‘Oh, Josie my little girl, what’s the matter? Are you still hungry? Haven’t I got enough milk for you? Should I try you with some watered-down cow’s milk with some sugar? Have you got a tummy-ache? – is it the colic? – oh, darling, if only you could tell me!’ she sighed, rubbing the baby’s back. Then she heard footsteps descending the stairs.
‘Oh, heavens, she’s come to complain about the noise!’ she said to the baby. ‘If only your daddy were here to talk to her – but I’ll have to manage without him.’
‘Mrs Kennard! Mrs Kennard!’ Mrs Allingham almost shouted, bursting into the room without knocking. ‘Haven’t you been listening to the news on the wireless?’
Flustered at the intrusion, Joan Kennard stood up, holding Josie against her shoulder and continuing to pat her back to shift the wind from her little tummy, though the crying went on without a break. Joan turned a flushed face to her visitor.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Allingham, I’m trying to quieten her, but she just won’t settle,’ she apologised, close to tears.
‘Didn’t you hear what I just said, Mrs Kennard?’ The rector’s wife raised her voice above the din. ‘I’m surprised you’re not listening to the news.’
‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Allingham, I didn’t quite hear—’
‘For heaven’s sake, Mrs Kennard, put that child down and pay attention!’
For answer, Joan held her crying baby even closer against her enlarged breasts while Mrs Allingham shouted her news.
‘Mr Chamberlain has returned from meeting with Herr Hitler with a declaration of peace! Everybody’s cheering our wonderful Prime Minister. It’s “peace in our time”, he says – we’re safe from the threat of war. Could there be any better news?’
‘Oh – yes, I see,’ faltered Joan. ‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it? I’ll tell Alan when he comes in. He’s out at present – there’s been a death – and I don’t know what time he’ll be back.’
But Mrs Allingham had returned to her husband, having lost patience with the curate’s wife’s stupidity.
Dora Goddard was both tired and bored with the tensions at Yeomans’ Farm. Her parents seemed to talk of nothing else but the changes that were coming and would affect their lives. Ever since Billy had married Pam Barker at the beginning of the month (and not before time, as was being whispered), he had been asserting his ownership of the farm, his status being above that of Sidney Goddard, a son-in-law. He had offered the lease of the Bailiff’s Cottage to Sid, and to make him second-in-charge, while Billy would manage the farm and Pam the farmhouse in place of Mary Goddard who had conscientiously ruled the kitchen ever since her marriage to Sid.
The Bailiff’s Cottage had been empty for some time, and was a small, old-fashioned building with no hot running water and one cold tap in the kitchen, an outdoor lavatory and no heating other than open fires and an ancient range oven. Sidney and Mary were horrified at the prospect, and Billy’s widowed mother had urged her son to carry on as they were for a year or two; Sidney had become a skilful all-rounder farmer, and Mrs Pam Yeomans had a lot more to learn before assuming to take over Mary’s area of expertise. And besides, there was the event expected in March, when Pam would be thankful for Mary’s help.
This evening Sid and Mary, Billy and Pam, with old Mrs Yeomans, were in the kitchen, talking it over yet again, and Dora had come out to breathe the evening air and get away from them. She could not get on with the new Mrs Yeomans, and the prospect of Bailiff’s Cottage was too awful for words.
Suddenly she heard hurrying footsteps in the lane: who could be visiting? When Howard Allingham came into view and saw her, he broke into a run, and, when he reached her, to her amazement he encircled her in his arms.
‘Come for a walk with me, Dora, I must talk with you!’ he panted. ‘Such news!’ Dora was startled, even a little alarmed by this uncharacteristic behaviour, but preferring to walk with him rather than listen to the endless griping over Bailiff’s Cottage, they walked a little way down the lane, his left arm around her.
‘Dear little Dora, haven’t you heard the news? Surely your parents must have heard about Mr Chamberlain’s peace mission – mine are celebrating with champagne!’
‘No, Mum and Dad do nothing but talk about Billy and Pam turning us out into Bailiff’s Cottage,’ she replied. ‘I don’t think they’ve had the wireless on much lately.’
She began to tell him about the family problems, but he cut her short.
