Songs of Spring

by Amy Myers

  ‘This will be the end of the old tennis party, Daisy,’ Percy had prophetically said to her as she hurriedly washed the dishes after tea last year. ‘You mark my words.’ Now the court had been ploughed up for vegetables, at Mrs Lilley’s reluctant command and much against his will.

  ‘After the war,’ Margaret had said stoutly, ‘you can lay it again.’

  ‘Who for?’ he’d asked.

  Percy was right, of course. Even if the boys came marching home from war, who would bring the girls back? Miss Caroline busy with her own life, Master George already carving a name for himself as a cartoonist, Miss Phoebe spreading her wings in France, Miss Felicia a heroine. None of them would see out their days in the Rectory. ‘There’ll be only Mrs Isabel,’ she’d answered Percy.

  ‘And that won’t be for long,’ Percy had replied, meaning that she would be making her own home again somewhere with Mr Robert, and most probably it wouldn’t be in Ashden. His words had come true all right, and for the worst of reasons.

  Margaret’s view through the kitchen window of the small patch of garden outside became misty. Her garden, she called it, for she and Percy grew what they liked in it. But it wasn’t really theirs; it belonged to the Rectory. That hadn’t appeared to matter over the years, but what had once been invulnerable, now seemed fragile. Life anywhere could change into death at the snap of Fate’s finger. Death took whom it pleased and laughed at man’s puny efforts to build himself a refuge. It had taken Fred, now it had taken Mrs Isabel, Nanny Oates and others. If the Rector had been taken too, they’d all have had to leave the Rectory and what would poor Mrs Lilley do then? What would Percy and herself do? The workhouse most like, if there were any left after the war. Most of them were makeshift hospitals now. The only ray of light was good old Lloyd George in charge. He would put things right after the war.

  After seemed a long way away at the moment. In the midst of Ashden was a huge hole, not only physically, but in its heart. Everyone felt the same, not just the bereaved. Even though most of the debris had been taken away now, what was left seemed worse. A jagged scar gaped where people had walked and laughed and run ever since Ashden had come into being and that was long before the Frenchies had come marching in in 1066. That was quite enough, the Kaiser wasn’t going to follow suit. What had happened hadn’t lessened the village’s determination about that. Although everyone went about their business just the same, there was no heart left in them. And that wasn’t just the bomb, for other villages were the same. No one had the same interest in village concerns. The old high days and holidays had mostly gone, or there was no one to run events. Instead, everyone concentrated with a sick desperation on the need to stick it out and get this war won. Instead of that day growing nearer, the situation was getting worse. The Germans picked on the French lines for once, when they began their tricks again at the end of May. Since we were all in the same boat now, that was almost as bad as having a go at our Tommies, and anyway, the papers said that Tommies had been fighting with the French.

  True, now the Americans had condescended to take a small part it was a help, but from what she could gather most of them were still training at home. The newspaper said that two days ago the Germans were only forty miles from Paris, and the French government and lots of Parisians were getting ready to run like rabbits. Americans were as good as a dose of Epsom salts, Percy had said approvingly yesterday. Salts went straight through you, Margaret had thought gloomily, and so the Germans would do to those newcomers to battle. Apparently she was wrong for so far the Americans were holding the line at Château-Thierry, and as yet the Germans hadn’t broken through for their visit to the Eiffel Tower.

  Still, they’d seen all this before. Old Asquith had been right to ‘wait and see’. It was too soon to wave flags and although no one really believed that the Germans would win, the fact remained that food got scarcer and dearer, queues got longer, bills got higher, and the men still marched off. There was hardly an able-bodied man around, now the age was up to fifty. Thank goodness Lizzie’s Frank had been invalided out, and no wonder, he was as weak as a kitten.

  Babies got born just the same, though. With all the shock of the bomb, Margaret had thought Agnes might have come early, but she hadn’t. The baby was still expected later this month, and with Agnes near her time, all the work fell on Margaret and Myrtle. Each day brought new battles on the food front. How to substitute, how to cope. Coupons for meat, bacon, sugar and now fat was the latest one. Pretty soon you’d have to ask the government before you could visit your own privy.

  Inside, Caroline felt nothing but a merciful numbness, which allowed her to work, talk, and even laugh. It was merciful because it meant that tearing grief could not fight its way through. She supposed it must be buried deep inside her, but here in London at any rate that’s where it remained. She knew Yves and Luke were worried about her, but this surprised her a little, for from their point of view she was coping wonderfully. She couldn’t cry in the office, and Ellen, busy with her own affairs and love life, couldn’t spend all her time consoling Caroline, nor could Yves be burdened with her grief. She would continue to work through the mundane jobs of everyday life, and ignore what might be going on within her. It was easier to do this in London than at the Rectory where Felicia had remained for the time being to look after Mother. Towards the end of June the situation changed, however.

  ‘Caroline, do you want to visit home on your next day off?’ Luke asked casually. ‘We could give you the weekend and an extra day.’

  Caroline stiffened, aware that she felt safer here than faced with the painful associations of Ashden, but also that Felicia or no Felicia, her parents needed her.

