After her parents had left, Amy and Edmond joined the family for dinner. It was the first time he had taken a meal with them since his relapse. He did his best, but had less appetite than normal. The rest of the family seemed in poor spirits, as though something was wrong, but no-one said anything. They don’t want to risk upsetting Edmond, she thought. Has there been another casualty among the families we know well?
‘Aren’t you enjoying your food?’ Ma asked Edmond. ‘We could tell Cook to serve you normal meals if you’d prefer that to the invalid diet.’
Amy had devised a suitable menu for him and was dismayed that once again Ma was questioning her wisdom. But she has reason to do so, she told herself miserably. I let him get into danger and I don’t suppose she will ever completely trust me again.
‘Not at all, Ma, this kind of food is all I can manage at the moment,’ Edmond said. ‘I couldn’t tackle three normal-sized courses.’
The meal continued uneasily. Amy could hear the ticking of the clock.
‘Has Peter written lately?’ Edmond asked.
The others exchanged glances nervously. ‘We haven’t heard so far this week.’ So that was what was bothering them.
‘I’m sure his letter is just held up,’ Pa said rapidly.
Ma and Beatrice looked concerned. ‘He normally writes very regularly,’ Beatrice said wretchedly.
‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ Edmond told them, sounding confident. ‘Sometimes they stop the mail if the unit is to be moved nearer the action. It’s the procedure to avoid making the enemy aware of troop movements.’
‘But Peter’s at Headquarters!’ Ma said.
‘He visits fighting units as part of his work,’ Edmond said.
This was little comfort for Ma. She mentioned other families who had received letters normally that week.
‘Mail goes missing sometimes in wartime,’ Edmond said. ‘But if a man is killed or missing in action they’re very careful to inform the next of kin by telegram. I’m sure there’s no need to worry.’
* * *
By the following week, it was a little warmer in the middle of the day and Edmond felt fit enough to go out into the grounds for a walk. Amy made sure they were both well wrapped up as she accompanied him through the gardens and on to the lawn, where golden leaves were drifting into heaps. ‘You’ll soon be walking more quickly than I can,’ she told him, for apart from her bad ankle, her increasing weight was impeding her.
‘I’m still shocked at the conditions in Wealdham,’ Edmond said, sufficiently recovered to be aware of matters beyond The Beeches. ‘I had no idea till recently that Joe has to cycle to work all that way, or that his family are living in that awful area by the factories.’
‘I used to work in Wealdham and I never considered what it might be like to live in the industrial area.’ Now she realised that people she knew, hardworking, decent folk, were obliged to live in treeless, unhealthy surroundings. She could not see any way of avoiding the injustice, but it disturbed her almost as much as the issue of votes for women.
‘Their house is very small,’ Edmond said, enumerating all the family who lived there. ‘The uncle goes to work in the factory and there are younger children at school.’
‘Their kitchen was very basic when I went in there with them,’ Amy said. Apart from the shortage of pans and utensils, she remembered the steamy windows and overpowering smell of cabbage. Very probably they were unwilling to open the window because of the fumes outside.
Edmond was slowing up now and she insisted they started to go back to the house.
‘I phoned the War Office this morning,’ Pa said at lunchtime.
The others fell quiet. It was now over a week since they had heard from Peter, and normally he would have written twice in that time.
‘They couldn’t tell me anything. They said he must be away on manoeuvres or training.’
‘Why can’t he write to us even if they’ve sent him away from Headquarters?’ asked Beatrice.
‘Sometimes they’re unwilling for men to reveal their movements,’ Edmond said.
‘They confirmed that there’s no news of anything wrong with him,’ Pa said, to their relief.
‘It’s still very remiss of them not to get his letters through,’ Ma said.
* * *
Towards the end of November there was a pleasant sunny day. ‘Would you and Amy like to spend some time up the hill by the forestry plantation?’ Edmond’s father asked them. ‘You could go up there on one of the wagons.’
Soon Amy was seated next to the carter, being hauled along by the pair of heavy bay horses, while Edmond sat in the back of the wagon, which was generally used to transport timber. The journey up the rough track was less than comfortable, but Amy was pleased with the outing. She had only gone up there once before, when Edmond had led her along the path outside their land, before they were married.
‘We used to come up here on a wagon sometimes when we were children,’ Edmond told her, when they had reached the edge of the forest and the carter had helped them down. The wagon continued along a forest track to help collect timber.
Nearby there was a bench to sit on, facing south into the thin sunshine. There was birdsong and the smell of pine from the forest. In the distance they could see The Beeches, with Larchbury beyond. It was easy to pick out the brook and the church.
‘It’s market day!’ Amy said, pointing out a small crowd around the enclosed area where it was held. Peering into the misty distance, they could make out cattle milling around, and a man with a dog guiding a flock of sheep away from the area. If they listened carefully they could hear them bleating.
‘It’s all so peaceful after Flanders,’ Edmond said.
She shared his occasional feeling of guilt that they had escaped the horrors of the Front. Sometimes letters arrived from their friends out there.
‘Frank tells me they’re still fighting round Passchendaele,’ Edmond told her. ‘He says the same as George about the rain turning the battlefields into a sea of mud.’
