Summer's End (38 page)

‘Possibly, or wounded, or is a prisoner of war. It is too soon to be sure.'

‘But that is
terrible.
Poor, poor Lady Hunney.' Elizabeth watched Laurence pacing round the room. ‘He is so young. It was his twenty-first birthday only two weeks ago. He wants to do so much, and now missing in a war that is not of our making. Who else?'

The same thought was in both their minds: Reggie.

‘Where is he missing?' she asked confusingly.

‘There was some delay in notifying the War Office, because of the retreat and the swiftness of the German sweep towards Paris. Daniel is in the 1st Battalion of the King's Own Royal Regiment; the battalion was late in being ordered to France, and therefore was not involved in the fighting at Mons; however, it did join in the retreat, and took part in the engagement at Le Cateau we read about. The King's Own met disaster there when somehow they remained visible to the enemy, who machine-gunned and shelled them as such an obvious target. A great many were killed, and then the battalion
fought valiantly on throughout the day before being ordered to withdraw.'

Elizabeth shuddered, and Laurence tried to keep his voice even as he recited the known facts. ‘The men were buried in a mass grave. It is possible that Daniel may have been one of them, though Sir John thinks it unlikely, since he would have heard if so.'

‘Poor boy,' Elizabeth said, her tears already falling. ‘How is Maud?'

‘She has taken it badly – or well, as you may think. She simply refuses to believe he is dead, and insists that there has been some mistake.'

‘I can understand her. I would feel that myself.' Elizabeth paused. ‘Laurence, what of Felicia? She is so fond of Daniel.'

‘Neither of us can leave the parish at such a time, Elizabeth. I will write to Caroline to break the news gently to her.'

‘He is well,' Caroline crowed triumphantly, as they walked back to their lodgings that evening, twirling round to demonstrate the point.

‘That's wonderful news,' Felicia said.

‘What does fighting a battle conjure up to you, Felicia? To me, it's derring-do, Kitchener and Omdurman.'

‘All it means to me is a pile of soiled bandages. I don't believe I care for King and Country.'

Caroline stopped short in amazement. ‘I would have thought that of all of us you would be the most duty-bound.'

‘Would you, if that were Reggie in that bed?'

‘No.'

‘
Every
man there is a Daniel for me.'

They walked in silence in the starry night on the more wooded side of the roadway of Shooters Hill, where thick bushes recalled the area's famous highwaymen days; days when gallows stood ready at the foot of the hill, and staging coaches stopped with relief at the Bull Inn. The mounting steps were still there, but used now only for the occasional horseman. Sevendroog Castle, a weird and romantic tower on the hill top, gave it an atmosphere so different to that of the hospital lying at its foot, but all sense of excitement vanished as they reached their lodgings. There was only one letter awaiting them – for Caroline. She opened it and Felicia, eagerly waiting for news from home, saw her face change.

She would go to the hop-fields to find George. Mother was worried about him; she must be, Isabel told herself. George was only fifteen and the hop-pickers were a very rough crowd. Shopkeepers had barriers and shutters erected against thieving hands, and the Norville Arms always consigned hop-pickers to the barn behind the inn. Besides, she deserved a temporary escape. Robert was totally preoccupied by how much he hated his new work at the brewery, necessary now that so many of the men were volunteering, and when he wasn't complaining about that he was still bewailing the fact that he could not volunteer himself. She found it hardly flattering. Every day she feared he might sneak off to the Drill Hall recruiting centre in Tunbridge Wells to offer his services, and he had told her that every time he saw his father he tried again to make him change his mind. Fortunately William Swinford-Browne was standing firm.

The day was warm for September, and Isabel decided it justified her wearing the new light voile gown that she had purchased to compensate for the loss of all her baggage in France. The light, open-sided T-bar shoes she had chosen flattered her feet but made each step agony along the uneven stony paths to the farm, and the worn-down field paths where each spike of dried-out grass seemed to select her white silk stockings for its target. Few of the hop-pickers recognised her, rather to her chagrin. Most of them were East-Enders or other foreigners intent on their own raucous songs, shouts and guffaws, as they sat with bines across their knees, nimbly stripping off the hops – or, in the case of the men, it seemed, standing by and leaving the task to the women. She suddenly realised with a throb of excitement that George would be hard to find amid this rabble and that would mean – after all, why not? She
was
Robert's wife.

