‘It’s not something I want to do, I promise you.’
‘There is something I want to do,’ Anthony said matter-of-factly. ‘Something I’ve wanted and been meaning to do for some time, as it happens.’
He kissed her. Although they had both lit their cigarettes he simply leaned over and kissed her, his free hand on her waist, the hand holding his cigarette held to one side. A moment later and simultaneously they both dropped their cigarettes to embrace each other properly.
‘You’re as good a kisser as you are a dancer,’ Marjorie whispered, her arms round his neck. ‘You’re also full of surprises.’
‘Well, that’s one thing my mother didn’t teach me,’ Anthony replied, with a half-smile.
‘What did she teach you?’
‘How to dance. My mother was a ballet dancer.’
‘Was?’
‘She died when I was fourteen. I still miss her. She was a wonderful person and my father misses her too, more than he can say.’
Marjorie stared at him. This was not at all the sort of thing she had expected to hear from Major Anthony Folkestone.
‘You’re looking puzzled, Marjorie. Do tell why.’
‘Your father’s a general, isn’t he?’
‘So? Soldiers aren’t all tanks and guns, you know. Sometimes they’re rather the reverse of the famous description of Chopin. You know – cannons in roses and all that.’
‘All what?’ Marjorie enquired.
‘Well, in as much as Chopin’s music can very often be described as cannons hidden in roses, so some soldiers may be found to be roses hidden behind cannons. My father’s a case in point. He’s a wonderful amateur painter and an absolutely first rate pianist.’
‘And your mother was a ballet dancer.’
‘Prettiest woman you’d ever see. Light as down, sweet as an angel, and a wonderful dancer. She’d have loved you. What a pity you won’t get to meet her.’
‘I am getting to meet her, Tony.’ She smiled. ‘Through you.’
‘Do you know, Marjorie, that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Thank you.’
‘You deserve it. You’re the nicest man I ever met.’
‘I want you to marry me, Marjorie. Or rather I want to marry you. Blow me, I don’t know which the right way round is now, I’m in such a state of confusion. Let me put it another way—’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me put it this way – what did you say?’
‘I said yes. Yes I will marry you, Tony. I can’t think of anything I want more. So if you haven’t asked me properly, ask me again so that I can say yes again. Because I love saying yes to you.’
‘Will you marry me, Marjorie?’ Anthony asked again, dropping down to one knee. ‘Will you really marry me?’
‘Yes, Anthony Folkestone,’ Marjorie replied. ‘Yes I really will.’
They kissed again, and then again. Then as they kissed for the fourth time, or was it the fifth time they were interrupted by a strange droning noise in the sky above them. Both of them looked up, disturbed and puzzled by the ominous sound.
‘What on earth do you think that is?’ Marjorie wondered, looking for something in the sky to explain it.
‘I don’t know, Marjorie,’ he replied. ‘It’s not a noise I can put an aircraft to. Not any aircraft that I know, anyway.’
All at once the strange drone cut out, leaving an ominous silence. Others had heard it as well, those outside the fire station at any rate, since they could be seen looking upwards as they too tried to identify the noise. Then, after the silence, came the sound – the now unmistakable sound – of a bomb exploding.
‘My God,’ Anthony said, frowning deeply in the direction of the explosion, and seeing the light of flames licking up into the sky. ‘Whatever it was has crashed. And blown up.’
Minutes later, the station having been cleared of dancers, the fire engines roared out, some of the firemen still pulling on their jackets in the cabs, accelerating away to fight a fire caused by the crash of an unknown and so far unidentified missile.
Anthony and Marjorie stood hand in hand, watching the huge machines disappearing into the distance as beyond them the flames reached higher and higher into the night sky.
