Daisychain Summer

by Elizabeth Elgin

  No! No one but Andrew, even though there were days she could not recall his face; days when she had to run to her room and pick up the photograph that stood beside her bed. And even nine years on, she could still not hear his voice. His voice always eluded her. She could remember the sound of Robert’s voice, and Giles’s, could smile to hear in her memory the clipped tones of Sister Carbrooke or Ruth Love’s gentle laugh. But Andrew’s voice eluded her like a teasing spirit.

  Oh, damn that war! Damn it, damn it, damn it!

  23

  ‘You look real smart,’ Polly Purvis said. Just as he must have looked when he was a beat-keeper in Derbyshire, with high hopes of being a head keeper. But war came and Dickon had been billeted in Windrush Hall; the very same house Mr Hillier lived in, now. It was how they met, truth known; at a dance in Totten, not far from where she worked as head housemaid to gentry long since gone.

  On her night off, that dance, and before the last waltz was called she was in love with a young soldier who could at any moment be sent to France.

  ‘Smart? Then why the frown?’

  ‘Sorry, love. Maybe I was remembering the night you and me met and how –’

  ‘How I’ve changed – is that it?’

  ‘No, it is not! I was thinking how like that young soldier you look. You pay for dressing, Dickon Purvis. Real posh.’

  ‘Have to, haven’t I? Going with Mr Hillier. Can’t be looking like a tramp. And why isn’t he taking Tom with him, I’d like to know.’

  ‘You know why. Today is a reward, sort of. It’s the first time Beth has really worked, and I reckon Mr Hillier wants you with him because she answers to you best of anybody.’

  ‘You could be right, lass. Beth is my bitch; has been, right from the day she was weaned. And if she works like I think she will, Mr Hillier is going to be real pleased. Just wait till she has her first litter; her pups will be worth their weight in gold. And properly trained for the gun –’

  ‘By you, of course,’ Polly smiled.

  ‘By me, if I’ve got anything to do with it. And if they shape up like Beth, Windrush retrievers will be famous.’

  ‘Tom don’t mind, do he?’ Polly had no wish to offend Tom and Alice.

  ‘No. ’Twas Tom suggested it – well, put the idea into Mr Hillier’s mind, more like. Said it’d be better to take me with him as his loader so I could keep an eye on Beth, calm her down, if she needed it. And I appreciate it. Tom only did it so I would benefit, I shouldn’t wonder. I could be ten bob better off at the end of the day.’ Even more if Beth behaved, and carried well. A sovereign tip, maybe. More than a week’s wages, and think what they could do with twenty shillings.

  ‘Let me look at you.’ Polly took the clothes brush from the dresser. ‘Sure you’ll be warm enough? It’s still raw, underfoot.’

  It had rained solidly for six days. Only now had the downpour ceased, leaving the clay-bound earth wet and squelchy and cold to stand on. She worried about his foot, which always pained him more in the cold of winter.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Wasn’t he wearing one of Tom’s too-small tweed suits and a pair of highly polished brown leggings? ‘And my foot will be all right.’ It didn’t hurt so much when he wore the hand-lasted boots Mr Hillier had seen fit to have made for him.

  ‘Then away and enjoy yourself, Dickon love. And let’s hope the master’s going to give credit where credit is due.’

  ‘He will. I was once a keeper, don’t forget. I can load a shotgun quicker than most – with my eyes shut.’

  And a loader needed to have his wits about him when the beaters put the birds up. Wasn’t a lot of use holding a gun, if it wasn’t loaded. Mr Hillier was taking his Purdeys; fine guns. Dickon had cleaned them last night, flannelled the inside of the barrels until they shone like glass.

  ‘You’ll not know when you’ll be back? Will I keep your supper warm in the oven?’

  ‘Best you do. Mr Hillier’s likely to be asked in for a drink, when the shoot’s over.’ Mr Hillier, come to think of it, had been pleased to be asked to shoot at Shroveby Manor. Once, only the landed gentry attended such gatherings, but since the war a self-made man could be invited to take part – provided he conducted himself like a gentleman, that was, and had decent shooting of his own. Ralph Hillier, with his fine guns and the best retriever it had ever been Dickon Purvis’s luck to handle, would be a contented man, tonight, all things considered.

  Almost certainly he’d part with a sovereign.

