Winter Roses, page 4
‘I told you before, Caroline, I have no interest in the gardens.’ He wagged his finger at her. He really did. Caroline had never actually seen a finger wagged before, and it gave her an insane desire to giggle. She resisted both this and the instant resentment she felt at being so patronised.
‘You don’t know what it involves,’ he continued smugly. ‘Capital for a start – to get those huts habitable, as well as pay the tallies. Now, if I’d had Tallow Field to build new huts … but there, we won’t go into that.’
Though you’ll mention it whenever it suits you, Caroline fumed. Her father had recently won a victory over Swinford-Browne in reclaiming the field for his new churchyard. ‘You’ll get your money back when you sell the hops.’
He gave a short laugh, and she realised that she had played into his hands. ‘With the price hops are fetching now? You haven’t been reading the newspapers, young lady. Ever heard of the No Treating Order and curtailed drinking hours? Haven’t you read about the Carlisle experiment this month? The government’s planning to buy up all the breweries, pubs and licensed hotels. No more advertising drink, fewer licences, no licences to grocers, nobody under eighteen to be served, ban on spirits—’
‘The shortage of spirits is good for beer.’ She was sorry she had said that, for he did not like open disagreement.
‘It’ll never move further than Carlisle, but the writing’s on the wall. Munitions are what this country needs to win the war quickly. You can take your spades elsewhere.’ The William Pear adopted his growling bear approach. ‘I can’t expect you ladies to understand economics. If I can’t build a new factory here – and your father scotched that – I’ll build elsewhere and the hops can rot. Not worth all the trouble those pickers cause.’
‘And what of your duty to Ashden? You do live here.’ Steady, Caroline, steady!
‘Not much longer. We’re leaving.’
Leaving? What a wonderful world this suddenly was. Caroline struggled not to burst out into a grin of joy. ‘What about the cinema, Hop House, and your estates here?’ She couldn’t be hypocritical enough to express regret.
‘The Army has been after this house for years. Now they’re taking it over compulsorily. I won’t share it, and that’s that.’
‘But where’s Isabel going to live?’
‘She’s coming with us. I’ve told Robert.’ As Caroline gasped, he continued offhandedly, ‘It’s all arranged. Everything’s finished here. Hop House, the hop gardens and farmlands are going to the Army, and I’m closing the cinema.’
‘Closing?’ This was bad news too. ‘But why?’
‘Tim Thorne’s had his call-up papers, and there’s no other manager I can find. Again more trouble than it’s worth.’
Life gave with one hand and took with the other. Caroline was stunned. Welcome though the news was that the Swinford-Brownes would be leaving, the ramifications for Ashden were many, especially for the Rectory. For all Isabel’s foibles, Caroline would miss her greatly. So would her parents who, she suspected, worried more about Isabel than any of the rest of them. Except perhaps George. She knew how much they feared the day he must depart, because in the last year or so they seemed to find it hard to talk to him, and he to them.
Caroline thought quickly. She could do nothing about the cinema, but she could about the land. ‘Although Lord Selborne has resigned as President of the Board of Agriculture, it’s still pushing its “Speed the Plough” policy. They’re already worried about the prospects of the harvest this year, and it’s quite likely to become illegal to waste arable land. I’m now on the County War Agricultural Committee, and active intervention is our policy.’
‘Are you threatening me, young woman? You’ve done that once too often.’
‘I’m telling you what will happen if this war continues much longer, and food shortages worsen.’
To give Swinford-Browne his due, he listened. ‘Get the hops picked, and I’ll pay. You’ll have to do all the organising. So far as I’m concerned, it’s the last season, and I doubt if the Army will encourage hops when it takes over.’ He gave a bark of satisfied laughter.
She decided to put that problem aside in favour of the more personal one, and went straight to see if Isabel was at Hop House. Surely her sister could not know about the move? She would have been howling down the Rectory walls, if so. Yet Swinford-Browne seemed very sure of himself, and Caroline felt uneasy.
Isabel was there, and even came to the door herself, so Caroline was spared Ordeal by Carpet-Slippered Baggy-Ankled Mrs Bugle.
