by Amy Myers
‘Yes … What?’
Elizabeth waited in agony until he hung up. ‘Good and bad, my love. Her bicycle may have been found at Crowborough railway station.’
‘May?’
‘One has been discovered. And the stationmaster recalls a young lady who took a ticket to Uckfield late this afternoon, carrying a suitcase.’
‘But she doesn’t know anyone in Uckfield,’ Elizabeth wailed. ‘It can’t be her. And if it was, oh, Laurence, was she on her own?’
‘Apparently, yes. Surely Phoebe will telephone to tell us she is safe. You are certain she left no note here?’
‘I’ve searched her room twice and there’s nothing downstairs either. Only the missing clothes I told you about—a skirt, a blouse and jacket, and a nightgown. Enough for a night. So perhaps she’ll be back tomorrow.’ Phoebe would have told them if she had planned to spend the night with a friend, or had she simply forgotten? It would be just like Phoebe …
‘And you’re sure she has no friends in Uckfield?’
‘Yes.’
Uckfield, which lay on the far side of the forest towards the Downs, was almost alien territory to the inhabitants of Ashden. It was a charabanc stop for the Sunday School treat to Eastbourne, but did not otherwise enter into their lives.
‘Tomorrow I will go there and make enquiries. In the meantime we can only wait.’
Wait! Was there a more terrible word in the English language?
Frank Eliot and Lizzie Dibble walked home together after the harvest supper with only the aid of dim torches to guide them. Ashden was completely dark at night now for, in a burst of patriotism, it had elected to follow London’s example and extinguish its one street light in case that Zep came looking for the village again. Frank had restrained himself from taking Lizzie’s arm to help her along, until a stumble over a stone hidden in the undergrowth by the stile brought an immediate reflex action from him to save her. After that, he kept his hand there. It was strange having a woman on his arm again, especially one so much shorter than he. Jennifer, his lovely Jennifer, had been tall and slender.
Frank unlocked the door to his cottage, then listened to the sound of Lizzie’s feet climbing the stairs to the second-floor attic room. He poured himself a brandy to warm himself up. It was cold outside and the fire here had long since died. Had he made a mistake in bringing Lizzie here? No, he couldn’t accept that; if Ashden wanted to believe the worst about them both, so be it. Lizzie was a married woman, and his housekeeper, whatever the village chose to think. He’d soon be gone anyway, when they began to call on his age group of unmarried men under the Derby Scheme.
As he got into bed he reflected how odd it was that he now hated Ashden for the very things he’d loved about it when he first came: its insularity, its own set of judgements, its blind obstinacy to see farther than the limits of Seb Grendel’s farm astride the parish boundary. Look what had happened when the Rector’s sister came to stay, militant suffragette that she was. Dr Parry was another ‘foreigner’ fighting her way into some kind of acknowledgement that she breathed the same air as the other Ashden villagers. What was going to happen when soldiers who had experienced different countries and different ways of life came marching home? Now, that would be interesting—
‘Frank.’
He sat up. The door opened and Lizzie’s dark shape, lit only by a candle, stood on the threshold.
‘Miss Florence Nightingale, I presume,’ he said carefully.
‘Only if you want her. I don’t mind.’ Lizzie sounded defensive.
‘Don’t you, Lizzie?’ He jumped from the bed, took her into his arms and kissed her lightly. Not too close, just in case. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I am sure.’ Her voice shook. ‘I’m tired of being alone. I think you are too.’
He undid the cord round the neck of her thick nightgown and gently slid it off. He looked at the full heavy breasts and sturdy hips; it was a body made for loving. He reached out a hand and touched her breast.
For a moment he thought he had been mistaken as she caught it and took it away.
‘But I mustn’t—’
‘Be in the family way,’ he finished for her, understanding now.
‘No.’
No child of Jennifer, he would have none of Lizzie either. He’d settle for love, a privilege he’d thought would be denied him for ever after Jennifer’s death. Now it might have come again, he was deeply grateful.
