Dark Harvest Page 8

  ‘Are you implying I have done nothing for the war effort?’

  ‘As I see it, we must each do what we think best. You on your concert committee, I in my agricultural work.’

  ‘Unfortunately you not only see, but are seen. You do not become your upbringing, Miss Lilley.’

  Nor you yours, Caroline thought savagely as she left. Her first instinct was to go to London as Penelope had suggested. But that would mean a victory for Lady Hunney. Perhaps she should remain in Ashden and fulfil her duty here. Even if no farmers would let her work for them, she could still organise the rotas, and that was becoming more interesting now that the Board of Agriculture had asked to meet her.

  No! She would stay, despite her ladyship’s efforts to dislodge her.

  Jamie Thorn came marching to the front door of the Rectory as though he owned the place. He felt as though he did. He was fighting for his King and country—or would be soon—and now he had a wee one to fight for too. No Germans would nail his little Agnes up on a church door, like they did in Belgium. In his mind the baby was a tiny version of his beautiful, grey-eyed wife.

  He pulled the old-fashioned bell, and came face to face with Harriet. Her face changed. A Thorn, here, on her own doorstep and her answering the bell like she was his servant.

  ‘Round the back,’ she snapped. ‘Save for Rector’s Hour. You know the rules.’

  ‘I’ll be coming in here. Miss,’ he replied, stepping in and pushing the door back, not rudely, but firmly. He’d been given some odd looks in the village, and he wasn’t going to take any more from this broody Mutter. He was a soldier of His Majesty and worth anyone’s front door.

  His Agnes was sitting in a chair by the window in her room. She looked on the pale side but she grew pink enough when she saw him. ‘Jamie!’ She flew across the room and into his arms. ‘You’re early.’

  ‘Wanted to see my baby, didn’t I?’ His voice, muffled by her hair, was hoarse with emotion as he held her once more.

  ‘Here she is, Jamie.’ Agnes sounded almost shy as she indicated the baby in the wooden cot.

  He cleared his throat, but it didn’t help. ‘She’s got your eyes, Agnes,’ he managed to say.

  ‘Silly. All babies have blue eyes, not grey.’

  ‘Baby Aggie.’

  ‘I’d like to call her something else, Jamie. It’s too confusing with two Agneses.’

  He looked up in surprise. ‘Mabel?’

  ‘No.’ Agnes was rather sharp. After Jamie’s mother? Never! ‘Elizabeth, after Mrs Lilley.’

  ‘If that’s how you want it, Aggie, it’s all right with me,’ Jamie said valiantly. In fact anything would have been all right with him at that moment, even Ermyntrude Boadicea. ‘We’ll call her Elizabeth Agnes then. You going to stay here, Aggie?’

  ‘No. I’m going back. The old ladies are looking forward to the baby. And I like it there in a way. No Dribble Dibble.’ She tried to laugh. In fact how she’d have managed without Mrs Dibble this week, goodness only knew. She’d done more for her than her own mother, who’d come in, crossed herself as though she were in the home of the devil, and prayed to the Lord not to damn the little baby. ‘The Rector says you can stay here if you want, Jamie. Till you go back.’

  ‘That’s good.’ He didn’t mention his parents again and nor did she.

  ‘And Rector says he’ll christen the baby tomorrow, and yesterday I was churched to thank God for little Elizabeth Agnes. It was nice they gave you leave after all to see the baby.’

  How could he tell her it wasn’t leave to see the baby? It was home leave because the new 7th Battalion of the Royal Sussex was leaving Aldershot for Southampton at the end of the month. Bound for France.

  Caroline snatched up the letter lying on the morning-room table. The familiar handwriting made her heart leap. When was it written? After or before the battle to capture Aubers Ridge on the ninth? She’d read that the 2nd Sussex were involved in it, and that there had been heavy casualties. She tried not to think of the stark figure she had read. Over 450 officers fallen. Fallen—or shelled to bits? Please, please, let the date be after the battle. Her waves of panic stopped as she read: 14th May.

  She ran up to her bedroom, shutting the door firmly. Quickly, she scanned the letter for important news. Usually Reggie wrote about the men in his battalion, or the village estaminets, and commented upon trench life—the kind of things she read about in the Courier. But this time there was no mention of battle at all. In fact it was very brief.

