Songs of Spring

by Amy Myers

  Caroline was terrified. She had never seen her father’s face so bleak. She ran to him, throwing her arms round him and pleading childishly, ‘Please don’t say I can’t come home any more.’

  He put her aside gently. ‘Caroline, I won’t say that. There is room here for everyone, even for those God sees as sinners, but I cannot give you my blessing on this relationship. It follows that, much though it pains me, I must ask you not to accompany Caroline here in future, Captain Rosier.’

  Before Yves could reply, Caroline spoke first, not on impulse, but out of the sure knowledge of her own heart. ‘I love Yves, Father, and he is as much to me as Mother was to you, when you walked out of Grandmother’s home because she did not approve of your choice of loved one. If you cannot welcome Yves here, then I cannot come alone.’

  The last words were almost swallowed in the effort to hold back her tears.

  Chapter Three

  Caroline peered down through the attic bedroom window in Queen Anne’s Gate – or rather she tried to peer down. The heavy tracery of frost patterns on the glass prevented her from seeing anything but a faint suggestion of swirling snow outside. Mrs Dibble said it was a ‘blackthorn winter’ which meant cold and frost in April, not January.

  ‘Are we snowed in yet?’ Yves asked sleepily from the bed.

  She breathed hard several times on the windowpane to try to clear a hole in the frost, and eventually it responded to treatment, or sufficiently so for her to see that snow still lay thickly in the road beneath them.

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ve sent a special prayer for a path to clear wherever your dainty boots choose to walk.’

  ‘They would prefer not to walk at all. Did le Bon Seigneur agree?’

  ‘Yes, He sent you a shovel.’

  ‘Captains do not shovel except at weekends. Captains stay in bed while the batmen shovel.’

  ‘Shall I tell Ellen on you?’

  Yves sighed heavily. ‘I will arise.’

  Caroline looked at him tenderly. His hair was tousled, his chin stubbly, his eyes still heavy with sleep; it was the Yves she loved best – save the very private one whom she shared only with the pillow. The moment his feet touched the floor, little by little Captain Rosier would take over from Yves; the face would subtly change, growing layers like garments donned one by one. First the long johns in this icy weather, then the vest, the shirt, and khaki breeches, until it needed only the uniform tunic for Yves to be slumbering deep inside while His Majesty King Albert’s liaison officer assumed command.

  Washing and dressing were brief routines at the moment, for though the coal rationing system was working well, there was little left for bedroom fires.

  ‘I wish I were a motor car chase in a Harold Lloyd film,’ she complained, as she wrestled her way into her blouse and WAAC jacket, and then returned to tackle the time-consuming battle of the suspenders. ‘Then I could do this at double the speed.’ Hollywood films could speed up the action by the turn of a switch, but human beings took a little longer. She blew on her fingers, still cold from the washing water.

  ‘There’ll be ice on the lake,’ she said, trying to think of the bonuses of a London winter.

  She had been thinking of the Serpentine, but he misunderstood, and in a moment she was warm again from his arms around her.

  ‘Cara, do not grieve for Ashden – there are other lakes and we will find them. How long will it last, do you think?’

  How long would it last? How many ways to interpret that: the cold January weather, her happiness with Yves, her estrangement from the Rectory? Always in her life Ashden had come first, and London was merely a place where she worked and lived. Now London was her home, at least until the end of the war. What would happen then was as impenetrable a white blur as the snowy, frosty scene outside. There would then be no Yves, and perhaps no Rectory either. The ache in her heart had even made her doubt the wisdom of what she was doing. Yves and she had talked it over endlessly, and each time she had come to the same conclusion, despite Yves’ repeating all the arguments against it.

  ‘How can I allow you to cut yourself off from your home, cara? It is a small thing for us to be separated for a few days while you visit Ashden alone.’

  ‘It is not a small thing, Yves, and you know it,’ she had patiently replied each time. ‘I have made my choice, and it is you. In not accepting our situation, Father is rejecting me as well as you.’

  War altered everything, save basic morality, and in her view she and Yves had not transgressed those rules. Never in her life had she so irrevocably divided herself from her father, and she still could hardly believe that it had happened. It had, though, so the less she thought about it the better.

