Winter Roses, page 17
George went scarlet. ‘Sorry, Isabel. I didn’t mean that. It’s jolly brave work and not dangerous really.’
Isabel was white faced. ‘Balloons,’ she cried. ‘You’re going to fly balloons.’ She burst into tears and before her mother, who was nearest, could stop her, she rose from the table and fled from the room.
‘She’s worried for your safety,’ Elizabeth said defensively, as Robert rose to his feet less than enthusiastically to follow her. Caroline was not sure she agreed with her mother, but knew she had to reach Isabel before Robert did, or the hopes for a happy Christmas were over.
‘I’ll go, Robert.’ She forestalled him at the door, and telling Phoebe to ask Mrs Dibble to hold the pudding procession back for five minutes, she dashed upstairs after her sister.
Robert, having made no attempt to dissuade her, was obviously relieved. ‘I should have told her earlier. I was putting it off,’ she heard him say, and Yves’ reply: ‘I think it’s most courageous of you, Lieutenant Swinford-Browne.’
Torn between anger and concern, Caroline found Isabel lying sprawled across her bed, shoulders heaving piteously. She tried to make her voice steady and reassuring, a hard task with Isabel in a mood. ‘Everything’s dangerous in this war, Isabel.’ She sat on the bed at her sister’s side. ‘Don’t make it worse for Robert than it is already.’
Isabel promptly sat up, glaring furiously at her. ‘I know it must be dangerous. It was such a shock. I thought he wanted to be a fighter pilot like Albert Ball, not play with balloons like a little boy.’
The truth was out, and Caroline could have wrung her sister’s neck. To have Christmas ruined for the sake of Isabel’s pride was too bad! She had thought her so much improved since she took on this cinema job, but here was the same old leopard with the same old spots.
‘Can’t you think of anyone but yourself just for once, Isabel? What do you think Robert feels like, having failed to become a pilot as he wanted, when George will in all likelihood shortly be flying off to France? Robert’s a very brave man, firstly to enlist in the Army as a private when the William Pear was so dead against it, then to endure all the mocking he had there, then to transfer to the RFC where the life expectancy – I’m sorry to say this, Isabel, but it’s time you faced up to war like everyone else – is counted in weeks, not months. Now he’s volunteered for one of the most dangerous jobs there is.’
Isabel’s tears stopped abruptly. She began weakly, ‘You don’t understand, Caroline.’
‘I do understand. And I had thought I understood you well enough. We were so pleased when you started at the cinema, doing something for the war at last. You’ve been so much more lively and interesting than you were. Now I see you only took the job so that you could stay here and have your decisions made for you by Mother, while Robert is away.’
‘You’re wrong, you are, you are,’ Isabel yelled.
‘I’m right, and you know it.’
‘I might have begun at the cinema for that reason,’ Isabel conceded, quietening down, ‘but now I enjoy it. I do. I love choosing films. Captain Scott, and the film of The King at the Front. It’s important, and it’s what I want to do, it really is. But Robert never succeeds at anything.’ She burst into tears, not of anger this time, but real.
Caroline sat with her quietly and let her cry for a few minutes, then asked: ‘Do you love him at all, Isabel?’
Her sister hesitated. ‘I think so,’ she snuffled.
‘Then why don’t you wipe your face, and come back to the table, and make him believe you do?’
‘I can’t bear it. Father will never forgive me.’
‘Father will, and anyway, Robert is more important.’
‘Lady Hunney—’ Isabel began.
‘Least of all does it matter what our Maud thinks.’
Isabel giggled, sat up, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. ‘All right, but you must come with me.’ A pause. ‘Caroline, I’m not really as nasty as you said, am I?’
‘No.’ Caroline sighed. That was the problem.
Margaret’s moment had almost come. To him that hath, shall be given. Through her own efforts she’d managed to wangle two geese for the Rectory; she had followed her conscience and let Mrs Lilley have them both. Then Miss Caroline brought another one, so the Lord had clearly intended the Dibbles should have their goose. Then just before luncheon the Hunneys’ kitchen had sent down two more, already cooked, at Sir John’s request. They were rolling in geese; if these were the Middle Ages when folks greased themselves up and sewed themselves into their clothes for the winter, there’d be enough fat to keep a nice cosy blanket round her and Percy.