  ‘My darling, the best news. I can snatch a twenty-four hour leave—not long enough for me to come to Ashden, but time for you to meet me in London. Will you? I know you will. May 21st. Victoria Station. No point in saying we’ll meet under the clock. I’ll see you anyway. For us there will be no one there but you and I.’

  In two days she would see Reggie again.

  Isabel answered the door herself as Mrs Bugle had been given the evening off to visit her bereaved sister in Hartfield. This suited Isabel. After all, she needed to get those hopgarden schedules sorted out for June or Caroline would be furious. The evenings were so long too. This hadn’t been what she expected when she married; nor, she thought, had Robert. Robert had been fun, good-looking, a wonderful dancer. But now he had decided to be a soldier, although there was absolutely no need. He had a perfectly good job in the brewery and, if he’d stayed, he’d have had one in the munitions factory too. It was too bad. Her youth was being wasted; here she was, mouldering in an uncomfortable house which she virtually had to herself. She glanced in the ghastly mirror in the hall, smoothed away the frown, adjusted the rather low neck of her dinner gown and, fully satisfied, opened the door to Frank Eliot.

  ‘Good evening. Thank you for coming so promptly.’

  She ushered him into their drawing room. ‘I’m so busy with my committees and—and—lots of things, I rarely have a chance to tackle this farm work before the evening.’ She laughed lightly. ‘You will take a sherry?’

  Amused, Frank Eliot entered into her game—if game it could be called. He owed little to the Swinford-Brownes now. Silly Billy, as he privately termed him, had made it quite plain he intended to sell up the hopgardens at the first opportunity, if not this year then next. As for Robert, he was a nice enough chap but being in the army in Norfolk was hardly like the Western Front—he was near enough to home to be responsible for his own marital affairs.

  ‘You’re too kind.’ He disliked sherry, but sipped it politely.

  ‘The evenings are very long. I am glad to have something so rewarding to do as the hopgarden rotas.’

  ‘What is it you wished to see me about, Mrs Swinford-Browne?’

  ‘The rota for June. Will there still be clearing to do? And can I offer the women work during the hop-picking season as well?’ Isabel was pleased with her businesslike tone.

  ‘I can take all you can offer, Mrs Swinford-Browne.’ Frank’s tone was bland, but Isabel looked at him uncertainly. ‘Your sister is doing sterling work in the fields,’ he continued. ‘Will you be following her example and hop picking?’

  Isabel was taken aback. ‘I’m not quite so strong as Caroline, but perhaps.’

  ‘I shall look forward to it.’

  ‘Will you? It is nice to think I have a friend here.’ Her voice grew soft.

  He rose from his chair, joined her on the sofa, removed the sherry glass she was clutching defensively, turned her to him, and kissed her.

  Her first thought was that his moustache tickled but his lips were warm and confident. She struggled a little, then as his hands soothed her and stroked her face, her hair, she relaxed and her mouth opened under his. Some minutes later she was aware that she was almost lying on the sofa and that his hands were no longer on her hair but on her breasts, pushing aside the dinner gown.

  Panic-stricken, she pulled herself free. ‘Mr Eliot, I am a married woman.’ The indignation in her voice was not feigned.

  He seemed to be breathing heavily but he released her. Then she rea
lised he was shaking with laughter.

  ‘So you are, Isabel, so you are.’ He made as if to rearrange her bodice but she pushed his hands away. ‘Come to me, Isabel, when you’re ready.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she replied haughtily.

  ‘For the picking of the ripe hops, of course. What else?’

  ‘Victoria Station. No one but you and I.’ Caroline was just one of hundreds of people waiting for the Channel train to steam in. She felt sick with excitement, anticipation and tension, and there were a hundred questions she wanted to ask but knew she would never dare. The feeling that seemed to fill her up and stop somewhere just under her chin could all be translated into one glorious word: Reggie. In a few moments she would see him. All the letters, all the words, all the emotions they had exchanged would be behind them and they would be together, if only for a few hours. What price chaperones now, she thought. Less than a year ago it would have been impossible for her to have met Reggie alone, even if they were engaged, but now that world was over and done with!