‘Is it true you’re going with them?’ she burst out before Isabel could say a word.
‘Going where? And who’s they? I’m glad you’ve come. I wanted your advice on this skirt.’ Isabel marched off into her drawing room, leaving Caroline to shout after her, as she followed in her wake.
‘With the Swinford-Brownes when they leave Ashden.’
Isabel stopped and turned to stare at her. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are they going on holiday?’
‘He said he’s selling up and you’re going with them, as arranged with Robert.’
Isabel laughed, and threw herself on the sofa. ‘That’s nonsense. He was threatening you, Caroline. I expect you were nagging him about those wretched hops again.’
‘He was quite specific, Isabel.’ Caroline remained patient. ‘He said he’s leaving The Towers and the Army is taking it over. That’s why he’s given way over the hops.’
Isabel was still unperturbed. ‘He likes to appear straightforward, but he isn’t, Caroline. He’s cunning. I know him even better than Edith does. I’m sure you’ll find this is one of his tricks. I’ll mention it to Robert though when I write.’
‘How is he?’ Caroline decided she might as well change the subject. If Isabel wasn’t worried, why should she be? And yet …
‘Not very happy. He’s got his ticket, whatever that is. It means he can fly an aeroplane anyway. But he’s suddenly forgotten how to land it – after some crash or other. So he might have to be an observer instead,’ she finished crossly.
‘That’s not so risky, is it?’ It was meant to comfort, but it didn’t.
‘Just as risky. But without the glory.’
‘There’s no glory in war.’
Isabel glared. ‘Don’t you start your sanctimonious lecturing. Whatever I want to do, or even what I think, is forbidden because it’s unpatriotic. I’m sick of it. Nothing but shortages, no one can afford to give parties any longer or if they do all you get is weak tea and home-made biscuits.’
‘It depends what it is you want to do.’ She was unable to disguise her irritation completely. Weak tea seemed a small hardship compared with what was going on at the Somme.
‘Because I don’t want to work on the land like you, you feel superior. But I wouldn’t be any good at it, just as I’m no use at running a house. Not without servants, anyway.’
‘At least you’re honest,’ Caroline said drily.
Isabel looked pleased. ‘I am, aren’t I. Reggie said—’ She stopped, genuinely appalled at her tactlessness at mentioning what had come between them last year. ‘Oh Caroline, I’m sorry. That slipped out. But it’s all over, truly it is.’
‘And for me too,’ Caroline struggled to say. ‘But all the same, Isabel, I shouldn’t talk too much about your friendships with other men, whoever they are. Robert might not like it.’
Margaret Dibble spoke more sharply than she meant to, through worry about everything. Mid August now, and there was no news of Fred, there was Lizzie to worry about, and the Rectory. ‘You mind what you’re doing with that blacklead, Myrtle. Haven’t you learnt anything after all your training?’
Myrtle, well used to such criticism, bristled, which was unusual for her. ‘I answer to Mrs Thorn about my cleaning, thank you, Mrs Dibble.’
‘And to me. You’re the tweeny here, not the housemaid.’
‘I may not be that much longer.’
Margaret stared at her in amazement. Myrtle was slow, clumsy, but good-hearted. And most of all, she was part of the Rectory. As well expect the Rector to say he was leaving.
‘I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ Myrtle continued with pride. ‘I’m thinking of giving in my notice.’
‘You?’
Myrtle took umbrage at this patent disbelief that anyone else would want her. ‘Harriet said I should go into munitions like her. The pay and hours are so much better.’
‘And the work so much more dangerous, my girl.’
‘Not at East Grinstead, it isn’t. Mr Swinford-Browne takes every precaution, that’s what Harriet says.’
‘You watch what you’re doing, Myrtle.’ Margaret was alarmed for the girl’s sake, as well as the Rectory’s. ‘Don’t be led by the nose by that Harriet Mutter. You think twice before you give up a nice safe job here, with the Rectory and Mrs Lilley, to go to work in a dirty factory.’
‘The hours aren’t so long, Mrs Dibble.’ Already Myrtle’s will was beginning to crack under the onslaught from old Dibble Dabble.
