Summer's End (35 page)

Meanwhile there was Isabel to welcome home – although, Elizabeth remembered almost with surprise, the Rectory no longer
was
her home. She despatched Phoebe, who was most unwilling, to the railway station to find George, still hunting spies with his official badge, and meet all the late afternoon trains. The Swinford-Brownes had promised to telephone as soon as there was any news, but Elizabeth did not trust them.

Rightly so, for it was fully an hour after Phoebe had arrived breathlessly back at the Rectory with the news that the pair had returned that the telephone call came through from The Towers. Not a happy pair, Phoebe reported with some glee. Isabel, she related, was furious because they had had to stand in the railway train from Paris and, worse, she hadn't been allowed to bring any luggage.

‘But she's unharmed.' Elizabeth came anxiously to the point.

‘Oh yes. She's just the same.'

Laurence took the unprecedented step of cancelling Rector's Hour as they waited. At the sound of a motor-car they rushed to the front entrance. One look at Isabel's face told them that she was indeed cross. Moreover the gown she wore was one that had left in her trousseau, not one of the Paris ensembles she had expected to acquire.

‘It was terrible,' she told them pitifully, ensconced in pride of place in the drawing room. ‘Our
honeymoon
! Nothing but war, war, war talk. The couturier to whom I'd been recommended had left for the wars, the
pâtissier
had left for the wars, the porter at the hotel had left for the wars, even the cobbler left for the wars. Cafés shut early, restaurants, theatres – oh, there was
nothing
to do.'

Laurence listened grimly. ‘And yet you stayed on.'

Isabel caught his tone. ‘It was our honeymoon,' she said defiantly. ‘It could have been a false alarm, anyway, and we knew it was
impossible
to get sense from the embassies. Imagine, one had to
queue
for
ten hours
for papers to leave the place.'

‘Did you see any Huns?' George interrupted, bored with papers.

Isabel was swept away by her own grievance. ‘
Then
they said we were lucky to get on the train! Lucky!'

‘So you were,' Elizabeth said thankfully.

Isabel turned a baleful eye on her mother. ‘The jet was among the luggage. Caroline's not going to like that. Where is she, by the way?'

‘She and Felicia are training to join a VAD unit. They are in Tunbridge Wells till Friday and then leaving for the Royal Herbert Hospital at Shooters Hill.'

‘Whatever for?'

Laurence lost patience. ‘Because there is a war being fought, my dear, which you were fortunate to escape. Because wounded men are expected to arrive at the ports any day now.'

‘You mean all those rumours in Paris just as we left were
true?
It was said the British had been wiped out on the field of Waterloo.'

Elizabeth went white. ‘But Reggie and Daniel may have been there.' She turned to her husband. ‘Laurence, can it be we are not being told the truth here?'

‘There are many, many regiments in the British army, Elizabeth. The Hunney boys are probably in reserve safe behind the lines. Besides, this is mere
rumour.
'

‘But if it
is
true, where will the Germans go next?'

‘Paris!' cried Phoebe and George in unison, for once unreproved by Laurence.

Isabel digested this information. ‘Perhaps it's as well we left when we did, then.'

Phoebe prowled round the garden, at the moment a most welcome cage. No one noticed her, for there was so much else going on. The Rectory grounds were safe; outside she might meet
him,
and the thought made her feel sick with fear. She was not sure whether it was fear of Len Thorn, or fear of an unknown and untraversed gap between the safety of ‘now' and the hitherto confidently regarded future of marriage, and there was no one she could confide in. Caroline was not here, and pride had prevented her asking Patricia
for enlightenment. She was in a limbo from which she could see no exit. She had tried to help in the kitchens until she grew bored, and now to her amazement found herself watching Fred carve animals. Funny, everyone said he was odd about girls, but he never bothered her and she rather enjoyed being with him, as though the world outside had beaten both of them. He missed Felicia and, though Phoebe's hands were no substitute for her sister's, he seemed to like her company. At least someone did, she thought ruefully.

‘I volunteer,' he told her proudly in his hesitant speech.

‘You?' Phoebe stared at him. She was so taken aback she forgot about being tactful.