‘But Dora, my sweet girl, haven’t you heard? Mr Chamberlain has come back from Germany with a peace agreement! Don’t you understand what that means?’
Without giving her time to answer, he went on, ‘It means there’s not going to be a war, and we can all breathe again. Oh, my dear, I can tell you now, I couldn’t before – if this country had gone to war I’d have had to join one of the armed services – but now I won’t have to, and oh, my Dora, can’t you see what a difference this makes to me?’
‘But Howard, you’ve never said anything about this before,’ said Dora, puzzled by his disjointed speech, and conscious of his arm still holding her tightly round her waist. He had kissed her a couple of times this summer, but had not grabbed hold of her with such urgency as this. Could he possibly have been drinking, she wondered, seeing that his parents were celebrating with champagne?
‘You see, I’ve kept my fears to myself, and didn’t want to tell you or anybody of my – my fear of what might happen, but – oh, Dora, now I won’t have to bear that awful burden any longer. It’s “Peace in our time”, Dora, so kiss me – let me kiss you! – oh, God be thanked!’
She obediently held up her face and he kissed her passionately as never before, then held her close against him, murmuring brokenly in her ear, ‘I’ve been so afraid, Dora, God knows I’ve been so afraid. But it’s going to be all right now.’
Instinctively she started to push him away, and when she broke free, there were tears on her face. His tears. She hardly knew how to reply; of course she liked him, but had never been in love with him, and this sudden need for her was alarming.
‘I’m happy for you if you’re happy, Howard,’ she said, trying to speak lightly. ‘I hadn’t, er, realised how important this is, about Mr Chamberlain going to see that Hitler man, but if it’s good news, well – of course I’m pleased.’
Which was the moment when Howard Allingham realised that he had expected too much of Dora Goddard, and while his relief at Chamberlain’s successful mission was enormous, his behaviour towards her this evening now appeared to be ridiculous, even bizarre. He began to feel embarrassed.
‘Dora, I apologise for – for this display of – you must think I’m losing my mind,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I’ve grown so fond of you, as you must have realised, and now that the awful threat of war has been taken away, I – er – I suppose I overreacted in this way. Perhaps we can walk a little further, it’s a fine evening.’
But Dora was taking no chances. She smiled and turned down the corners of her mouth apologetically.
‘Actually, Howard, I’d better be getting back. I think my mother needs some support – it’s not been a good time for her or any of us. So I’ll say goodnight now.’
She held out her hand for him to shake, and he raised it to his lips.
‘Goodnight, Howard. I expect I’ll see you again in church on Sunday.’
‘Yes, the place will probably be packed with people giving thanks. Goodnight, Dora, and I’m sorry for all that – display. I’m truly sorry. Please forgive me.’
‘All right, Howard, it’s – er – all right,’ she said, adding what she assumed he’d want to hear, ‘Nobody will know about it, because I won’t tell anybody. Goodnight, then.’
‘Goodnight, Dora,’ he said, adding under his breath, ‘you sweet, beautiful girl.’
The Pearsons, Mrs and Miss, had also listened to Mr Chamberlain on the wireless, and Mrs Pearson clapped her hands.
‘Peace in our time, Valerie, thanks to God’s intervention through ou
r wonderful Prime Minister! “Peace with honour!” Our country’s freedom is saved, thanks to him. We shall go to church on Sunday morning, and give thanks from our hearts.’
‘It’s wonderful news, Mother,’ said her daughter, thankful to see her mother so happy and confident in the future again. Unable to put these thoughts into words, she went over to the old lady as she sat on her armchair, and gave her a hug – whereupon Mrs Pearson tearfully returned the embrace, a gesture uncharacteristic of either of them.
On the Saturday morning at Thomas and Gibson’s, Valerie shared the smiles of customers who had only one topic of conversation, and Mr Richardson beamed and said that the shop would shut at midday, to mark the triumphant conclusion of the Munich conference. She thought she would take her usual walk in the meadows by the river, but decided she owed it to her mother to share the afternoon with her; they could have something special for tea, and she would call at Seabrook’s on the way home.
She had just made up her mind to get tinned salmon, which her mother preferred to the fresh fish, when suddenly everything in her life was changed. It happened at a quarter to eleven, while she had her back to the door, sorting out some embroidery silks in one of the shallow drawers behind the counter. Mr John Richardson strode into the shop, full of geniality towards the world, and to Miss Valerie Pearson in particular.
