Carsten came back up the garden at nearly five. Mabel was reading, and Clara had dozed off in the deck chair, but hearing Carsten’s voice, she woke up.
‘Time for you to leave?’ she asked.
Carsten nodded. ‘I won’t be back until after the harvest is in. But in case that means I can’t come back at all, thank you, Miss May, for employing me, and treating me so well. I’ve cut up all the logs and put them in the shed. There’s enough kindling too to last the whole winter.’
‘It’s been a pleasure having you here, Carsten,’ Clara said. ‘But I hope I will see you again.’
Carsten looked at Mabel. ‘Maybe I’ll see you back at the camp. I’ve been allocated to work from next week at the farm on the other side of the river, for a Mr Laithwaite.’
As he walked down the garden to return to the camp, Clara turned to Mabel. ‘He told you that, hoping you’d go over there and see him,’ she said.
‘I don’t think so,’ Mabel retorted, but the thought cheered her.
10
Mabel yawned once again, and Clara laughed.
‘Were you up half the night?’
‘No,’ Mabel replied. ‘I think it’s just sitting here in the sun making me sleepy.’
She was, in fact, bored. The days seemed so long since she’d stopped working at the camp and Carsten had gone. It didn’t help that it was such pleasant weather; if it was to rain, she’d find something to do inside, even if it was only turning out some cupboards or cleaning silver.
Going for a walk or a bicycle ride on her own had no appeal. In the two weeks since Carsten had left, she’d read five books. Now this afternoon was spread out in front of her, and she had the choice of doing some weeding, or finding another book.
Clara looked round from her sketching. She’d recently been asked to submit her ideas for illustrations for a book of fairy tales, a full-page picture for each of the fourteen stories. She had been extremely excited when she first got the offer, but she was a bit panicked now, reading and rereading each of the stories to try and decide which aspect of the tale was best to highlight so the publishers would give her the job.
‘I’m not getting inspired. Why don’t we go and see how well Carsten is coping with a scythe?’
‘Isn’t Mr Laithwaite a grumpy old devil?’
‘He certainly is. The worst! But we could take a few of those buns you made this morning to sweeten him up. I’ve been sitting so long, my legs are likely to seize up.’
They put on their straw hats, put the buns in a tin, and walked through the front garden to the path along the river. The hedges and shrubs on the riverbank had become very overgrown in recent weeks; in some places it was quite hard to get through.
‘If Carsten does come back to me, I’ll ask him to cut all this back,’ Clara said. ‘If no one does it, soon it will be impassable, and we’ll have to go the long way around to town.’
Some distance along, there was a bridge over a stream leading to an old thatched cottage that had been abandoned; again, the vegetation was taking over. Just past the cottage and across a big field they could see Laithwaite’s farmhouse. The mellow grey stone, with a porch covered in roses, looked very picturesque from a distance, and Mabel admired it.
‘It might look pretty from here, but he’s never done anything to the inside of the house It’s still the same as it was in his grandfather’s day, or so they tell me,’ Clara said. ‘Tight-fisted old chap! His poor wife suffers with arthritis. They say in the winter it’s so cold in there she hobbles around with her coat and a woolly hat on. When the war began, no one could’ve been more vocal about the Germans. He was full of hate, sounding off in the pub about what monsters they were, citing all the propaganda in the newspapers. But as soon as he knew he could get POWs as cheap labour on his farm, he backed right down and took the help eagerly. But I heard he treats them badly too.’
‘His poor wife!’ Mabel said. ‘It must be dreadful being married to someone like that.’
‘She’s a poor downtrodden soul and no mistake. They’ve got one son, and he enlisted at the first bugle call. Everyone remarked that it was so he could get away from the farm and his father. Even as young as seven or eight, he was expected to milk the cows and do other chores before going to school. Yet that man boasts about his son to anyone who will listen. To hear him talk, you’d think the lad was a hero.’