Amy sighed. Lavinia and James had sent letters implying that streams of casualties were still needing help. She suspected that they were toning down the full grimness of the offensive.
‘Do you realise it’s our second wedding anniversary?’ he asked, kissing her.
‘So it is! But we’ve spent so little time together.’
‘I’m determined not to live my life as an invalid,’ Edmond said. ‘I want to be fit enough to go back to university next September. Afterwards I’ll find a suitable occupation.’
How perfect that would be, she thought: if only he became well enough. He was still going to bed early each evening, exhausted from his recent relapse. He was continuing to have coughing fits and became breathless easily. How frail he still was! Was it presumptuous to plan for the future?
‘I can come with you to Cambridge, and the baby of course,’ she told him. ‘We can find a little house and I can look after you. Won’t that be wonderful?’
‘Our nursery must be nearly ready by now,’ he said. The little room at The Beeches where he and his brother and sister had spent some of their early years had been used more recently as a spare bedroom, but now it had been prepared as a nursery once more, and the old cot taken out of the attic and cleaned.
‘My mother’s making a lovely patchwork quilt for the cot,’ Amy told him. She would be relieved when they had a house of their own, instead of encroaching on more of The Beeches.
They had agreed that if the child was a boy they would call him Albert after her brother. They were finding it harder to decide on a girl’s name.
‘How about Elizabeth?’ she suggested.
‘I like that. Any special reason why you thought of it?’
‘I was thinking the name is often shortened to Beth, and I thought of Béthune, where we spent that weekend.’ She considered. ‘Do you think that’s a stupid idea? It might remind us of the view of the Front, and the bombardments.’
‘I don
’t think so. The place itself was charming and peaceful.’
They relaxed in the sunshine until they saw the wagon returning to take them back.
‘I know I’m fortunate,’ Amy said. ‘Florence is still devastated at losing Bertie. So many fine young men have been lost that there’s a shortage of potential husbands for my friends like her and Lavinia. They might have to go through life without a husband or children.’
‘And Beatrice too,’ he said as they set off back.
* * *
The family were sinking into gloom as there was still no word from Peter. They had not confided their worries to anyone outside the immediate family. By the end of November they would normally have been planning the Christmas dance, but now they were paralysed, waiting desperately for reassurance that all was well.
‘Do you think he’s really all right?’ Amy asked Edmond one day when they were taking a short walk in the grounds in the middle of the day. ‘I know he sometimes has to travel as part of his work,’ she said, remembering his arrival at her hospital to investigate her complaint about Wilfrid Fairlawn, ‘but I can’t think why he’s failed to write or send word somehow.’ He must know the effect it was having on the family.
‘I can’t believe anything is seriously wrong,’ Edmond said. ‘I feel I’d somehow sense if he was badly injured or killed.’
I didn’t know when Bertie was killed, she thought. She had not suspected anything was wrong until the telegram had arrived. She found it hard to remain confident like Edmond. Peter was probably far enough from the Front to escape the dangers from enemy action. Disease was common, but that too spread most easily in the squalid trenches. There were also accidents as men travelled on roads that were narrow and poorly maintained.
As they returned towards the house, she forced herself to prepare for the possibility of dreadful news. Peter had been kind to her and would be a great loss to her personally, but the others would be devastated. Less aware than she and Edmond that he might return to India, his parents would mourn the loss of the heir. They would be left with Edmond, who was valiant and determined to make a success of his life in spite of his injury. She, as the new heir’s wife, would still be the disappointing creature with the undistinguished background and criminal record, besides her recent failure to take good care of him. What a burden she was proving to be.
‘Try not to worry, darling,’ Edmond was telling her now. ‘The chief thing that matters is that we’re together and soon we’ll be parents. It’ll be all right, you’ll see.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Larchbury, December 1917
One day at the beginning of December, Uncle Arthur called on Amy with his pony and cart and took her into Larchbury. She and her mother were able to shop for items she would need for the nursery, and the baby when he or she arrived.
‘It’s been a lovely morning,’ she told Mother as she said goodbye. ‘I’m pleased with everything we chose for the little one, though best of all I love what people have made – the beautiful quilt you sewed, and the lovely baby clothes that Florence has knitted, and Emily at the hospital.’
As her uncle conveyed her back to The Beeches, she was thrilled at the prospect of motherhood in less than a month.
As Chambers let them in, Beatrice rushed into the hall to greet her, her eyes sparkling. ‘We’ve heard from Peter!’ she cried. ‘He’s all right!’ She flung her arms round Amy.
‘How wonderful! I’m so pleased.’
Edmond joined them. ‘We’re all so relieved,’ he said, kissing Amy.
She explained the situation to Uncle Arthur, who had been unaware of their worries.
‘You hadn’t been getting his letters?’ he said. ‘I’m extremely pleased to hear your good news.’
‘Please join us for a drink,’ Edmond urged.
‘Thank you, but I need to go and visit a parishioner.’ He kissed Amy and went on his way.
They joined the family in the drawing room. ‘Did Peter say why he didn’t write?’ Amy asked.
