Summer's End

by Amy Myers

  George jumped over the stile from Station Road, and began to stroll along the footpath towards Hodes meadows. He hadn’t proceeded far when it happened. He saw him standing out like a sore thumb in the English countryside. No hop-picker this. A thrill of excitement caught him, and George ran behind a tree to observe his quarry more closely. There was no doubt: the black Homburg hat pulled far down towards the beady eyes, the dark suit, heavy moustache and beard, and, to clinch it, he was actually writing in a notebook. He was obviously gathering vital information from passing trains, and had cleverly positioned himself just near the signal but out of sight of Mr Toms in the signal box. If trains halted by the signal, he could assess the numbers of troops, perhaps even their regiments. Or worse, George tensed up, he was planning to take the signal box in a few moments, just as he’d read about; he’d overpower Mr Toms and then wreck the train!

  George decided on his plan of action. He must surprise the enemy, creep up behind and give him some sort of fright. The man would instinctively reply in his native language – which would be German. With one hand George grasped his scout stick firmly like a shooting rifle, and looped the lasso ready for action over the other wrist. Then he emerged cautiously from his cover. The German was still engrossed in recording information. George was hardly able to believe his luck. Slowly, slowly, catchee monkey spy, he told himself. This was what he’d been waiting for; this was the stuff of Rorke’s Drift.

  Three yards, two yards, one yard, and wham! The stick was poked in the back, and then he swapped hands with the lasso now ready for action.

  There was an incomprehensible cry of pain and shock as the man struggled to his feet, only to find his arms firmly pinioned. Good work, George, he congratulated himself, for the shout was indisputably guttural. He grabbed his whistle and gave the three loud blasts he had discussed with Mr Chaplin, hoping he was still within earshot. He was, for George could already hear shouts and the sound of running feet; that would be the porter while the Stationmaster would ring ahead to PC Ifield. Meanwhile old Hunny here – he grinned at the pun – was making the dickens of a noise.

  The porter, Arthur Mutter, came rushing up. ‘PC Ifield’s on his way, sir.’ Not much older than George, he was thrilled to see evidence of his first spy.

  ‘Good,’ commented George curtly. ‘Give me a hand, will you?’

  With Mr Chaplin’s and Arthur’s help, the man was prodded up into the station cart; George sat proudly at his side, his stick visibly at the ready in case the prisoner showed superhuman strength and burst his bonds, and the old horse plodded off down Station Road with Arthur at the reins. The Ashden telegraph proved quicker than the horse, however. By the time PC Ifield had grabbed his helmet and reached the junction of Bankside and Station Road, half the village, spearheaded by the Norville Arms regulars, had spilled out from its normal occupations to hiss at the German spy. It was George’s supreme moment. Already he could see his name in the Skinners’ news-sheet and the East Sussex Courier.

  Even the Rectory had heard the news, for Mother was at the gate to witness his homecoming. She was looking upset; perhaps she’d thought he’d been hurt? That must be why she was rushing over to old Ifield and talking so earnestly. Together they accompanied the cart past the Rectory, past Tillow House and into the grounds of the police house.

  They waited till then to break it to him. It turned out the spy was a Belgian after all, and the reason George couldn’t understand him was that the fellow spoke some peculiar language called Flemish. A very natural mistake, PC Ifield declared. Mother was not so understanding, as she forced him to apologise to the man and sent him back to the Rectory while she smoothed things over. It turned out the fellow was actually staying in their house with his family and had only just arrived. George now recalled some vague talk of Belgian refugees, but how was he to know they were actually coming, and after all he’d been at his post of duty for the past two days and nights. Somebody should have told him.

  Smarting with chagrin, George went straight up to his room on the pretext of starting the parish magazine. He might as well have a go at that; there was nothing else to do in this place.

  Shortly afterwards, Elizabeth, full of sympathy for the poor man’s ordeal acquainted her husband with the story of George’s iniquity. Laurence tried not to laugh and failed, and reluctantly Elizabeth gave in and laughed with him.

  ‘It’s all very well for you,’ she informed her husband, ‘but I had to apologise and try to explain with scarcely a word of a common language between us. After all that trouble Mrs Dibble and I went to in organising their rooms to make them feel at home, the poor people had only been here an hour before our son assaulted the father. After all they’ve been through he must have been terrified.’ Try as she would, another giggle escaped her.

