She followed the ribbons of country lanes across vast fields of corn and rye, through coppiced woods, and down the brief streets of thatch-roofed hamlets. She lost track of time, and the sun was over her shoulder before she thought to take stock of her location. Coasting to a stop at a crossroads, she looked about to fix her direction. Without the clatter of her wheels, the world seemed to fall into silence. It was so still, she could hear the slight rustle of dry corn in the field and the lumbering buzz of a fat bee somewhere on the far side of a thorny hedge. No voice or sound of human occupation broke across the sleeping fields. She had traveled further than she had meant, but climbing onto the lower rungs of a five-bar gate, she looked across the marsh and was pleased to see the very top of Rye’s hill, just the church tower and a couple of rooftops, peeking above the plain. The coast lay to her south, and the curving bluff of the Sussex Downs formed a continuous wall to the north. Above her head the sky was clear of clouds and seemed to enclose the marsh in a protective blue bowl. There was, she reasoned, no way to be lost. She would eat her picnic and then just meander home, keeping always to the west, until she found herself on familiar pathways.
As she ate, and drank from a glass bottle of water that was still cold to the touch, Beatrice reflected that Mrs. Turber’s fare might be meager but that, like all food, it was greatly improved by being eaten outdoors. Fleeting images of other picnics asked to be remembered, and she held them in trembling stillness, waiting for the sudden stab, like that of a toothache, which too often came from remembering her father. No clutch of pain came, and so she allowed, tentatively, the memory of freshly caught fish cooked on an apparatus of sticks by a large bonfire on a California beach; her father and two other professors, poking the fish with their knives and telling stories as if they were rough backwoodsmen rather than soft-handed academics with gracious front porches on a leafy campus, and tenure. Their wives unpacked pies from towel-lined baskets and passed cold flagons of birch beer and lemonade, and she, next to her father, her back tucked against a warm boulder, was free to listen and to turn her face alternately from the warmth of the fire to the dark, eternal crashing of the ocean surf.
A smaller picnic came to her—just the two of them and a slow walk away from the musk of the sickroom, up a grassy avenue of giant elms, like a green cathedral, to a stile looking over a valley of neat hedged fields. She had asked the kitchen for two soft bread rolls and hot chicken soup, in one of Lord Marbely’s newfangled Thermos flasks, and had slipped into his study to fill her father’s hip flask with brandy. She remembered a childlike urge to get her father out of the house, away from the dour private nurse. The walk had been painfully slow, her father’s breathing labored and her own urgency becoming a frustration. She remembered a sudden feeling of anger towards him, as if it were his fault that the sun and breeze did not restore him, and a swift shame in the recognition of her own selfish desire not to have to endure his decline.
They settled on the step of the stile, and her father sipped soup, laced with brandy, from a metal cup held in shaky hands. He pronounced it nectar though he could not drink more than half a cup, and she finished it while he looked at the vale below with the unblinking stare of a statue. She grew frightened and laid a hand on his to call him back to her.
“Father?” He responded with a wavering smile and lifted his arm with difficulty to wave at the view as he quoted,
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
It had been their game and a favorite parlor trick since her early childhood for him to startle her with lines of poetry and demand citation. She could remember many social evenings where she had been suddenly called upon and much fussed over by ladies who thought her a clever little monkey.
“Alexander Pope, ‘Ode to Solitude,’ ” she said quietly. She knew they were both seeing the poem in their heads. Neither of them quoted from the final stanza: “Thus unlamented let me die…”
“Of course he quite borrowed the thought from old Horace,” her father said, and it was then that she sank to her knees and hid her tearful face in his lap.
Had her father been Catholic, she was quite sure he would have critiqued the priest during the last rites. He had left with his solicitors a list of hymns and readings for his funeral. However, the list was simply obscure lines from each, and there was a note to “ask Beatrice.” She smiled to remember Aunt Marbely’s growing apoplexy as the selections, each piece more unsuitable than the last, were slowly revealed. She stood up and shook out her napkin, determined not to spoil such a lovely day with angry tears. As she collected her bicycle, the thought came, unbidden, that she might entertain Agatha and her nephews with this story of her father’s last instructions. That Beatrice Nash should have new friends with which to share such amusing anecdotes was such a novel idea that she laughed aloud and startled a rabbit from the hedge.