‘Be soldier,' he informed her, stroking the wooden squirrel that had appeared between his cupped hands. ‘Like Joe.'

‘Yes, but –' Phoebe, torn from her own problems, and concerned for once with someone other than herself, thought quickly. ‘They won't take men who have important war work here.'

‘What's that?'

‘For some men the jobs they do here are more important than their going off and getting killed abroad.'

‘Killed? Joe get killed? Like rabbits?'

Bother. Now she'd done it. Not Joe, she assured him hastily. ‘Only … only … officers,' she produced in desperation.

‘Oh. This war work?' He held up the squirrel.

‘Yes. So they won't let you go.'

‘You important war work?'

‘No, I'm a woman,' she replied automatically; it occurred to her that socks and saucepans were all men wanted from women. She couldn't boil an egg and she wasn't going to knit socks for anyone, particularly Edith Swinford-Browne. A vision of Edith in khaki socks hit her, and she grinned. Fred obligingly grinned back. There should be something women could do, she pondered, though there'd never be anything in Ashden; she'd have to go away – well,
that
would be good – but at seventeen no one would take her anywhere interesting. Dark, large outside worlds loomed over her with frightening shadows. She'd never, never have the courage now to go anywhere or do anything, yet if she didn't she'd be marooned here, imprisoned alone with Ma and Pa. Even Aunt Tilly turned out to be doing something, if it was only burning things down; Caroline and Felicia were going away; Isabel was married, which excused her from living, the way
she appeared to see it. Her parents were wrapped up in home and parish. Panic began to set in. She'd have to stay here with Fred forever, two misfits left alone. She
couldn't
stay, yet she didn't have the courage to go.

Phoebe excused herself from Fred, who didn't notice her leaving anyway. She walked over to the tennis court, which looked as lonely as she was nowadays, and found herself crying at her own predicament. She must
force
herself out of this limbo. She'd walk up to the station and find George, that's what she'd do. It would take bravery – it had the other day, even though she had gone with George then, and seen all those thirsty faces staring out of the train windows. They were hop-pickers on their way to Groombridge. Train journeys took a long time now. Then
her
idea came to her – so simple, so
important
if soldiers were travelling, and refugees, and even hop-pickers. The answer was:
lemonade
!

Mrs Swinford-Browne appeared briskly early on the morning of the 27th, far too early for an At Home, even if the Rectory held such events. She wished to imply that this was urgent war business – as it was.

‘I do hope you will forgive my calling when you have so much else to do. I am the local organiser, you see.'

‘Of what?' Elizabeth asked, dragged unwillingly from the kitchen, where she had become involved in a question of whether the doubling of the quantities of marrow jam was worth the rising price of the extra sugar.

‘The Belgian refugees, naturally.' Edith produced this with pride.

‘You need money? Clothing? Blankets? I have given all I have spare to the Red Cross.'

‘My dear Mrs Lilley, perhaps you haven't read the newspapers. Lady Lugard, Lord Hugh Cecil and the Honourable Mrs Alfred Lyttelton have formed a committee to find accommodation for Belgian and war refugees, and have requested local reception committees. Naturally I have volunteered. I believe Belgians are quite civilised.'

‘You are to have lodgers at The Towers?'

Edith hesitated. This was one point she had not yet discussed with William, awaiting the right moment, and so she avoided a direct answer. ‘I have several offers of help from most respectable houses in
Hartfield and Withyham. Lady Hunney has had to refuse, of course. She has done enough for the effort, poor soul. But the Rectory now, I am sure you have room.'

‘I shall discuss it with my husband.' Elizabeth's voice was noncommittal.

When Edith had gone, she sank back to reflect on the situation. Caroline, Felicia and Isabel had left home. Suppose the first two were sent to France, where she had now read the Red Cross were sending VAD detachments? In Ashden village, now the corn was in, more men were volunteering. Agnes had told her that Jamie Thorn had gone to training camp, and the ripple that that had caused had sent others rushing after him. The feeling seemed to be, from what she could gather, that if a no-good blackguard like Jamie could fight for King and Country, it needed a few good men to follow him to even the score for Lord Kitchener. Elizabeth's own work in the village was increasing, as was Laurence's. Meanwhile people still fell ill and had babies, elderly folk still died of old age. To open the doors of the Rectory as a refuge for foreigners for the sake of the country was a twist she found too much to grapple with, but it had to be done. Mrs Dibble, she supposed unenthusiastically, must be consulted.