George was walking on air. He had taken the parish magazine into Tunbridge Wells to be printed, because Jacob Timms was ill and couldn’t manage it this month. But this printer was not wizened or grey like the lead of his type-setting characters, and he wasn’t a man; it was a woman. At first he’d assumed she was an assistant, but it turned out she was Mrs Wilkins (of Wilkins and Son) who was taking over while her husband was at the front. He was an NCO, she explained, and a pound a week separation allowance didn’t go far with four children nowadays, so she had to keep the business going. She was a brisk lady, with sharp eyes, ratherlike Mrs Dibble only sturdier, almost plump.
‘This cartoon, young man,’ she said, turning the pages over, smearing smudgy ink everywhere. ‘You’ve been copying them from “Sergeant Trench’s” in Bystander and the Sunday Pictorial, haven’t you?’
‘No.’ George was indignant. ‘Sergeant Trench is my nom de plume.’ Father hadn’t forbidden him to submit cartoons to the general press, only the parish magazine. However, it had occurred to him that Father might well notice the number of aeroplanes and RFC personnel appearing amongst his drawings and he had decided to pre-empt trouble by adopting a pen-name.
‘Good,’ she replied, not a whit abashed. ‘Any more?’
‘Any more what?’
‘Cartoons, young man. I’m looking for something to print on postcards for our lads at the front to send home at Christmas. My hubby out there says all they can get is sentimental English ones and naughty French ones—want something like Bairnsfather. Like yours.’
‘Like—’ George blinked. At last he was being compared to Bairnsfather.
‘You can have a royalty or an outright payment.’
George hesitated. ‘Which suits you best?’ he asked cautiously.
‘The outright payment, of course.’
‘You mean you make more money that way?’
‘Suppose I make a loss?’ she pointed out. ‘You wouldn’t get any royalties.’
‘You can’t think that likely or you wouldn’t offer it,’ George reasoned.
Mrs Wilkins saw the funny side. ‘And you a rector’s son! I hope he puts you in charge of the collection. So it’s a royalty you want then.’
‘No.’ George decided to follow instinct. ‘This first one you can have for a small outright payment; if you want to do more, we’ll do it on a royalty. I want you to do more, you see,’ he added, seeing her look of surprise.
‘Partners, eh?’
‘Yes.’ Should he tell Father, George wondered on the way home. No, not yet. He’d leave it till next time. Hop, skip and jumping down Station Road, he threw his hat in the air, then fingered the crisp ten pound note in his pocket. This was riches, this was fame. This was some compensation for the RFC having meanly raised their minimum age to eighteen. A whole year to wait!
Then, guiltily, he remembered Phoebe was missing. They’d given him a grilling about her last night when he came in from Scouts, and today Father had gone to Uckfield. He summed up his courage and went into the drawing room where he could hear Father and Mother talking.
‘Any news?’
‘None, I’m afraid, George. The Stationmaster and porters at Uckfield couldn’t remember her.’
George felt sorry for the old folks; they both looked so worried—as he was, though he had confidence in Phoebe’s ability to look after herself. He tried to think what he would do if he wanted to throw Ma and Pa off the scent of where he was going.
‘What about Buxted?’ he found himself saying. It wasn’t splitting because she hadn’t t
old him.
‘Buxted? But her ticket was to Uckfield, the next station.’
‘I know.’ Really, parents were dim. ‘But I’d get off at Buxted, walk round for a while, and then get a ticket to wherever I wanted to go.’
‘But where would Phoebe want to go?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Well, London of course.’
It was their turn to be puzzled. ‘Caroline hasn’t seen her,’ Father answered.
George couldn’t believe his father’s lack of comprehension. Of course Caroline wouldn’t have seen her. ‘What about that soldier?’
‘Which soldier?’ Elizabeth asked sharply.
Laurence exclaimed in horror. ‘The one she promised not to write to more than once a month? You mean to say that Phoebe is still communicating with him?’
‘I don’t know,’ George faltered, feeling a complete Judas. ‘But he’s in France anyway.’
‘Perhaps he’s on leave?’ Elizabeth suggested.
‘Has Phoebe lied to me?’ Laurence asked, his face dark with anger.
‘I don’t know,’ George yelled, exasperated at his father’s inability to grasp essentials. ‘Anyway, it’s not a lie.’
‘What is it then?’ Laurence demanded.