‘Where will I find Mr Eliot?' she demanded of the first Ashdenian she could see – she had a vague idea it might have been a Mutter. He certainly wasn't very polite. A jerk of the thumb and the barest gesture of removing his filthy cap were all she received. He was, however, accurate. Following the direction of the thumb, she saw Frank Eliot at the gate to the next field. He was looking at his pocket watch, and certainly had not seen her, so that panther lounge was natural, not for her benefit. She longed for him to look up and walk to
her.
It wasn't her place to approach him. Except of course in case
of emergency like the borrowing of the milk. He had been most polite then, most helpful, though all the while she had had an annoying feeling that he was somehow mocking her.

He did look up. Naturally she didn't notice, and naturally he was walking towards her to greet her. She would speak first, though she would take a long time deciding to do so – until he was almost up to her. But he did not wait for her to speak.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Swinford-Browne. I'm honoured.' He swept off his boater – how unsuitable for a farm manager. She would speak to Robert.

She gave a theatrical start. ‘You did give me a fright.' She managed to imply he would be forgiven.

‘My apologies.' He ran his eye over her, reflecting how strange it was that she was Miss Phoebe's sister: Miss Phoebe who looked so provocative and yet was so innocent, and this one, who pretended to be so aloof and dignified and yet – he was sure – was deliberately placing herself in his path. True, her husband was a weak sort of fellow, but he was his employer's son. Frank was torn between wishing to avoid trouble and the feeling that Mrs Isabel should be taught a lesson, for everyone's sake. If she didn't choose to learn it, then his conscience would be clear, he decided. Quite what he'd do then, if anything, he didn't know. Meanwhile: ‘I came to pay my respects, ma'am. I expect you are looking for young George. I will escort you.'

‘Thank you. I'm interested in my father-in-law's concerns.'

She enjoyed her feeling of power as the hoppers in the alleyways, some of which were already cleared of their hops, made way for them. Every so often Mr Eliot would scoop a child up under his arm and place it firmly to the side, or even on occasion into the huge hessian bins used for the picked hops, whence the child was quickly pulled out.

‘They don't like that. It presses the hops down too much, and they have to hover them up again before the measurer comes round.'

‘Indeed.' It was double-Dutch to Isabel, who picked her way, smiling at the seated women when she remembered, but always conscious of the man at her side.

‘Smell Mrs Swinford-Browne,' he said suddenly, picking a hop from a bine still on its wire.

‘I can, thank you.' The air was heavy with their acrid, heavy
smell. It made her feel trapped within it, repelling yet robbing her of the ability to walk away.

‘Smell it.' It was an order, and he thrust it beneath her nose.

‘Very nice,' she managed to say stiltedly.

‘It lulls your senses.' His voice grew soft. ‘Like a woman.'

She gave a cry of outrage, but he apparently didn't hear for he was surrounded by a group of hoppers. She stood to one side, showing her impatience at being ignored. Not for long.

To her horror, one of the hoppers, a huge, rough giant of a man, made a sudden swoop towards her, and she found herself swept up and suspended over one of the large bins of hops, to the great delight of the hoppers who gathered round shrieking with laughter.

‘Footshoe money,' he shouted, foul breath hitting her in the face, ‘or I drop you in, missis.'

‘Put me
down
!' Tears of anger welled up. ‘Mr Eliot,
order
him to put me down.' But to her fury he made no move, despite the apparently shocked expression on his face.

‘More than my job's worth, Mrs Swinford-Browne. Can't go against the old custom. Mr Swinford-Browne knows that. You're a stranger here, and you didn't stop to have your shoes rubbed with hops before you walked the fields. That means you have to contribute to the hop party fund.'

