Dark Harvest

by Amy Myers

  ‘Isn’t it?’ she replied. And, suddenly happy, spun him round, much to his surprise.

  ‘Shall I escort you back on the path past Lovel’s Mill?’ Frank suggested.

  Isabel, looked at him demurely. ‘What a good idea. I really can’t be bothered to explain to my parents-in-law if they happen to see us walking together past the Towers. Do you have a torch?’

  The night was warm, and somewhere a nightjar rattled. Isabel didn’t hear it; she was too taken up with the sound of Frank Eliot’s breathing at her side. How intriguing his face looked in the dim light of the torch. It did in the day too of course, but night invested it with romance and mystery. She was sure he would kiss her. The thought of his hand, holding the torch, on her body, made her deliciously alive. After all, Robert would never know …

  But he didn’t kiss her. Instead, as they reached Hop Cottage, he asked matter-of-factly, ‘Will you come in, Isabel?’ There could be no mistaking just what he was suggesting.

  ‘What if I had a baby?’ she asked, and was upset when he laughed.

  ‘You won’t. I’ll make sure of that.’ He held out his hand, with the fascination of the Devil tempting Faust.

  She took it hesitatingly. ‘I want to, I do, but I’m not brave enough, Frank.’

  He stroked her hand, then kissed it quickly. ‘Don’t leave it too long, Isabel,’ he said.

  Outside the Rectory gate Phoebe waved goodbye to Harry as he set off to walk the six miles back to barracks. She felt exalted, on a cloud of happiness for, with great daring, Harry had kissed her on her mouth, and on her neck and even where her low-cut evening dress allowed him to kiss. She’d stopped him then, like she should, and he’d been full of remorse, so she had kissed his lips this time. And oh, the bliss, for she knew now that this was not only romance; it was love.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  My dear wife,

  I have received your loving letter Agnes you have no idea how much it means to me and the socks too to know you knitted them for me. I am safe and cheery now waiting for this war to be over so I can get home to you and our lovely daughter. This war so far is not what the recruiting sergeant said it would be all spit and polish and three square meals a day but we keep cheerful and so must you my darling Agnes.

  Agnes refolded the letter for the twentieth time and blew out the candle. She knew from the newspapers that the Royal Sussex had been in action; she couldn’t remember where and she didn’t care provided he was alive. And he was.

  The sound of a wail awakened her, with that sick feeling she always got when woken from a deep sleep by Elizabeth Agnes. She rolled out of the bed, bleary-eyed, and then realised she’d overslept. It wasn’t the middle of the night, the sun was out and birds were chirping on Tillow Hill. It was seven o’clock and to her surprise Elizabeth Agnes was sleeping peacefully.

  Then she realised the wailing was still going on, a dull keening sound that chilled her far more than the cold breeze of early morning. Bravely, she put her coat on over her nightgown and summoned up courage to go and investigate. The noise was coming from the floor below, and she hurried downstairs in her slippers. The first sight that met her horrified eyes was Johnson, in full black evening attire and top hat, standing outside the door of the ladies’ bedroom. Like he was at a funeral was her first thought.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Agnes asked sharply. There was no love lost between herself and Johnson, and she sometimes feared he was willocky mad, so strange did he act.

  He ignored her, so she pushed past him to the door. It was locked.

  ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

  This time the fierceness of her tone made him answer. ‘Miss Emily can’t get Miss Charlotte to wake this morning. Miss Charlotte is not so well.’ His pale blue rheumy eyes stared vacantly at her.

  A stroke perhaps? Or a heart attack? Alarmed, she rapped at the door. ‘Miss Emily, can you hear me? Let me in and I’ll be able to help your sister.’

  The wailing continued as if she had not spoken, so she shouted out again. This time the noise inside paused for a moment, then re-started.

  Agnes hesitated. Suppose Miss Charlotte were just asleep? No, it was much more likely she had died in her sleep or was ill and needed urgent help. She put all the authority she could muster into her voice. ‘You must go for Dr Marden, Johnson, and—’ she had a splendid idea—‘the Rector.’ If Dr Marden could not persuade Miss Emily to open the door, the Rector might. The Norville ladies were Roman Catholic, but the nearest priest was in Hartfield, and that would take time.

  Once again Johnson ignored her, and when Agnes insisted, shouted angrily, ‘Get about your business, woman. It’s time for my breakfast.’ He raised his arm as if to strike her, and she backed away. She would have to go to fetch help herself.

