Summer's End (28 page)

‘So it
is
your baby,' Agnes forced herself to say. She'd told herself she could face anything and she would.

‘
No!
' The word burst out from him. ‘I couldn't tell you, I couldn't. In the cottage I was all ready, I was going to, I wanted to, but at the last minute, well, I couldn't.' He flushed red.

‘You realised you loved me?'

He swallowed, snatching at the easy way out. ‘Something like that.' How could he explain to Agnes it wouldn't stay up at the last moment? What if he failed like that with Agnes? What if she jeered at him like Ruth had for being no man? ‘Yes,' he agreed. ‘I was all ready, and then I thought of you.'

She shuddered. ‘I believe you, Jamie.'

‘You said that before, Agnes.' There was no reproach in his voice, just hope this time.

‘I sensed you were holding something back, I suppose. Now I know you're not.'

He drew a deep breath. He could be brave too. ‘Look, Agnes, this time, this place ain't right. Someone might come in.'

‘Yes.'

‘Come for a walk bank holiday?'

‘I'd like that, Jamie.'

The moths were already fluttering round the oil lamps as George began his sterling work with the gramophone. Greatly daring, he started with ‘Dixie', until Caroline laughingly came across and said: ‘Later, George, later. We've still got the old folks here.' Not Lady Hunney, thank goodness. Daniel had escorted her home, and then returned himself.

‘Here's your rotten old waltz then.' George gave in cheerfully. He spotted Eleanor on her own.
Now
was his chance. He rushed across, bowed. ‘May I have the pleasure?'

She curtseyed solemnly. ‘Sir, you may.'

Caroline's euphoria swept her through the evening in an endless succession of ‘Alexander's Ragtime Band' and ‘Hitchy Koo', interspersed with ‘The Merry Widow' waltz and ‘If You Were the Only Girl in the World'.

‘You are, you are.' whispered Reggie, he and Caroline so absorbed in each other they didn't even hear the telephone ring, late that evening, when the light had passed and only the oil lamps and their fluttering attendants illuminated the shadowy dancers of summer. There weren't many left by then, just family and close friends, as the
Rector came out on the terrace and for no discernible reason, without a word from him, the dancers stopped, silhouetted statues.

‘Sir John has telephoned me again in case there were still time to call back Isabel and Robert. There is not, and France mobilised late this afternoon.'

A heart-rending cry from Elizabeth: ‘Isabel!'

‘There is worse.' The Rector's voice was steady. ‘Sir John met Lord Haldane who had just left the Admiralty. Winston Churchill has mobilised the fleet of Great Britain to protect the western shores of France. There is little doubt but that the Cabinet will ratify his decision tomorrow morning.'

‘What does mobilise mean, Daniel?' Felicia whispered.

His face was grave. ‘It means war.'

‘A
ll people that on earth do dwell …'

Here, in St Nicholas, with the organ booming out and the voices of the congregation responding, Caroline found it impossible to imagine that England could soon be at war. There hadn't been a
real
war for a hundred years; wars took place in far-off lands like South Africa, India, Abyssinia; they were engravings in the
Illustrated London News
, or memoirs written by officers or the occasional ‘voice from the ranks'. Wars meant a column of soldiers who from time to time marched through the village bound for Aldershot or the Channel ports, not something so close at hand as France, and not to fight Austria or Germany, whose people were so friendly and welcoming. True, the village and even Father had joked about the ‘German Menace' for years, but only in connection with Dr Marden's dachshund.

While her father had been taking early service, Caroline had volunteered to go in search of the newspaper which had not yet been delivered. It had not proved a difficult task to find the reason. Inside and outside Timms, the newsagent's, a large crowd of villagers was too busy discussing the news to allow time for delivery, and Tom Timms, trying his best to be apologetic though he had been the centre of the excited circle, explained that special editions of the newspapers were to be published throughout the day as more news became available. Whether they'd reach Ashden or not, he couldn't say, but his youngest was up at the railway station now, and his eldest was cycling into the Wells. Caroline remembered the day the news had come that the old king was passing through Ashden, and so the whole village had marched en bloc up to the railway station to cheer him as the train slowed down to acknowledge the doffed hats and shouts. Then, as now, intangible excitement leaped from person to person like signals along telegraph wires. It was evidence that Ashden was part of a larger world; something they preferred to ignore much of the time. This time it was different, however, for there
was underlying anxiety evident in the group. Tom Timms, now, hadn't he been a soldier? Perhaps he was on the reserve list, and might be recalled. And wasn't one of the Mutters a Territorial? He too might even be involved if there were war.

The news in the
Observer
had not been reassuring. Nor had family prayers, with Mother bursting into tears over Isabel's safety half-way through the Twenty-third Psalm. Caroline had been more alarmed at that than at Isabel's plight. ‘The editor strongly believes,' Father said, ‘we should join the war to support France and Russia. Gavin is much respected. His views will carry weight.' It was a measure of the seriousness of the situation that Father spoke of the news at all, especially on a Sunday.

