by Amy Myers
‘So what is happening at home?’
‘Father and Mrs Dibble went at it hammer and tongs and even Mother couldn’t get a word in edgeways. She was terrified Mrs Dibble was going to give in her notice, she was so upset. It was Agnes who broke it up in the end.’
‘Agnes? What on earth could it have to do with her?’
‘She’s a sensible girl, as you know. She heard all the shouting and guessed what it was about, since she knew about Mrs Dibble’s sudden interest in spiritualism. She decided she should go in to the fray as umpire.’
‘Father allowed her to?’ Caroline was highly amused.
‘He told me afterwards he was so astounded at the parlourmaid coming in to help him sort things out that he couldn’t think of any arguments against what she said.’
‘And what was that?’ Perhaps she should ask Agnes to come and sort out her own problems with the Rectory.
‘That spiritualism was providing a lot of comfort in time of bereavement to a lot of people, regardless of whether the mediums were charlatans or not. That the Rector knew how sensible Mrs Dibble was, and when she got over the shock of Fred’s death – which was only eight months ago – she’d come to revalue spiritualism for herself. Wasn’t that better, Agnes argued, than telling her it was the work of the devil now? All Father could think of to say when he got his breath back was that the end can never justify the means.’
‘And what did Agnes reply to that?’
‘She asked who is to decide what are the means and what the end. Suppose, she argued, Mrs Dibble’s brush with spiritualism was part of God’s plan for the Rector to realise he was failing to communicate with some of the bereaved. If conventional ways wouldn’t help, maybe God had provided him with this new means. There are many lanes into Ashden, Agnes proclaimed, besides the main road, and God is a village centre too.’
‘Did the pit of hell open up for her?’ Caroline asked breathlessly.
‘No. Father just said quite nicely, not nastily: “Perhaps you should preach my sermon, Agnes.” And, do you know what, Caroline?’
‘She did?’
‘No, but he preached last Sunday about the need for regritting and gravelling in the stormy weather, frost and snow. I told Felicia about it, and she asked me to steal his copy so that she could read it. She was strongly on Mrs D’s side. If Mrs Dibble could have the vote this year, she argued, she could also decide her own path to God, whether His mansion was built of bricks, clouds or empty gin bottles.’
‘Poor Father. He must be so grateful for you, Isabel. You’re the only one of us who isn’t kicking over the traces.’
‘Do you think so?’ Isabel looked hopeful. ‘Odd, isn’t it? You were all so good and I was the wayward one until I got married. Now it’s the other way around. Phoebe wants to marry a divorced man, you’re living with – sorry, loving, a married man, Felicia is turning her face to the wall away from the Church, and, whenever he can, George is clasped in the arms of buxom Kate.’
‘What?’ Caroline stared at her aghast. Kate Burrows, a cheerful Yorkshire lass, had been foisted on them by the Ministry of Agriculture and had departed whence she came after Grandmother discovered her and George in compromising circumstances.
‘I’m sure that’s where he goes when he comes home on leave. That’s why he’s so rarely at the Rectory. It’s not all cartoon business.’ Isabel began to giggle.
Chapter Six
Caroline opened the envelope with great curiosity. It was a rare event to see a letter from Phoebe, and even on her birthday last year all she had received was a postcard of Charlie Chaplin with a scrawled ‘Wish I was there!’ upon it. No doubt she did, Caroline realised with hindsight. Last July Phoebe must have been in the initial stages of her romance with Billy Jones and thus all too eager to be back in London with him, rather than on the Western Front. Billy couldn’t be touring for the troops in France all the time. Not that Phoebe didn’t enjoy her work, or so Caroline had gathered from her last conversation with her; she seemed to have found her niche in driving. Thankfully, Phoebe was based away from the front; she met interesting people and was doing a worthwhile job – away from the Rectory, where, she had once confessed to Caroline, she felt the odd one out. Why, oh why, did she have to fall for a middle-aged divorced man? Caroline took the letter out hopefully; perhaps Phoebe was pouring her heart out in it because she and Billy had separated.