‘You young people are afraid of hard work, that’s your problem. You take my advice, Myrtle, and stay where you are.’
‘And that’s what I’ll be doing all my life, if I don’t take this opportunity.’ Myrtle’s courage had returned, and she marched out carrying the blacklead.
To Margaret’s way of thinking, she was set for disaster. What was the world coming to with tweenies talking above themselves? The Rectory had always been good to Myrtle. It had given her a roof over her head, and she had a room to herself; in her parent’s cottage she shared one with her four sisters, and the work was a lot worse there than the Rectory. Of course housework was hard; no one said it wasn’t. But it was rewarding. You could look at a scrubbed oak table and say, ‘I did that. I made it clean.’ Margaret could look in her stillroom, full of bottled plums, and say: ‘They wouldn’t be there but for me’. And no need for the government to keep telling her how important it was to preserve food. She had been doing it all her life, and she was hardly likely to stop now.
She forgot about Myrtle and the government as she was promptly recalled to her family problems. The tradesmen’s door was flung open and Lizzie came in, panting heavily from the exertion.
‘Well I never did. It’s Lizzie,’ her mother said unnecessarily. ‘You look all in. Sit down. I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘I’m all right.’ But she sat down all the same.
‘You’re doing too much. It’s bad for the little ’un.’
What was all this about? Margaret wondered. Lizzie hadn’t been here in a month of Sundays. It had been left to her and Percy to pop up to Hop Cottage. Mrs Lilley had suggested she come here to be confined but no, Madam Lizzie wouldn’t have it. She’d be all right at home with Mrs Hay the midwife – and her mother, if she could spare the time. Margaret, greatly hurt, had not committed herself.
‘Don’t fuss, Ma,’ Lizzie snapped, as a cushion was put between the chair and her daughter’s back. ‘It’s another two weeks yet. I can count.’
She and Lizzie had never got on like mother and daughter should. Somehow, however much she tried, Margaret could never understand the girl. Nevertheless, she made an effort. ‘Why don’t you come here, Lizzie, like Mrs Lilley said, and have a bit of home comfort?’
‘I am home at Hop Cottage. Anyway, this is a rectory and I’m an adulteress.’
Margaret swallowed, sensing Lizzie was deliberately challenging her. ‘You’re in need, that’s all I know, and that’s all Mrs Lilley cares about. After all, Agnes Thorn had her baby here, and she weren’t wed when the babe was started.’
‘That’s different. Me being married to a German, and then living with Frank. It would lose the Rector respect in the village.’
Margaret sat down after giving Lizzie a nice strong cup of tea. She had to take this carefully. ‘There was a time when I’d have agreed with you, Lizzie, but that time’s gone now. Fred’s gone, Joe’s gone, your Frank’s gone. I don’t think folk look like they used to on these things. We’re all beginning to settle down and get on with our lives and problems instead of minding everyone else’s. Joe says even them Germans are just like us really, young and scared most of them.’ She summoned her strength for a last assault. ‘Why don’t you come here, Lizzie? You can take the baby back to the cottage when you’re ready.’
‘If it’s still there.’
‘What do you mean, Lizzie Dibble?’ What was this? Margaret watched her daughter, stirring her tea a little too carefully. For a start, there was no sugar in it, not even consip, the nasty stuff they gave you instead.
‘Now old Swinford-Browne is leaving Ashden, he’s letting the hop gardens go. Miss Caroline says that he’ll pay for the pickers for one last season, and then they’ll be under the Army, and sold when the war ends. Mayhap there’ll be no job for Frank to come home to, and perhaps no cottage. We’ve no rights.’
Margaret saw to the heart of the problem, and spoke right out. ‘You don’t know which of them to choose, do you, Lizzie? Rudolf or Frank. You want ’em both.’
‘Oh, Ma.’ Lizzie’s eyes filled with tears like they hadn’t done since she was a child in short pinafores.
‘You can’t have ’em both, love, but if you’re thinking that Frank might ever let you down, I’ll say this for him, I don’t think he will. He’ll be back for you.’ Margaret paused. ‘Trouble is, so will Rudolf. Best be prepared.’
