He spent a few moments concentrating on the traffic. ‘I think after the war there’ll be fewer servants,’ he told her presently. ‘In some ways it seems old-fashioned, being so dependent on staff. Chambers is getting on now, so I’m reducing his duties, and when he’s too old to work I think we’ll try managing without a butler.’
At last they reached The Beeches. Amy greeted Mrs Derwent and Beatrice and gave them the latest news of Edmond.
Beatrice looked with distaste at her bare toes emerging from the plaster. Amy had told them all that she had fallen in a rubble-strewn street in Ypres, sparing them a full account of how her accident had come about. Beatrice still showed little sympathy. She really has no idea what conditions are like out there, Amy thought. She could not help resenting her sister-in-law’s lack of interest in the trials of those caught up in the war effort, while she tried to pursue her usual pampered life.
The family all accompanied her to the dining room as Cook set some cold ham and salad in front of her and Mr Derwent. They were still able to obtain good quality meat, she realised, better than anything she had eaten recently in France. For a few moments she allowed herself to enjoy the tasty pickles and the cucumber and radishes in the salad. Even the restaurants she had occasionally visited in France had mostly been quite frugal. She had almost forgotten what it was like to sit at a table set with white linen and a vase of roses. It seemed incongruous after the privations of life near the Front.
‘And you’re having Edmond’s baby – at last there’s some good news,’ Mrs Derwent said. Her eyes lit up and she looked genuinely pleased.
‘We’ve been so worried about Edmond,’ Beatrice said. ‘Peter wrote that he was fortunate to survive.’ Now, at last, she looked more strained, showing some comprehension of her brother’s misfortune.
‘When he writes to me he often mentions getting a letter from home. He loves hearing from you all,’ Amy told them.
‘I’ll go on making the effort,’ Beatrice said, ‘though not much is happening round here to tell him about. We held the fête on Saturday, and managed to raise funds for the war. However much longer will we have to wait for victory?’
There was a telephone call. It was Amy’s father, calling from Florence’s family’s telephone to see if she was back. She got up and limped into the hallway to take the call.
‘Darling, are you all right? How’s your leg now?’
‘Not too bad. Oh, Father, it’s so lovely to hear your voice! Will you and Mother be able to come and see me tomorrow?’ He would not yet be back at school for autumn term. ‘I can’t walk round to your house easily at the moment.’
‘Yes, I’m longing to see you and so is your mother. She’s thrilled about the baby. We just want to make sure you’re well cared for, dear.’
They asked after Edmond and she told him the latest news of his gradual recovery.
When the call was over Amy excused herself from her in-laws as soon as possible, telling them truthfully that she was very tired.
In a way it’s good to be home, she thought, with the opportunity to see Mother and Father again, but being separated from Edmond again is heart-breaking. Please God they send him home soon.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Larchbury and London, August to September 1917
Amy was delighted to see Mother and Father again. She asked Cook to bring tea and cake. It was so difficult to carry anything herself with her ankle in plaster. They settled outside on the veranda, where it was not too hot, on one side of the house, facing west. From the southern end you could see the view down towards Larchbury.
They were concerned about her ankle. ‘But at least now you can relax till your baby arrives,’ Mother had said. ‘I’m going to make you something suitable to wear.’
‘Thanks, Mother. The dressmaker is coming to see me tomorrow, but I’ll need two or three garments.’
‘How’s Edmond?’ Her father was anxious for the latest news. ‘Will he be recovered enough to be sent back to England soon?’
‘I think so. He tells me he’s making good progress, and James says so too when he writes. He’s still weak, though.’ How she longed to see him!
Mrs Derwent appeared briefly to greet her parents.
‘Mother tells me there’s a working party on Monday, to provide comforts for the troops,’ Amy told her.
‘It’s held in the village hall. Beatrice and I usually go.’
‘Does Mr Derwent drive you there?’ There had never been the kind of intimacy that would allow her to call her in-laws Mother or Father.