  ‘That’s Dickon on his way, all smart,’ Alice murmured from the window. ‘Where are they going?’

  ‘Shroveby, I believe, and the first shoot of the season. There’ll be good sport. I shouldn’t wonder. Hope Beth behaves herself. It’s her first big shoot, an’ all.’

  ‘Mr Hillier’s proud of that bitch.’ Alice piled logs on the fire. ‘Oh, I do so hate November.’ In December there was Christmas to look forward to; January brought a new year and new hopes, whilst February’s snowdrops and aconites and crocus that peeped from sheltered corners promised that spring was only just around the corner. But November was awful and tomorrow would be the anniversary of Andrew’s death; tomorrow, she would telephone Julia and say, ‘Hullo, love,’ gently and softly. She had done it every year since it happened and she would be glad when that sad day was over.

  ‘Then let’s hope the master tips generous. Polly could do with a few shillings extra and where’s that girl?’ Irritably Tom drummed his fingers on the table top. ‘Does she know her breakfast’s ready?’

  ‘She does, and she won’t be long.’ And you couldn’t blame a bairn for not wanting to leave a warm bed on a cold, drab morning, though at least now the rain had stopped. Day after day, Keth and Daisy coming home from school drenched to the skin. Daisy had wellington boots, but Keth had none. It made Alice wonder how she could buy him a pair without offending Polly’s pride. Christmas, happen?

  ‘Good mornin’, Daisy Dwerryhouse.’ Tom took out his pocket watch, gazing at it meaningfully. ‘Late down again. Tonight it’s bed at seven sharp, and no listening to the wireless – is that understood?’

  ‘Dada! That isn’t fair! Keth stays up till nine!’

  ‘Keth’s older than you are and besides, he has to do homework, now, if he’s to get his scholarship.’

  ‘They say at school that he’ll pass it easily,’ Daisy hastened, eager to change the conversation. ‘They only give five free places, but Keth’ll get one, even his teacher says he will.’

  ‘Of course he will.’ Alice set porridge plates on the table. And everyone hoped he would, an’ all; everyone except the lad’s own mother who was worried out of her mind already.

  ‘How am I to tell him he can’t go?’ she had confided. ‘Because he can’t, even if he passes. We can’t afford the uniform and all the things he’ll need, and that’s final. Poor lad – and he’s working so hard.’

  ‘Keth will pass and he shall go,’ Alice had countered hotly. ‘We’ll find a way, somehow. There’ll be all sorts of things I can make for him – long socks, pullovers. And he’ll be in short trousers ’til he’s fourteen and shorts I can easy make from market remnants. We’ll do it, between us …’

  ‘Your breakfast’s going cold.’ Tom passed a hand in front of Alice’s eyes. ‘You were miles away, lass. Rowangarth again, was it?’

  ‘No. We’re right enough here, at Windrush.’ Alice picked up her spoon. ‘As a matter of fact I was thinking about Keth and his scholarship.’

  ‘He’ll pass,’ Daisy said confidently. ‘He’s top of the class, but he’s stupid. He said even if he gets a place he doesn’t want to go. But he does, Mam. He really wants to go to the Grammar School.’

  ‘And he will, Daisy love.’ Oh my word, yes! No matter what, they would get that dratted uniform together, between them. ‘Keth shall have his chance, but best not say too much about it, lovey. It’s all a matter of money you see, and Polly and Dickon don’t have over much, at the moment.’

  ‘Then let’s hope Mr Hillier is
going to show his appreciation – because if there’s a better gun dog at that shoot than our Beth, then I’ll eat my Sunday hat. And I think I’ll have two fried eggs this morning, Alice – keep the cold out. And eat up, Miss Daisy, or there’ll be Keth having to wait while you finish your breakfast.’

  Which would please Alice and give her the excuse to provide the lad with a thick slice of dripping toast to eat whilst he waited, Tom reasoned comfortably. Hollow legs, that lad had. And fingers crossed for a good day’s sport over at Shroveby – and that it didn’t start to rain again.

  The Shots, five of them, took up positions backs to the wood. With them, their loaders and retrievers behind them, sticks at the ready at the far end of the wood, stood the team of beaters, waiting for the signal to advance into the game covers beneath the trees; send the game birds, suddenly alarmed, into the air.