‘Aren’t they all heroes?’ Mabel said. ‘But I pity Carsten being sent there to work. It must be awful after his job with you.’ She shielded her eyes from the sun and peered at the place. She could see someone by the barn at the side of the farmhouse. ‘I think that’s him up there.’
Clara looked. ‘Yes. Looks like he’s mending the tractor. I can’t see any other prisoners, though. I know six were sent there. The rest must be up in one of the fields behind the farmhouse.’
‘Oh gosh! There’s the telegram boy,’ Mabel exclaimed, pointing out a young lad peddling his bicycle for all he was worth up the track to the farmhouse. ‘They always make shivers run down my spine. You don’t ever hear of anyone sending good news by telegram.’
‘As unpleasant as Laithwaite is, I do hope it isn’t his son,’ Clara said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe we ought to go back home. He won’t want visitors if it is bad news.’
Clara stopped walking, but Mabel carried on. If nothing else, she would take the buns to Carsten and just see how he was. He hadn’t seen her yet, as he was bent over the tractor.
The telegram boy was at the front door now, and an elderly woman appeared in the doorway and took the envelope.
Mabel stopped dead and put the tin of buns down on the grass. She felt she was looking at an idyllic rural scene in an oil painting. The bright sunshine, with Carsten bent over the tractor, the barn set back a bit from the farmhouse. Chickens pecking around the yard, doves cooing in a large dovecote. A chestnut horse looking out from a stable door. Yet at the centre of this pretty scene was the anxious telegram boy, who was watching the old lady open the envelope.
It was his job to wait until it was read, because she might need to send a response. Mabel could sense the boy literally holding his breath.
As the old lady turned her head to look back inside the house, her call, ‘Henry, a telegram!’ changed everything. Suddenly she sagged against the door post. A low, terrible wail came from her.
A man, presumably Laithwaite, appeared beside her, and snatched the telegram from her hands.
Mabel’s instinctive reaction was to run to them, to offer sympathy and comfort. But Clara guessed that and came up behind her and grabbed her shoulder. ‘No, you can’t, folk like them are very private,’ she said.
Yet as they stood there, rooted to the spot, Laithwaite pushed his wife to one side, nearly knocked down the telegram boy, and tore across the farmyard, roaring like a bull in pain.
In a flash of intuition Mabel knew what he was going to do. She shook off Clara’s hand, and started to run.
‘Carsten!’ she yelled.
He stood up next to the tractor, looked towards her and waved. Clearly, he couldn’t see along to the farmhouse from the barn where he was working.
‘Get away,’ she screamed out.
But to her further horror, as Laithwaite ran, he snatched up a pitchfork propped against the wall. Carsten, meanwhile, continued to just stand there and wave at her.
‘Heaven help us!’ Clara exclaimed behind her. ‘Carsten, look out !’ she yelled.
They were now less than thirty yards from Carsten. Finally, he looked round in alarm. Whether that was because of their yells or Laithwaite’s roar, they didn’t know. But he appeared frozen to the spot, not moving at all, as the man came charging towards him holding the pitchfork in both hands in front of him, like he was carrying a rifle.
The man’s roar became even louder now he could see Carsten. A terrible, agonized roar. Mabel and Clara were running at full tilt towards him, screaming at the man to stop and for Carsten to get away. But before they could get there, Laithwaite
plunged the pitchfork into Carsten’s chest. The force was such that Carsten was driven back to the barn wall and pinned there.
‘Death to the Hun,’ the man shrieked out. ‘Death to the Hun.’
‘I’ll get the telegram boy to bring help,’ Clara shouted, and swerved off in that direction, running like the wind. Mabel heard her screaming at him to get the police. ‘Go now, top speed on your bike, and ask for a doctor too. A man’s life depends on you.’
He didn’t need telling twice. He was off down the track in an instant.
Meanwhile, Mabel ran towards Carsten, shouting at Laithwaite to get away from him. The man was still yelling ‘death to the Hun’ as Mabel reached him. Aware he had to be stopped before he did something more to Carsten, or turned on her, she snatched up a large wrench lying on the ground. With all her might she hit him with it across the back of his neck, and he fell to the ground.
