Winter Roses, page 21
It was cold in St Nicholas despite the paraffin heaters the verger had brought in, and Caroline was glad to get back to the comparative warmth of the Rectory. Among the guests was Timothy Marden, on leave from the RNAS at Dover, and having heard George was now in the RFC came over to her to enquire about his progress.
‘He’s still doing his service training at Upavon.’
‘He’ll be a good flyer. I remember thinking that when I took him up at Dover.’
Caroline grimaced. ‘Tell that to my parents. They’re quite convinced he’ll be shot down the first time he goes up.’
He grinned. ‘I’m not dead yet.’
She realised with horror what she’d unthinkingly said: ‘I’m so sorry, Tim. It was just a figure of speech.’
‘It’s a fact, unfortunately.’
‘I keep pointing out to them you’re safe and you’ve been in the force since before the war.’
‘Yes, but I’m not on the western front. Yet.’
‘Do you think you’ll have to go?’
‘We’re caught both ways. If the Zeps and LVGs start their fun and games again soon, we’ll be needed here, and since they all seem to like Dover, there’ll be plenty of action. If not, we’ll be sent to the front. Dover’s enough of a front for me. I’m no hero.’
‘When will they come again, do you think?’ Caroline shivered. In the bad winter weather, they had at least been spared the horrors of the Zeppelins, although a few nights ago an aircraft had attacked shipping off the coast of Deal.
‘Soon,’ Tim replied soberly. ‘Everything tends to start in March. Pray God, for the last time.’
‘George will have his “wings” by then.’
‘Yes. Ah well, gather ye rosebuds while ye may, is my motto,’ Tim replied cheerfully. ‘Except that Philip’s pinched the girl I fancied.’
‘There’s always me,’ Caroline laughed.
‘So there is,’ Tim said politely. ‘I’ll ask for your hand in twenty years, if that’s acceptable.’
It was a joke, but she could have done without it. Caroline decided she’d retreat to the kitchen for ten minutes. Perhaps Mrs Dibble’s familiar presence would cheer her up. When she got there, however, Mrs Dibble was absent, and Percy was humming an old music-hall song. Caroline identified it with little difficulty:
‘Why am I always the bridesmaid, never the blushing bride …?’
‘Oh, thank you,’ she muttered, retreating hastily.
Margaret placed the warm scones carefully above the chafing dishes in the dining room, and was so intent on her work it wasn’t till she was about to leave that she realised she was not alone. Lady Buckford was seated at the table, whether waiting for scones or escaping the wedding party was not clear.
‘Anything wrong, your ladyship?’ Margaret managed to sound polite.
‘I wished to see you, Mrs Dibble.’
Margaret prepared for battle, hackles rising all over her.
‘I’ve heard from the Board of Agriculture,’ Lady Buckford continued. ‘They want the courses to begin on Monday 26th March and they will be held in the Great Hall opposite, so I gather, the railway station. You can discuss with them the timing of the lectures, publicity, and everything else involved.’
Margaret thought she’d heard wrong. ‘Me, madam? You mean Miss Lewis.’
‘I mean you, Mrs Dibble. On further reflection I decided I could not spare Miss Lewis and that, in any case, you were the more suitable candidate. One must consider the war effort, before all else. I informed the Board of Agriculture of my decision.’
Margaret felt dizzy, a rush of blood to the head, her mother would have diagnosed. ‘Very well, your ladyship.’ Her voice came out deadpan, but inside her there was a war dance of triumph, churning her up. ‘Thank you, your ladyship.’
‘Please do not thank me, Mrs Dibble. The subject is now, in that distressing modern slang, na-poo’d.’
‘Thank you, your ladyship,’ Margaret repeated clearly and loudly. She was in such a daze she almost forgot what she’d been meaning to say to Miss Caroline.
On her way back from the kitchen after her fruitless attempt at escape, Caroline met Mrs Dibble, who stopped her in a very determined manner. ‘I’ve been meaning to say, but it’s not my place, Miss Caroline.’
Muddled, Caroline asked, ‘What isn’t?’ Whatever it was she was delighted. ‘I’ll come into the kitchen and you can tell me.’