  ‘I’ll go and get your breakfast immediately, Johnson,’ she lied, hearing the waver in her voice.

  He must be nearly eighty himself and as mad as the old ladies, she thought, as she threw on her print gown in her room, not even bothering with stockings. She glanced at Elizabeth Agnes, and realised that she could not leave her behind, so she picked her up and put her in the sling the countrywomen used. She could not wait to get into the clean fresh air. Her and her baby. As soon as she was outside the perimeter wire she began to sob, partly for herself and partly for the awfulness of life.

  It took three-quarters of an hour before she, Dr Marden and the Rector were all back at Castle Tillow. To Agnes’s relief, Mrs Lilley had insisted that she leave Elizabeth Agnes in Mrs Dibble’s care at the Rectory. She fed the baby as quickly as she could then hurried back to the castle. But when she arrived, she found to her anxiety that nothing had happened. The Rector and Dr Marden were standing outside the door, discussing what to do, and the awful wailing could still be heard within. At least Johnson had disappeared, either banished or voluntarily.

  The Rector rattled the door knob in one last attempt. ‘Miss Emily,’ he called, ‘won’t you let me in? I do need to speak to you.’

  This time the wailing stopped, and to Agnes’s horror was replaced by a high-pitched giggle. ‘I’ll ask Charlotte if she wants to see you.’ A pause, then a triumphant: ‘Charlotte says no.’

  ‘Is she ill? Can Miss Charlotte not tell us herself?’ Dr Marden roared. He was a big man, and his voice boomed so much that Agnes had been scared of him when she was small.

  ‘It’s time for morning prayers,’ the Rector supported him. ‘Surely you wouldn’t want Miss Charlotte to miss them?’

  ‘The Devil is without,’ came the reply.

  ‘I am an ambassador from his Holiness the Pope,’ the Rector announced firmly, ‘with a message for Miss Charlotte.’

  Sudden excitement. ‘Did you hear that, Charlotte?’ They heard the sound of a bolt being drawn back, and the Rector and Mr Marden rushed into the room.

  Peeking in from the doorway Agnes was just in time to see Miss Emily clamber slowly back into the bed she was still sharing with her obviously dead sister. As sickness welled up inside her, she found herself running down the stairs, away from this terrible scene, down to the kitchen in search of some semblance of normality. Light the stove, make some breakfast or at least tea for Johnson and herself. And the Rector would want a cup. He liked his tea.

  She found Johnson sitting in his normal place at the kitchen table as though nothing unusual was happening, reading an old newspaper that had been wrapped round the meat Mary bought yesterday. Castle Tillow is a crazy-house, Agnes told herself.

  It was another hour before the Rector appeared in the kitchen. Johnson had had his breakfast and vanished once more, and Mary had been despatched to do the living-room fire. Agnes had poured herself another cup of tea and sat down, still feeling wobbly from shock. She looked up as the Rector came in.

  ‘Agnes, Miss Emily would like some breakfast,’ he said steadily.

  ‘In there?’ Agnes almost shrieked. Surely not in that bedroom?

  ‘No. In their living room. Miss Charlotte is dead, Agnes, and
I’m afraid Miss Emily still does not quite believe it, so instead of leaving the body here, Dr Marden is arranging for it to be removed to the village mortuary.’

  The mortuary was a grand name for the brick shed behind Mutters the builders where the coffins were made. In last year’s hot summer all the flowers and herbs in the world hadn’t kept the bodies smelling sweet.

  ‘I’d like you to stay with Miss Emily, Agnes,’ the Rector continued. ‘Do you feel you can?’

  She stared at him, aghast. ‘My baby,’ she protested.

  ‘My wife will bring the baby back to you, as soon as I get home.’

  ‘But Miss Emily’s out of her wits, Rector, and Johnson too.’

  ‘You’re scared of Johnson?’ The Rector looked worried. ‘I hadn’t realised that. Of course you must not stay if so.’

  ‘No, I don’t think there’s any harm in him, Rector, but it’s a responsibility, isn’t it?’ She looked at him appealingly.

  ‘Yes, and I wouldn’t ask it of you if I didn’t know you were capable of it, Agnes. There are no relations so far as we know. We will try to find her solicitor through the local Registrar, but that will take time and Miss Emily is in deep shock. Dr Marden will come every day for a little while and so will I. But she needs a woman and my wife cannot be here all the time.’