  ‘Come on, lazybones, time for work.’ She dragged Yves away from the window through which he was peering with no enthusiasm at all.

  ‘If this is 1918,’ he said, ‘I do not like it.’ She agreed with him. Clad in galoshes, mackintoshes, scarves and gloves, and somewhat warmer inside thanks to Ellen’s breakfast, they battled their way across St James’s Park to Whitehall against a bitterly cold north-east wind and fine, driving snow. All around them white-encrusted uniforms and greatcoats were marching with similar determination. It was, she decided, a whole new army trooping to battle. Their battle, although vital, could never compare with that on the Western Front, however, where troops were captives in trenches and dugouts, without loved ones, and without home comforts. A free Christmas pudding sent to all the troops didn’t seem much compensation.

  Moreover it wasn’t just the soldiers; there were those that looked after them. People like Felicia. She felt humble remembering what the sister they had all believed to be so fragile was enduring.

  ‘Glory be!’ she said thankfully, as at last they reached their office. Someone had lit a small fire.

  ‘I bestow upon them the order of Leopold II,’ Yves said thankfully, as they collided in their eagerness to reach the warmth first.

  ‘I thought army captains were impervious to cold.’

  ‘That is true – save for those who are not.’

  ‘Luke’s back!’ Caroline cried, spotting the portmanteau by his desk. ‘He must have come straight to the office.’ She had been surprised not to find him there when they returned to the office after the Christmas break, and were told that he had taken leave. Then Luke himself appeared through the door to greet them.

  ‘You don’t look well, Luke,’ Caroline said, concerned that his usual cheerful face was drawn and colourless. Did she imagine it, or had a glance passed between the two men even as she made her comment?

  ‘Bad journey.’

  ‘From Reading? That’s where your parents live, isn’t it?’

  He appeared not to hear the question, for he disappeared through into the small adjoining office, and brought in some hot cocoa for them which Caroline seized gratefully.

  At last Luke did reply. ‘My journey wasn’t from Berkshire. I came from France and there are gales in the Channel, as you probably know.’

  ‘You’ve been to see Felicia,’ Caroline exclaimed. ‘How is she?’ The moment she had spoken, she knew she had misread the situation, and the excitement was lost in a wave of inexplicable fear. ‘You didn’t spend Christmas here, did you? You were in France all the time.’ Of course. How could she not have realised that before?

  Luke nodded.

  ‘And it isn’t the gales making you look so ill, is it?’ she pressed him. ‘It’s Felicia.’ The words just came, from where she did not know. ‘Is she dead?’ she asked jerkily.

  ‘No,’ Luke answered quickly, quietly. ‘She’s not. She is very ill though. That’s why I went.’

  She could hardly take this in. ‘How long? Where is she? How ill?’ She blurted out the questions like bullets. ‘Do my parents know? How did you know?’ Oh, the hurt. All over Christmas Felicia had been lying ill, while Caroline had been escaping from the war at Ashden.

  ‘She would not allow anyone to know, particularly her parents. I heard by cha
nce. Tilly knew, of course.’

  Aunt Tilly had been at Ashden at Christmas. ‘How could she not tell us?’ Caroline cried unbelievingly.

  ‘To spare your parents, Caroline. To spare all of you the worry. It was Felicia’s decision.’

  ‘Do not blame her, cara,’ Yves said quietly. ‘She took the same decision as you, to spare others’ pain.’

  Caroline longed to cry out that this was different, that Felicia was ill, needed them, could not be held responsible for what she said. She could not do it, however, as she realised the hurt inside her was purely selfish; it was on her own account, not on Felicia’s. Felicia, unlike Caroline, had always known what she wanted, and if this meant suffering alone, her decision should be respected, however hard to bear for her family.

  ‘Tell me about it, Luke,’ she asked quietly.

  ‘She and Tilly were both gassed, Felicia much more seriously than Tilly, in the last stages of the battle for Passchendaele Ridge in November. Tilly recovered well enough to return to England in December, as you know, but Felicia did not.’