  ‘Where are they now?’

  She made a face. ‘He retired to their rooms with his wife and the two children. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Leave them there. When they emerge, warn me, and I’ll appear in cassock and surplice to impress them.’

  ‘Suppose they’re Roman Catholics?’

  The Rector peered out of the morning-room window. ‘It seems to me that may be irrelevant,’ he commented. ‘Look.’

  Elizabeth rushed to join him. Down the Rectory drive marched a family of four, the ‘spy’ in front carrying one battered bag, his family behind. All their backs had the truculent, stolid look of those who have no intention of returning. ‘But where can they be going?’ she asked in concern. ‘Should I run after them? They are our responsibility.’

  Laurence watched for a moment or two as they disappeared through the open gate. ‘No. They look as though they know exactly where they’re going. And I would say it’s to one of the few places they know. The railway station, or,’ he paused for effect, ‘The Towers, where they were taken when they first arrived.’

  ‘The Towers?’ Elizabeth’s lips twitched.

  He put his arm round her. ‘The Belgians are the losers. Indeed I almost feel it my duty to implore them to stay. Perhaps, on reflection, we should go after them.’

  She looked at him, startled at the seeming gravity in his voice. She braced herself. ‘Very well. If you are sure that is right, Laurence.’

  ‘We could perhaps wait a little while.’ He laughed, his conscience pricking him slightly. Was it for the Lord’s work or his own sake that he so desired the Rectory to have an open door for those in need but to be able to close it when necessary? He saw Elizabeth’s relieved expression, and knew she was battling as was he.

  ‘I think we could,’ she agreed thankfully. She waited guiltily for the sound of the telephone bell; it came several times, but not from The Towers.

  Frank Eliot, opening his front door at Hop Cottage on the maid’s evening off, was completely taken aback to find the Rector’s wife on the doorstep. He wondered whether Phoebe had told her of their encounter, and was relieved when he found, after inviting her into his parlour, that all that was at stake was her son’s services as a hop-picker. Opportunely, troops were being detailed to take over the scouts’ duties. ‘And possibly my daughter Phoebe, when I have spoken to her, may accompany him,’ Elizabeth added.

  ‘Does not her work at the railway station rule that out?’ he asked in surprise.

  From the look on Mrs Lilley’s face, he realised he had blundered.

  ‘What work, may I ask?’

  There was no help for it now. A full explanation would serve better than half-truths. He told her, therefore, emphasising how necessary Phoebe’s work was and what a valuable contribution she was making to the war effort.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Eliot. I undersatnd.’

  By no sign did she reveal how hurt she was. He was a stranger. To her husband, however, she did not conceal her horror. ‘She cannot possibly be allowed to continue, of course.’

  ‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘It seems to me to show enterprise.’

  ‘But serving troops and hop-pickers. It’s not fitting for her to
be dealing with them alone.’

  ‘Two of our daughters are tending soldiers in some capacity or other. Would you say that was fitting?’

  ‘That is war. This is not.’

  ‘For Phoebe it is war. If she meets trouble, she will either deal with it, or give up. Either way, let her try.’

  Even Mrs Dibble, Elizabeth discovered to her increasing chagrin, had known about the lemonade, but had not seen fit to mention it. For the mistress of the Rectory, Elizabeth seemed to be singularly ill-informed. It was a situation she must deal with, war or no war.

  ‘I could do with Grandfather’s cottage, surely.’

  Mabel regarded her elder son with something rapidly approaching dislike. She hadn’t realised how much she’d miss Jamie till he’d gone. He’d been a shame to her in Ashden, but Len was no substitute for Jamie’s companionship, and even less for his work. Not that she’d been wrong in telling him to go. He’d done ill and must pay for it, but that didn’t mean Len was going to profit by it. Ebenezer Thorn, while drinking to the Kaiser’s downfall in the Norville Arms a week ago, had collapsed and died. There was general sympathy, for Ebenezer had been popular in the village, even – during periods when the feud was dormant – among the Mutters. It was, Mabel reflected sourly, just like Len to be asking what he could get out of it without doing a stroke towards the work of the funeral and clearing out the poor old man’s clutter.