They hadn’t. Caroline’s cry of dismay made Yves look up anxiously. As usual he was deep in The Times, which he scoured every morning for any item of news about Belgium or the Belgian army that might not have reached him through intelligence channels. A week ago, on 30th March, the eve of Easter Day, the Germans had shelled Adinkerke, where King Albert’s home was within their range.
‘You have received bad news?’
‘Yes – no – oh, Yves, read it for yourself. Look what she’s planning to do now.’
He picked up the letter, read it, and handed it back to her. ‘So Phoebe plans to marry. This is not new. You expected it would happen.’
‘Yes, but not now. And not there. And not in a registry office. And not without Father’s consent. She’s still under twenty-one, and she writes that I am the only person she’s telling.’
Yves reread the letter. ‘You’re right, Caroline. It is serious that she is choosing to marry in France for that very reason. I do not know the French regulations on age.’
‘Is it even legal to have a civil wedding in France?’ Caroline moaned. ‘And only Phoebe would choose to go to Paris to be married when hundreds of thousands of its citizens are getting out as fast as they can.’
The two-week bombardment of Paris by the huge new long-range guns was causing panic, as the civilian death rate was high.
‘She wrote this letter on 1st April. Is it apoisson d’avril, an April fool?’ Yves asked.
‘No,’ Caroline replied hollowly. ‘I know Phoebe all too well. She intends to marry in Paris in two weeks’ time, and that’s that. You’d have more hope of changing the Kaiser’s mind than Phoebe’s.’
‘Then you must try to persuade her to come to London instead, and get your father’s consent. She will, after all, want her marriage to be legal.’
‘No, I’ll advise her to wait.’
Yves hesitated. ‘Has it occurred to you that may not be possible?’
‘Phoebe will just have—’ Belatedly Caroline realised what he meant. ‘Oh. I don’t think so.’ She remembered Phoebe denied they were lovers at Christmas. A lot could happen in three months, however.
‘Even your father would not hold back his consent in those circumstances.’
Perhaps he thought that might comfort her. If so, Yves was wrong. It would be a nightmare for Father. First she, now Phoebe, would in his view have defied the moral precepts that had guided them all their lives.
‘Phoebe will just ignore me, whatever I suggest,’ she answered miserably.
‘Billy Jones won’t. And he’s in London.’ Yves glanced at her and read her expression correctly. ‘I will go to see him. It will be easier.’
She could have sobbed with relief. ‘I suppose I should be happy for Phoebe, but I keep thinking of everything that could go wrong – and the upset.’
Yves glanced at her. ‘There is even more serious news in the newspaper, cara. Can you bear to hear it?’
She braced herself. ‘The Germans have taken Amiens after all?’ If Amiens fell, the way to the Channel ports lay open, but yesterday, on 4th April, their headlong onslaught had been halted at last.
‘No, my love, the English sausage is under threat.’
‘What?’
He laughed at the incredulous expression on her face. ‘Your government Food Controller wishes to bring the content of sausages under his control, as he has tea.’
‘He can’t do that.’ Caroline was immediately indignant. ‘You’re right. It is serious.’ Every butcher, every cook had his or her own recipe for sausages. ‘How can he control it?’
‘There
are plans for pork mince to be distributed all over the country by one manufacturer who will be closely under the Ministry’s eye.’
‘Once the country loses the freedom of its sausages,’ Caroline proclaimed, ‘there may be revolution, as in Russia.’
‘I believe you, Caroline. This may be a Bolshevik plot. Or perhaps the Unseen Hand has penetrated the Ministry of Food.’
She caught Yves’ eye, ran round the table and into his waiting arms. ‘Into battle, mon capitaine. Let us to work to defend the noble sausage from rape and dishonour.’