An hour or more later, she had circled back to the very same crossroads. She could see the gate and the dent in the grass where she had sat to enjoy her picnic. She was tired now and thirsty from Mrs. Turber’s salty beef. The marsh, so flat and open to the horizon, had transformed itself into an impenetrable maze of crooked lanes and dykes with no bridges. In the fields, sheep shaved the grass with their black lips and looked at her with sly eyes. She could now understand how smugglers in centuries past had managed to elude the excise men over this seemingly simple landscape. Taking a deep breath to quell a rush of anxiety, Beatrice decided not to force her way west but to ride north, towards the bluffs where she remembered the canal and its road, built to defeat Napoleon, which would take her home to Rye. Hugh had told her about the canal, and as she remembered sensible Hugh, she took heart and set off once again with renewed determination.
Fear is a great spur to endeavor, and when Beatrice at last slowed her pace, she had covered some miles and the canal and the main road were just before her, the dark line of trees and cliff welcome after the flat heat of the marsh. Unfortunately, the slackening of velocity revealed a trembling in her exhausted limbs. Just before the junction where the lane crossed a small bridge to meet the main road, the bicycle gave a large wobble side to side and then, with the front wheel catching on the dry, rutted surface, it tumbled Beatrice sideways into a bramble-filled ditch, catching her right ankle a severe blow as it fell on top of her.
She lay very still, thinking only that the ditch felt dry and that this was a blessing. The herbal scents of crushed weeds and the woody smell of warm blackberry brambles were thick around her head, and the sunlight was pleasantly fractured and dappled by the canopy of a tree. Rubbing at a small trickle of blood on her neck from a bramble scratch, she searched her pocket, glad once more to be carrying one of her father’s sensible handkerchiefs in place of the cambric scraps usually favored by young ladies. A wood pigeon, always the cello in the orchestra of birdsong, gave out its low double coo from the shade. But for the throb, like a beat from a large drum, which began to vibrate in her right ankle, she thought it would have been very pleasant just to lie there.
—
Hugh was conscious of the need to keep the horse and trap going at a smart pace if he and his aunt were to reach their final visit and be back for tea. Yet at the same time, his aunt was in some fear of breaking the fresh eggs in their flannel-lined basket and of shaking the milk custard and the jellied beef tea into a puddled mess in their crocks, so he was fully occupied in picking the smoothest parts of the unmade road and in keeping the horse steady through a firm but gentle pressure on the reins. The trip might have been smoother and swifter if they had taken the car, but his aunt felt strongly that sick visiting was not the occasion for ostentation and that she would not remind her poor but proud neighbors of their charity status by sweeping in with motorcar and finery. Indeed she wore a very plain dress and a beige linen driving duster, and her hat, which she kept for such visiting, was of plain straw and as modest
in dimension as Cook’s Sunday hat. Hugh wore a more formal suit, as befitted a representative of the medical profession. He had already visited today’s patients with Dr. Lawton and had been charged with following up on an informal basis as he accompanied his aunt on her rounds. As they bowled briskly around one of the few slight turns of the Military Canal road, his eye caught sight of a female waving a large handkerchief from a roadside bench. He was poised to wave back as they drove by when his aunt startled him.
“Pull up, Hugh, pull up,” she said, tugging at his arm in a way that caused him to jerk at the horse’s mouth and set the horse swerving towards the nearside ditch. Hauling the reins back, Hugh fought to draw the trap to a stop without causing the horse to plunge and rear.
“It’s Beatrice Nash,” his aunt exclaimed. “I think she’s in distress.”
Hugh handed over the reins and leaped down to the road, heedless of the dust. As he hurried towards the bench, he found himself praying that Beatrice had not been attacked on the road. She was disheveled and scratched, with blood on her neck and a large bruise on her arm. Her hair was tangled with thorns, and her skirt, he could see as he came close, was dark-stained and torn about the hem.