  All Agnes’s motherly instincts rose to the surface; she felt proud to be trusted. ‘I’ll stay, Rector,’ she promised.

  ‘Mr Swinford-Browne!’

  Caroline spoke aloud in her surprise at seeing Isabel’s father-in-law. The theatre performance had been fun, and when the companions she was with—three women from the office, two of their brothers and a fiancé—suggested they go on to one of the new nightclubs, she had agreed enthusiastically. The last person she expected to see sitting at a corner, his knees squeezed tight against his companion’s as they watched the dancing, was somebody who should have been keeping his wife company at The Towers.

  And, it occurred to her, who was his companion—a highly painted stranger whose plunging neckline and short Empire-line dress would have made Ashden blink?

  William Swinford-Browne’s face turned a dull red of combined fury and embarrassment. He rose and, in bowing to Caroline, brought his head so close to hers that he was able to hiss: ‘A business meeting, Caroline. Remember that, will you?’

  She could not resist saying solemnly, ‘The war effort, of course.’

  He looked at her sharply. ‘Like yours, with that Pankhurst crowd.’ He said this with so much force that she thought perhaps it had some hidden meaning, though she could not imagine what. She dismissed the subject from her mind; poor Edith Swinford-Browne had enough to put up with without learning that Ruth Horner had had at least one successor.

  Robert sipped his Earl Grey tea without enthusiasm. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t revelling in the home leave to which he had so eagerly looked forward. He’d be going overseas at the end of the month, but the mingled excitement and apprehension inside him had evaporated, leaving only apprehension. His pals in the battalion told him that they were hailed as heroes when they went home on leave, yet it seemed to him that Isabel was studiedly avoiding any mention of the Army.

  He looked at his wife’s head bent over her post, and remembered how the way her curls tumbled over her temples had made him believe he was marrying the sweetest girl in all the world. ‘Did I tell you they’ve issued us with khaki drill and pith helmets?’

  ‘That sounds nice.’ Isabel smiled.

  ‘That means we’re going somewhere hot. Very short odds on its being the Med and jolly old Gallipoli for me.’ He forced a laugh.

  ‘We should have been going to Monte Carlo this summer. People are still going there, despite the war.’

  Robert felt he had failed her—yet how? He wasn’t responsible for the war, and as far as he could see he’d done the right thing in volunteering. At least Father wasn’t ignoring him now, damned rude though he was about him being a private. Mother had wept bucketloads of tears when he told her he was going overseas. There were tearful references to Rupert Brooke, who had died going out to the Dardanelles. Well, Robert intended to get there after all this training, not die of disease halfway across.

  Over brandy and cigars one night, Father had said, ‘Offered you a commission yet, have they?’ And when he had replied no, had continued, ‘Bally fool. You should have taken up my offer. I can always get you out, say the word. There’s a job at the new factory.’

  Robert had shuddered. He had lied to his father, in fact. He had been offered officer training but that would have delayed his getting into action. Besides, he’d grown to like being with the troops. He’d had a rough time at first; he didn’t understand their language, or their accents; he didn’t share the same interests. But when they had failed to get a rise out of him, they had simply ignored him. Now he was treated jocularly; he was a cuckoo in the nest, but he was there. Very soon, he’d be going to Gallipoli, and the wife he was leaving behind was as beautiful as ever, but as lifeless as a doll. He tried to tell himself she was a lady, a rector’s daughter, and he shouldn’t expect much in bed. But why was she always so tired? The house couldn’t be occupying her, it must be the war work she constantly boasted of. She was as bad as Mother. He had even tried talking to her about it.

  ‘Tell me about your work, Isabel.’

  ‘I’ve been very busy,’ she had said immediately.

  ‘What with? Mother says she hardly sees you.’

  ‘I’ve been helping my own mother with her agricultural work. I’m responsible for all the hop rotas. You’ve no idea how much work it involves.’

  ‘Do you miss me?’ he had dared to ask.

  She had been startled. ‘Of course I do, Robert. I miss you all the time. Marriage isn’t at all exciting, though. You don’t even want to see your friends, now you’re home, let alone go dancing.’

  He considered this. His friends? ‘Do I have any in Ashden? Peter Jennings has joined up and I can’t think of anyone else.’