‘Why should we?' Elizabeth asked vehemently. ‘Would France do the same for us?'

‘If France and Germany go to war, my dear, remember Belgium and Luxembourg lie between them, and Germany's first step would undoubtedly be to sweep through the smaller countries to attack France. We are pledged to defend Belgium's neutrality.'

‘Politics,' his wife snorted. ‘What of
Isabel
? What does Mr Gavin have to say on that?' Fear made her angry.

‘The French government have taken over control of the railways, but they are planning to run a few trains to bring home British civilians today. The Germans are a long way from Paris, Elizabeth.'

Caroline saw Mother took this as a reproof, for she went silent the way she did when she disagreed with what you said, but had decided to wait for a better moment to say so. In any case, it had been at that moment that Mrs Dibble had come in, ostensibly to clear the china, though the pinkness of her cheeks suggested a different story.

‘You look concerned, Mrs Dibble.' Laurence laid down the
Obser
ver.

‘I thought you should know, Rector, the baker's just delivered. There's talk of the bread going up yet higher. The railway trains are packed with all those foreigners scuttling back home like rats, and, oh sir, I know my Lizzie's Rudolf was a bandsman when she met him on that trip to Brighton, and a bad day that was, but I'm sure she said he'd been a soldier in the German army. Will he have to go?'

‘Is he naturalised, Mrs Dibble?'

‘He married my Lizzie.'

‘I fear that is not the same thing. But let us hope the war will be
over so quickly he will not be needed.' The Rector hesitated, but saw no point in disguising the truth. ‘He may have to leave for a little while, of course.'

‘Showing themselves in their true colours now,' Mrs Dibble observed sharply. ‘I always said there was something funny about him, being a German. Nothing they like better than a good war.' She looked at a dish of congealed eggs as though it held some kind of answer, and bore it menacingly out.

‘Where are you going, Laurence?' Elizabeth asked, as he rose without finishing his toast.

‘To think again about my sermon, in the light of what Mrs Dibble has said. The Archbishop of Canterbury has ordered special prayers for peace to be said today. If all of England feels as Mrs Dibble does, I fear the chances are not high. I must think how best to speak to Ashden.'

‘“Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” This is more than a text of scripture; this is
my
address to you, in St John's words.' The Rector paused, looking down at his congregation, larger than usual. He had been perturbed by the words he caught at random outside the church, some eager and excited, some anxious, as was he, for relatives abroad, but many dismissive, as though Ashden were not involved in what was happening around it. Over the centuries kings had come and gone, religions changed and politics raged. Ashden life, and that of hundreds of villages like it, had been essentially unchanged. Change had been a slow, cumbrous beast, as imperceptible as the erosion of water on stone. One day a farm might be run by Master Tom, the next day he'd become ‘the old gentleman' and young Alfred, his son, had become the new master. Squire was Squire whether Sir John or Sir Reginald. He had heard Arthur Sharpe growling to Cyril Mutter earlier this morning: ‘Makes no difference whether it's war or peace. Harvest is harvest, and muck is muck. Still go on, they do.' Laurence hoped he was right, with all his heart.

Less than a month ago some well-intentioned man had written to
The Times
suggesting every church used the tune ‘Austria' to show sympathy with the Emperor for the loss of his son, the Archduke. He wondered from how many churches ‘Praise the Lord, ye Heavens
Adore Him' had rung out that day. St Nicholas was one. It had seemed a small enough gesture. Yet now, thanks to Austria, the loss of the peace of Europe was probable. The Emperor and his ally the Kaiser had struck the tinder-box to begin the conflagration. Ashden itself was an example of how easily it could happen. Take Jamie Thorn: one small incident that resulted in rough music and a reopening of the Mutter–Thorn feud. He had damped down the fires but not quenched them. They smouldered on.

‘Peace has a semaphore of its own. If we in Ashden heed St John's words then Ashden will survive. “Not as the world giveth, give I unto you.” If England heeds these words, she will survive, and if Europe heeds them, it too will survive. If there is a war, and there is a just cause for us to fight it, then we do so for the sake of every innocent man, woman and child, whether they be in Europe or here, Germany or Ashden. But to do so, Ashden must find its own peace. No more rough music, or the drumbeat we shall follow will bring destruction.'

Looking round at the faces of the congregation, Caroline wondered if it understood what he was trying to say, or whether the wider implications were lost in the immediate message of ‘no more rough music'.

‘I quite agree with the Rector.' A shrill voice croaked out behind, a shock-wave ran round the congregation, and two hundred necks craned round curiously to see who had dared interrupt the service.

‘It's the Misses Norville,' Phoebe hissed with excitement at Caroline's side. ‘Look! It
must
be them. Who else could it be?'