‘Yes.’
‘Then I should like to join you,’ she said eagerly. ‘I feel so useless, just sitting here.’
Not long afterwards, her parents set off home and Janet cleared away the tea things. Then almost immediately Florence arrived, wearing a large straw hat to keep the sun at bay. Amy asked for some more tea and cake.
‘It was lovely getting your letters,’ Amy said, glad to see her friend again. Florence looked well, her light brown hair arranged in large glossy coils on either side of her head, but she still seemed subdued. Will she ever get over losing Bertie, Amy wondered, remembering her liveliness in the past.
‘It sounds as though you’re busy at the school,’ Amy said. ‘Father told me you’re one of the most competent among the junior teachers.’
‘I do my best. Sometimes I feel restless and wish I was doing war work, like you and Lavinia.’ She looked at Amy’s injured leg. ‘How much longer will you need to wear the plaster cast?’
‘About another three weeks. I’ll be so relieved when I can get around properly.’ When she wriggled her foot she was still not certain the surgeon had set it well.
‘Now at least you’re away from the war,’ Florence said.
‘Yes,’ she said half-heartedly, wondering how her patients in France were progressing.
* * *
‘I was hoping that cake would last us a couple more days,’ Mrs Derwent told Amy sternly from her armchair when Florence had left. ‘There’s a shortage of flour and sugar, you know.’
‘I’m happy to go without, to make up for it,’ she said. ‘I need meat and vegetables, because of the baby, but cake isn’t so important.’
How she wished she could spend most of each day with her mother or Florence. She appealed to Mrs Derwent. ‘I can’t walk far, so I’d like my family to feel welcome here,’ she tried to explain.
There was a glimmer of understanding in the older woman’s eyes. ‘I’ll do my best to be hospitable.’
‘As the wife of a serving officer I receive an allowance. I should be giving you most of it towards my keep.’
‘Nonsense! That would be completely inappropriate!’ Mrs Derwent told her. It seemed no course of action was acceptable.
There was still plenty of food on the table at dinner, but the servings were not as lavish as they had once been.
‘Why aren’t there ever any summer vegetables except peas?’ complained Beatrice.
Later, in her room, Amy could not resist glancing at James’ diary. She justified it to herself on the grounds that she was entitled to look since she had taken the risk to smuggle it home! His accounts of the terrible injuries he had witnessed did not much surprise her, but he also recorded some comments from the wounded men. Some were keen to unburden themselves of their conviction that bad decisions had been made by their superior officers, who had sometimes sent them into battle with insufficient support. Amy had heard a few remarks like that herself and admired James for recording the men’s views. He had written passages intermittently over a few months. She read several pages, disturbed by some entries. She was tired, so she returned the book to its hiding place under her mattress. She must pass it on to Uncle Arthur as soon as she could.
The next day Mrs Johnson was due to help at The Beeches. Her round face took on a cheerful grin as she welcomed Amy back.
‘Could you do something for me?’ Amy asked her. ‘Can you help me out into the vegetable garden?
I want to see what’s growing.’ She remembered that the previous year there had been a good harvest.
She limped out with Mrs Johnson. The morning was cloudy but sultry as they found young Joe struggling with some weeding. He was a slim, healthy-looking lad of fourteen or so.
‘Look at all these runner beans!’ she told him, admiring the fine young green vegetables growing beside the last of the red flowers. ‘They’re ready to eat. Can you pick us some to cook for dinner?’
‘Yes, Mrs Derwent.’
Her father had always grown vegetables down the end of his garden, for they were a thrifty way for the family to eat well. She was used to enjoying fresh produce from the garden, each crop picked at the season it was at its best. Since the war had started, Father and his neighbours had redoubled their efforts to grow food. She doubted whether Joe had had much experience of gardening when his brother had been called up and he had suddenly been asked to fill the vacancy. She seemed to remember that the boys’ family lived in a poky terraced house with very little garden of their own.