Now it was time for the pudding and then her own goose would be done. Lucky they still had the old range as well as the gas oven. Some families sang a carol when the goose or turkey came in, like the ‘Boar’s Head Carol’, but in the Rectory the pudding always called for a song too. Afterwards she could relax, and they would have their own Christmas, even though Peck and Miss Lewis would be with them. Anyway, they were almost the family now, even old Peeper.
Mrs Lilley had come out to the kitchen while Percy was flaming the pudding (the real pudding). Christmas was an exception to Margaret’s rules about drink since Miss Caroline had always said that pouring over brandy and setting it alight had religious significance. Nevertheless she liked Mrs Lilley to be at hand, just in case the Lord frowned at seeing Margaret Dibble alone with a bottle, thinking she had forgotten her solemn promise to abstain from alcohol (apart from emergencies like that terrible film).
She emerged bearing the pudding engulfed in blue flames, and Mrs Lilley bore the next so-called pudding. She could see Miss Caroline and Mrs Isabel were back inside the dining room, and wondered what that trouble Miss Phoebe mentioned had been. Then she forgot about it in the anxiety of whether the flame would go out before she reached the darkened room. Miss Caroline dashed out to join in the procession and sing in a deeply pontifical voice:
Plum pudding as I understand
Is the finest dish in all the land
Mrs Dibble is our cook
Praise the Lord and His Good Book
Then her voice was drowned by Master George yelling out: ‘Here it comes!’
The pudding was still flaming blue as she entered, and as Miss Caroline sat down, Margaret saw Mrs Isabel plant a kiss on her husband’s cheek.
‘Darling, I’m sorry,’ she said loudly. ‘You’re so brave. I was just upset because you’re going to do something so dangerous.’
Margaret thought what a sweet lady Mrs Isabel was turning into after all.
Caroline saw from the satisfied look on Father’s face when he entered the drawing room in his narrator’s costume complete with jester’s hat and bells that inspiration had at last come to him. It was just as well, for he had a large audience, including Grandmother who was clearly determined to stay close to Lady Hunney’s side, no matter how tired she was.
‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ Father began, having swept his usual deep bow to the company. ‘I announce the Family Coach. This year the coach is involved in a most serious investigation, and I must ask you all to do your utmost to take part in it. A fiercesome creature known as the Snark is our quarry, and it is feared that the Snark we seek is a Boojum, leading to the most dire consequences for the finder, who may softly and suddenly vanish away. Nevertheless, it is our mission to find the Snark, with the help, naturally, of the Family Coach.’
Oh, clever Father, Caroline thought admiringly, remembering her reference to Lewis Carroll’s Tweedledum and Tweedledee yesterday, and wondering if her comment had played any part in Father’s choice of his ‘Hunting of the Snark’.
‘For the purposes of the hunt, it is not necessary to be acquainted with the story, however, merely to understand one’s own part,’ Father explained
‘I’m playing the wheels,’ shouted George.
‘I’m the little dog,’ cried Phoebe.
‘There isn’t a little dog in The Snark,’ Caroline pointed out.
‘There is now,’ Phoebe said. ‘There’s always a little dog in the coach isn’t there, Father?’
‘That is true, Phoebe. Once you all have your role,’ he added for the benefit of the newcomers, ‘you stand up and twirl round whenever you hear your name called; if you forget, you fall out of the game. If the words “Family Coach” are mentioned, you all stand up and twirl round.’ He demonstrated a fine twirl. ‘Mother and Henri, you are excused. You can remain seated and wave your arms.’
Lady Hunney looked smug that she was not deemed incapacitated, to Caroline’s amusement. Before Grandmother came to live here, she had never taken part in the game; now she appeared only too eager to do so.
‘This year,’ Laurence continued, ‘the coach will be carrying the bellman, the boots, a maker of bonnets and hoods, a barrister, a broker, a billiard-maker, a beaver, a baker, a butcher, a banker—’
‘But no Snark,’ Elizabeth finished for him.