‘Valerie! What are you doing here? You ought to be out dancing in the street, like some of our staff at Page’s! Peace in our time, Valerie!’
And before she could answer, he leapt over the counter and seized her round the waist, carried her into the main space of the shop, and proceeded to spin her round him twice. She had to hold on to his shoulders as her feet left the floor, a shoe flew off, and she closed her eyes – for surely this must be a dream!
But it was no dream. When he let her feet touch the floor again, he thrust her backwards over his left arm as if she had been an oversized rag doll. His face leant over her and found her lips: what followed was something Valerie had sometimes dreamt of, but never like this – nothing so intoxicating as this. He kissed her fervently, deeply, his mouth covering hers and demanding a response. Was it for a moment or a minute or more? Valerie could hardly tell; his right hand ruffled her hair, pulling out pins that scattered on the floor, leaving it hanging in loose tresses over her shoulders.
‘I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,’ he murmured.
When he allowed her to stand upright again, she felt giddy and leant her head against his chest.
‘Little Valerie,’ he whispered, with a deep, quiet chuckle. ‘Dear little Valerie.’
‘John,’ she whispered back. ‘Oh, John.’
They stood there together in the middle of the shop for what seemed ages to Valerie, until he gently set her free, sitting her down on the chair reserved for customers. He went into his father’s office, and she heard the two of them talking about the news.
And time, which never stands still, continued to pass, and the earth kept on turning.
As had been predicted, St Peter’s was full to overflowing that Sunday morning, and ‘Now Thank We All Our God’ rang out from every throat, guided by Philip Saville’s all-stops-out accompaniment on the organ. The Reverend Allingham gave humble and hearty thanks on behalf of the congregation for deliverance from the danger of war, and in his sermon openly rebuked those persons who had expressed doubts about the outcome of Mr Chamberlain’s untiring efforts to secure peace in Europe; such dismal sentiments had no place in Great Britain, he said, reigned over by a new King and Queen whose benign rule stretched across the world, the mighty British Empire. The Amens rose up, a solid block of sound echoing to the vaulted roof of the ancient church.
Valerie Pearson sang the hymns and responses with a fervour that surprised her mother, though the old lady was gratified at her daughter’s ardent patriotism. Sir Cedric and Lady Neville also responded to the prevailing euphoria, as did Councillor Mrs Tomlinson, whatever her inward reservations. Some of the older parishioners who remembered the Great War that had ended twenty years ago exchanged meaningful looks of shared sadness, whereas some of the youngsters, Lester Allingham and Jack Nuttall, exchanged silent wry commiserations as their chance of an exciting new adventure had apparently been scuttled.
When Dora Goddard saw Howard Allingham looking in her direction, she quickly looked away. Their former easy friendship had ended with the encounter on Friday evening, for she had no wish for the kind of emotional attachment that he seemed to want from her. On his part, Howard cursed his foolishness, for what had been said could not be unsaid, and while he joined in the general thanksgiving, he was unable to suppress a nagging unease which he could not precisely identify.
The service ended with the National Anthem, and the congregation trooped out as Philip played the ‘Trumpet Voluntary’.
On the Monday after that memorable weekend, Councillor Mrs Tomlinson was at the council offices in Everham, sharing mid-morning coffee with Sir Cedric Neville. When he asked her how she felt about the news, she put her head on one side like a thoughtful old bird.
‘I wish I felt as reassured as the Prime Minister, poor man,’ she said after consideration. ‘If ever there was a peace-lover and a peace-maker, a man of principle, an English gentleman, that’s Mr Neville Chamberlain. And that’s why I’m worried, Cedric. Is he the right man to deal with a cynical megalomaniac like this strutting dictator? And if Hitler does march his troops over the Czech border, who is there to stop him?’
Cedric was silent, having no answer to give, while Mrs Tomlinson waited. Suddenly he wanted to argue against her, reprimand her for ‘spreading alarm and despondency’ – the old military charge came back to mind – refuse to listen to her, scold her, stand her in the corner.
But he had no words to contradict her.
‘Adolf bloody Hitler hasn’t even waited a week.’