Margaret read the news with great disquiet. If it wasn’t one thing it was another. No sooner had the enemy met his just deserts at Amiens, where the British army stood firm, than the government slipped this through. Meat rationing was one thing, laying government hands on the sausage was quite another. What would they do about home-produced sausages? Every decent housewife could make their own sausages, and what else had the Good Lord sent us sage to grow in the garden for? Despite her talk at the cinema on this coupon system, Wally Bertram complained he had a queue a mile long while he worked out how to clip the blessed coupons. She’d told him if he could be bothered to come to her talks, he’d find out. He pointed out someone had to be in the shop, but that was no excuse, for he opened and shut when he felt like it, and Mrs Bertram was there often enough when he fancied a lie-in. Being a churchwarden, he reckoned he was too high and mighty to be bothered with coupons. He was always in the right, just like – this traitorous thought slipped unchecked through her mind – the Rector.
Mind you, the Rector hadn’t said anything more to upset her when she returned from Tunbridge Wells. He knew where she’d been all right, but it was her afternoon off and she’d do what she liked. If that was going to a medium to have a chat with Fred, it was her decision. The Rector just asked her whether it had helped. She’d said yes, because she couldn’t very well say anything else. On the whole, though, she wasn’t sure it wasn’t more upsetting than comforting. Perhaps Percy had been wise not to come.
She used to think messages from the other side came to you through the table rocking, but it wasn’t always like that with Raymond’s medium, nor with Mrs Orvino in Tunbridge Wells. They’d all sat there quietly waiting and hoping, as she went into a trance. That meant she was being taken over by her control, and so she had begun speaking in a very gruff voice. It turned out her control was called Pythagoras. One by one Mr Pythagoras contacted all their loved ones, and passed over their messages. After Mrs Hubble had heard from young Timothy, and poor Mrs Sharpe had heard from Joey who’d gone down with his ship when the Tuscania was sunk by one of those sneaky German submarines in February, Margaret began to get cold feet, for soon it would be her turn, and there was no doubt it was scary. She had reminded herself that the Rector had declared that Fred was up there in heaven, and that was all she needed to know really, for it stood to reason that one could not be unhappy in heaven. Why bother with dragging Fred back? Then Mr Pythagoras had said in his funny deep voice: ‘There’s somebody here who’s very cheerful with a big grin. An F, is it? Or A?’
Margaret had gone very cold. ‘Alfred,’ she croaked. ‘My Fred.’
‘He’s saying something. He wants you to know he hasn’t broken a single egg since he reached the other side.’
Well, that had almost finished her. She was in tears right away. It was Fred all right, making a joke about the way he used to break some of Nanny Oates’ eggs when he carried them into Tunbridge Wells to sell. There was no way the medium could have known about that, was there? It proved it was Fred up there. Even so, she wasn’t sure, now she’d been reassured, that she’d want to go through it again. Mrs Orvino had said they’d try the table next time, or even writing under the influence, which might not be so scary.
She had to admit the level of messages from above hadn’t reached that of Raymond. Raymond had explained to Sir Oliver about the spheres and how those very fond of someone on earth never went too far away in the heavenly system but remained near so that they could greet you when you yourself passed over. Now, that was a lovely thought: Fred would be there grinning his silly old head off as soon as she got up to heaven.
Unfortunately everything had gone clean out of her head when she had realised Fred was actually there. She should have asked a thousand things that had since come to her, but all she had found herself blurting out was:
‘Are you eating well, Fred? Keeping your strength up?’
No one in the room or even Mr Pythagoras seemed to think this was silly, so Margaret took heart, and presently the answer came back: ‘Yes, but I miss your Sussex pudding, Mum.’
That did it. Margaret was jelly for the rest of the evening. Fred was there even though she couldn’t hug or scold him. Perhaps she’d come again, because he’d miss her if she didn’t, her having made contact once. The others had been back twice already, but Margaret had two living children to think of too. Maybe she’d pop back for a word with Fred when there was good news to impart. Or would he know it already? Her lip quivered. It was hard to work out what was what up there.
On the way home she remembered what Lizzie had said about some German woman feeding Fred, and suddenly made her mind up. Unpatriotic or not, if Rector and Mrs Lilley didn’t mind – and how could they? – she’d take action. After all, she didn’t want to miss her chance of meeting Fred again by being consigned to hell for passing by on the other side, like a ‘Bad Samaritan’.