‘Speaking this way,’ Mrs Dibble explained, once there. ‘I’m worried about Mrs Isabel.’
‘Isabel? I thought she was nicely settled at the cinema.’ On the other hand it suddenly struck her that Isabel had been rather quiet this weekend, and far from her usual bouncy self. ‘I expect she’s worried about Mr Robert, Mrs Dibble. He’ll be going overseas very soon.’
‘It’s my belief,’ announced Mrs Dibble cryptically, ‘that’s only part of it. Mind you, it’s not my place.’ And she bustled back out of the kitchen with a plate of vegetable patties and the air of a job well done.
Highly puzzled, Caroline watched Isabel carefully when she rejoined the party. She had to admit that like everyone in the family, she had been so relieved that Isabel had found something to occupy herself, that she had all but dismissed her from her mind. Mrs Dibble was right. There was something odd: Isabel was helping hand round plates. The old Isabel would have sat down, expecting it all to be brought to her. No time like the present. As she could speak to her on her own, she would get to the bottom of it.
‘You make rather a good waitress.’
She’d put her foot in it, Caroline realised when Isabel flared up immediately.
‘That’s you all over, Caroline. You imagine you’re the only one of us who can manage to lift a finger.’
‘No, I – Isabel, what is wrong? Are you worried about Robert?’
Isabel dropped her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she maintained defiantly. ‘He’s getting near the end of his balloon training at Roehampton and that means he’ll be sent overseas for observation duties over the western front. He’ll be up in one of those terribly dangerous Dragon things.’
‘Drachen,’ Caroline corrected.
‘Oh yes, you know all about the war too, don’t you? Well, let me tell you—’
‘Isabel!’ Caroline interrupted, pained, and Isabel apologised after a fashion.
‘Anyway, he’ll be floating over the front, it’s ten times more dangerous than George going up in an aeroplane. Mother and Father are perpetually worried about him, but no one worries about Robert other than me.’
‘Oh Isabel.’ Caroline put her arm round her. ‘I’ve been very blind. I’m so sorry.’
‘I feel completely on my own here,’ Isabel went on. ‘I don’t even feel the Rectory’s home any more, all Mother and Father can do is talk about how Felicia, George, Phoebe and you have gone away.’
‘But that means they value you even more.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Isabel replied quietly. ‘But I’m going to show them they’re wrong.’
‘You’re doing splendidly at the cinema – didn’t I see you’d got The Light That Failed and Captain Scott of the Antarctic in the programme? And that film on the Ark Royal so that Mrs Grendel could see the ship her son’s on. That was kind of you.’
‘Yes, but that’s work. It’s here I want to be loved.’
Isabel glared at her, and the contrast of her expression with her sentiments made it hard not to giggle. Somehow Caroline managed it, for Isabel was Isabel, and always would be, bless her. Daniel then came up to talk to her sister, and, greatly relieved since Isabel had immediately cheered up, Caroline slipped away. It wasn’t for some time that she herself got a chance to talk to him, and then only because he sought her out. An odd kind of loyalty to Luke had made the idea of chatting on her old familiar terms with Daniel awkward to contemplate.
‘How did Philip manage to slip through your clutches?’ was Daniel’s opening gambit, which promptly restored her to her old terms with him.
‘He had a very narrow escape,’ she agreed. ‘I was proposing to gobble him up next Christmas. How’s the job going, Daniel?’
‘That’s what I came to tell you. I suppose we can’t very well retire up to the priest-hole – it might be misconstrued. But I can talk to you, the only one save Father, seeing we’re all in the same business. Have you heard the news from our department?’
‘No. Do tell. Let’s go into the morning room. We’ll be on our own there.’
He led the way, and immediately the door was closed, burst out: ‘We’ve had a coup at last, and it looks as if it may bring the USA into the war. Have you heard of a fellow called Zimmermann?’
‘Of course. He’s the German Foreign Minister.’
‘He was unwise enough to suggest in a coded telegram to their ambassador in Mexico that if Mexico threw in its lot with Germany, and the new unrestricted submarine “sink everything” policy brought America into the war, Germany would give it a nice blank cheque to annex Texas, Arizona and New Mexico.’