‘Go on picking some beans each day, please,’ she told him. ‘They’re nicest before they get too large.’ She looked round the rest of the garden. ‘Make sure you pick some more apples before they fall off and spoil.’
That evening Beatrice remarked on the delicious beans, and Amy was gratified when Cook remarked on her success with the gardener.
* * *
At last it was Sunday and she could see Uncle Arthur. She went with the others in the motor car to church. Several friends and neighbours greeted her and enquired about her leg. She tried to concentrate on the hymns and prayers and forget the notebook concealed beneath handkerchiefs in her bag. After the service, the Derwents lingered briefly to exchange gossip.
‘Please excuse me for a moment,’ Amy said. ‘I need to speak to Uncle as I have a message from James.’
Her uncle broke off his conversation with a parishioner to greet her. ‘Might I speak to you in private?’ she asked. ‘It’s important.’
There were a few curious looks as he led her into the vestry. She explained about James’ notebook and handed it over, rather relieved to be rid of it. ‘He says he’s revealing some of the details you don’t find in newspapers,’ she warned him.
‘How like James,’ he said with a wry grin. ‘Of course I’ll keep it for him.’ He stuffed it into a pocket. ‘I’ll conceal it in a drawer with some old sermons. His comments might attract a stormy reception. Now isn’t the time to question the actions of the superior officers but after the war they should be held to account. I’m proud of James for making a stand.’
‘Me too.’
* * *
Next day, she joined Mrs Derwent and Beatrice as they set out for the village hall in smart summer dresses and flowery hats. She herself was wearing her old straw hat with a partly buttoned skirt and the loose blouse she was obliged to wear now.
Everyone looked up when she came in. She was glad to see Florence there, and Aunt Sophie, who was struggling to adjust the curtains so that enough light came in to illuminate their work without dazzling them. The women were taking seats round trestle tables laden with balls of wool, knitting needles and half-completed garments. Soon her mother arrived.
‘How are things now in France?’ asked Margaret Leadbetter, the schoolmaster’s wife.
Amy had received a brief letter from Emily and gathered that casualties were still pouring into the hospitals. Occasionally she wished she was still able to play her part there. What was she to say to Margaret? She knew little about progress in France or Belgium that was not in the papers, and what she did know related mainly to suffering in hospitals.
‘The men love getting parcels from home,’ she told them. ‘In a couple of months it’ll be getting cold again, so they’ll need more gloves and socks and balaclavas.’
Incongruously Mrs Derwent seemed to be leading the group, handing out tasks for the volunteers. Amy supposed her status had allowed her to assume the role of leader.
At times, Aunt Sophie had to intervene politely. ‘Might I just point out, Mrs Derwent, that there isn’t enough wool in that shade to complete a pair of socks? There’ll be enough for gloves, though.’
Beatrice had picked up a sock she had started knitting the week before, and looked at it uncertainly. ‘I’ll never get used to handling four needles,’ she complained. She continued it laboriously while chatting. ‘Did I tell you Peter’s coming on leave next week?’ she told an elegant friend, who Amy thought was the daughter of Mr Brownlee, the auctioneer at the market.
Amy cast on stitches for some gloves. She had sat down next to Florence, whose dainty hands were manipulating her needles at top speed.
‘Any more news from Edmond?’ Florence asked.
‘He’s hoping to be sent home before long,’ she said, still agonising about the extent of his injuries.
‘Amy, could you help me?’ asked Beatrice. ‘I’ve finished the ribbing and the straight part, but I can never understand how to turn the heel.’ She stared at the pattern in bewilderment.
‘I’ll do it for you,’ Amy said, and took over the work while Beatrice went on chatting.
Florence was looking forward to term starting soon at the school. She worked with the youngest children, while Amy’s father was one of the teachers in charge of older ones.
Margaret Leadbetter finished her pair of gloves and gave it to Mrs Derwent to pack in a cardboard box, ready to send.