  ‘So it wasn’t pneumonia.’ Of course it wasn’t. Caroline realised she had subconsciously known something was wrong, but hadn’t pursued the thought, intent on her own concerns. November. All that time, and they had merely assumed Felicia was manning the advance dressing post on her own, and since she very seldom wrote, no matter the season, her silence had not worried them unduly. War, as Caroline had been reflecting earlier this morning, changed everything.

  ‘She’s in hospital at Étaples now,’ Luke continued, ‘not well enough to be moved.’

  Caroline licked her dry lips. ‘I heard that serious gas cases died quickly.’ She tried not to think of what she knew of the effects of gas. The skin burnt with mustard-coloured blisters, the effects on the eyes, and the choked-up throats that slowly closed for ever. Surely God would spare Felicia’s beautiful dark eyes? She fought panic and tried to think rationally.

  ‘That’s so, and she’s survived the first few weeks.’

  ‘But that means she’s improving,’ Caroline said eagerly. ‘There’s no longer any danger to her life?’

  Luke hesitated. ‘Probably not.’

  The sick feeling returned. ‘Tell me the truth, Luke.’

  ‘It’s true that usually survival of the first weeks means gradual improvement. In Felicia’s case, it’s more complicated.’

  ‘Because of lack of resistance caused by poor diet and exposure?’

  ‘Lack of resistance in my view, yes, but not for the reasons you think.’

  ‘What then?’ She waited, heart in mouth.

  ‘I don’t think she has the will to survive any more.’ Luke tried to speak impassively, but the effort was obvious.

  ‘Then we will give it to her. Mother and Father and I will go. Phoebe can go, George—’ She broke off, seeing his expression.

  He shook his head. ‘She’s quite adamant, Caroline, that she wants to see no one, and that no one was to know, even you. If – when – she dies, everyone will believe she died from a German bullet.’

  ‘There must be something we can do.’

  Even as he replied slowly: ‘There is one way,’ she guessed what it was.

  ‘Daniel. You want me to tell him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She dared not think how much it was costing Luke to admit that Daniel might succeed where he had failed, and that all his dedicated determination to marry Felicia was not strong enough to overcome the bond that still held her to Daniel. Even in this extreme situation, Luke’s self-sacrifice must be immense.

  ‘I’ll see him today.’

  ‘To what do I owe the honour of your company at luncheon?’ Daniel laughed, waving a hand round their ‘luxurious’ surroundings.

  Caroline had suggested lunch in order to give herself time to get over the shock, as well as not to alarm him in advance. She had been somewhat taken aback when Daniel had laughingly suggested they meet in St James’s Park at one of the many new open-air cafes which his friend Lieutenant Latham had opened in London. It seemed – in thick snow and ice – not an ideal choice, and she was relieved to find that temporary walls and a roof had been added to provide shelter. With the lake drained and covered with huts for government workers, it was a good spot to choose. Even so, they were the only customers, and the one-armed soldier behind the counter looked as pleased as punch to see them. Lieutenant Latham had conceived this plan to fight his depression after his disablement, and had staffed the cafes with other disabled servicemen. It was better than selling matches, as so many were reduced to, and judging by the enthusiasm with which this old soldier was humming ‘Dear Old Blighty’, he agreed.

  ‘It’s self-help here,’ Daniel explained. ‘New idea of Latham’s. You don’t need waiters, you just go up to the counter and collect whatever you want, rather like being served drinks in a pub, or the war kitchens. Clever idea, isn’t it? Now tell me what you wanted to see me about,’ he commanded, once they were established with coffee (of a sort) and a fish-paste sandwich. At least it was one up on Mrs Dibble’s leftover mashed potato and anchovy essence sandwiches, as recommended in the food economy talk Caroline had dutifully attended once in Ashden. ‘Something about Ashden, is it? I gather from Mother you and Yves ran into a stone wall. Folk who aren’t actually in the war don’t understand, do they?’

  ‘You heard so quickly?’

  ‘Your mother was pretty upset, according to Isabel.’

  ‘Ah.’ Now she understood. Isabel was on good terms with Lady Hunney and was not the most discreet person in the world.

