A Family's Duty

by Maggie Bennett

  Rebecca knew that Sir Cedric was of the same mind. ‘But it’s excellent news that we’ve got Mr Churchill as Prime Minister,’ she said with conviction.

  ‘I agree, but my heart goes out to poor Mr Chamberlain who must be broken-hearted, and from what I hear, he’s a very sick man,’ Mrs Tomlinson said with a shake of her head. ‘But now we must talk about you and how best to use your talents, Miss Neville!’

  ‘I’d like to be a land girl.’

  ‘Really?’ The lady was clearly surprised. ‘I’d have thought you’d go for something more in touch with people, like one of the women’s auxiliary services of the army, navy or air force – you’d soon be promoted to officer status, I’m sure.’ She frowned slightly. ‘Do you really think you’d enjoy winter on the land – having to rise on a bitterly cold morning to milk the cows, and mucking out after them?’

  ‘I’ve always got on well with horses, Mrs Tomlinson, so I think I could manage a herd of cows!’ smiled Rebecca.

  ‘And digging up turnips in frozen ground?’ persisted Mrs Tomlinson.

  ‘I think I could do as well as poor Tess of the d’Urbervilles, yes!’

  ‘And there’s the isolation to consider, you being such an outgoing person – are your parents really in agreement?’

  ‘They understand the reason for my choice, Mrs Tomlinson.’ It was Rebecca’s turn to lower her voice. ‘Half our merchant ships bringing food from America and Canada are being sunk by the U-boats, and the longer this war continues, we’re going to have to grow our own grain and feed ourselves or face serious food shortages. The Land Army is going to be a vital service, just as much as the others, and I would like to become a regional organiser, which means I must get at least six months’ experience at the grass roots, as it were.’

  Mrs Tomlinson nodded. ‘Yes, I think I follow you. And where would you start?’

  ‘Well, there are a couple of farms in this area, such as Yeomans’ – they’re going to be short of hands, with two men left to join the army, and – er – Miss Goddard leaving.’

  Councillor Mrs Tomlinson considered for a moment, and then said slowly, ‘If you went there you’d be near at hand for your mother who’s in constant anxiety over your brother Paul. Well, if she and your father agree, I’d better agree as well – though I must give you a piece of advice, Rebecca. Don’t go there as an employee. Wear the Women’s Land Army uniform and be paid by the service, not by the farmer. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘I understand very well, Mrs Tomlinson, and I have no intention of being intimidated by Billy Yeomans. I’m not a member of his family, you see.’

  ‘Good! Then I wish you the best of luck,’ said Mrs Tomlinson, adding privately in her head, and the same to Billy Yeomans.

  The Ladies’ Hour had ended, and Isabel Neville had listened to the somewhat embarrassed sympathy of its members. Grace Nuttall had not attended for some time, and Isabel thought what a pity it was, both of them having a son in the armed forces, yet as sisters they could not share their anxiety with each other. While Grace moped at home, Isabel kept herself busy with WVS duties, and at times felt utterly worn out. She leant back on the now vacant sofa, and closed her eyes. She was roused by a tentative male voice.

  ‘Lady Neville – Lady Neville, may I have a word?’

  ‘Philip!’ she said, sitting up at once. ‘I’m sorry, I was dozing off. Thank you for your playing once again – and for the lessons to the Perrin boys. Was there something you wanted to talk over?’

  ‘Not really, Lady Neville, and I’m very sorry to disturb you,’ he said awkwardly. ‘May I say that you and Sir Cedric are often on my mind, daily in fact – and your son Paul in my prayers. I admire the wonderful example you set us all.’

  ‘Oh, Philip, how good of you – but I’m no more deserving than countless others with sons away. These are dark days for all of us, but thank you, I—’

  And to his consternation she put a hand to her face and began to cry quietly.

  He sat down beside her. ‘My dear Lady Neville—’ he began helplessly.

  ‘Oh, do call me Isabel, all my friends do,’ she said, sniffing away tears and trying to compose herself. ‘I’m sorry, Philip, please excuse me.’