‘Belgians?' Mrs Dibble was doubtful. ‘Who's to do their boots? Fred can't. He's doing the lamps
and
clocks now the clockwinder's gone to the wars.'

‘They will wait on themselves, and cook for themselves in the kitchen.'

Mrs Dibble stiffened. ‘
That
they will not, Mrs Lilley. My kitchen's my own.'

‘Of course. That was a foolish suggestion of mine.'

‘How much are they paying?'

‘Do you know, I haven't the slightest idea.' Trust Edith not to mention this small point. ‘I'd better find out, I suppose.'

‘I'll do the cooking. But not for no heathen, mind. Nor no Romans.'

‘I'm sure they will be good Christians, Mrs Dibble.'

‘Praise the Lord.' Mrs Dibble sounded unconvinced.

Phoebe shifted from foot to foot nervously at the railway station, waiting for her first train from Tunbridge Wells. The Stationmaster, Mr Eric Chaplin, had been agreeable for a trial period, and on her
trestle table stood home-made lemonade essence, glasses and jugs of water, and a sign written out by herself: ‘One halfpenny a glass. Free to servicemen and refugees.' The washing up she would do in the stationmaster's kitchen sink with buckets of water from the well.

‘Them hop-pickers are a rough bunch,' Mr Chaplin warned her. ‘I'll be keeping an eye on you, don't you worry, young lady.'

Hop-pickers didn't scare Phoebe in the slightest. Nevertheless, when she saw the signal down and a puff of smoke in the distance, she wished she could turn and run, but the thought of an ‘I told you so' grin on the stationmaster's face made her determined to stick it out. The railway train steamed in to the platform, shrouding her in white smoke, and carriage doors began to open. Of course there was no sign of George, just when she needed his help. People spilled out all along the platform, surrounded by battered cases, paper parcels, even sacks of belongings. Their sharp voices disconcerted her, so different to the slow Sussex drawl. Whole families of all ages milled around, from toddlers to ancient grannies.

‘Lemonade!' She cleared her throat and tried louder. The sound still came out as a squeak. Then one man, in green scarf and shabby cap, saw the notice. ‘Cor, stone the crows. A halfpenny. It ought to be free.'

‘I'll have one, if you please.'

She jerked her head up at the voice. It was Mr Eliot. Of course, he was the manager, here to meet the hop-pickers. She was instantly confused and nervous, but managed to put on her best business voice. ‘That will be one halfpenny please. For the war effort.' She raised her voice, this time to a shout.

‘Good girl,' he said approvingly, taking the glass. Whether he spoke of the lemonade or something else she did not know, and had no time to speculate as the cry went round ‘for the war effort': halfpennies and pennies were thrown at her from all directions. Late that afternoon she made her way home, well content, clutching a net 3s 7½d in a paper bag, like a talisman. She needed it. She hadn't yet told Father what she had been doing. Perhaps tomorrow she'd come to a business arrangement with the stationmaster's wife to do the washing up, though …

‘I suppose we have to, Elizabeth.' Laurence pulled a face. It would feel like invasion, having strangers sharing their home; even if the war
were over in a week or two, it would take time to repatriate all the refugees. They could be here for well over a month, perhaps even two. He struggled to reconcile the man with the vicar of God. He had no choice, of course. ‘Perhaps God will be merciful and send me one who enjoys chess, now Caroline's left us.' She was the only one of his family who had any interest in playing at all.

‘Caroline!' Elizabeth exclaimed.

‘Please, Elizabeth, do not worry –'

‘No, Laurence. It has occurred to me: who is to write the parish magazine if Caroline is not here?'

‘I must, I suppose.' Laurence was even more dismayed. It was a time-consuming job but an important one.

George poked his head out from the sofa where he was re-reading William Le Queux to get some tips on spy-catching. ‘I will.'