“Miss Nash?” Further inquiry stuck in his throat.
“I fell off my bicycle,” she said. “Rather a nasty tumble into a ditch.”
Hugh was careful to hide his relief. “Are you hurt?” he asked. Bones and blood he could bind up.
“My ankle,” she said. “I don’t think it’s broken, but it took a blow. I was afraid if I took off my boot I would not be able to get it on again.” She smiled, but her face was pale and he had an urge to gather her up like a bird with a broken wing.
“I’m going to carry you to the trap,” he said. “And once we have you settled, the boot needs to come off.”
“I think I can hobble,” she said, looking alarmed at his offer.
“I think not, given that the ankle is not yet examined,” he said. Speaking with authority came easily to him in the cottages of farm laborers, but not so smoothly in the face of this young woman’s skeptical gaze. “Now do be sensible,” he begged.
As he hesitated, looking for the most efficient way to thrust an arm under her legs and another around her waist, she wrapped her skirt more closely about her legs, to subdue its volume, and cleared her throat. “I am not the tiniest of women to carry,” she said.
“And I am not the world’s strongest man,” he said. “But I think I can manage to stagger a few yards.” With that he bent at the knees and gathered her up. The ribbing of her stays pressed into his flesh, and he could feel her back warm against his arm. She was not heavy as long as he pressed her close. He could feel her arms around his neck and smell the faint odor of soap under the more vivid scent of dirt and wildflowers. He resisted an unlikely urge to drop his head to her hair.
“My goodness, what on earth happened?” said his aunt as they approached the trap.
“Hurt an ankle,” said Hugh. His aunt gave him a sharp look, and he might have blushed but he was fully engaged in trying to figure out how to help Beatrice into the rear bench seat of a trap that had never looked higher off the ground. It required at least two good feet to step up. “Hold the horse steady, please.”
“However will we manage?” asked Beatrice. “I think you’d better put me down.”
“No, no,” said Hugh. “Just be ready with your left foot. I’m going to step up and sort of launch you upwards.” He stared with grim focus at the small, smooth iron step, no bigger than a child’s foot, which protruded from the rear of the trap, and tried not to think of them both falling hard into the road should the horse move at the wrong moment.
“It is times like these that one regrets not owning a landau,” said Agatha. “Do be careful, Hugh.”
“Yes, do be careful, Hugh,” said Beatrice, and she was laughing, and Hugh was so delighted to hear her call him by his name that he almost lost his footing as he made the upward leap. In a rush of petticoats and a small squeak of pain, Beatrice was deposited on the hard bench, clutching for the railing as Hugh fell away and managed to land without twisting an ankle himself.
“I think we should push on to Little Hollow and get some cold spring water on that foot,” said Agatha, looking back from the front seat. “Does it hurt much?”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” said Hugh, who was now lashing the twisted bicycle to the rear of the trap with a spare leading rope. “They don’t welcome strangers.”
“On the contrary, Hugh,” his aunt said. “I believe it would be taken as a sign of trust if we ask for help. This is our opportunity to show Maria Stokes that we value her knowledge.”
“But do you wish to shock Miss Nash with such an encounter?” asked Hugh.
“Miss Nash is a well-traveled and stouthearted woman and will not go into hysterics over meeting a few Gypsies,” said his aunt, but Hugh, climbing up to take the reins, noticed she eyed Beatrice with care for any sign of distaste.
“No indeed,” said Beatrice. She looked a little concerned, but not as much as he’d feared. Either she was an exceptional young woman or she had faith in his aunt’s good judgment.
“On Wednesdays I do my sick visiting,” said Agatha as the trap began to move again. “Dr. Lawton likes me to stop in quietly on some of his more delicate or difficult patients.”
“He’s saving them from the Ladies’ Church Auxiliary,” said Hugh. “He told me so quite plainly.”
“It’s true that some cases are too delicate to receive the full delegation of ladies,” said Agatha. “But they do good work and are not to be mocked, Hugh.”