  ‘Your father’s going to sell it, and we’ve been offered a tidy price. A hundred and fifty pounds, that’s double what it’s worth. Where are we going to get that kind of money again?’

  ‘I do a decent day’s work.’

  ‘A decent day’s laze, I call it. It’s only your father pulls you through. And what if you go to war too?’

  ‘I’m needed here. I can’t go to war.’

  ‘Then stay here. You’ve a roof over your head, haven’t you?’

  ‘And what if I wed?’

  ‘Bring her here and all.’

  Len had a mental vision of Phoebe Lilley tucked up in the attic, helping his mother out, humping buckets of well water in and out, and frustration made him belligerent. ‘Who are you selling to?’

  ‘As if you can’t guess.’

  ‘Old fatty Billy boy?’

  ‘Quite right, son. If you don’t get earning, you lazy splodger, the picture palace ain’t going to see you, surely.’

  ‘Caroline, come quickly.’ Felicia rushed breathlessly into the hospital kitchen.

  ‘I can’t. I’ve still got nineteen trays to go. Can’t it wait until I do the ward rounds?’

  ‘No. There’s a Tommy here from the 2nd Battalion of the Royal Sussex, and he’s in Reggie’s platoon. He knows him.’

  Caroline forgot all about trays sixty-two to eighty, and endeavoured to walk sedately with Felicia in order to avoid notice by the Sister on the ward. Private Joe Pinfold, recuperating after a bullet in the leg, was propped against his pillows, obviously regaling the occupants of the adjoining beds with his views on the nurses, for he promptly stopped as Felicia approached.

  ‘This is my sister, Joe. She’s Lieutenant Hunney’s fiancée.’

  Fiancée? Caroline was whisked back into the world of Ashden, which she only visited in her dreams at night now. Here, in the hospital, the word struck her as strange, for here she was Caroline Lilley, a VAD trainee, and that was all.

  ‘Is Lieutenant Hunney all right?’ she burst out after expressing her sympathy for his wounds.

  ‘Come to see me in the dressing station himself. It would take more than a few Germans to knock him out, don’t you worry, miss. And me,’ he added for good measure.

  ‘What do you mean? Did they try?’ What a stupid question she thought, even as she said it. Only a matter of days ago a Times special edition had proclaimed the engagement at Le Cateau: ‘Fiercest fight in History. Heavy losses by British troops’.

  ‘Oh yes, miss. At the Marne. Advance guard we were, off to meet old von Kluck himself one fine morning. Pissing – Raining hard it was, they never ought to force you to fight when it’s raining. Ain’t got the heart for it. Well, there we were, all wearing our waterproofs, and no one could tell who was fighting who. So we copped a packet, not only from the Germans, but our own artillery, coming up behind.’ He had put it more graphically to his mates.

  ‘That’s when you were wounded? And what about Reg – Lieutenant Hunney?’

  ‘You stay with me, Pinfold, he says. I was on the stretcher, see. I’m going that way myself.’

  ‘Why?’ Caroline asked sharply. ‘Was he wounded?’

  ‘Only a scratch, miss. Bullet grazed him. He was in there less time than it takes to flip a tiddly-wink. Don’t you worry now. Gentlemen like Lieutenant Hunney pull through. They’re in the lead, see, and the one at the front always gets through.’

  Caroline considered these words of wisdom dubiously. She wanted to ask fatuously: did he mention me? That was nonsense; how could he have done? Was it only a scratch? She would have to go on waiting, clinging only to the knowledge that a week ago he had been safe. War, she now knew, was not a daring charge by a cavalry of immaculate red-jacketed soldiers, but a group of wet men in waterproofs being machine-gunned by their own side.

  ‘Elizabeth, can you spare a moment?’ Laurence poked his head round the corner of the boudoir door.

  ‘Of course.’ Elizabeth abandoned the pile of parcels of knitted comforts awaiting despatch to the War Office. The boudoir was now a packing room with a considerably turnover, which Fred ambled down to the post office or carriers to despatch at least twice a day.