Of course, Billy had heard nothing about this latest development. All he knew was that he was safe, he had completed his mission successfully, he had rescued Scott, and they had got home in one piece. So when his homecoming train reached Maidstone where he changed to pick up the branch line to Goudhurst where Marjorie was to meet him, he was still innocent of the fact that something he had thought up so long ago had actually come to fruition. How he missed reading about it he never knew; possibly because once he and Scott had gleaned what the main news was, their only determination was to go out and get roisteringly drunk before having to report back to HQ. Consequently both men slept for most of the journey down to Maidstone and idly flicked through magazines for the branch line run down to the local station. By now, of course, they were the firmest of friends, Scott admiring of Billy’s invention and imagination as well as grateful to him for ever more for saving his life, while in return Billy’s hero-worship of Scott, which had been quite substantial before his own adventure, once he had learned of Scott’s own adventures in Occupied France now knew no bounds. Best of all they enjoyed laughing together, Scott constantly teasing Billy, while Billy took great delight in setting all sorts of traps, both physical and psychological, for his hero.
So it was in the very best of moods that they finally alighted at Goudhurst where they found Marjorie and Poppy waiting for them in Kate’s pony and trap. Had the girls been five minutes late, the terrible incident would never have happened; had they not come by trap but by car the same would have applied. But as it was, they were there on time, perched up high in the trap, happier than any of them had been for as long as they could remember.
After Scott and Poppy’s reconciliation, a reunion so sweet and so passionate that Marjorie and Billy, themselves both thrilled and delighted to see each other again, had to take a turn around the little country station in order to give the sweethearts a bit of time to themselves, Scott – being an excellent driver – took the ribbons and so began the longed-for journey home.
They were so full of happiness and sheer joie de vivre that had they all been talking and laughing as much as they had been they might none of them have heard the dreadful warning. As it was, an angel passed overhead and they all fell suddenly to silence. And in that silence came the dreadful droning roar in the skies above that the people of Britain had come to so hate and fear. Billy stared up at the sky, not having any idea what it might be, and Scott pulled the pony to a walk while he stared up in amazement.
Not the girls – in a second Marjorie and Poppy were on their feet in the back of the trap, searching the skies for the tell-tale shape they had come to know and to fear. At that very moment the roar cut out, and the air was full of silence.
‘Quick!’ Marjorie yelled, grabbing Billy by an arm. ‘Get down! Quickly! Get down, Billy! Run!’
Poppy was doing the same to Scott, urging him to jump down from his seat and take cover, but both young men shook them off to stare instead at what they had seen in the sky – and what they could still see. The next thing either of them knew was that they were both being knocked bodily from the front of the trap and dragged along the road.
‘For God’s sake hurry!’ Poppy was screaming. ‘Run! Hurry! If you don’t you’ll be killed!’
If they hadn’t listened to the girls, if they hadn’t suddenly got the message, they would have been killed, too. In fact it was a miracle that none of them were killed, and had they been killed it would have been the fault, indirectly, of an RAF pilot flying high above them, who spotting the V1 and, guessing that it might be headed directly for the great house and its outbuildings that he could see below him, set about using a defence technique the bravest flyers had developed to try to deflect Hitler’s latest dirty weapons from their targets. He had fl
own his Hurricane up alongside the pilotless V1 until he could get the wingtip of his fighter under the nearside wing of the flying bomb, which he then tilted off course by banking his own plane just enough to change the bomb’s trajectory. There was always a chance of course that the bomb, once its timer cut the engine out, would still crash into somewhere inhabited, but more often than not, thanks to the skill and courage of the pilots, they managed to steer the bombs towards open, uninhabited countryside.
Such was the case exactly with the bomb that had been headed for Eden, no doubt deliberately targeted there thanks to information previously leaked by the now dead caochán. Had it scored the direct hit that was intended, the Intelligence forces and MI5 would have been devastated, losing not only so many top agents who were awaiting their next mission, but invaluable information. As it was, thanks to the Hurricane pilot’s courage and skill, he tipped the V1 just at the right moment, pushing it way off course so that it would land, so he hoped, bang in the middle of one of the enormous exposed tracts of Kent countryside he could see below. What he could not see was the tiny pony and trap far, far below him, carrying not one but three of Eden Park’s heroes.