The high-backed bench seat in the Tradesmen’s Arms had been moved from its summer position below the window to its winter place near to the log fire. Several of the regulars were in, and a young couple, when Tom Munday sat down beside Eddie Cooper, already halfway into a pint of bitter.
Voices around the bar all spoke on one subject.
‘Less than a week after Chamberlain came back, and he’s marched into Czecho-czecho-whatever’ – ‘yeah, but it’s a long way from ’ere, I’d just let ’em get on with it’ – ‘they say he’s got his eye on us an’ all’ – ‘who says so?’ – ‘don’t believe every rumour you hear’ – ‘and the way he treats the Jews’ – ‘yeah, but they’re Jews, ain’t they? I don’t trust ’em’.
‘Doesn’t sound so good,’ said Tom heavily. ‘Grace and Rob are hoping it won’t come to anything. Their Jack’s eighteen and says he wants to go into the Royal Air Force.’
‘Got no sense at all, have they?’ said Eddie. ‘Twenty years since the last lot, and these young idiots are looking for another scrap.’ He took another drink from his glass, and wiped his mouth. ‘I say, look at Don Juan over at the bar there, talking to that little minx from Seabrook’s. Who is he?’
‘He’s the younger o’ the two boys from the Rectory. Wonder if mum and dad know where he is this evening.’
‘More to the point, do the Seabrooks know where she is,’ said Eddie. ‘Look at him, thinks he’s Clark Gable, and that’s the third port and lemon she’s knocked back. She’d better watch her step, I reckon, or she’ll end up like—’ He stopped speaking and shrugged.
He means like his Mary, thought Tom. Poor Mary Cooper, married off in haste to Sidney Goddard, and now being elbowed out by that lout Billy Yeomans since he’d got himself a wife.
‘Your young granddaughter, Tom, now there’s a nice girl. Must be about the same age as that one over there, but behaves herself better.’
‘Oh, ah, Doreen’s a homebody, helps Grace in the house, no trouble at all.’ Tom gave an imperceptible sigh.
There was a burst of laughter from the young couple who then took their leave, letting in a chi
ll October wind through the open door.
‘Not a care in the world, eh?’ said Eddie.
‘No, it’s only parents who worry,’ muttered Tom, ‘and them with Jewish relatives out there,’ adding under his breath what he’d heard at the bar when he came in, ‘He didn’t even wait a week, the lying bugger.’
The Reverend Alan Kennard preached on the following Sunday, and his sermon was in chilling contrast to the rector’s at the previous Morning Worship.
‘We must indeed still pray for a true and lasting peace, but we must prepare ourselves for war,’ he said to gasps of surprise. ‘The German Chancellor has gone back on his word not to invade eastern European countries, and our hearts go out to the people of Czechoslovakia at this time. We trust that Almighty God will protect them from the invading enemy, especially those of the Jewish race. We have to face the truth of their persecution, because we cannot afford to ignore it.’
There was an uncomfortable stirring among the congregation, and the Reverend Allingham’s face registered furious disapproval at this contradiction of his own sermon, so full of thanksgiving and hope for the future. The Reverend Alan Kennard would be severely reprimanded at the earliest opportunity.
At Hassett Manor the curate’s words were the chief topic of conversation, and Cedric experienced a sensation close to relief at Alan Kennard’s recognition of the dangers that might lie ahead. Facing the truth, however unpalatable, was better than living in a fool’s paradise. Some Members of Parliament evidently thought so too, accusing Chamberlain of ‘selling out to the Fascists,’ and the First Lord of the Admiralty had resigned.
Any doubts that still remained about the intentions of Herr Hitler were shattered by the news of a savage all-night attack on the Jewish community all over Germany; so many windows were smashed, including shop fronts, that the Germans themselves jokingly referred to it as Kristillnacht because of all the broken glass that littered the streets afterwards. Ernest and Devora Munday now expected Jonathan and Ella Pascoe to leave Germany with their children forthwith, but to their utter dismay, Jonathan refused to flee. Things weren’t so bad in a semi-rural area like Elberfeld as in the big towns and cities, he said, so Devora was left to fret and her husband to lose patience with the Pascoes in the face of such terrible danger.
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