumaticky, on the march against the Kaiser, bayonet at the ready, was irresistible.

  ‘Boadicea put it in her mind,’ Elizabeth was laughing too, ‘and it
really isn’t a bad idea.’ All Nanny’s hens were named after English queens, but Boadicea being the earliest queen began the rota, and was always the favourite, closely followed by Berengaria. There had been six Boadiceas so far. ‘When the hens are laying she always gets far too many eggs and has to give them away. So she proposes to go round the village collecting other people’s spare eggs and sell them as well as her own from a stall outside her house.’

  Laurence looked at her, assuming she had seen the flaw in this plan. ‘If it’s good laying time then no one will need them.’

  ‘I didn’t like to dampen her enthusiasm by pointing it out.’

  ‘And she’s too old to take them into the town markets and shops. She needs a pair of young legs to run them into Tunbridge Wells. We could contact the National Poultry Organisation.’

  ‘You know she doesn’t hold with organisations.’ Their eyes met.

  ‘Fred!’ they exclaimed in unison.

  How different this Easter was to last year. Caroline loved Easter, particularly Easter morning. It had always been a Rectory tradition that the Hunneys would come to lunch. All five of them. Last year, however, the Swinford-Brownes had cast their blight on the table and the Hunneys had been absent. This year Reggie would still be absent; could she bear to see the others without him? Sir John might or might not be there depending on his work at the War Office which, now the spring offensive had taken place, was heavy.

  Although the newspapers had been told, and had duly reported, that Neuve Chapelle had been a success, when the casualty lists began slowly to appear, the extent of the carnage revealed itself. Thousand upon thousand of men lost. Men like Anthony Wilding, Robert’s Wimbledon hero. Men like Johnnie Hay, the midwife’s son, with freckled face and bright red cheeks, who should be whistling in the general stores, not lying dead in France. Nor had the offensive been the success claimed. A breakthrough sweep on to Lille had been the objective, not flattening one small village, however gallant the efforts had been in taking it.

  There had been an outcry against the misinformation given to the newspapers by the Government. Surely from now on the truth would be told? Reggie could so nearly have been on the appalling Roll of Honour of fallen officers, but she had received a letter ten days ago assuring her all was well. The 2nd Sussex had been in close reserve but had not taken part. But when would the next offensive be, for he would surely be involved in that? She made an effort to concentrate on Easter.

  Isabel would be at luncheon, no Robert though. No Felicia. Only Lady Hunney, Daniel and Eleanor and, thankfully, not the Swinford-Brownes. Even Mrs Dibble’s lamb followed by her primrose pie could not have compensated for that. Thinking of Mrs Dibble reminded her of last night. She had been in the kitchen when Eleanor arrived at the door, still in her working boots which she carefully removed before entering. This had revealed to Mrs Dibble the horror of trousers underneath Eleanor’s long overall.

  ‘And who do you think you are, Miss Eleanor?’ she had asked. ‘The Empress of China?’

  Eleanor laughed. ‘Just being practical, Mrs Dibble.’ They had always got on well. As a child Eleanor had frequently taken refuge in the Rectory kitchen and would beg to be allowed to help, to stir, to do anything. At home this was strictly forbidden.

  ‘’Tis a man’s job being a vet.’

  ‘But there are not enough men left to do them all, Mrs Dibble. Besides, I’m good at it.’

  Caroline had rescued her friend and borne her off to her bedroom. ‘How are you getting on?’

  Eleanor made a face. ‘Slowly. I’m trained to give first aid to people, not animals, but I’m learning. Martin’s a good teacher. I delivered a breech birth calf the other day.’

  ‘Well done!’ Caroline detected a slight flush on Eleanor’s cheeks when she spoke of Martin Cuss, the vet. Caroline had always thought of him as rather awkward and uninspiring.

  ‘How’s your mother adapting to your being a vet?’

  ‘Adapt? The Forth Bridge bends more easily. She ignores it. Short of asking me to leave home, there’s nothing else she can do.’

  ‘You can always come here.’

  ‘Thank you. I would, but there’s Daniel, you see. Mother would drive him mad if I left. No, she doesn’t refer to what I do and nor do I. The arrangement works very well.’

  ‘Perhaps it will work like that for me.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Eleanor was frank. ‘She still seems adamant that you’ll ruin Reggie’s life.’

  ‘I may ruin her plans for Reggie’s life, yes.’ She felt hurt.

  ‘I suspect that’s what she senses.’

  ‘What could I do to improve matters?’ Caroline forced a laugh. ‘Short of typing for the concert committee.’

  ‘Be very careful with your farm labour scheme.’

  ‘Why?’ Caroline was indignant.

  ‘She says it’s unsuitable.’

  ‘Has she written to Reggie with her views?’

  ‘Only very generally, I think. She may be biding her time.’