It was the hole that saved them. Running and stumbling across the tracks beside the lane, not half a mile from Gibbet Cross, they fled into the woods, pursued closely – had they known – by a now silent V1 that was closing in on them ominously fast. Then the ground simply opened up under their feet and all four disappeared with shouts and screams into a passageway far below them, fortunately – unlike most of the passageways cut below ground to serve the catacomb of caves that ran under Eden Park – a grass-floored and not a concreted corridor.
They fell in a heap, one on top of the other, and as a terrible whistling noise near deafened them from above, they covered their heads with their arms and crushed themselves as tightly together as they could.
Seconds later, the V1 crashed through the trees and exploded with a huge detonation a hundred yards into the woods. It was clear that had they been anywhere above ground they would all have been killed by the blast, but lying as they were twenty feet below ground and insulated from the explosion by the solid rock formations of the caves around them, the only access being an already weakened air vent that had collapsed beneath their weights, they escaped with cuts, bruises and, in Marjorie’s case, one broken wrist.
‘What the hell was that?’ Scott wondered once the noise had subsided and the dust and dirt had settled. ‘What in the name of God was that?’
Billy knew.
He knew when he had heard the engine cut out. He knew, because that was the way he had designed his own flying bomb to work, with a timer cutting out the engine once the target distance had been achieved, so that the unpiloted aircraft would then glide down in deadly silence to explode on its intended target.
For the rest of his life he would often wonder quite how the enemy got hold of the idea in the first place? He would lie awake arguing with himself. I know it’s possible for two people to think of the same idea at more or less the same time, but in this instance I just think that it must be a little too coincidental . . .
But any answer he might have received now lay with the caochán in an unmarked grave in unconsecrated ground, a round silver locket around her neck, within it enclosed a photograph of a golden-coated dog staring up devotedly at the photographer.
Epilogue
The last pages of the old diary she had found were something that Poppy always liked to reread on the anniversary of the day that Scott had returned safe to her. It was a moment she saved for herself, refusing to share it with anyone lest the slightest remark, well-meaning comment, or off-hand observation would destroy something which had meant so much to her for so long. It was as if, during the dark days of the war, the writer of the diary had become her secret friend, providing Poppy with the reassurance that times like this had passed before, that similar perils had been survived, and that finally against all odds great victories had finally been won.
I am exhausted from all the anxiety, knowing that if by God’s grace my beloved is returned to me it will be a miracle beyond all imagining. Then early this very morning there was a great belting on my door, so loud that I feared it would cave in, but when I opened it, it was to one of the sights I shall always treasure, young Billy Cosworth from the rectory, his grandfather’s old forage cap set back on his thick head of curls, his face wreathed in smiles.
‘Boney is defeated, ma’am!’ he cries. ‘Boney is done for! Father sends to tell you that the battle at Waterloo is won and Boney is defeated!’
Quickly I snatch up my bonnet and shawl and follow Billy down through the woods, past the lake and on to the big house. We are only halfway across the lawns that run beside the lake when the church bells start to ring – the sound we all most longed to hear, the very peals of victory. Billy turns to me and says, ‘I bet they’re ringing out all over England ma’am! Imagine that!’ and indeed I do. I think of that, and feel near to fainting at the very idea of every bell in England sounding for this wonderful day, this great victory, this time of joy that now must follow so much sadness and despair. There cannot be a house or a family in the land that has not suffered the loss of a loved one, not a village that has no memory of some bright handsome boy who has been taken, in the long campaign against the villain Napoleon, not a place anywhere in this land that because of him has not had to learn to live with grief, tears and a sorrow that will never be allayed.