Caroline needed no bidding to turn round. In the Norville pew, empty for so long, stood the two Miss Norvilles dressed uniformly in black, save for white lace dotted strategically at necks and wrists; they wore the black bonnets and full skirts of the mid-Victorian period, and stood side by side like two forbidding rooks, their gloved hands gripping the front edge of the pew. Then one of them sank back almost out of sight as she sat down, and left the ‘stage' to her sister.

‘My sister and I have an announcement to make.'

‘That must be Miss Emily, the elder of the two.' Caroline was so fascinated by the sight of them, she hardly took in what they were saying. She hadn't seen them in church since she was about eight.

Miss Emily promptly sat down. Miss Charlotte stood up. ‘We understand there is some question of war with Germany. My sister
and I have therefore decided to fortify Castle Tillow.'

The Rector, as taken aback as his congregation, thought quickly. They were old, they were recluses, they should not be figures of fun. ‘The battleground is in Europe, ladies,' he answered gently. ‘And today we pray that there will be no battleground.'

The sisters promptly changed places again, as Miss Emily rose: ‘
We
may have peace in our hearts, Rector, but do the Germans?'

The Rector saw a ripple of comprehension run round his congregation. There must be an end to this, quickly. ‘The same God is Father to all peoples, and like any father can bring peace to His children, if they but stop to listen.'

‘But our dear
mother
told us,' Miss Charlotte retorted shrilly, rising like a jack-in-a-box, ‘that Old Boney would get us one day. This Kaiser is quite clearly another Bonaparte. There
will
be an invasion.'

The mischief was done, as suddenly the congregation realised the full drift of what the Norvilles were saying. The Rector could almost see the word ‘invasion' running along the pews.

‘Wire netting,' Miss Emily cried excitedly, ‘and Johnson is digging a moat. Everyone is welcome to shelter in the Castle. We have ammunition and chickens and we will issue passwords –'

The ripple of fear suddenly turned to laughter, as the idea of the Misses Norville defending Ashden with bows and arrows against the Germans took the congregation's fancy. The Rector was about to seize his opportunity, when Lady Hunney, quicker still, determined to secure her position as the lady of the manor.

‘Unfortunately the Misses Norville dwell in the past,' she announced from her pew, not condescending to stand. ‘The Hunneys do not. My husband is working in Whitehall trying his best to avert this crisis;
that
is positive, to concentrate on defence is an invitation to be attacked.'

‘Let us remember that this is the House of God in which He alone rules. It is time we gave Him leave to speak,' the Rector thundered, incensed that Maud was turning this into a political debating ground. If in this church people could not be calm, what hope for Europe? ‘Let us pray. And let us all remember that in Germany and in Austria too, people are on their knees praying to the same God, the only God, for
peace
.'

God sends meat, and the Devil sends cooks, the Rector thought as he made his way back to the Rectory later. Perhaps those words
written in the seventeenth century could be the basis of a sermon one day. This morning had presented an extraordinary crisis, not just to his authority, but God's. The Devil's cooks had come in the guise of two eccentric old ladies, but their words could spread the deadly poison of fear through the community. Had God sent the laughter to dispel the poison? Did not laughter grease the wheels of daily life? He heard through the open door as he approached the sound of Caroline's laugh followed by a bellow from George, and rejoiced at the Rectory's normality. Could the Rectory supply the strength he needed without the sound of the girls' voices, George's cheerful shouts, his wife's ever-present soothing command within these walls?

That evening after evensong there was a concert on Bankside given by the village band; the warm evening was still with an air of expectancy and, as the last sounds of the brass died away, the band spontaneously broke into the National Anthem. With one accord the audience rose from the grass and makeshift chairs. As it finished, Cyril Mutter looked round at him from the row in front. ‘No rough music, eh, Rector?' he said gruffly. ‘Eh, Alfred Thorn?'

‘The Towers has had no news.' Laurence hung up the telephone receiver early on Monday morning. It had been a vain hope that Isabel and Robert might have returned already. Even in the best of times, they would scarcely have had time to arrive in Paris, and take a return train and steamer. With every form of transport heavily over-crowded in both directions, normal schedules would have been abandoned, he reasoned, and there would surely be more trains arranged for foreign civilians. The telegraph office at Ashden railway station had been open day and night, as was the post office, and it was some comfort to hear that no civilian telegraphs were coming in from overseas. Isabel and Robert might arrive at any moment.

‘No harm can come to them, Elizabeth,' he reiterated for the umpteenth time. Common sense told him so, but sometimes sense could be outridden by emotions.

‘Has the newspaper anything to say, Laurence?' was her only reply. Elizabeth stared through the window, as if she hoped to see her daughter running down the path. She had no strength of will to do anything else. All her energy was being spent on worrying about Isabel.

‘Germany has declared war on France. But Elizabeth, there is still Belgium to cross, and as yet Germany has not done so.' He did not tell her German troops were already in Luxembourg, and were rumoured to be massing on the Belgian border.