‘What? But that’s—’
‘Rash to say the least. I thought you might have heard about it, since it was your lot got the code for us.’
‘What? I had no idea.’ So that was what the flap she had sensed in the New Year had been about.
‘It was the French and Belgian sections, actually. They set up a scheme to pinch the German diplomatic code from the rue de la Loi in Brussels. It’s worked, and when we sent a decrypt through to the US government it had a fairly explosive effect. That, coupled with the Kaiser’s brilliant idea “let’s sink everything” including any US cargo ships, plus another decrypt by us of a telegram from Bernsdorff, asking Berlin for cash to bribe some members of Congress, has probably silenced the “Keep America Neutral” faction over there. It can’t be long now, they’ve broken off diplomatic relations.’
‘Daniel, that’s a wonderful achievement.’
‘Pretty good, wasn’t it?’ Daniel looked relaxed, and proud. ‘I’m going out to GHQ France next week,’ he continued. ‘Not quite the great travel I intended, but something at any rate. Maybe I’ll try for Mesopotamia next.’
‘Will you see Felicia?’ Caroline just couldn’t keep the question back.
‘No, Madam Interrogator, I shall not.’
‘“Shall” sounds as though it’s been a hard decision.’
‘You wouldn’t expect it to be easy, would you?’
‘I don’t know, Daniel. I don’t know what’s wrong between you. All I know is that I’m sure Felicia still loves you, and yet you’re letting Luke push in front of you.’
‘He’s a good bloke,’ Daniel began, edging towards the door.
‘So are you.’
‘You mean well, Caroline,’ he replied lightly, ‘but sometimes you are as dim as darling Isabel. Now, shall we go to toast the happy couple?’
She had asked for the rebuff she received, but she still smarted at it. It was all such a waste. With war raging on, people should take happiness when it was offered. ‘Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup …’ The quotation from Omar Khayyám reminded her of Yves, and as though she had yelped aloud with pain, Daniel asked casually as he limped across the hall: ‘Seen any more of that Belgian fellow, Henri’s friend?’
‘No. Not recently.’
‘He came in to see the pater while I was with him a week or two ago. Nice chap, if a little poker-faced.’
Yves had been in London, not La Panne, and he couldn’t even be bothered to come down to Folkestone to see her.
Folkestone seemed bleaker than ever as Caroline arrived at the town railway station, looked round in vain for a cab, decided the chances of a bus at this time on a Sunday night were non-existent, picked up her suitcase and began to walk back home, wishing she had timed her journey earlier to arrive in the daylight. As it was, she had to grope her way through complete darkness, and the thought of her landlady’s supper awaiting her compared with the wonders Mrs Dibble produced on a wartime diet depressed her even further. She considered going to one of the Belgian clubs, but couldn’t face it. Suppose Yves were there? The embarrassment and hurt would be terrible. She would have to put up with her fellow lodgers and be jovial at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. It was almost worth going to bed hungry. As she replaced her key in her handbag in the hallway, she could hear the usual crowd gathering in the small parlour. She was back. There was someone else too – a guest was sometimes permitted under very special circumstances. Then … who was that? Someone in a uniform—
Surely it couldn’t be. It was.
‘Phoebe!’ she cried in delight, dropping her suitcase and rushing in to shock her fellow lodgers with a display of sisterly emotion as she threw her arms round her. ‘Oh, if only you knew how glad I am to see you. And uniform too. How posh.’
‘That’s good,’ Phoebe laughed. ‘I’m here for a month or so to drill.’
‘Drill? Where? What with? Where are you staying?’
‘Nothing but the best. They’ve cleared the Hotel Metropole for us. We’re an early draft for the new Women’s Army.’
Chapter Twelve
Talk about peas rattling round in a pod. That was the Rectory nowadays. Margaret Dibble put aside two of the knives for Percy to tighten up the handles. It was that Myrtle’s fault. She would keep leaving them soaking in hot water, and goodness knows whether Mabel Thorn still stocked resin and sulphur in the ironmongers to repair them with. Mrs T had let the shop slide what with both Jamie and Len away in the forces, although Len wouldn’t be marching home with a medal, Margaret was quite sure about that. You couldn’t afford to let things slide, she decided, or you’d find yourself on so greasy a slope you’d never get up it again. There was nothing like cooking for taking your mind off things. The best physicians were Dr Diet, Dr Quiet and Dr Merryman. She couldn’t do much about the last, with Mr George away, and Dr Quiet was here unbidden, but she could cosset Dr Diet.