‘He was sent on manoeuvres and they didn’t want his movements known, like Edmond said,’ Pa told them.
‘It’s totally unreasonable that we should be left worrying like that,’ Ma said.
‘He’s hoping to get Christmas leave,’ Beatrice said, looking joyful as Chambers poured them drinks.
She actually embraced me, Amy thought. It must be the first time she’s ever done that. How very much she cares for her brothers.
* * *
The atmosphere was much lighter now, and the annual dance was being planned.
Edmond was delighted when Charles Shenwood came home on leave just before Christmas and visited them. He seemed eager to satisfy himself that Edmond’s condition was improving. He was also pleased to see Beatrice again, for she had continued to write to him.
After dinner Charles sat with Edmond and his father, discussing the progress of the war. Normally they would have smoked, but Edmond had been advised not to touch tobacco, and the others refrained from doing so while they were with him.
‘Is it still dreadful round Passchendaele?’ Edmond asked.
‘There’s not much action at the moment. There’s mud as far as you can see. The land’s so churned up that a soldier who falls over, laden with a heavy pack, is liable to drown.’ Charles took another mouthful of port. ‘In a week I’ll be back there with the mud and the rats.’
Pa stared and shook his head at his images of the fighting, and Edmond looked stricken at Charles’ account of conditions there. He had fought there earlier in the campaign, but had not envisaged how much worse the situation might become for the troops fighting there. ‘I’ve got my old tunic at the bottom of my kitbag,’ he told the others. ‘It’s badly damaged where I was hit by the debris from that shell. The holes are dark red round the edges with caked blood. I wouldn’t care to show it to Amy or Ma.’
‘What are you keeping it for?’ asked Pa.
‘Perhaps one day I’ll show it to a son or grandson. The war will be over eventually, won’t it? If the next generations know what we had to face they might have the sense not to start anything like it ever again.’
‘At least the Americans have joined us,’ Charles said. ‘Maybe we really will have victory before long. And we’ve got tanks now. They can keep moving through the mud.’
Edmond took another swig from his glass of port and topped up Charles’ glass. They fell silent. The others were probably wondering, like him, how much longer the battles would go on.
* * *
The following day as they sat in the drawing room, Beatrice was trying to persuade Charles to stay longer but he insisted he had to return home for Christmas.
‘Can you come back for our ball, two days later?’ she pleaded.
‘I might, if I’m invited,’ he smiled.
‘You’ll be extremely welcome,’ Mrs Derwent told him, ‘only, you know, it will be a quiet event: so many young men are away. But we’ve just heard that Peter’s leave is confirmed: he should arrive on Christmas Eve.’
‘I’ll be delighted to come.’
Charles set off for home that afternoon.
‘It’s hardly worth holding the ball this year,’ Mrs Derwent complained as they sat eating their evening meal. ‘It’ll be very poorly attended.’
‘Nonsense, Ma!’ Beatrice said. ‘There’s so little going on round here now, people will love to come for a few hours of amusement.’
‘At least Edmond is back with us and Peter will be too,’ his father said, sounding relieved that the family would be together, unlike many others.
‘I daresay you’ll give the party a miss, as you’re so near your time,’ Amy’s mother-in-law said to her.
She was uncertain. Traditionally, heavily pregnant women withdrew from public gatherings.
‘If Amy doesn’t come, I won’t!’ Edmond asserted. ‘I want to dance with my wife.’
‘I’ll wear my best shawl,’ Amy promised. It would make her condition less obvious. ‘I’d
like to accompany Edmond for the beginning of the evening but then I’ll need my usual early night.’
* * *
Peter arrived home on Christmas Eve morning, to be greeted rapturously by the family, though Ma was reproachful about all the worry he had caused. He told them he had been away on manoeuvres. He was smart in his uniform and apparently at ease.
‘I don’t think he’s telling us everything,’ Edmond told Amy when they were alone. Peter was liable to find an excuse for leaving the room if any of them began questioning him.
After lunch, the brothers went for a short walk. Peter was concerned that Edmond still tired very quickly. ‘Let’s sit on the veranda,’ he said. The sun had moved round and was shedding its faint rays there.
Edmond sank down into a wicker chair. ‘So, what have you really been doing?’ he asked his brother.
‘Look, if I tell you, you must keep it entirely secret. Don’t even tell Pa, or Amy or Charles – no-one at all must know.’
He promised.
‘I have to travel around for my work. If I’m investigating a disciplinary matter I may need to track down witnesses and take statements. It makes a good cover for… other operations.’
‘What kind of operations?’
‘Sometimes loyal Belgians on the other side of the Front Line want to give us helpful information, about troop movements, for example. I speak good French and I’ve been learning Flemish, too.’
‘I’ve heard they send carrier pigeons across with messages,’ Edmond said.
‘The Germans watch out for them now. We sometimes need someone to sneak across the Front Line. It’s not easy, as you can imagine. Even where a river or canal crosses the line, the area is heavily guarded.’ He looked around. Young Joe was sweeping up leaves on the opposite side of the garden but no-one was in earshot. ‘Now our men have built a tunnel underneath No Man’s Land – I’m not telling you where.’
Until We Meet Again Page 28