  He took a large white handkerchief from a pocket, and handed it to her, not knowing whether to go or stay.

  ‘Please – Isabel, it’s I who am sorry, for causing you distress. Please forgive me.’

  ‘You were in the last war, Philip, as my first husband was. He came through it, but he was changed. He was no longer a clergyman, and died in the influenza epidemic afterwards. Paul is his son, and I dread that he—’ She paused for a moment, and then continued, ‘If it were you, Philip, going to fight in France—’

  ‘If it were me, I wouldn’t go!’ he burst out. ‘I couldn’t! Not through all that hell again. I’d drown myself in the Blackwater first, rather than face those guns – oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I beg your pardon, Lady Neville, oh, my God!’ He hid his face in his hands, and this time it was Isabel who offered sympathy.

  ‘It’s all right, Philip, I understand, don’t worry. I prefer it when people speak the truth.’ She wiped her eyes and stood up, holding out her hand. ‘Perhaps we’ve both benefitted by showing our true feelings, and we must pray for each other, Philip.’

  She leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘God bless you.’

  He left the manor in a dream. Hitler had invaded the Low Countries, and Belgium and Holland had surrendered to the Nazis; France looked likely to be next to fall, followed by almost certain invasion of Great Britain – but she had kissed him, and something deep in his heart, long considered dead and forgotten, was stirring back to life, awakened after more than twenty years of suppression.

  In his office Mr Richardson heard the ping of the shop door-bell as a customer entered. Would little Miss Nuttall be able to cope with this one better than the last two, when he’d had to go into the shop himself? It was nearly eleven o’clock and very quiet, which was just as well, because Miss Nuttall was struggling with her first job; it was all right if they only wanted a reel of cotton or elastic; it was when they needed advice on the best kind of material to buy for making summer dresses, or suitable matching buttons for a lady’s cardigan or a baby’s matinee coat. Mr Richardson kept his door open, and silently listened.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Pears – oh, my word, it’s Miss Nuttall! You’re lucky, Doreen – you’ve got yourself a nice, easy job here at Thomas and Gibson’s!’

  ‘Yes, madam, thank you. Good morning – and how may I serve you?’ recited Doreen as she had been taught by her employer and predecessor.

  ‘Goodness me, we are formal these days, aren’t we? Actually I’m looking for curtain netting for my downstairs windows. Those horrid black curtains have to be drawn at night, but at least we can look better in sunlight. What have you got?’

  ‘The rolls of curtain material are over there on that shelf, madam. Shall I bring them over to the counter?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course.’

  Mr Richardson heard the sound of footsteps, and silence as the customer cast a sharp eye over the expanse of lace-edged curtain netting spread out over the counter.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve got it in any other colour but white,’ said Doreen with a nervous smile, and Mr Richardson, silently sitting in his office, winced. He had recognised Mrs Seabrook the butcher’s wife by her voice, and knew that she would spread the news all over North Camp that Richardson had got that poor, backward Nuttall girl in the shop to replace the Pearson girl, but that it was clearly a well-meant mistake.

  Everybody was listening to the news: it was as if the whole nation was holding its breath. The Tradesmen’s Arms had a wireless set that the publican had placed on the bar counter, now tuned in to the six o’clock news on a warm summer evening, and apart from the newsreader’s voice the patrons stood immobile and silent, straining to hear every word. They heard the same as had been heard that morning: the British Exp
editionary Force was fighting a rearguard action in northern France, and French families were fleeing before the advancing German hordes.

  ‘This is all because of Belgium caving in,’ said a man’s voice at the bar. ‘It made a gap in the British and French front line, so the buggers’ve come pouring through.’

  ‘You can bet our boys will give as good as they get,’ remarked Tom Munday.

  ‘Yeah, but they can’t get any further back than the sea, and then watch out! They’ll be surrounded by the Jerries like rats in a trap.’

  ‘Hey, we don’t want that sort o’ talk,’ Eddie Cooper called out. ‘They’ll fight to the last ditch, our boys will!’

  There was silence. Nobody wanted to talk about what would follow after such a calamity.