‘All right, Mum, I’ll come.’ Lizzie glared just to show she wasn’t entirely convinced.
‘Come?’ Margaret’s imagination was now busy defending Lizzie against two men with rights over her.
‘Here to have the baby,’ Lizzie patiently amplified.
Margaret managed to hide her pleasure. ‘You’ll have to mind your p’s and q’s, my girl.’
‘Can’t promise that.’ Lizzie giggled.
When she had gone, Margaret sat down again to recover from the shock of having had a mother–daughter talk at last. And a baby in the house again. Fred would have liked that. That brought unhappy thoughts rushing back, which usually only troubled her during the long nights when she woke up at three or four in the morning. It was like having a continuous tooth being pulled out. Perhaps if Myrtle left, Lizzie could even be persuaded to stay on and … no, she couldn’t ask that of Mrs Lilley. They had one child in the house already, running about everywhere now she was over a year old. Elizabeth Agnes was a good baby, but even good babies had to be watched. At any hint of trouble, she knew Agnes would suggest she went back to live with Mrs Thorn while the war was on, but Margaret knew how much she’d hate it, and couldn’t blame her. Living with them Thorns was a fate she wouldn’t wish on nobody.
It suddenly occurred to her that Lizzie had never said exactly what she’d visited for this morning. Could it be that accepting Mrs Lilley’s offer was in her mind all the time? Her Lizzie was an obstinate little thing, and would want to be talked into it. Margaret was momentarily incensed, and then she thought what Percy would say – he always did: ‘She’s a chip off the old block, Daisy.’ That was his pet name for her, not that it was used much now. He’d use it when she told him the grand news, though. A baby in the house. Their baby. She laughed with pleasure. Then she resumed mincing the meat with renewed zest. ‘Ye belong to Jesus, Children of the Lord.’
Her voice bawled out in triumph over the gardens, and she bustled happily around her domain until the late afternoon when she suddenly remembered that Master George would shortly be back from school and was bringing one of his chums back to tea. She supposed she ought to stop thinking of him as Master George now he was becoming famous for his cartoons. The Rectory saw little of him, for at weekends he was off taking flying lessons at Brooklands, paid for by Sir John Hunney. What a rumpus there’d been about that. Master George had been so keen to join the Royal Flying Corps as soon as he was old enough at seventeen, but luckily they put the age limit up to eighteen. That would be in December, and meanwhile Miss Caroline had told her Sir John was keeping a close eye to make sure George didn’t jump the gun by telling a fib about his age. Death came quick enough to those in the clouds, so Joe said, and there was no need to bring grief to Mr and Mrs Lilley sooner than it might otherwise. That magazine Punch had taken several of his cartoons now, and Master George was as proud as anything when he talked about it – which wasn’t often, because he knew his father didn’t altogether approve – and a lot of his cartoons had been made into postcards. Master George never could wait to get good news off his chest, and, to her pride, he often popped into the kitchen to tell her first.
‘You’re the only one really interested,’ he had said ruefully to her one day, and she’d swelled with pride. ‘Caroline and Mother are too busy with their blessed farmers. Father’s out all the time, Phoebe isn’t interested, and Isabel – well, who’d want to talk to Mrs Misabel?’
‘Now, now, Master George,’ she’d said, ‘you speak respectfully of your sister.’
Though why he should, when she herself found it hard to talk respectfully of Mrs Isabel, goodness only knows. In Margaret’s opinion, she was nothing more than a scrounger. Right from a little girl, she could twist you round her little finger, and didn’t she know it. She had been spoilt owing to Mrs Lilley having lost a baby in infancy. Marriage hadn’t changed Mrs Isabel. Even a big house of her own, and money didn’t satisfy her; she wanted parties and excitement, and the fact that her parents couldn’t afford it didn’t seem to enter her head. Luckily Miss Caroline had her head screwed on right and kept her in her place – most of the time. Poor Miss Caroline, she worked so hard, and what that girl had been through. That Mr Reggie was nice enough, but he was never worthy of her, and sooner or later she’d discover that for herself.