  Was Ruth Horner’s baby born already, she wondered. Had the police come for Jacob Halfpenny, whom the whole village knew to be a deserter and with whom all sympathised since he looked after his widowed mother who was nearly blind and confined to her chair, crippled with rheumatics? Had Grannie Johns gone at last, she who was so old no one knew how old, save that she remembered the ‘great battle’? Waterloo? Had Laurence discovered yet another of Mrs Dibble’s hoards? Elizabeth was still feeling like a fish floundering out of her depth in her own home. ‘There is very bad news from the Manor, Elizabeth. Sir John has come down briefly to stay with his wife for Daniel is on the missing list.’

  ‘Daniel?’ she repeated stupidly. The lists of those missing were names published in The Times under the heading Roll of Honour, not people they knew. ‘Does that mean –’ she grappled with the horrifying idea – ‘that he is dead?’

  ‘Possibly, or wounded, or is a prisoner of war. It is too soon to be sure.’

  ‘But that is terrible. Poor, poor Lady Hunney.’ Elizabeth watched Laurence pacing round the room. ‘He is so young. It was his twenty-first birthday only two weeks ago. He wants to do so much, and now missing in a war that is not of our making. Who else?’

  The same thought was in both their minds: Reggie.

  ‘Where is he missing?’ she asked confusingly.

  ‘There was some delay in notifying the War Office, because of the retreat and the swiftness of the German sweep towards Paris. Daniel is in the 1st Battalion of the King’s Own Royal Regiment; the battalion was late in being ordered to France, and therefore was not involved in the fighting at Mons; however, it did join in the retreat, and took part in the engagement at Le Cateau we read about. The King’s Own met disaster there when somehow they remained visible to the enemy, who machine-gunned and shelled them as such an obvious target. A great many were killed, and then the battalion fought valiantly on throughout the day before being ordered to withdraw.’

  Elizabeth shuddered, and Laurence tried to keep his voice even as he recited the known facts. ‘The men were buried in a mass grave. It is possible that Daniel may have been one of them, though Sir John thinks it unlikely, since he would have heard if so.’

  ‘Poor boy,’ Elizabeth said, her tears already falling. ‘How is Maud?’

  ‘She has taken it badly – or well, as you may think. She simply refuses to believe he is dead, and insists that there has been
some mistake.’

  ‘I can understand her. I would feel that myself.’ Elizabeth paused. ‘Laurence, what of Felicia? She is so fond of Daniel.’

  ‘Neither of us can leave the parish at such a time, Elizabeth. I will write to Caroline to break the news gently to her.’

  ‘He is well,’ Caroline crowed triumphantly, as they walked back to their lodgings that evening, twirling round to demonstrate the point.

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ Felicia said.

  ‘What does fighting a battle conjure up to you, Felicia? To me, it’s derring-do, Kitchener and Omdurman.’

  ‘All it means to me is a pile of soiled bandages. I don’t believe I care for King and Country.’

  Caroline stopped short in amazement. ‘I would have thought that of all of us you would be the most duty-bound.’

  ‘Would you, if that were Reggie in that bed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Every man there is a Daniel for me.’

  They walked in silence in the starry night on the more wooded side of the roadway of Shooters Hill, where thick bushes recalled the area’s famous highwaymen days; days when gallows stood ready at the foot of the hill, and staging coaches stopped with relief at the Bull Inn. The mounting steps were still there, but used now only for the occasional horseman. Sevendroog Castle, a weird and romantic tower on the hill top, gave it an atmosphere so different to that of the hospital lying at its foot, but all sense of excitement vanished as they reached their lodgings. There was only one letter awaiting them – for Caroline. She opened it and Felicia, eagerly waiting for news from home, saw her face change.

  She would go to the hop-fields to find George. Mother was worried about him; she must be, Isabel told herself. George was only fifteen and the hop-pickers were a very rough crowd. Shopkeepers had barriers and shutters erected against thieving hands, and the Norville Arms always consigned hop-pickers to the barn behind the inn. Besides, she deserved a temporary escape. Robert was totally preoccupied by how much he hated his new work at the brewery, necessary now that so many of the men were volunteering, and when he wasn’t complaining about that he was still bewailing the fact that he could not volunteer himself. She found it hardly flattering. Every day she feared he might sneak off to the Drill Hall recruiting centre in Tunbridge Wells to offer his services, and he had told her that every time he saw his father he tried again to make him change his mind. Fortunately William Swinford-Browne was standing firm.