  ‘In London you have some, and in Tunbridge Wells. But all you want to do is stay here. It’s not very exciting for me. I don’t get leave from my war work.’

  Robert’s conscience was stirred. He hadn’t thought of it from Isabel’s point of view. Now he realised he had been selfish in wanting just to potter round the village. He had a sudden idea. ‘How would you like to go to Father’s picture palace this evening? They’re showing a Charlie Chaplin—Tillie’s Punctured Romance.’ That was all about going off to the war too. Only in real life it wasn’t all heroics, as the films made it out to be. It was fear, excitement, filthy language and songs all around you, and the knowledge you were being swept along like lemmings to a cliff edge. But he was still glad he’d volunteered as a private. He was one of them, one of those many thousands of men chanting:

  Oh the moon shines bright

  On Charlie Chaplin

  His boots are cracking

  For lack of blacking …

  Before they send him

  To the Dardanelles.

  Harriet knocked on the door rather more peremptorily than she had intended. The Rector swung round as she entered the study, irritated at yet another interruption.

  ‘If you please, sir. Mrs Lilley not being here, I want to tell you I’m leaving.’

  Really, it was too bad. Where was Elizabeth? Then Laurence remembered that she had told him she needed to visit Grendel’s farm to check the number of raspberry pickers required. All very well, but that left him to deal with the housemaid’s tantrums. His anger subsided as he saw the humorous side of it. ‘You’d better sit down, Harriet.’ When she was sitting stiffly upright on the chair he used for Rector’s Hour, he asked, ‘Aren’t you happy here?’

  ‘Happy? Oh, yes, sir,’ Harriet replied unconvincingly. Being happy was not a state she often thought about. ‘But I’m a parlourmaid, and Mrs Dibble treats me like I was under her, ordering me to do this, that and the other just as if I was a tweeny like Myrtl
e. As a parlourmaid I’m answerable to you and Mrs Lilley. And I don’t expect to have to look after babies, either.’

  ‘But that was many weeks ago, and these are unusual times. It’s hard to get staff, as you know, and Mrs Lilley would be most distressed if you left.’

  ‘But it’s the hours, you see, sir. And the pay, if you don’t mind my saying so.’ Evidently, Harriet thought she had been deeply wronged.

  ‘We could review—’

  ‘No, sir, it would be more of the same. I’ve quite decided.’ She had, but only a minute ago.

  ‘Have you anywhere to go?’ the Rector asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. Mr Swinford-Browne’s munitions factory.’

  Two-thirty, the official time for the gathering of the hordes on the Embankment, ready for the three-thirty start of the WSPU march. To everyone’s disappointment the weather was far from kind. Not only was it raining, with lowering skies, but the rain was of the cold, driving type that chilled them to the marrow. Rain meant muddy roads, and there was no sign of it lifting. No matter, Caroline told herself, for if the sun did not shine, the colourful streamers in red, white and blue, the forest of umbrellas, not to mention all the flowers that covered everything and everyone, would compensate.

  At two o’clock Ellen, her VAD friend from Dover days, had arrived. She took one look at the milling crowd of white-clad marchers, and commented, ‘Like a load of blooming water lilies, ain’t we?’ She peered out from under a huge umbrella—a man’s—which Caroline recognised as belonging to the home where they had boarded. She felt as if two old friends had joined her instead of one.

  At the head of the procession, behind the band, was the main feature of the demonstration, the Pageant of the Allies, and Caroline’s particular responsibility. Behind the band marched a girl dressed in a Grecian robe and carrying a trophy composed of all the flags of the nations at war with Germany and Austria. Then came a representative of each nation: first Belgium, for which a tall, slender lady in her thirties had been selected. Clad in black, with a purple veil round her head which streamed out behind her, she carried her country’s torn and tattered flag. To Caroline’s admiration, she had insisted on walking barefoot for greater effect, despite the mud on the roads. In contrast to Belgium’s sad, expressive face, the girl representing France almost danced along, arrayed in the bright hues of the tricolour and a red cap; behind her came women representing Montenegro, Russia, Japan, Italy and Serbia. Bringing up the rear was Great Britain with a woman representing England dressed in white carrying roses. Three women surrounded her in the national costumes of Scotland, Wales and Ireland. Oh, how Caroline wished Reggie were here to see it. He would be so proud of her for being part of this great effort.