  At the Rectory Agnes Allingham listened constantly to the news, which gave her small comfort and no reassurance.

  ‘Don’t lose hope, my dear,’ said her husband. ‘The latest news said that the enemy had suffered heavy losses.’

  ‘That won’t help my Howard, lying wounded and dying on some beach!’

  ‘Agnes, my love, we must place them all in God’s hands, and not imagine things we can’t know.’ Roland Allingham was showing more patience than at any other time in his life, and tried to pray for the safe return of his son Howard; Lester was still in training to fly an aircraft. The rector reminded himself that he must pray for the other sons of other parents, and shivered at the thought of having to visit the bereaved; he might not be able to console them because of his own fear.

  It was haymaking time at Yeoman’s Farm, and all hands were needed in the field; the weather had been kind so far, but Billy Yeomans said that rain was on the way, and that they were already late due to the absence of the two farmhands who had gone to the war, and Dora who had let them all down by clearing off to join the ATS, of all the stupid ideas. He reserved judgement on the Neville girl and her posh accent, though so far she seemed to be earning her keep. She had spent the last two days hand-hoeing the mangolds, swedes and turnips grown as winter feed for the cows, and now followed his tractor with a rake, with Sidney Goddard behind her to fork the cut grass into haycocks.

  Rebecca’s face and arms were tanned, and she had exchanged the Women’s Land Army breeches and aertex shirt for shorts and a sleeveless cotton blouse. Working from dawn to dusk, her mind was also exercised; her brother Paul Storey, Geoffrey Bannister and John Richardson were all with the British Expeditionary Force, and just before his departure Geoffrey had declared his love for her, and Richardson had written a letter so full of praise and admiration that a proposal was clearly planned on his return. How would she receive it? Whose safe return did she most long for?

  She straightened her back and brushed the wisps of hay from her clothes and hair; she had dust in her nose, mouth and ears, and she itched all over. She exchanged a grin with Sidney, plodding along behind her: what a decent sort he was! His wife Mary would soon be here with cheese and pickle sandwiches, new ripened tomatoes and the welcome flasks of tea.

  And there she was, coming across the field, accompanied by Pam and little Sam. Sidney and Rebecca gave a cheer, and Billy halted the cutting for half an hour’s rest and refreshment. The two women brought the latest news.

  ‘It’s hell let loose across the Channel,’ Pam reported. ‘We’ve just heard it on the wireless – they say if you stand on the south coast you can hear the bombing and see the smoke on the other side!’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ Rebecca paled beneath her tan.

  ‘But they’re sending out boats to rescue as many as they can,’ said Mary with a frown at Pam. ‘So there’ll be a fair number saved.’

  ‘Yeah, but they reckon they can only save a few hundred, out of all the thousands,’ added Pam, smiling at Sam who was happily rolling in the cut hay.

  ‘Be quiet!’ Mary Goddard said sharply. ‘You haven’t got any thought for those who – for those who have chaps out there.’ She turned to Rebecca. ‘There you are, dear, a nice swig o’ tea to keep your spirits up. They’re bringing back as many as they can.’

  But Rebecca had dropped her rake and stared at Mary. ‘My brother – my brother Paul – oh, I must go to my mother. I must go to her.’

  ‘Of course you must, dear,’ said Mary. ‘Just have a drink first, and then go.’

  ‘And who’s going to take her place?’ demanded Billy.

  ‘I’ll send somebody up from the manor,’ Rebecca gasped, wanting only to get home and share her mother’s anguish. Hot and dusty as she was, she broke into a run.

  ‘And meanwhile, what about Pam doing a turn with the rake?’ asked Mary suddenly. ‘It’s time she did some work on this farm.’

  ‘And to give you a hand in the house,’ added Sidney, who usually never complained.

  Pam flushed darkly, and called for her husband to stand up for her, but Billy Yeomans too had been shocked at the news of the terrible massacre on the beaches of France. He recalled how he had lost his elder brother over there in the trenches of the Great War, his brother Dick who had been killed at the time of his own birth. He frowned, shook his head at Pam, and bit into a thick cheese sandwich.

