Summer's End (47 page)

‘Isn't it wonderful?' Phoebe cried as Felicia joined her.

‘Yes,' her sister answered, though they spoke of different things.

‘Everyone coming home again,' Phoebe amplified.

And that too. Perhaps most of all, because it was a farewell to the life that had sheltered her. No matter where she was next year, this Christmas they were all together.

George came leaping down the stairs after them, easing a finger round his tall, stiff collar. ‘Do we still get mince pies when we get home?' he asked anxiously.

‘We
always
do,' Phoebe told him scornfully.

‘But there's a war on. You never know, Mrs Dibble might not have been able to get the fruit and stuff.'

‘I think you will find,' Felicia assured him gravely, ‘that she has managed to do so.'

‘Wizard!' George, an angelic look on his face, rushed forward to take his aunt's arm in his.

Isabel had never imagined she would be looking forward so much to returning to the Rectory. She hated The Towers, and realised how big a mistake she had made in moving back here from Hop House rather than going home. Her first rebellion was to insist on Christmas luncheon at the Rectory since Robert was not coming home on leave. There were drawbacks to living under the same roof as her husband's parents. The story of the cinema was dying down, but it was undoubtedly awkward living here while it was doing so. She had been openly laughed at in the post office. She had an uncomfortable relationship with both her mother-and father-in-law, and Patricia was away from home, leaving her to face them alone. What's more, her allowance was negligible and all bills had to be sanctioned and paid by Edith. And lastly, at the back of her mind, was Frank Eliot.
He hadn't had the impudence to come near her since their encounter in the hop-fields, but hearing his name spoken of so approvingly in the Swinford-Browne household made her feel uncomfortable. Her second rebellion was to declare she was going to attend Midnight Mass at St Nicholas for religious reasons, and would therefore remain at the Rectory overnight. Edith had not previously noticed signs of devoutness in her daughter-in-law, but had no qualms about losing Isabel temporarily. She was a bad influence on Patricia, who had been greatly changed after Isabel's entry into the family and showed no signs of wishing to return home. As for Robert, Edith could only conclude that Isabel's shortcomings as a wife had driven him to volunteer. For what other reason would he do so? It had taken all William's charm at least to find him a commission in the Public Schools' Battalion which he had then refused. William had not mentioned his name since, and had therefore not been at all pleased to find Isabel was not to be present at Chapel. He needed her there, to emphasise he now had a son at the front, so he had informed Edith.

Halfway down Station Road in the chauffeur-driven Daimler, Isabel passed a girl walking towards the village with the aid of a torch, carrying two bags. With railway trains arriving at odd times, this was not unusual nowadays, and even the scouts had given up challenging them, ever since one got a clip round the ear for his pains. There was something familiar about this one, though.

‘Stop!' Isabel banged on the glass.

Startled, the chauffeur instantly obliged and Isabel was precipitated forward. Without stopping to upbraid him, however, she leaped out of the motor-car in her pleasure.

‘Caroline! Oh darling, darling Caroline.' She threw her arms round her. ‘No one bothered to tell me you were coming home. Oh, I'm
so
glad to see you. Jump in.'

Caroline returned the embrace. Hearing her sister's voice, seeing her again, made her want to cry. Christmas had begun. She wanted to savour every moment of it to the full. ‘Let's walk,' she urged. Caroline had looked forward to this solitary slow approach back into Ashden under the Christmas stars, and a Daimler was not the same.

‘Oh, well, if you insist. It might be fun. We'll send the bags on alone.'

‘Dear Isabel, always so practical.' Caroline laughed between tears of joy.

‘What are you crying for?' Isabel asked, surprised.

‘Oh, just the unexpected happinesses of life.'

St Nicholas was even fuller than usual this year, the strangers visiting Ashden Manor or relatives in the village more than compensating for the absent faces, some of which would never return. The congregation waited quietly in the dim candlelight, improvised blinds hiding the mediaeval stained glass; so far it had been a more austere Christmas then usual, with fewer celebrations. The Lord of Misrule was doing his best to ruin their lives over in Belgium and Serbia, and all the other countless countries now drawn into this war; he was too busy to preside over Christmas festivities here, in the old traditional manner. Besides, Bill Hubble, who usually did the honours dressed up in his jester's costume, didn't have the heart for it this year, what with Tim gone. Even the carol-singing procession had been abandoned, thanks to DORA, and carols in the church and village institute had been poor substitutes for the yearly gathering on Bankside.