  ‘Bad news always travels fast,’ Daniel said consolingly, then glanced at her face. ‘It’s not that at all, is it? It’s Felicia,’ he said sharply. ‘Dead?’

  ‘No.’ She laid her hand on his arm. ‘She’s been gassed. She needs you. She’s very ill.’

  ‘She’s asked for me?’ He was poker-faced, and she realised that he was containing shock by sheer willpower.

  ‘She’s still in France, at Étaples. She didn’t want anyone to be told, but Luke found out and went to see her. He thinks she is dying because she has no will to go on living.’ With all that Felicia had achieved, it would seem a crazy thing to believe, for anyone who did not know her.

  ‘Say that again, please, Caroline.’

  She did so, and saw him swallow several times as if fighting back emotion. He was silent for a few moments. ‘Is Luke engaged to her? Does she—?’ He broke off. She knew he had been going to ask, ‘love him?’ but there was no need for they both knew the truth: that whatever her feelings for Luke they were outweighed by her love for Daniel.

  ‘You know that he loves her,’ was her reply. ‘Yet Luke wants you to go to Felicia. He said that you were the only person who might be able to give her the will to survive. And he of all people would hardly say that unless he meant it.’

  ‘If Luke could do nothing, why should I?’ His voice was hard.

  ‘You know why, Daniel. And Luke knows why, and Felicia’s life means more to him even than his love for her.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Caroline,’ Daniel said jerkily. ‘Even if I go, nothing can come of it. If I go, what then?’

  ‘We’ve both seen enough of war not to reckon with the “what then?” That’s God’s department, not ours. Look’ – she pointed to the painted cafe sign above the counter – ‘your friend’s cafes are called “Fortune of War”. Your leg, Felicia’s illness, my love for Yves, Felicia’s love for you – none of us can legislate for an uncertain future. We don’t know when peace will come, and what it will bring. Don’t think of whether or not you and Felicia can marry. Think of all the good Felicia can do if she lives. Think of all the lives she’s saved in the past.’

  ‘I do. Mine was one.’

  Oh for the Rectory. Even if not always warm it had always provided a cocoon against the harsh winds of winter. In London no matter where she went she never seemed warm for more than a moment or two at a time. Except, she thought to herself g
ratefully, in bed with Yves’ arms around her. The severe weather continued, although it was past the middle of January. London froze in sixteen degrees of frost, and the wind still blew. And to cap it all, the authorities still claimed the Serpentine’s ice was not thick enough to bear, and skating was therefore forbidden. It had been icy enough for the Peter Pan Cup for swimming in the Serpentine to be postponed, but had not yet reached the obligatory thickness of three inches.

  ‘I have a surprise for you,’ Yves announced, seeing her mutinous face on their day off. She had thought without doubt that in return for their enduring such cold, Fate would be fair enough to grant such a small desire as thick ice in Hyde Park. But then Fate was never fair, and she was ashamed of her pettiness anyway.

  ‘If it is an oatmeal cake for tea, I don’t want it.’

  ‘It’s a toboggan. We’ll go to Parliament Hill Fields and slide down slopes, instead of across ice.’

  ‘Oh Yves.’ She hurtled across the room and threw herself into his arms.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘I feel so … so … childish. And Felicia—’

  ‘Cara, you can pray for Felicia, and remember Daniel is with her.’

  Daniel had sent her a short note saying he was taking leave to go to Étaples, and since then Luke had been extra cheerful both in the office and at home, to the point of driving them mad.

  ‘But why should I enjoy myself when I know she’s so ill?’ Caroline wailed.

  ‘You owe it as your duty to me,’ Yves pronounced. ‘In fact it is an order from a captain to an insubordinate WAAC.’

  She managed to laugh at that. ‘Very well, but only if I can hurl snowballs at you to show what I think of you.’

  He made her a quaint little bow, one hand on heart. ‘You may vanquish me with snowballs, cara, as you have conquered my heart.’

  He had only to look at her with his melting dark eyes, only to lay his hand on her shoulder, and her body would tingle, longing to be with him, so that the third Yves, the private one, would be hers alone, looking at her in passion as well as love.