  ‘Can you come with me, Yves?’

  ‘No, my love, for a few hours perhaps, but there is too much going on. As you know.’

  She did. Codebreaking had achieved wonderful results earlier this month when a French codebreaker read the German plans to launch a new offensive on the Montdidier–Compiegne line, and as a result, despite many casualties, the French had resisted the German attempt to push forward. It made their job all the more important at the moment, since Ludendorff would surely be planning further assaults in the near future. The longer he left it, the more likelihood there was of increased American presence in the line. Or so he might believe. In fact, there was little chance of that beyond Pershing’s earlier grudging promise for limited troops under French control. New troops were shortly scheduled to arrive in France, but he was hanging on to them for his grand army planned for action in 1919. By which time, if the Germans kept on going at their present rate, there’d no longer be a war to fight.

  There was something else keeping Yves occupied too. King Albert and Queen Elisabeth would be paying a visit to England shortly, partly to celebrate King George V and Queen Mary’s silver wedding anniversary, and partly to rally the Belgian cause in Britain.

  ‘Felicia is still planning to come to London to work,’ Luke added casually, which explained precisely the reason for their ‘generosity’.

  ‘She didn’t tell me.’

  ‘You were out,’ Luke replied patiently. ‘She’s changed her mind about the Red Cross. She met Dr Louisa Garrett Anderson in France, and has accepted her suggestion that she works at the Endell Street Hospital – and maybe go to their French hospital later.’

  ‘She’s not well enough.’

  ‘She believes she is. If you can persuade her to stay here, you’ll have my gratitude. If she goes to France, she’ll be tempted to go back to the front line.’

  ‘Mother and Father need her at Ashden.’

  ‘Caroline.’ Luke looked at her reproachfully. ‘I’ve never known you so ungiving.’

  ‘It’s always me doing the giving, that’s why,’ Caroline muttered savagely, and Luke said no more.

  From Felicia’s point of view it made sense. Dr Garrett Anderson, the daughter of the famous Elizabeth, had founded the Women’s Hospital Corps in 1914, and once the French hospital was established s
he and Dr Flora Murray founded the hospital in London. All the staff were women, from the lowest to the highest, and Dr Murray was the chief surgeon. For Felicia to join them made great sense, but it left Caroline with a problem.

  ‘Don’t you want to visit the Rectory this weekend?’ Yves asked her later in the privacy of their bedroom.

  ‘Of course I do.’ She busied herself by wrenching off her boots.

  ‘Now tell me the truth,’ Yves said, and when she did not reply, added, ‘It is quite normal to avoid grief.’

  ‘I’m not avoiding it.’ She was filled with indignation.

  ‘Then it is worse than I feared. To avoid pain is natural, but not to want to return to your home, to your parents and the village of which you are part, that I do not understand. Do you only want the good things Ashden can offer, Caroline? Do you only wish to wander down its lanes, to take sanctuary in familiar surroundings and give nothing back to those who have provided it?’

  She burst into tears. ‘How can you say such terrible things, Yves? Of course I want to help.’ A tiny part of her began to wonder if he was right, however. Had she unconsciously been avoiding Ashden?

  He muffled her in his arms. ‘Then go, cara, and take me with you in your heart.’

  Now Miss Felicia was leaving as well. It was inevitable, Margaret supposed, since she was only doing what she’d been planning before it had all happened. That time seemed so long ago, though, that Margaret’s mind had dismissed it, since the Rectory world had changed since then. Daily life didn’t change, though, it simply plodded along the same old tracks.

  She’d done her best to help the Rector, though it hadn’t been easy. Like Ahab – well, not their old sheepdog, but the old king he was named for, who turned his face to the wall – poor Rector shut himself up in his study all day long, sometimes not even coming out for meals. Mind you, with rations the way they were, they weren’t worth coming out for, but you had to keep your strength up somehow, even if it was only wartime soup.

  He was so quiet and subdued yesterday that she had taken the liberty of speaking straight out to him. She knocked on the study door and took no notice of his patient, unresponsive look when she entered.

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir, for intruding, but I brought you Raymond to read. Now I know that you don’t go along with all it says, but that doesn’t stop you reading it, does it?’

  He had smiled at least, even took Raymond from her.

  ‘A cloistered virtue,’ he murmured.

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘From Milton – how can one conquer evil by shutting oneself away?’

  ‘Evil?’ She flushed angrily.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Dibble, I didn’t mean your book. I greatly appreciate your thoughtfulness for me, and I will certainly read it.’

  Emboldened by this, Margaret had added: ‘That Sherlock Holmes man has approved it, so I read.’

  ‘Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? Yes, I believe I read a review of his new book, in which he endorses Raymond. However—’ The Rector had broken off whatever he intended to say, but as Margaret left the room she saw he was already glancing through Raymond. She had been well satisfied, for that was all she asked. She’d be going to Mrs Orvino again soon. It had crossed her mind that if Fred had been so sure they’d have a lovely party at Whitsun, why couldn’t he have given some warning about the bomb? She worried about this for some time, and then decided Fred wouldn’t have been able to prevent what was going to happen, and hadn’t wanted to distress her by hinting at it. Yes, that was it.