‘Only a sort of not telling all the truth.’ George grew scarlet.
‘It seems to me I have failed in my duty,’ Laurence said heavily, ‘if my son cannot tell the difference between truth and falsehood.’
Arriving by carrier’s horse wagon was not the way the Rector of Ashden would normally have chosen to arrive in Buxted village, but it was convenient and much quicker than the roundabout train route. Harold Mutter’s horse was slow but reliable, and had his mind not been beset with worry about Phoebe, Laurence would have enjoyed the ride. Even in the dead month of November the forest was beautiful, with the morning chilly mists still lingering on the late gorse and birds calling in the rapidly baring tree branches.
It was a different forest in wartime to the one he had known when he first came to Ashdown. Now he could see army camps everywhere, and army vehicles clogged the roads. The animals had learned to stay within its secret depths, and those that didn’t often fell victim to a staff car’s wheels. The army had promised the Board of Conservators that all damage to the land would be made good when they left at the end of the war. But would it happen that way? Some of the wild life would be gone for ever; refuse, human and inanimate, sullied the once clean waters, and barbed wire encampments now covered the place where kings had stood to watch the Royal Chase.
Harold waited in the station yard while Laurence spoke to one of the porters, who infuriated him by intimating that young, unaccompanied ladies were not as rare as once they had been with so many army camps around. Laurence retorted that Buxted was not a large station, and a rector’s daughter of eighteen would bear little resemblance to ladies of the night.
Realising he was addressing a gentleman of the cloth, a fact hitherto hidden from him by Laurence’s heavy muffler, the porter called to the ticketman who thought he might have seen her.
‘I thought it queer; here she was coming to Buxted, then she said she’d changed her mind and wanted to go back right away. Feeling sick, she said. So I sold her a ticket and she caught the next train.’
‘Where to?’
‘That was the queer part. Her ticket was from Crowborough and she wanted to go on to Tonbridge. Or was it London?’
‘London,’ Laurence told Elizabeth three hours later. ‘I’m sure that’s where she’s gone.’
The news depressed Elizabeth even more. ‘Joe Ifield has called. Harry Darling is in France so far as the camp knows. His family lives in Stepney and Joe has their address. He’s telephoned the Stepney police who visited them, but they’ve no knowledge of Phoebe.’
‘Where else could she have gone in London? To Caroline?’
‘I rang her on the chance she might have seen her. She hasn’t. You don’t think—oh Laurence, Phoebe couldn’t have gone to France, could she?’
‘If she had,’ Laurence grappled with this nightmare, ‘she won’t get very far.’
‘She is very resourceful. And determined. Suppose she’s tried to become a nurse?’
Despite his anxiety, Laurence smiled. ‘No one would take her.’
‘Over here, perhaps, but don’t you remember Felicia telling us that once you got to France they weren’t too particular about qualifications if you were willing and there?’
‘Felicia!’ Laurence exclaimed. ‘Perhaps Phoebe has tried to make her way to join her and Tilly.’
‘But why should she?’
‘To be near this soldier of hers?’
‘Surely even Phoebe isn’t muddleheaded or romantic enough to think that she’d be allowed anywhere near him even if she knew where his battalion was. I think your idea about her setting off to find Felicia is more likely, but how do we find Felicia?’ Elizabeth looked at Laurence, and they answered together: ‘Lord Banning.’
‘Good morning, Rector.’
Laurence was surprised to see Beth Parry descending his staircase. ‘I’m here to see Agnes Thorn’s baby,’ she explained, adding, ‘I’m very sorry to hear you are so worried about your daughter. If I can help when she returns, I should be very glad to do so.’
He was grateful, so grateful for the ‘when’. ‘That is good of you, Dr Parry. I hadn’t heard about the baby, I’m afraid. Is she ill?’
‘I’m afraid she has chickenpox.’
‘I’m sorry. In so young a child that is no light thing.’
‘You’re right. The rash has just appeared. There are several children with it in the village and Agnes thinks she may have picked it up when she took her to visit her mother two weeks ago. I’ve given Agnes instructions for a dusting powder for the spots.’
‘Thank you, Dr Parry.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you find your way easier in Ashden now?’