  There was a stirring in the crowd and she saw the smoke of an approaching train. The train. The signal was down, and everyone surged round the platform barrier. Doors opened with the help of khaki-clad arms. She jumped down from the bench she was standing on, changed her mind and climbed back, then jumped down again and surged forward with the rest.

  Reggie was right. There were only the two of them. As she saw him, the crowd seemed to part as easily as the Red Sea. But was it him? He seemed smaller somehow, despite the uniform and cap. How ridiculous. Of course it was Reggie! The same good-looking, almost classical features, the same easy walk, and smile. She wanted to laugh, to cry; gasping ‘I love you’ she hurled herself into his arms.

  As they reached the cab line, she noticed with anxiety that he looked almost bewildered. The lightness she remembered in his eyes had gone and, now their greeting was over, even the smile had vanished. She had to steer him into the cab herself, and was surprised when he gave an unfamiliar address in Westminster to the driver. It was his father’s flat, he explained, after they had arrived and been shown into the first floor apartment. Reggie threw himself into an armchair.

  ‘How long?’ she asked, watching him.

  ‘I have to leave at four. I came overnight.’

  ‘Did you sleep?’ Were these pointless time-wasting words all she could think of when what she really wanted to burst out with was how much she loved him?

  ‘Some of the time.’

  ‘You don’t look like it. Shall I make some coffee to wake you up?’

  ‘I’ll ring for some.’ He forced a laugh. ‘You’re looking splendid, Caroline.’

  Appalled, she faltered: ‘Reggie, this is me.’

  He hid his face in his hands. ‘I’m sorry, darling. It’s so different.’

  ‘To how things were in Ashden?’ Oh, how she remembered the carefree ecstasy of last summer.

  ‘To over there. This time yesterday I woke up in a muddy trench dug-out, with a plate of lumpy fatty meat thrust under my nose. This morning, I climb into a cab, see the old crossing sweeper outside the station, the girl who sells lavender on the corner, people strolling around as though they haven’t a care in the world.’

  Illusion, Caroline thought bitterly. They had cares, oh they had. But not the same ones.

  She sat down and put her arms round him. He wasn’t shorter, that was an illusion too. He seemed further away, that was all. Surely she could bridge that gap with the right words? So she began to talk of Ashden, of Agnes, of the rota she and her mother were organising, of all the things they had once shared. Gradually she sensed that he was beginning to listen. ‘Do you want to talk about the war?’ she asked when she had exhausted her news.

  ‘No. Let’s have lunch at Romano’s, shall we?’

  She was disappointed. She wanted these precious few hours to be theirs alone. But she would not argue with him when time was so short.

  It was not the Romano’s of pre-war days. As a great treat. Aunt Tilly had taken her there, when it was crowded with theatre actors and actresses, and chorus girls with their escorts. Now all she could see was uniforms. But to her surprise, Reggie seemed to relax at last, laughing and joking with the other officers. Her heart ached. She seemed to be sitting opposite a stranger, a casual friend, not the man she loved, and was going to marry. She was even reduced to talking about the new coalition government Mr Asquith had been forced to accept.

  Then suddenly Reggie put his hand over hers. ‘Do you still love me, Caroline?’ he asked.

  She felt ridiculously happy. It was going to be all right after all.

  Once back in the flat she could not restrain herself any longer. ‘Reggie, I can’t stand life without you. When can we be married?’

  ‘When I see whole bodies around me again, not mangled or yellow with gas. When men can be husbands and fathers again, not cannon fodder. If only you knew—’ He stopped.

  ‘Tell me. Please.’

  ‘I can’t.’ But his lips did the telling, as he kissed her.

  ‘If we can’t marry,’ she whispered, ‘then let us at least love.’

  He buried his face in her hair, then kissed her again, his hands moving over her, her legs, her breasts. His body felt firm and alive. She closed her eyes with happiness, hoping that at last they would be one.

  Then he pulled back. ‘Shall I take my dress off?’ she asked uncertainly.

  ‘No.’ His voice was harsh.

  ‘Reggie, what have I done?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing. I just can’t. Not with you, Caroline.’