  With Rector locked away, and Miss Felicia going, they’d be rattling around in the Rectory like dried peas again. Only Mr George was left, and as soon as he was well enough he’d be off back to France. He wasn’t his old self either. Mrs Isabel’s death had knocked the stuffing out of him quicker than von Richthofen’s circus – if there was one any more, for the Red Baron had been killed in the spring.

  Poor Mrs Lilley was wandering round the house like a lost soul, saying nothing but, ‘Yes, Mrs Dibble, that would be splendid, Mrs Dibble.’ What had been a partnership had turned into Margaret running the house, and Mrs Lilley obediently falling into line, and throwing herself – or trying to do so – into her agricultural work. It was natural enough and Margaret had no objection. Mrs Lilley had supported her when Fred died, and now it was time for her to do the same. Even Lady Buckford was keeping her head below the parapet these days. At least, this weekend Miss Caroline would be here for two whole days.

  The first thing that Caroline registered was that where her mother’s fine dark hair had grown over the last month, it was now iron grey. Even her mother’s hug seemed different. Always before it had been to give, now it seemed to Caroline that it was she who was giving strength, and what Yves had implied was right. Unconsciously she had been avoiding this change of role. The child in her, instantly frightened at this realisation, was quickly dismissed. Caroline knew she was needed here as never before, and more, that she wanted to be here.

  She braced herself, gathering her strength. At the moment, with Yves at hand, her presence could help her parents, but for how much longer would that be so? After that, the roles might well be reversed once more. It had to be thought about, though not yet, for she could not fight on all flanks at once.

  ‘Go to your father, darling. I’m so worried about him,’ Elizabeth asked quietly.

  Caroline found him not in his study, but sitting in the garden, surveying the produce growing on what had once been their tennis court. He was reading, but as she greeted him he rose to his feet in pleasure. He, like Mother, looked years older, and his face was drawn.

  ‘My dear.’

  Caroline had the same feeling as with her mother when he embraced her, and blamed herself once again for her hesitation in coming home.

  ‘You’re reading that new Conan Doyle book, The New Revelation. Why – ah’ – Caroline understood immediately – ‘Mrs Dibble.’

  ‘How could I not take her seriously? She was kind enough to lend me Raymond and I decided to go to Tunbridge Wells to buy this.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you take all that stuff about whisky and sodas in heaven seriously too, does it?’ Caroline could not believe it. Father of all people?

  ‘No, but now we have our own immense grief, I understand how many might gain comfort from it. After all, Sir Arthur’s interest in the subject was kindled by someone within his own household who had lost brothers on the Western Front. I am impressed enough at this outspoken tract to take it seriously, as you put it. And I confess, my love, that late in the evening and at night, when one does not see matters as clearly as during the day, I have wished I could believe totally in Raymond. After all, I believe in the afterlife; it is but a small step to reason that at times it has methods of communicating with us, and if the image that it manifests is akin to earthly matters, such as your whisky and sodas, that may simply be to strengthen that communication by putting things in earthly terms.’

  He was looking at her almost with hope, and Caroline was horrified.

  ‘No, Father,’ she managed to reply. ‘To believe in Isabel’s happiness in the next life is one thing, for you to dwell so much on it, which is what spiritualism encourages, is quite another. Isabel would not want that.’

  Caroline realised hopelessly that she had no idea what Isabel would have thought. Isabel had always been here, and there had been no need for such discussions. If only she could talk her worries over with Felicia, but she had already left for London.

  George was at dinner, a more sombre brother than she recalled, but it wasn’t until late that evening that she had a chance to talk to him privately. She had left her bedroom door open, in the time-honoured Rectory tradition of signifying one was open to visits from her siblings, but George had never participated so much as his sisters. Today the silent invitation had not been taken up, and she had to beard him in his own room.

  ‘I’m worried about Father,’ she told him bluntly. ‘Do you think he is going to st
eer the same path as Mrs Dibble?’

  George lolled back on the bed. ‘He may be a dabbler, but he’s not a Dibbler.’

  ‘Be serious.’

  ‘I am. And, even if he is going to take up spiritualism, it’s far too early to try to talk him out of it. It’s only just a month since Isabel died.’

  It seemed a lifetime, it seemed yesterday, but Caroline admitted George might have a point. Common sense seemed to have deserted her recently. ‘How much longer are you here for?’

  ‘Another two weeks, the doc says. I shall be off sooner, maybe.’

  ‘For the right reasons, I hope.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Caroline plunged. ‘It matters if you’re still blaming yourself for living when Isabel died. Are you?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Then you must think instead of what you originally went into the war to do, think of what our parents need – think of—’ She broke off, not wanting to trespass too far.

  ‘You?’ He misunderstood. ‘You have Yves, for the moment at least.’

  ‘I was going to say think of Kate.’

  George looked startled, then the glimmer of a smile came to his lips. ‘Kate wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘From what I remember of her, you might find she does, only she has practical ways of showing it.’