‘Thanks to Len Thorn, yes. He’s taken my place as the football between Mutters and Thorns.’
‘In what way?’
‘The remaining eligible Mutters have all signed the blue cards to attest their willingness to serve.’
‘And Len Thorn has not?’
‘He seems to have disappeared.’
‘I thought the forge was taking a long time with my bicycle. Has he left the village? I must admit, it would be no bad thing.’
‘I agree, Mr Lilley. I do hope you find your daughter quickly.’ And Beth Parry went on her way.
Elizabeth was surprised to find Laurence in the drawing room before dinner, instead of in his study. ‘Are you well?’ she asked him.
‘Just tired. Did you want me?’
‘We must decide on the rooms for your mother, and get Percy to clear them. She arrives on the eighteenth, and that’s just over a fortnight away.’
Laurence groaned. How could he cope with his mother when he did not know whether Phoebe were alive or dead? He should be out looking for her now, not slumped in here.
Isabel poked her head up from the sofa where she’d been hidden from their sight. ‘Why don’t you put her in the boudoir?’
‘My boudoir?’ Elizabeth was horrified.
Laurence considered it. ‘You know, that isn’t a bad idea. She’d be well away from us.’
‘And from the bathroom,’ his wife pointed out.
‘Give her the two adjoining rooms and she can have the old hip bath up there.’ Isabel was inspired.
‘Myrtle won’t like that.’ Elizabeth was dubious. ‘She’s not been used to taking jugs of water up to fill the old bath.’
‘It’s better than our running into Grandmother with her moustache net on.’
Elizabeth and Isabel laughed, then seeing Father’s face Isabel hurriedly suggested, ‘Suppose we get Harold Mutter to put in a new water closet?’
‘We can’t afford it.’ Trust Isabel to come up with the expensive solution.
‘It may be we can’t afford not to.’ Laurence thought about this too. ‘There’s water that side of
the building. I’ll talk to Harold and see if he can do it quickly.’
‘What about the Honourable Pecksniff?’ Isabel asked. Caroline’s nickname for Grandmother’s butler had been adopted by them all. Indeed, his real name was quite forgotten now. ‘And there’s that awful maid.’
‘How many is she bringing?’ Elizabeth asked in growing dismay.
‘The maid can go in Harriet’s old room,’ Laurence said quickly.
‘We can’t put Pecksniff up in the attics.’
‘I’m not having that old Count Dracula near me,’ declared Isabel.
‘Suppose we clear out the lumber room,’ Laurence suggested wearily. ‘And put him the far side of the attic rooms. It means them all sharing a bathroom, but it can’t be helped. There’s the old earth closet outside, of course.’
Isabel giggled. ‘Oh yes, Father. Tell Pecksniff he’s got to use that. I’d love to see those shiny boots underneath the door.’
‘Isabel, I realise you are a married lady, but sometimes you go too far.’
‘Not where Pecksniff’s concerned,’ Isabel replied.
Caroline replaced the receiver. Over two weeks now and still no news of Phoebe; was that bad or good? If she had run into trouble, either here or in France, surely something would have been heard by now? She blamed herself for not taking more care of her sister. She of all people had known how wayward the girl was. She should have kept a closer eye on her, especially after she went to work at the army camp. Yet she had been so preoccupied with her own concerns that she had dismissed all other worries.
Caroline felt frustrated that there was nothing she could do. Or was there? Suppose she sat and thought it through from Phoebe’s point of view.
Father had told her about the letters, and she remembered meeting Harry Darling briefly at the tennis party. It was all too probable Phoebe had defied Father and continued writing to Harry, and not merely as a friend. So where did that get her? Caroline paced round the room, then looked down on the small garden at the back of the Norland Square house, which was tended by the housekeeper and her husband. There were a couple of bee hives there. It was a pity you couldn’t ask the bees the answer to your problems, instead of merely telling them all your troubles. Percy Dibble had been very zealous about his bees; they were on the march again, he had informed Father solemnly. In the ‘old days’ there was no sugar, only bees, honey and beeboles, and now people were resorting to them again with sugar the most hard-hit commodity. Even Mrs Dibble had grudgingly agreed to cook with honey if she could.