Lady Gwendolen, the Rector’s sister-in-law, had come up for a visit from Wiltshire, where she had moved to escape the Dover bombs, but no sooner had she arrived in Sussex than the Germans started their antics again. It wasn’t a Zep, it was a floatplane but the bombs it dropped on Broadstairs must have felt the same. Then on 16th March, the Zeps had another go at Dover and Ashford, though this time they were driven off. That had decided it. Lady Gwendolen had scuttled back to Wiltshire.
Here in the Rectory life went on, Zeps or no Zeps, but it wasn’t the same. Nor was Ashden, with those soldiers at The Towers. They were all officers, but that didn’t stop them eyeing up the village girls. Not that some of them needed eyeing up; they stood around on Bankside in their Sunday best, waiting for them to come strolling down Station Road, and Ruth Horner had given up flashing her torch at the back row of the picture palace. The village lads when home on leave were more careful, being known here, but those Towers lot were out for a lark.
‘Don’t tell Father,’ Mrs Isabel had said, alarmed, when Margaret mentioned it.
She wouldn’t. Poor Rector had enough on his mind, and the Rectory was a gloomier place this New Year with Miss Phoebe and Master George gone, and probably both going overseas. She didn’t know whether she wanted it to be all quiet out there on the front, so Fred and Joe would keep safe, or whether she wanted another offensive to cut this war short and drive the Germans back to Germany. Ah well, it wasn’t her decision, thanks be.
She had to laugh as she thought of what Fred had said when he came home on leave just before he went overseas; there wasn’t much to laugh about, and so she had told Percy afterwards to give him a good chuckle. ‘Drive the Germans back?’ Fred had repeated, puzzled. ‘Why don’t we make ’em walk?’
She hadn’t heard a word from or about him, save what Joe had told her. Of course he couldn’t write much more than his name, but you’d think someone would have dropped a line. Rector had said at least that was good news; if he was ill or wounded, she would have heard. So there it was: her two sons over there and Master George, Miss Felicia and soon Miss Phoebe. If it wasn’t for Lizzie and the baby she wouldn’t know what to do with herself. She hardly ever saw Muriel for now she too was busy working, taking in clothes for mending; once a month she’d bring the children over. Lizzie was turning out grand, though, and they were getting on ever so well. Not that she approved of the way she was bringing that baby up, off the breast already, but she managed to button her mouth up most of the time.
Two days later the Rectory had another visitor. Master George came home unexpectedly, full of the joys of spring – if there were any joys this cold spring; he was going overseas; he’d got his wings.
‘I’m flying off, Mrs D,’ he’d shouted, seeing her in the garden. ‘I’m an angel.’
‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ she retorted.
All that business in January over Miss Burrows seemed to have been forgotten, and the Rector and Mrs Lilley were overjoyed to see him. She cooked his favourite rabbit fricassee, for all they were nearly out of onions and eggs were like gold dust.
The next morning he swept into the kitchen, growling, arms outstretched, dipping and rising. ‘Watch me, Mrs Dibble. I’m an SE5. Look out, von Richthofen, here I come.’
She’d laughed. It was just like when he was a child, and he wasn’t much more in fact. Eighteen wasn’t grown-up to her mind, though plenty younger were at the front. The papers were full of the marvellous things these aeroplanes could do nowadays, but she couldn’t help noticing there were a lot of RFC officers in the Roll of Honour.
‘I’m going to 56 Squadron, Mrs Dibble, what do you think of that? Guess who’s in it – Alfred Ball.’
‘Who?’
‘You must have read about him. He’s shot down at least thirty German planes to that von Richthofen’s twenty; he’s got three DSOs and an MC. He’s commander of 56’s A Flight. I hope he takes me. I’m joining them next week, and the squadron’s due to fly out to France in April. I hope it’s not all over by then. That’s weeks away.’