She didn’t look, or even care, if she’d killed the farmer. Her only concern was Carsten. But even to someone with no real medical knowledge, it was obvious he couldn’t survive the attack.
He had been struck with such force that the fork had gone right through him and out through his back, literally pinning him to the wooden side of the barn. His expression was one of complete shock, eyes wide open, mouth trying to voice a single word, ‘Why?’ Blood was pumping out of two chest wounds. His shirt was already soaked.
‘I can’t pull it out, or it will make it worse,’ she said, pulling off her petticoat and using it to staunch the blood. Even though her instinct told her that nothing she could do would save him, she didn’t want him to know that.
‘Hold on, Carsten, until help comes. Just hold on. The telegram boy has ridden to get help.’
‘What did I do to him?’ He struggled to get the words out.
‘He got a telegram to say his son was killed in France. You were here. The enemy.’
Clara came back then. But when she saw how bad Carsten was, she moved right back, as if she was afraid.
‘Just keep that old bastard away from him,’ Mabel ordered her, inclining her head towards Laithwaite, who was attempting to get up from the ground. ‘Hit him again if necessary.’
She wet a handkerchief in a water butt and wiped Carsten’s face tenderly. She could see he was fading fast; it looked as if one of the prongs had gone right through his heart. ‘I love you, Carsten,’ she whispered, tears running down her cheeks. ‘I love everything about you.’
He opened his eyes again and looked right into her eyes.
‘Ich liebe dich auch, Mabel …’ His voice was so faint it was barely there, and there was a wheezing coming from his chest. ‘Du hast England glücklich gemacht für mich. ’
There was a sound from within him which she knew was his last attempt to breathe. His blue eyes took on a grey look, and then he was gone.
She stood beside him, her head on his shoulder, still holding her petticoat to his chest, and sobbed her heart out.
‘Come away now,’ Clara said gently. ‘You’ve done all you could.’
But Mabel couldn’t and wouldn’t leave him. She stood beside him, caressing his face with one hand, while still trying pointlessly to staunch the blood coming out of his chest with the other.
It was only when the doctor arrived with his pony and trap, and two policemen came on their bicycles, that she allowed herself to be drawn away.
‘Take her home,’ the doctor said to Clara. ‘She needs a brandy for the shock.’
As Mabel sat in the kitchen back home, a cup of tea laced with brandy on the table in front of her, she remembered something her father had said to a neighbour when her mother died: ‘I feel like I’m in a thick grey mist and I’ll never find my way out of it.’
That was how she felt too. The sunshine coming in through the kitchen window, the bright colours in the room, Clara coming over to embrace her and cradle her to her chest, none of it seemed real. It was as if she didn’t know this room, or the woman who was trying to comfort her. The only real thing was the knowledge that Carsten was dead. That she would never again hear that big laugh, or his German accent and his strange way of pronouncing words, never again see those bright-blue eyes or the sun glinting on his blond hair.
She hurt all over; her head, arms, legs and, most of all, her heart. There would never be enough tears to wash away the terrible anguish she felt.
Through the grey mist she could hear, as if from a distance, Clara making a statement to a policeman about what had happened.
She heard the policeman ask why Mabel was so upset. ‘Was he her lover?’ he asked.
Mabel neither knew nor cared what Clara’s reply to his question was. She wished he had been her lover, her fiancé or husband. That way she would have a right to be in this grey mist. She even wished she was in India, where she would have the right to throw herself on her husband’s funeral pyre.
She drank the tea, but only because she hoped the brandy would numb her, and then, getting up, she made her way across the garden to her little cottage so that she could be alone.
Mabel woke to find Clara coming into the cottage. She had a little tray in her hands with tea, toast and a boiled egg. Birds were singing; it was morning.
‘Sit up and eat this,’ Clara said. ‘And that isn’t a suggestion, it’s an order.’
Mabel had cried for hours, both yesterday evening and through the night. Finally, she must have exhausted herself and fallen asleep.