  To the left of the Shots and a hundred yards away, the river flowed. On the surface it was brown and littered with branches and debris, but underneath it was a turbulent, heaving mass, swollen by the constant rain and reaching, almost, to the tops of its banks.

  Beth sat at Dickon’s feet, her body quivering with excitement, sometimes moving from him to be ordered, ‘Heel Beth! Sit!’

  ‘Just look at that head of hers, Purvis.’ Ralph Hillier fondled the bitch’s ears, eager to show her off. ‘Near perfect.’

  Pleased, Dickon smiled, telling himself just for once that the war had never happened; that his foot was whole and he was head keeper to an earl; a duke, even, and Polly didn’t have to go out scrubbing nor take in washing.

  In the wood, the beaters began to walk forward, thrashing the undergrowth with their sticks, shouting and whooping to send the birds into the air. Startled pheasants took flight, wings flapping, trying to make height, and with them flew little fat partridge, whole coveys of them. For the first time in a week a watery sun broke through the clouds. The Shots raised their guns; the first bird fell.

  Ralph Hillier smiled. This was going to be a good day; a good day all round.

  Alice switched on the wireless for the six o’clock news bulletin; Tom took out his pipe and Daisy settled herself at his feet. He had been late finishing, realizing not for the first time how dependent he was becoming on Dickon, wondering how he could persuade Mr Hillier to raise him from dog boy to beat-keeper. Perhaps, he smiled, if the sport today had been good and Beth lived up to her promise, his employer might be in a mood to consider such a suggestion.

  ‘Doing the night beat, are you, Tom?’ Alice took up the sock she was knitting.

  ‘Think I’d better. By the time Dickon gets back he’ll not feel like walking the rounds; he’ll have had enough, with that badly foot.’

  There had been no shooting yet, at Windrush, and pheasants and partridge were thick on the ground; an invitation to poachers to take all they could.

  ‘I’ll give it till nine.’ Tom settled his stockinged feet on the fender. ‘No use going too early.’ Nor did a keeper make his rounds at the same time each night. Best not advertise his movements, though in all fairness, no one minded the ‘one-for-the-pot’ man – some poor chap with bairns to feed and his dole and parish relief run out; aye – and most of what he owned taken by the bailiffs. Such a family was welcome to the odd bird, and all the rabbits he could snare. A man so desperate Tom turned a blind eye to; it was the greedy he must keep alert to and ahead of; those organized gangs who made a good living from poaching. ‘Nine o’clock-ish, I’ll go.’

  He puffed on his pipe, his eyelids began to droop, then flew wide open at the sudden knocking, loud and urgent-sounding. He jumped to his feet.

  ‘Who on earth can it be, at this time of night?’ And whoever knocked on a front door, especially after dark? ‘Stay where you are, love. I’ll go.’

  He pushed his feet into his slippers, then, taking the flash-light, made his way to the door.

  ‘Who is it, then?’ He shone the light into the stranger’s face, for stranger it must be.

  ‘I’m looking for Purvis’s place – or for Tom Dwerryhouse. Either will do.’

  ‘I’m Dwerryhouse. What do you want with me?’

  The man was a keeper, that much was obvious from his dress. At his feet, the thin beam of torchlight picked up the outline of a sack.

  ‘Today – at the shoot – there’s been trouble …’

  ‘You’d best step inside.’ Apprehension crawled the length of Tom’s backbone. He struck a match and held it to the candle that stood on a shelf at the stair bottom. Then deliberately he closed the door on Alice and Daisy.

  ‘I’ve brought the bitch back. We got her out,’ the man said softly. ‘Name of Hillier, Windrush, on the collar, and who in his right mind ever put a collar on a working dog, I’d like to know.’ The stranger’s voice rose angrily. ‘Went into the river, after a bird. They shouldn’t have let her. That river was running too strong, though I reckon she’d have made it out if it hadn’t been for the willow …’

  ‘Look – you’re not making sense,’ Tom hissed. ‘Are you telling me you’ve got Beth outside, and if you are, why isn’t Dickon Purvis here – or Mr Hillier? What’s been going on?’

  ‘Dada?’ The door opened and a shaft of lampglow lit up the narrow passage.

  ‘Go back in, little lass, and shut the door. I’m talking private to this gentleman.’ Then Tom asked the question again.