“Last summer, Mrs. Fothergill gave her prune jam to a dysentery patient and nearly killed him,” Hugh said with a laugh.
“It might have been the bedside lecture rather than the jam,” said Agatha in an equable tone. “But without such visits, many a sickly child would go without beef tea and milk pudding.”
“My aunt is ever the diplomat,” said Hugh. “When she knows you better she will tell you tales to stand your hair on end.”
“Dr. Lawton has been visiting old Maria Stokes for several years,” said Agatha. “She is considered a healer among Romanies in the county, and Dr. Lawton sometimes asks me to bring her supplies. They don’t trust most people.”
“Dr. Lawton is the only doctor for miles who will come to them,” said Hugh. “And none of the other ladies would stoop to visit.” The small clan of Romanies showed up reliably every summer to camp in Little Hollow and work the various harvests, beginning with strawberries and ending with the hops. Then they left as quietly as they came, and Hugh had often wondered why no one seemed to know what paths they took, or to what distant parts they traveled.
“The farmers could not do without their help,” said Agatha. “But most of the town treats them like thieves and vagabonds.”
“You do not think them thieves?” asked Beatrice.
“Dr. Lawton jokes that the Stokeses’ annual arrival is the start of the poaching season for locals,” said Hugh. “He says when they start blaming a Gypsy you can be sure they have a rabbit stuffed down each trouser leg.”
“Hugh!” said Agatha. “There’s no need to be crude.”
“Sorry,” said Hugh.
“The truth is that I would not leave my silver lying about when any stranger comes selling heather at the back door,” said Agatha. “But they are no less Christian than Bettina Fothergill, and Maria Stokes is a particularly impressive woman. Were she not a Romany she would have made a fine district nurse.”
—
Little Hollow was well hidden from the road by a slight fold in the cliffs from which the road turned away. Beatrice noticed that Hugh had some difficulty finding the narrow dirt path and coaxing the nervous horse between thick trees and undergrowth. In a small clearing, two lean dogs emerged barking from under a dark wooden caravan with a black tar roof. A shaggy horse tethered to a long rope looked sideways from one large eye but did not bother
to take his mouth from the long grass. The old woman sitting on the caravan steps was as wizened as a dried apple and, though the day was hot, was wrapped in several shawls. Yet her hands were swiftly stripping lavender buds from their stalks into her apron while her eyes, squinting from the smoke of a black pipe, met Beatrice’s with a piercing stare. Nearby, an iron pot sat on a tripod above a small, smoky fire and a small child slept on a straw pallet under a primitive tent of canvas draped over bent tree branches. Further down the path, a glimpse of another caravan roof and the smoke of another fire indicated others were nearby.
Calling the dogs to heel by some strange word, the old woman carefully shook the contents of her apron into a basket and stepped forward to meet them as Hugh helped his aunt down from the trap.
“Good day, Mrs. Stokes,” said Agatha. “How is the poor child?”
“Middlin’ fair,” said Mrs. Stokes. She looked pointedly up at Beatrice.
“Glad to hear it,” said Agatha. “I have brought you some of my cook’s best junket and some beef jelly.” Mrs. Stokes said nothing but continued to stare at Beatrice in silence.
“We rescued our young friend, Miss Nash, along our way,” Agatha continued. Beatrice thought she detected a note of uncertainty in Agatha’s voice, as if she were conscious that bringing Beatrice might undo some delicate relationship. “She fell off a bicycle and banged her ankle quite severely.”
“We would be grateful for your assistance,” said Hugh. “I want to get the swelling down and we are far from home.”
“Best be setting her down then,” said Mrs. Stokes. She pointed at a fallen log set beside the caravan. It was covered with a thin cotton rag rug, the colors almost washed and beaten out of it. “I’ll have the boy see to the horse.” With that she set off towards her caravan without a backward glance. Agatha was left to hoist the baskets of food, and Beatrice had to submit once again to the less than dignified operation of being lifted down from the trap and carried by Hugh.
The Summer Before the War Page 11