‘A large coach,’ observed Henri.
‘This one carried people on top,’ Caroline explained.
‘I will be the bellman,’ said Yves, ‘and look after the beaver, since Monsieur Fabre does not understand English well.’
So Yves knew the poem of the Snark too. What an interesting man he was, Caroline thought. And kind too, for Monsieur Fabre was looking mystified at first, but as Father’s story unfolded he began to leap up and twist round when prodded by Yves.
If only Father could write his sermons as quickly as he had this story of the Christmas Snark! Caroline had worried that those who did not know the poem would be utterly baffled but Father was managing to dovetail the Snark and the story of the Family Coach splendidly, and bellman, billiard-maker, butchers and bakers – not to mention the wheels, the doors, the hamper, the cushions, the coachman, the horses – all duly leapt up or waved their arms or failed to do so in the requisite time on cue. With so many people playing, the game took much longer than usual, and Caroline was exhausted both with laughing and with the constant jumping around by the time Father concluded:
‘And so the wheels,’ (George leapt up) ‘of the Family Coach’ (cue for everyone to leap up) ‘came to a halt on the ground where the Baker’ (Grandmother waved) ‘had met with the Snark. Alas, the baker’ (Grandmother waved again) ‘had “softly and suddenly vanished away, for the Snark was a Boojum, you see”.’
‘I,’ declared Grandmother, ‘have no intention of vanishing.’ She looked round grimly, and Caroline realised the impossible was happening – Grandmother was making a joke. She quickly burst into a peal of laughter, and a little belatedly was joined by the rest of the gathering, even Lady Hunney. Grandmother looked pleased.
Father slipped into his usual brief prayer. ‘Oh Lord, as we rattle forward into this New Year, may the Snarks, Jub-Jubs and Boojums of war all vanish away with Thy help, so that our quest be at an end and the baker, the bellman, the butcher and their comrades may return in peace to their loved ones. Amen.’
There was a surprise addition to the programme, during what was usually a valiant attempt at a quiet period before the evening game of hide-and-seek began. Yves announced that Monsieur Fabre would like to thank them all for their hospitality with a marionette show. There was polite, if not rapturous, applause. Phoebe and George were, Caroline could see, looking down mental noses at such childish entertainment, though Sir John, surprisingly, looked very interested. The marionettes’ home was in a battered suitcase, but obviously he had brought no portable theatre with him. A substitute was quickly rigged up under Mother’s organisation from masking sheets and Grandmother Overton’s old table as a stage, and Olivier Fabre began his show.
With memories of Punch and Judy, Caroline wondered which language he would perform in, then inwardly laughed at her own stupidity as he began. It was in a universal language, that of artistry, and that was all the story of Harlequin and Columbine needed.
Quaintly carved and painted puppets played and danced to music played on a small wind-up gramophone. There were only three records with it and Yves had been deputed to play which was most suitable: Swan Lake, for Harlequin and Columbine. ‘Au près de ma blonde’ for Clown, and ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ for Policeman. She wished she could see the hands of the puppeteer, for they must be moving with a grace hard to imagine in someone who looked so down to earth and unimaginative as Olivier. Columbine and Harlequin, with double-jointed legs and arms, slowly danced out their love story. Caroline was entranced. Who needed words as those lovers embraced and parted? Who needed words as Harlequin sobbed his lonely heart out, on his knees, hands shielding his bowed head? Who needed words for the immortal chase of Clown, with his stolen sausages in hand?
The applause at the end was ten times as loud as that at the beginning, and she was amused to see Phoebe and George were leading it.
Full of good goose and pudding, Margaret sat down next to Joe to relax with a cup of tea while Muriel and Lizzie did the washing-up. She could hardly believe this strapping son in uniform at her side was real; it had been only six months since she saw him but it seemed much, much longer. Later on they’d all have a sing-song, with Miss Lewis at the piano. The babies would enjoy it too, even little Frank. In the meantime she was going to talk to Joe, but she was forestalled by his following her into the kitchen on the pretext of helping her take back dirty teacups, there being no Agnes or Myrtle today. They’d both gone home at twelve o’clock.
‘I saw Fred, Ma.’