‘Do you ever visit the Belgian refugees?’ Amy asked Florence. They were both experienced enough at knitting to keep busy with their needles while they talked.
‘Occasionally. They held a party for their national day on the twenty-first of July and I joined them for the celebrations. But they’re more dispersed now. Some of the men have enlisted in units and gone back to fight.’
‘Give my best wishes to the ones who are still here.’
By the end of the afternoon, she had turned the heel for Beatrice and handed her back the sock, but had had little time to get far with her own gloves. ‘I’ll take my knitting home,’ she said. ‘I’ve plenty of time now to complete it.’
* * *
Her parents called again on the day Peter was due to arrive. She knew they changed into smarter clothes when they came to visit her at The Beeches.
Mrs Derwent bade them good afternoon again, offering them tea and cake. She had instructed Cook to prepare a larger but more economical one than her usual Dundee cake. They went to sit in the drawing room, as the weather was showery.
‘Mrs Derwent, I’ve brought you one of our garden marrows,’ Amy’s father said, handing her a basket. ‘We’ve got more than we can eat this year. I dare say you can make use of it?’
‘Oh – how very kind. As it happens, we’ve only a very young gardener now who’s barely making any impression on the kitchen garden.’
‘Perhaps I can help,’ Father said. His face was tanned from working outdoors. ‘We haven’t got much space but I’m growing what I can while the war is on. How would it be if I had a word with your gardener? It sounds as though he needs some guidance.’
‘Would you? We’d all be so grateful.’ Beneath the genuine appreciation and polite thanks, Amy detected her mother-in-law’s reluctance to be beholden to her parents. ‘I suppose I should become better informed about what Joe should be doing each month.’
‘I could give you some advice,’ he offered. ‘I start back at the school on Monday, but I can call here in the late afternoon to help in any way I can.’
An hour later they heard the motor car and saw it approaching up the drive. ‘Mr Derwent’s been fetching Peter from the station,’ Amy told her parents.
They heard excited noises from the hallway, and then Mr Derwent and Beatrice brought Peter through to greet them.
‘It’s so wonderful to have you back,’ Beatrice cried.
He greeted them warmly, especially Amy. ‘I saw Edmond two days ago,’ he told her. ‘He’s weak, but much better t
han when he was first wounded. I believe they’ll send him back to Blighty in a few weeks.’
* * *
‘Have you got any friends who are on leave?’ Beatrice asked Peter next morning at the breakfast table. ‘You could invite them to visit you here. It would be such fun to have some young men around again.’
‘Their families will want to spend as much time as possible with them while they’re over here.’
Chambers came in with the mail. Amy had a long letter from Edmond, who mentioned some of his comrades in the hospital. She was cheered by the thought that he must be much fitter if he was able to move around chatting to them. The family looked up eagerly from their bacon and eggs as she passed on some of his news.
She was sitting out on the veranda reading his letter again when Peter came out and sat down in the wicker chair next to hers. ‘Is everything well with your friends in India?’ she asked him. ‘I suppose your mail goes to France now.’
‘Yes, they won’t forward it here as I’ve only got a week’s leave.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve heard quite recently from the young lady I care about in India. I’m happy to say we correspond regularly, though of course the mail takes weeks to arrive.’
‘I’m glad for you.’ After the war he would go back there, she supposed.
His smile faded. ‘I expect you’re wondering what happened to your complaint about Wilfrid Fairlawn,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She was still anxious to hear that her attacker would be punished, and was glad they had a private moment to discuss it.
Peter took out his cigarette case, offered her a cigarette, which she declined, lit his own and started smoking it. ‘Robert Lambert did his best for you,’ he said. ‘He tried to find out if anyone saw what happened that night. He traced the army vehicle which drove down the street but no-one remembered seeing anything.’
She wondered if some of the men were unwilling to report someone as prominent as Captain Fairlawn.
Until We Meet Again Page 24