She longed to refuse, but from her humiliating position was quite unable to do so. ‘Very well, I will. Put me down first.'

To the crowd's cheering she was promptly replaced on the ground, and the ridiculous boater was waved in front of her. She fumbled in her handbag and dropped one of the new paper notes in it to a round of clapping.

The crowd drifted away, and she stared icily at Frank Eliot. ‘You will pay for this, Mr Eliot.'

He bent down and picked up the crushed hop spray. ‘You look after these hops from the day they're planted, building up the hills round them, protecting them from the wilt and mould, like little babies, and then they grow, twining themselves round their poles and wires, ensnaring your heart with their young beauty and their fresh green leaves. A poor man has no say in it. He just hears their call, like Odysseus did those sirens.'

‘You're mocking me!' Isabel cried angrily, unable to believe it.

‘Me? I wouldn't dare, Mrs Swinford-Browne. I'm just a farmer.'

He looked so startled, she almost believed him, but she was saved from answering by George's indignant shout. ‘What on earth are
you
doing here?'

She hurried gratefully towards him.

Frank Eliot watched her go, regretting that the Almighty had so arranged it that those to whom one's body was attracted did not necessarily exercise the same appeal over the mind, and grateful that her position probably put the matter out of his control anyway.

‘My cinema. My
palace.
' William Swinford-Browne complacently viewed his kingdom to be. No one had got the better of him in Ashden, not even his own son. All this balderdash about wanting to volunteer, even after he'd seen the casualty lists. No, he was still intent on breaking his mother's heart.

Nor had Isabel made any headway with him. Love's young dream did not seem to be working out to madam's satisfaction. He wished he had the training of her. It was either money or the marriage bed causing the trouble. It couldn't be the first so it looked as if Robert was not giving her what she needed. That was his diagnosis, and the young fool proposed to deal with the problem by running away to war. William couldn't allow that, especially since Edith would promptly take over Hop House for refugees so that she could kick them out of The Towers, and that would mean moving Isabel in with them. William did not fancy this arrangement. She would be too close in every way. Sex was one thing, but personal security was another. He had had a narrow squeak with Ruth Horner, and did not propose to be caught out again. He'd take his amusement in London in future, well away from home ground.

Turning to more pleasant thoughts, he began to wander round the two cottages. Hovels is what he'd call them. One was empty, the other full of lumber. He'd told the Thorns to get rid of it by the end of the week. Then he'd tear the cottages down and in their place would arise a palace of white plaster and black beams, with a clock tower built in the centre. Ashden needed a village clock. That would show the Lilleys. He'd arrange for it to strike half a minute after the church clock, or perhaps
before
would be more subtle. Here shortly Charlie Chaplin would be delighting the whole of Ashden, and they'd be grateful to
him
, William Swinford-Browne. To think that Matilda Lilley had thought she could get the better of him. He didn't usually
have much time for doctors, but the fellow who had pointed out that one in two women went mad in middle age had his full support.

In Tunbridge Wells Matilda Lilley was reading
The Times
in the morning room. At her side were the ancient suitcases that accompanied her peripatetic life. She looked up as the door opened, expecting to see the butler, but it was Lord Banning.

‘Er - there appears to be a cab at the door for you.'

‘That is correct. I must apologise. I had thought you were away, Lord Banning. You must now consider me most impolite in leaving without thanking you for your hospitality.'

‘No. I was wondering why you were going, that's all.'

Tilly was surprised. ‘Now Penelope has left, naturally I presumed that you –'

‘You are concerned for your reputation?'

‘Of course not.' She had been going to continue, ‘for yours,' but then realised she could hardly say this without putting herself in the role of ‘helpless womanly woman'. From his quizzical expression she also realised that he both appreciated this dilemma and had engineered it. It amused her. ‘Lord Banning, I have imposed on your hospitality long enough,' she told him.

‘That is not for you to say, Miss Lilley. Now that Penelope has left, I should be grateful for your continued presence. I have grown accustomed to your voice and appearance. I like them, rather.'