Caroline felt a deep sense of homecoming as she took her place in the pew. She vividly remembered Easter, and for some reason the petty row over the Communion cloth stuck in her mind. Were the Mutters and the Thorns still quarrelling or had war brought about a truce? A new Church year had begun since Easter. What would the rest of it bring? Looking around her, she could see so many people she was fond of, so many she loved – only Reggie was missing. No, she would try to think of happy things this evening, though he was forever in her prayers and dreams.

There was Philip Ryde, looking delighted to see her. Unable to volunteer because of his limp, he was a special constable, her mother told her, so far with precious little to do. Dr Jennings had now gone, but Janie was sitting with her parents, She was working with her father now, having done basic nursing training. They were expecting a temporary replacement doctor in the New Year, Janie's older brother Timothy was away at the front. Dr Cuss was still here, probably because he was the only vet in the village. The traditional Thorn pews were still crowded, as were the Mutters', and even dear Nanny had come this evening, sitting with her old enemy Mrs Dibble.
All so dear and familiar, yet all so strange now. She was sitting between Isabel and Mother. Isabel was also looking round, as if she too were renewing acquaintance with the St Nicholas congregation. When she turned back, her cheeks were oddly flushed, and glancing round curiously Caroline saw several pews behind them was that strange hop-farm manager at Swinford-Browne's farm, Mr Eliot. He was staring straight at her, so she turned away quickly, flustered though she couldn't think why. Without thinking, Caroline looked round at the Hunney pew. She had avoided doing so, fearing that what she saw would fill her again with sadness, when she had decided to revel in her good fortune at coming home at all.

No Reggie. Of course not. Had she still been hoping? If so, it had been foolish to do so. No Daniel. No wonder, poor boy. Lady Hunney, carefully not seeing her. Sir John, who bowed his head in acknowledgement, and Eleanor who waved vigorously – another sign of changing times. She would never have dared do that a few months ago.

And now this service was beginning, the organ playing, her father already in the chancel with the servers to bless the incense. Slowly the procession began, headed by Samuel Thorn the verger, Harold Bertram, Timothy Farthing and the other churchwarden, the clerk bearing the cross, the candlebearers, the thurifer with the boat-bearer, her father in his cope and then the choir, and Charles Pickering the curate. While they waited for her father to reappear in his chasuble, Caroline let herself enjoy this special time of Christmas Eve. When she was too young to attend Midnight Mass, she would lie in bed to listen for the angels' beating wings. It seemed to her the busy old world always paused for just a moment on Christmas evening, as if it could hear some silent music to tell it something important was happening; there was a stillness in which the faint beat of an angel's wings could be heard if one listened hard enough, the angel bringing the Christ Child to earth.

She slept soundly that night, tucked up in her own bed for the first time in nearly three months, feeling safe within the old brick walls. No bombs here; Dover was far away.

When she awoke it was light and she'd missed early service. Never mind, she told herself, she'd go to Evensong and God would pardon her, she hoped. She wondered what had awakened her, for little light crept under the blinds. But – had she imagined it? Surely there was a
noise at the window. To her transfixed horror a hand was visible grasping the bottom of the blind and hauling it up, and pushing the sash down with the weight of his body.
His?
Whoever the
his
belonged to, he was climbing in.

Her first instinct was to scream, then she realised how stupid she was. It was George, of course. Trust him to play a prank like this.

‘Go away, Father Christmas,' she shouted. ‘You're supposed to be in the chimney.'

‘Not nearly so handy as this.'

A huge shape half rolled and half fell over the sash even as she registered in her half-awakened state that this was not George's voice.

She flew out of bed, as he hauled himself painfully to his feet, and into his arms. ‘Reggie!'