  CHAPTER SIX

  1940

  Four days into June, the truth about the evacuation of British troops from the beaches of northern France, known as Operation Dynamo, was becoming clearer. The latest news on the wireless was that the last survivors were arriving on English soil, exhausted and filthy, some wounded, but all full of praise for their rescuers, the skippers of boats great and small, from naval destroyers to lifeboats, fishing boats, river cruisers and pleasure boats, all pressed into service at the request of the War Office and hastily made ready to sail. This motley fleet had crossed the Channel to pick up survivors from Dunkirk beach, crossed back and unloaded their human cargo on the beaches of southern England, then set sail again to pick up more. Overhead German Junkers were strafing the beach and the crowd of boats in Dunkirk harbour as they arrived and left. The nation heard with incredulity that far from rescuing a few hundred troops, more than three hundred and sixty thousand had been saved.

  At Hassett Manor, Lady Neville waited with the faithful Sally Tanner at her side; they heard that the survivors were being put on trains to take them home or to their barracks or to hospital. The news came through that Howard Allingham had returned home, as had John Richardson. Of Lieutenants Storey and Bannister there was no word.

  Rebecca had been warmly received on her arrival back at the Manor, but after one night spent at home, her mother had sent her back to Yeomans’ Farm.

  ‘Your first duty is to give all the help and time that you can to the necessary work of haymaking, Becky,’ Isabel said. ‘It’s your service to your country. I’ll telephone the farm immediately if there is any news.’ She spoke in the tightly controlled voice that was meant to give an impression of calmness, though Cedric was not deceived; he longed to break down the barrier that she had erected around herself to ward off questions and expressions of sympathy. He felt her silence as a rebuke, a refusal to accept any consolation from a man who could not share her fear for the son of her first husband; Sally Tanner seemed to be closer to her than he, having shared her life at the time of Paul’s birth and ever since.

  On the following morning the news was that Operation Dynamo was nearing an end; there had been hundreds of deaths, including crews of the rescue boats; when Isabel again telephoned the Bannisters at their Berkshire home, there was no news; they too were waiting, their hopes fading by the hour.

  John Richardson made an early visit to Hassett Manor, though his father advised him to wait a day or two, as there had been no news of Lady Neville’s son.

  ‘But I must see Miss Neville, to let her see that I’ve returned in one piece,’ John said impatiently, being anxious to see her before her university admirer turned up. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tread warily until there’s news of her brother.’

  But there had been no news, and the Manor was silent, shrouded with dread. Ther
e seemed to be nobody about but Sally Tanner who informed him in no uncertain terms that Lady Neville was resting and not seeing any visitors.

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs Tanner,’ he said with due respect. ‘May I enquire about Miss Neville? Is she at home, by any chance?’

  ‘No, she isn’t, she’s working dawn to dusk as a land girl,’ Sally said curtly.

  ‘Really?’ He was genuinely surprised. ‘May I ask where?’

  ‘No, you may not. I’m not here to give out family matters to all and sundry, so I’ll wish you good-day.’

  Seething with indignation at this set-back – that fellow Bannister would have had a different reply, he guessed – he went back to North Camp to call at Thomas and Gibson’s, where poor little tongue-tired Valerie Pearson would surely greet him with shining eyes. But again he was disappointed, for her place had been taken by a very young girl who rattled out a greeting as she had been taught.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir, how may I be of service?’

  He frowned, shook his head and walked out. Why on earth hadn’t his father told him about the change of assistant?

  ‘I shall return to my work with the Women’s Voluntary Service tomorrow,’ Isabel announced at breakfast. ‘And today’s Wednesday, so there will be the Ladies’ Hour at the Rectory, and I must be there.’

  ‘Oh, no, my dear, nobody will expect you to go,’ remonstrated Cedric. ‘There’s really no need to face—’ He hesitated, and she finished the sentence.

  ‘To face other women whose sons have come back to them, and those who have not,’ she replied stonily. ‘We bereaved mothers need each other.’

  Joan Kennard made an effort to appear calm as usual when Lady Neville appeared at the door, asking if she might have a word with young Mr Allingham before the meeting.