‘You what?’ Margaret went quite pale; she had been trying hard not to think of Fred too much even when they toasted absent friends. She didn’t want to start crying on Christmas Day.
‘I went to see him. They’re in the lines at Booty Wall and Cor.’
‘How –’ Margaret found herself choking ‘– is he?’ She’d never heard of those places, but it didn’t matter. Perhaps Joe had got it wrong.
‘He’s fine, Ma.’
‘In the trenches?’ She’d have to keep on at him. Joe was a dear, but he didn’t see much further than the end of his nose sometimes. Like his father.
‘No. In the cookhouse when I saw him. Peeling potatoes, he’s good at that. He’s always there, he says.’
Margaret could hardly believe her ears. She ran back to the servants’ hall yelling with joy. ‘Percy, do you hear that? Our Fred’s peeling potatoes.’ Tears streamed down her face. ‘Thank you, God, thank you. No one gets killed peeling potatoes, do they? To potatoes!’ She seized the nearest glass, not caring what was in it.
‘Let’s have a toast.’ Percy was as relieved as she was. ‘To spuds!’
‘Here’s to potatoes,’ Peck bawled, in a voice that would have won him instant dismissal from her ladyship. He raised his teacup on high.
‘And bully beef,’ Joe added, in an effort to outdo the sensation he’d unwittingly caused.
‘Peeling bully beef?’ Margaret Dibble screamed with laughter. ‘Do you hear that, everyone? Our Fred’s peeling blooming bully beef!’
They didn’t hear. They were still bawling out the toast to spuds. It was Christmas, after all.
‘We shall seek it with thimbles,’ announced Father. ‘The Snark shall not escape.’ He gravely handed a thimble to Caroline. ‘We shall pursue it with forks and hope.’ A kitchen fork was duly given to Phoebe. ‘We shall threaten its life with a railway share.’ An important-looking piece of parchment was entrusted to Felicia. ‘We shall charm it with smiles and soap.’ He placed a bar of soap in George’s outstretched hand.
They had already drawn lots to play the Snark, and it was Kate who drew the short pipe cleaner, to her great amusement. She had promptly disappeared, and her heavy footsteps could be heard thundering up the main staircase. Caroline caught her mother’s eye and read her thoughts exactly: there would be no difficulty in finding this Snark.
They were wrong, for it took quite a lot of time. Some people, Caroline suspected, were more interested in pursuing their private conversations than in hunting for the Snark. Well, they shouldn’t be; it was Christmas. She had bumped into Isabel who was with Robert, and showing no signs of wanting to leave the morning room in pursuit of any Snarks. In her own bedroom she found Felicia talking by the window with Luke, and felt fiercely protective of the emotions of absent Daniel. She had never seen Felicia so relaxed and forthcoming as she was with Luke, responding to his easy banter as if he was one of the family. Which, of course, he was determined to be.
It was eerie with the house in darkness. There were only the oil lamps turned down low on the ground floor, and one or two very dim torches for them to move round the house. Caroline began to wish she had someone with her to hunt with, since Kate had obviously done a good job in vanishing. The next person she came across was Phoebe.
‘Have you seen George?’ she asked crossly. ‘He was with me and he had the torch. Then he just disappeared.’
‘No,’ Caroline said, pleased. ‘You’d better come round with me.’
Phoebe decided differently. ‘No. I’ll go and find that nice marionette man.’
Monsieur Fabre had remained behind with Henri and the older generation in the drawing room; much as she liked him, she wouldn’t have thought he would appeal to Phoebe.
Caroline was irrationally disappointed to be left alone, especially since she had pressed the torch into Phoebe’s hand. She managed to find her way up in the dark to the attic floor where the servants’ rooms were out of bounds, but several unoccupied lumber rooms remained to be searched. She opened the door to one of them cautiously, and recognised Yves standing there, lit by the moonlight coming in through the dormer window. She wondered what he was doing here, then saw he was smoking. On seeing her, he promptly extinguished the cigarette in an old candleholder which stood on the dormer windowsill.
‘I am glad to see you, Caroline,’ he said. ‘I feared I should rot here for ever.’