‘What time is it?’ she asked as she sat up. The little wooden bear Carsten had carved fell out of the bodice of her nightdress where she’d put it to keep it close to her heart.
Clara looked at the bear lying on the sheet but made no remark. ‘Nine o’clock, and PC Lessing will be round at ten thirty to take your statement. What we witnessed yesterday was terrible. I know now that you were far more involved with Carsten than I had realized. But you must pull yourself together, Mabel. It doesn’t do to wallow in self-pity for long.’
‘I wasn’t involved with Carsten. I loved him, but nothing, not even a kiss, happened between us,’ she said indignantly.
‘I cared for him too, Mabel,’ Clara said reprovingly. ‘He was a lovely young man, kind, hardworking and honest, and I am grieving for him too because no one should die in such a brutal manner. I hate this war, which has made big-hearted men like Carsten the enemy to some people. I hate that it’s taken so many, many good men, including your husband. But it is the role of women to hold everything together. So you are going to wash and get dressed. When you’ve eaten that breakfast, you’ll come over to the house and make your statement. Then we carry on, as we’ve always done. Because you and I are both stronger than we think we are.’
Mabel just looked at Clara hopelessly.
‘Do you know what his last words to you in German meant?’
Mabel shook her head.
Clara picked up the little bear and put it into Mabel’s hand. ‘He said he loved you too and that you made it happy here for him. He wouldn’t want you to fall to pieces now, would he?’
11
As autumn leaves began to fall, and the temperature dropped, so the Spanish flu came back. Mabel was too distracted by the tragedy of Carsten’s death to notice the rain and high winds. If she heard Spanish flu was in the town again, it didn’t resister. She was so wrapped up in her own misery, she didn’t even care about the camp enough to go there and see how things were there.
She did her work around the house diligently but silently, and in the afternoons she walked for miles, but without noticing anything. Maybe Clara sensed there was no point in trying to talk her out of it. She got on with her painting and hoped that time would be the healer.
One evening, Mabel picked up the little bear Carsten had carved for her, closed her eyes and thought of him. All at once, that strange feeling she’d experienced after Mrs Gladsworthy died came again. She could feel herself sliding into what felt like sleep, but wasn’t, and Carsten’s voice came to her. ‘Enough grieving, Mabel,’ he
said. But although she could see him, it was like he was in deep shadow and indistinct. ‘You have so much more to give. I do not like this sad person you have become.’
The picture of him faded. She came to, and saw she’d been holding the bear so tightly that her hand hurt.
‘Are you there, Carsten? Watching over me?’ she asked. But nothing more came, all she could hear was the wind in the trees outside.
In the days that followed she told herself she’d imagined seeing him and hearing his voice. But it did make her feel just a little less miserable.
Only a couple of days after the incident, Mabel found Clara sitting on the stairs, coughing her lungs out, and that woke Mabel up to reality. Spanish flu wasn’t just in the town or camp, she realized, it was here in the house. She scooped Clara up in her arms, carried her up to her bedroom and put her to bed. She got extra blankets and the eiderdown from the guest room to help her sweat it out.
‘I’ll get you aspirin and a hot drink,’ she said, tucking the covers tightly around Clara. ‘I’ll telephone the doctor too.’
‘Will I die?’ Clara asked in a feeble, croaky voice. ‘My throat is so sore and my chest hurts.’
‘You won’t die if I can help it,’ Mabel said. ‘You are too important to me. I can’t lose anyone else.’
As she went back down to the kitchen to make the drink and fill a hot-water bottle, her mind turned to Carsten again and his funeral three weeks earlier. She had gone to his funeral in Fordington church with Clara. Like previous funerals from the camp, the coffin was draped with the German flag and was carried to the churchyard on a gun carriage at six thirty in the morning. Hundreds of other prisoners followed it, their faces wreathed in sorrow, as Carsten had been very well known and popular with the other men. The guards looked equally sad; they too had thought a lot of him, and the nature of his death had shocked them all.
It was a chilly morning, but the sun came out as they reached the churchyard.
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