  ‘Going on? There’s all hell let loose at Shroveby Manor. Like I’m trying to tell you, Mr Hillier’s bitch got into trouble in the water and his loader tried to get her out. The outcome of it was that both men ended up in the river and that’s all we know, for certain. There’s men from the estate and police searching both riverbanks, but so far, neither’s been found.’

  ‘Drowned, you mean?’ A fist of iron slammed into Tom’s belly. ‘They didn’t get out?’

  ‘Not as far as we know. They might have, farther downriver, but I know that stretch of water and it’s treacherous, when it’s in flood. They should have stopped the bitch going in after that bird. She was a game ’un, that’s for sure. I got her out myself. But for all that, she didn’t let go. She still had the bird in her mouth. Drowned, poor creature, her collar fast on a willow branch.’

  ‘You’re right. Shouldn’t have had a collar on her. But Mr Hillier was right proud of Beth. Silver on leather, that collar was. Nothing but the best.’

  He was talking nonsense; opening his mouth and words he didn’t mean to say were slipping out. But maybe that was because he didn’t want to hear any more, be told that more than likely Dickon and the master had been drowned, trying to help Beth. It made sense yet still he didn’t want to believe it.

  ‘Is there any chance at all?’ he asked, eventually.

  ‘None, in my opinion. It’s a bad do. I was told either to see you or Purvis’s wife. I don’t suppose you could –’

  ‘Tell Polly – prepare her, you mean?’

  ‘I’d appreciate it, if you would. I ought to be getting back. The police’ll be calling on Mrs Purvis before so very much longer, I shouldn’t wonder. You couldn’t, I suppose?’

  ‘All right. But what am I to tell her, exactly?’ You couldn’t tell a woman her man wasn’t coming home if there was the least chance he’d managed to get himself out of that river. ‘Just tell me?’

  ‘I only know that Mr Hillier and Purvis went into the water after the bitch and got swept away. Neither of them got out nor had they, when I left Shroveby, been found. Dead or alive. And that’s all I know. But if I was you, Mr Dwerryhouse, I’d not let that woman’s hopes run too high.’

  ‘And what of Mr Hillier? Have they been told, at Windrush?’

  ‘Seems he had no near kin. I believe they telephoned through to the estate office there. They said they’d get in touch with his solicitors.’

  ‘Aye.’ Tom shook his head again. Whether he was trying to shake the bad news out or some small semblance of comprehension into it, he wasn’t at all sure. ‘All right, then. Leave it with me. Alice and me will go
to Polly.’

  ‘I’m obliged to you.’ He held out his hand. ‘Name’s Ted Grimes – under-keeper at Shroveby. And I’m right sorry to have brought this news – as if there isn’t enough misery in the world!’

  He turned, fumbling with the door, letting himself out, mumbling a goodnight.

  Tom stood, eyes closed, leaning against the wall of the passage, pulling gulps of air into his lungs, letting them go in little steadying puffs. How was he to tell Polly and Keth? How was he to tell Alice, even?

  ‘Alice, love …’ Reluctantly, he opened the kitchen door.

  ‘What is it, Tom? Who was that? What has happened?’ She jumped to her feet, switching off the wireless, her face all at once pale. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘It’s Dickon, and Mr Hillier.’ There was no way round it. Even in front of Daisy, it had to be said. ‘An accident over at Shroveby Manor, where the shoot was. Both of them in the river. So far, they haven’t been found. The river was high, you see – all that rain. Both got into trouble and they tried –’

  ‘Polly? Does Polly know,’ Alice demanded. ‘Who’s with her?’

  ‘She doesn’t know. Keeper came over from Shroveby. But there’ll be the police calling on her before so very much longer so it’s best we tell her. They got Beth out – brought her back.’

  ‘Dear heaven!’ Alice gathered a sobbing Daisy into her arms. ‘We must go to Polly. You stay here, Daisy. Stay like a good girl and don’t open the door if anyone knocks.’

  ‘No, Mam! Keth’s my friend and I’m coming, too!’

  ‘Then dry your eyes, like a brave little lass,’ Alice whispered. ‘And who’s to know they aren’t all right?’ she said with false brightness. ‘Even now they might be out there, trying to get back home in the dark.’