His face was buried in her hair, her breasts through the Viyella night-gown tight against his uniform. His lips were on her cheek, her eyes, her mouth, and then she could say no more, even had she wanted to.

‘Remember I said I'd be back down the chimney at Christmas, like Santa Claus?' he half laughed, half cried at last. ‘I couldn't quite manage that, this is the best I could do.'

‘Oh, don't let me go. Kiss me again.' And a few minutes later: ‘And again.' And a long time after that: ‘Now I believe it's really you.
You're
Father Christmas.'

‘And a deuced painful job it is. No wonder Shakespeare didn't bother to spout poetry about Romeo shinning on to Juliet's balcony.'

‘What am I to do with you? Take you down to breakfast? When did you get here? How long are you staying? Do you have to go back?'

‘Not down that ivy, I don't.'

‘All right. Breakfast it is,' she said, greatly daring, wondering what on earth her father would say.

‘It's all right,' he laughed, reading her thoughts. ‘I asked your father's permission. He won't disown you.'

‘Did you?' It struck her momentarily as odd that, in a life when all his rules were changed, Reggie still abided by convention. Then she rejoiced that he thought so much for her.

‘Your mother wasn't too pleased.'

‘She probably remembered I had the patched night-gown on. Hardly very beautiful, is it?'

He looked at her, not the night-gown. The starry eyes, the curly hair, and the shape of the warm body he had just held close to his. He could say nothing: he had thought of her for nearly five months and now he was here he had nothing to say. He wanted to take her again into his arms, run his hands closely over her body, tear off that night-gown and forget all about breakfast, forget about war, forget all about his guilt at the fateful toss of the coin that had pitchforked Daniel into catastrophe and himself into at least temporary safety, forget about everything save himself and Caroline. But he couldn't. Dreams were far behind, and Ashden was here. Life in a trench concentrated the mind wonderfully, usually on mere survival, for he tried not to think of the past or future because it was too painful, but on some nights, when the men were singing ribald songs of women, then unbidden he'd think of her, dream of her, taking her like a French whore, until full of horror at himself he'd force himself to stop such thoughts. Now here in Ashden she seemed as far out of his reach as she had been to him in the trenches. Yet he was back with her, she loved him still, and he loved her. That was all that mattered, wasn't it, for one day soon the war would end and they would be married. Not now, for how could he marry, having seen the truth of war?

‘There's a soldier outside the perimeter, Emily.' Miss Charlotte, torn between shock and excitement, peered out of their bedroom window over to the barbed wire.

‘He has doubtless come to announce the arrival of the Germans, Charlotte. It is typical of the Kaiser to arrive on Christmas Day. An insult to Our Lord. I shall ring for Johnson to admit this soldier.' She drew back her head from where it was leaning out next to her sister's.

As the drawbridge dropped, Jamie Thorn nearly jumped out of his skin. With all this barbed wire the place looked like a training camp. What on earth was his Agnes doing here of all places, with these two witches? Were they imprisoning her? He rapped thunderously on the door. He was a soldier of the King now, and wasn't going to take no for an answer – from anybody.

‘I've come for Miss Pilbeam.'

‘To take her away?' Johnson's face beamed in hope and he cautiously lowered the bayonet.

‘Not yet.'

‘Then you can't see her; she's cooking the goose.'

‘I'll cook yours if you don't let me see her.' Talking tough was the only way to get things done.

Johnson looked him up and down in astonishment and sniffed. ‘I know you. You're Jamie Thorn.'

Agnes, attracted from the primitive kitchen into the living room she'd insisted on decorating with garlands made out of old newspapers, stood still.

‘Jamie.' Her voice was flat.

‘Happy Christmas, Agnes.'

‘What are you doing here? You never wrote.'

‘Nor did you.' He disregarded the unwarm welcome and looked meaningfully at the swell of her stomach; it didn't show very much, but Agnes wasn't to know that. She flushed, and folded her hands over it.

‘What do you want?' She sounded more belligerent than she had intended.

‘You, Agnes, that's what. I got a forty-eight-hour pass, one of them special licence things, and a valiant longing to make you my wife.'