Yet through it all we have always surely known that the tyrant must be defeated, and that we alone had the courage to do it. And because of this great day I swear as we all must do that no enemy shall ever invade this blessed island of ours, not ever. I know we all feel the same. I can tell from the faces all around me – we are determined no one shall ever threaten us again in such a way, but if they do then we shall repel them in just the same way as we repelled Bonaparte. I say to young Billy, ‘You will always remember this day, won’t you, Billy?’ which he will. I can tell from the look in his bright eyes, and from the joy etched on his face that this is a moment he will never forget. Then after the prayers of thanksgiving in the church, and many tears of gratitude shed as we speak them, I quickly leave the congregation and hurry home, where I now sit and await the return of my beloved, for him to return to me and to our little House of Flowers, with God’s grace, I know he most surely will.
Nowadays Poppy always looked up at this moment, because although she knew that the writer’s husband does indeed return safely and heroically, she never read beyond the words Home at last – praise be! So touching were the entries subsequent to the return of the writer’s soldier husband that, after she had read them once, Poppy felt as if she was intruding into a moment that should be utterly private, just like the moment Scott had finally returned to her, and together they had closed out the rest of the world as they shut the doors of the House of Flowers to retire to their bliss within.
So Poppy would always close the diary at this point, retie the faded ribbon that kept it shut and intact and carefully replace it in its hidey-hole at the bottom of the ancient little mahogany box where she had found it. England was at peace, those who would invade her had been repelled, husbands and lovers were returned, and so Poppy would lock the mahogany box back up, hide the key away and quietly leave her little drawing room, as if she was leaving someone she had woken to fall back asleep once more, until the following year.
Postscript
Anthony married Marjorie at St Michael’s Church in Little Midfield, the village adjacent to Eden Park. Billy was their best man. They both continued to work for Intelligence until they began a family.
Eugene Hackett married Kate Maddox in the Church of Our Lady in Ashbrook. Billy was their best man too. Eugene made a full recovery but was still considered not fit enough to continue active service. He retired to breed thoroughbred horses in Wicklow. The best horse he bred was an Irish Derby winner. It was called The Dodge.
Jack Ward married Hel
en Maddox in the Kensington Register Office, London. Harvey Constable was his best man. They moved home to the Cotswolds and adopted two children.
Scott and Poppy Meynell finally went on honeymoon, first to Brighton, and then on to Devon. George went too. Scott remained working for Intelligence while Poppy founded a training school for pilots.
Billy went to look for Nina after the war was over, only to find she had married a Communist film director who had also been a member of the Underground. Billy himself became an actor, while continuing to work part time for Intelligence.
Yves and Lily married after a long engagement that was broken off four times. They live in the Loire Valley, have five children and run a restaurant that was awarded two Michelin stars seven years after they opened it.
Poppy’s dachshund George married a redhead, who bore him four puppies. Scott and Poppy have the pick of the litter.
Cissie Lavington was offered the post as head of MI5 but refused, preferring early retirement to breed roses in her now famous garden in Somerset.
Harvey Constable became one of the top international couturiers. He never married.
THE END
Charlotte Bingham would like to invite you to visit
her website at www.charlottebingham.com
About the Author
Charlotte Bingham comes from a literary family – her father sold a story to H. G. Wells when he was only seventeen – and Charlotte wrote her autobiography, CORONET AMONG THE WEEDS, at the age of nineteen. Since then, she has written comedy and drama series, films and plays for both England and America with her husband, the actor and playwright Terence Brady. Her published novels include the highly acclaimed bestsellers SUMMERTIME, THE SEASON, THE BLUE NOTE, THE LOVE KNOT, THE KISSING GARDEN, LOVE SONG, TO HEAR A NIGHTINGALE, THE BUSINESS, IN SUNSHINE OR IN SHADOW, STARDUST, NANNY, CHANGE OF HEART, DEBUTANTES, THE NIGHTINGALE SINGS, GRAND AFFAIR, THE CHESTNUT TREE, THE WIND OFF THE SEA, THE MOON AT MIDNIGHT, DAUGHTERS OF EDEN, THE HOUSE OF FLOWERS, THE MAGIC HOUR, FRIDAY’S GIRL, IN DISTANT FIELDS and THE WHITE MARRIAGE.
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