Next morning, she packed a basket, put on her hat and coat and boots, and set off in the bitter cold for Lake’s Farm. It might be April, but that poet who wrote about blackbirds singing couldn’t have had April 1918 in mind. It was colder than most Januarys, and Percy was fussing about the effects of frost on his vegetables. It was his own fault; she’d warned everyone it was a blackthorn winter, and she’d been right.
‘Whatever are you doing here, Ma?’ Lizzie straightened up with amazement. She was looking weary and no wonder, her mother thought. It was no life for a girl digging fields in this weather, and her with a baby to look after and a convalescing husband too. Well, almost a husband. Frank was now pottering about the cottage garden, in which, with the Lakes’ permission, Lizzie grew her own produce.
‘I’ve come with some oatmeal scones for you and Frank, and’ – Margaret took a deep breath and plunged – ‘for that Jockey or whatever his name is.’
Lizzie grinned. ‘Thanks, Ma.’
‘What’s more, I’ve asked Mrs Lilley if we can offer him the odd meal with us in the servants’ hall, and she’s no objection. She knows one or two others, too. I wouldn’t want any of them to starve.’
‘You won’t be popular in the village, Ma. “Let ’em starve” is most people’s attitude, “because we’re half starving ourselves, thanks to them.”’
‘Then most people need educating. You leave the village to me, my girl, and get on with your digging. And you watch you don’t overdo it. You’re looking peaky.’
‘It’s not the hoeing, Ma. We’ve had bad news. Now conscription for men up to fifty is probably coming in, Frank may have to go back.’
‘Back there out East?’ Margaret was aghast. ‘Haven’t the troops out there got some nasty germ? Influenza of some sort? They can’t do that to Frank. It’ll kill him.’
‘We hope he’ll get home duties, but you never know. He’s only just forty.’
Margaret had read about this in the papers, but hadn’t thought about its affecting Frank. A lot depended on when your birthday was. There was a couple of twins in the village. One born at five minutes to midnight, the other five minutes past, fifty years before the bill became law. So one brother would escape conscription because he was fifty-one, and off the other would go, probably to his death. And him with a grandchild the age of Baby Frank. There was no justice anywhere.
‘Did Billy see sense?’
Caroline had stayed up waiting eagerly for Yves to return. He was very late. He had gone out to dine with Billy after his show finished at the
Theatre Royal, east Stratford, in London. From there Billy had insisted on taking him to Chinatown. Limehouse, he had told Yves gloomily, was not the place it was; the war had seen to that. Dora, the Defence of the Realm Act, had banished the more esoteric and dubious amusements carried on in alleyways behind closed doors; the Food Controller had laid his bland hand on its colourful food, and though dockland was packed with seafaring humanity of every colour and race, the war had robbed them of zest and consigned them to destitution. Nevertheless Billy had managed to find a pale imitation of the old Limehouse in a back alley, which provided them with chow-chow, noodles and a fight with flying crockery, overturned tables, and ripped clothes. Billy had put an end to it by singing one of his famous songs so that he could then get on with his awabi and ersatz suey-sen tea.
‘Never mind the food, what about Phoebe?’ Caroline demanded, patience at an end.
‘Good and bad news. He can easily persuade her to change to London by telling her he is committed to theatre performances here.’
‘And the bad?’ Caroline waited, heart in mouth.
‘Phoebe wasn’t telling you the entire truth. Billy had insisted on seeing your father, who did not take the news well. In fact, he refused point-blank to give his consent. Billy mentioned a look of Henry Irving. Does that make sense?’
‘It does.’ Father had nursed a secret desire to be an actor, and unaware of what he was doing would often fall into dramatic poses in dramatic situations. If he was playing Henry Irving, Yves was right. It was bad news indeed. There would be no changing his mind. ‘What happened?’
Yves took her hand. ‘The wedding will go ahead, cara. It is as we suspected. Billy has told your father that Phoebe is to have a baby in November. He has therefore given his consent, but refused to bless the marriage or to be present. Your mother supports him, and your parents both informed Billy what they thought of him.’