  ‘Why not with me?’

  ‘Because I—’

  ‘Don’t you love me any more?’ She felt utterly humiliated and confused, her only thought being that he did not want her.

  He kissed her gently on the mouth. ‘I love you, Caroline, as much—no, more than ever. I just want to save my pudding for later.’

  She began to feel better as she remembered how, when Reggie was little, he had insisted on Mrs Dibble’s pond pudding every time he lunched at the Rectory. On one occasion he had been caught shovelling it from the plate into an old biscuit tin so that he could enjoy it all the more later on. Old times, old ways, and now they were changing.

  She struggled to understand what he was going through. ‘Don’t worry, Reggie. I am fighting at your side. Really. You should see me working. Boots, trousers—’

  ‘Please don’t,’ he interrupted hoarsely. ‘Do your rotas if you wish, but don’t work in the fields.’

  She sat still with shock. ‘You can’t mean that. I am staying in Ashden like you wished. Why don’t you approve of my work in the fields?’

  ‘I don’t care about boots and trousers. What I mind about is the hell over there and my need to think of Ashden at peace. And Ashden to me means you and my family.’

  But which, Caroline wondered as she waved him goodbye an hour later at Victoria, was the stronger loyalty? Then a terrible thought occurred to her: was it a coincidence that Reggie’s brief leave had come so quickly after her quarrel with his mother? Or could Lady Hunney have ordered her son home? The Reggie Caroline loved would have disregarded such an order. Or would he? Back to haunt her came his words of last year: ‘As soon as the old man dies, I’m lord of the Manor whether I like it or not. Just once in a while I feel like cutting loose.’ But she knew he never would. Not Reggie.

  She was certain of something else too: there could be no peace in Ashden while she and Lady Hunney remained in the village together without Reggie’s restraining presence.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘If you please, ma’am, Percy says when’s the tennis match to be? He needs to start rolling.’ Mrs Dibble pursed her lips challengingly.

  On the point of hurrying out to settle a dispute as to whether Mrs Stone or Mrs Dodds was on the rota tomorrow for hoeing the flax, Elizabeth was startled by the question. ‘Here?’

  ‘Where else, ma’am? The Rectory always holds a tennis match in June.’<
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  ‘But there’s no one here to play, except Phoebe and George, and in any case now the—’

  ‘It’s always been done.’ Mrs Dibble was not going to accept war for an answer.

  ‘Not this year, I’m afraid.’

  ‘If you say so, ma’am.’ Mrs Dibble started the long march of disapproval back to the kitchen.

  Elizabeth sighed. ‘I can see you are not convinced.’

  The rigid back turned round briefly. ‘To my mind, ma’am, it’s a wicked shame to let the Kaiser beat us.’ Mrs Dibble disappeared into one domain that the Kaiser would never dare claim.

  ‘What is the wicked shame?’ Laurence came in through the front door from Matins in time to hear the dispute. ‘Why is Mrs Dibble upset?’

  ‘She was asking when the tennis match is to be, Laurence,’ Elizabeth explained. ‘Of course it’s out of the question, now that Caroline and Felicia have left, and so many young men.’

  Laurence thought for a moment. ‘But Eleanor’s still here, so is Janie Marden; there is Phoebe, George, Dr Cuss, perhaps Philip Ryde, and I’ll ask Pickering if he knows how to use a racket. Why don’t we invite the wounded officers from Ashden to be spectators?’

  Elizabeth felt torn. One half of her begrudged the precious time, so badly needed on farm organisation now that Caroline had left so suddenly, the other half—well, the other half pointed out that her first duty was to support Laurence. She realised, to her dismay, that she had not done much of this lately. Parish work had never been her forte, and she disliked committees, arguments, even her role as village peacemaker. But war work was quite different. Why, she was enjoying what she was doing!

  ‘Would sick men want to watch such an active sport knowing they might never play again? And—’ Elizabeth exclaimed as a terrible thought hit her—’what about Daniel? just think how he would feel as a spectator at a match he’s always played in before.’

  ‘We can’t not hold the tournament because of Daniel,’ Laurence said firmly. ‘But do you have the time?’