  Caroline shrugged, though she did not feel at all nonchalant. ‘I can’t do my work with one eye on what your mother thinks. I shall just have to risk it. You’ve got away with it, after all.’

  ‘That may make her all the more determined you won’t.’

  Late in April, as she strolled home from Lovel’s Mill with the extra bread Mrs Dibble wanted, Caroline was surprised to be overtaken by Phoebe vigorously pedalling past on the Withyham road towards the Rectory.

  ‘Hey,’ she called after her, ‘where have you been?’

  She was surprised when Phoebe, having dismounted, flushed bright red.

  ‘Work.’

  ‘Mrs Chappell was doing the teas at the station today. I saw her.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Come to think of it, Mrs Chappell is doing the teas a lot nowadays. What’s happening?’

  Phoebe remained mutinously silent as she wheeled the bicycle towards the stables where they kept their collection of ramshackle machines. Caroline pursued her.

  ‘You’ve given up the station teas, haven’t you? So where have you been?’ She was alarmed, thinking of the mischief Phoebe was all too likely to get into.

  ‘You’ll tell Father and Mother. I don’t want them to know yet.’

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘I won’t tell you unless you promise not to say anything for a few weeks. I’m on probation, so if there’s going to be a row, I don’t want to find it’s unnecessary.’

  ‘Probation? What do you mean?’

  ‘To see if I’m suitable.’

  ‘For what? And I promise.’

  ‘I’ve taken a job at Crowborough Warren.’

  ‘That’s a long way to cycle.’ Then she suddenly realised and was aghast. ‘The Warren. But that’s where the—’

  ‘Yes, I knew you’d be jumpy about it. It’s the Army camp. The new YMCA recreation hut just opened by Princess Victoria. They needed staff so I applied.’

  Phoebe let loose amongst thousands of soldiers? It was unthinkable!

  ‘It’s fun. I like it. It’s only serving tea in the refreshment rooms, but I get paid fifteen shillings a week. And there’s something happening all the time, not just when trains come in.’

  Was it fun? Phoebe wondered even as she was saying it. It had been terrifying at first. The recreation hut was packed with khaki-clad soldiers milling about, shouting and joking about the Brides in the Bath murder trial which had preoccupied the newspapers, giving her nightmares. And swearing too—at least she supposed that was what it was; she didn’t know most of the words. Perhaps she should have let Caroline think it was an officers’ recreation hut. ‘Remember you promised you wouldn’t tell.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t,’ Caroline said grimly. ‘I’m going with you tomorrow to see—’

  ‘No, you’re not! You do your work, I’ll do mine. I’ll be eighteen in a few weeks—I told them I was already. I’m grown up.’

  Caroline looked at her. In years, in appearance and fig
ure, yes, but Phoebe was still a child in so many ways. But she supposed she was right; she was nearly grown up. ‘I’ll give you two weeks,’ she agreed with reluctance.

  ‘I’m told you’ve added your name to this Government register for women who want war work, Caroline. We won’t be lucky enough to keep you here long then.’ William Swinford-Browne laughed heartily. ‘Just like girls today, isn’t it, Mrs Lilley? Start something, change your mind and leave it all to Mother.’

  The beef tasted like ashes in her mouth. She should have known she couldn’t escape for long the dreaded luncheon. Although her parents disliked William Swinford-Browne, relations had to be maintained, however formally, because of Isabel. Easter Sunday, even with Lady Hunney present and Reggie absent, had been an enjoyable occasion, but now they were reaping the whirlwind a month later. What a wonderful way to welcome May. Especially as, at Isabel’s pleading, her fellow committee member Maud Hunney was once again present.

  Caroline was about to reply when her mother intervened. ‘I was intending to sign it myself, Mr Swinford-Browne but, alas, I’m over their age limit now.’

  ‘But I can give you plenty of work for the war effort,’ said Edith, astonished. There were, she informed them, her Belgian Relief Committee in which Mrs Lilley appeared to have lost interest, the Troops’ Entertainment Committee, the sewing and knitting circle for Comforts for our Gallant Soldiers. ‘Despite all I am doing, I still feel it my duty to take on more.’ She lowered her voice. ‘The latest emergency, you know.’ News of the appalling use of gas by the Germans in their attack at Ypres was just coming through.

  ‘How worthy a cause,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘But I agree with Caroline that we have to give priority to our poorer parishioners. In order for them to give to such worthy causes as yours, Edith, they must receive. In the form of shillings and crowns.’

  ‘Oh, quite,’ Edith agreed.

  ‘I would have thought the village was as adequately provided for in that respect as it has ever been.’ Lady Hunney adopted a tone of sweet reproach. ‘I do feel that at such a time we should remain at the posts we were born to as a matter of duty, not give way to our individual desires. Any farm bailiff could easily undertake this agricultural scheme of yours, Caroline, without troubling your mother. Indeed, I would suggest our bailiff Patterson might be suitable.’