‘No muffins!’ Caroline cried disbelievingly. ‘But Gwen Wilson always brings them round at four o’clock, and you can’t tell me she’s gone into the Army.’ Gwen, the baker’s sister from Lovel’s Mill, was fifty, and as well rounded as one of her delicious products; her sturdy trouser-clad figure, the clang of her bell and her call of ‘muffins, fresh muffins’, had become the symbol of winter to Caroline during the dark afternoons.
‘It’s the war,’ Isabel inevitably replied. ‘Don’t you read the newspapers? New regulations for bakers.’
‘In London I don’t stop for tea, but at Ashden I expect muffins. Muffins,’ Caroline declared grandly, ‘are a bastion against war. They should be the last thing to fall victim to shortages.’
‘Try Mrs Dibble’s oatmeal cakes with saccharin jam instead.’
Caroline laughed. She knew she was being ridiculous to mind so much, but she had wanted Yves to experience all the joys of Rectory life so far as was possible in wartime. Ah well, if it came to a choice, she would rather have Yves than muffins.
At least those first few precious moments standing in the Rectory hall, the centre of the warren of rooms around and above it, had not been denied her. Down those stairs the five Lilley children had clattered and shouted, rejoiced and wept, and here, God willing, they would all gather again once this war was over. To save paraffin for which agricultural use now had priority, the stove was not on, but it seemed to Caroline it hardly mattered; they were enclosed by the old familiar sights and sounds, and that was enough.
‘I’m home,’ she had declared with great satisfaction, then immediately regretted it as she realised what those words would mean to Yves, who had no home to which he could return – yet.
‘Follow me, Captain!’ George had seized Yves’ luggage, saluted smartly, and charged up the stairs to the room Yves had been allotted. Caroline had followed, humping her own suitcase (typical of brothers) into her own bedroom.
And there had been Isabel, waiting for her. Most unusual. Normally old lazybones Isabel would wait until one sought her out – unless she wanted something, Caroline remembered suspiciously.
‘You’re looking very pretty, Isabel. Is Robert coming home on leave?’
Isabel, the oldest of the four Lilley girls, would be twenty-nine in January. She had always been attractive, with her fair curls and large grey-blue eyes, but now she looked positively blooming.
‘No, but I’ve something even better to tell you. I made Mother and Father promise not to let the cat out of the bag first.’ Isabel paused impressively. ‘I’m going to have a baby. Isn’t that marvellous?’
‘Isabel!’ Caroline catapulted herself into her sister’s arms. ‘That’s wonderful news. I shan’t miss the muffins one little bit now.’ She disengaged herself and glanced at Isabel’s figure which was as slender as ever.
‘It’s very recent, about two months, but it’s certain. Nearly anyway, Dr Marden said. If so, it will be born in July.’
‘You didn’t want children at one time,’ Caroline asked curiously. ‘Are you sure you can cope?’
‘Times change,’ Isabel replied vaguely.
They did indeed. Isabel, from being the wayward, self-centred elder sister of her youth who would beg, borrow or steal whatever she wanted, was now a reformed character, according to Mother. This was quite obvious today, although Caroline was amused to see there were still a few signs of the old Isabel. There had not been a word about how Caroline was faring – but that was Isabel and always would be.
‘There may be a war on but tea’s still going to be served the way it ought to be, Myrtle,’ Margaret said sternly. ‘You put a decent cloth on that table. No making do with yesterday’s. Field Marshal Haig won’t be having to do with dirty cloths and nor will we.’
It was bad enough having the dirty mud-coloured ‘wartime bread’ that the government had forced on the bakers. Once upon a time the best of the grain made flour for human beings, and the rest was given to the animals. Now their flour was a concoction of some of the best, some of the animals’ food, and the remainder any other cereals they could rake up. The Ministry proudly pointed out this meant they could probably avoid rationing it, but, if you asked Margaret Dibble, the taste of it did a good job rationing itself.
‘Off you go, Myrtle. Don’t stand there like a Lord Tom Noddy.’
Chastened, Myrtle scuttled off to the linen closet, while Agnes put the cups and plates ready. No sitting down watching for Margaret, however. Usually she took a cup herself about this time. Not today, as she presided over the rituals she had followed for so many years. She’d seen nearly as many Christmases here as the Rector himself. The war had put an end to many of the old ways. She and Mrs Lilley had had to put their heads together three days ago on St Thomas’s Day over what to do if the needy of the village came a-goodening. No one could be refused a gift if they came on Goodening Day. Nowadays, not many came. It wasn’t that there were less needy folk in Ashden, but that they kept themselves to themselves more, knowing that food shortages affected rectories as much as the smallest cottage. Once upon a time she’d made an extra twenty or so small plum puddings, and the good Lord alone could count the mince pies. This year, only Sammy Farthing had come, and that was only because his neighbour Nanny Oates, with whom he shared many meals, would be coming to the Rectory on Christmas Day, and Sammy liked to lay in stocks in case his daughter-in-law forgot about him.
At least the mince pies were as they should be – or nearly – whatever deficiencies the stuffings, cakes and puddings might have. Percy’s potatoes went to help make pastry, a plentiful supply of apples from the orchard, and a lump of suet and scrag ends of beef obtained with a little pressure on Wally Bertram ensured that her mother’s old recipe for mincemeat could be adhered to. And the mince pies were the proper Sussex oval shape, not round like this modern fashion. Margaret was justifiably proud that her mince pies were striking another blow at the Kaiser, and a good job too.
It would be a small Christmas for her and Percy this year, even though Mr Peck and Miss Lewis, Lady Buckford’s staff, swelled the numbers. Myrtle would be off home after church, and Agnes too maybe. Lizzie would be here of course, bless her, and baby Frank. Not so much of a baby now. He’d passed his first birthday, and was into everything. Margaret supposed she should go to midnight Mass like the Rector wanted, but she hadn’t felt the same about the Church, not since Fred had died. The Rector never pressed her, he said she’d come in her own good time. If so, that wasn’t yet. This was the first Christmas without Fred and how could she go and give thanks as though nothing had happened?
There was a knock on the kitchen door, and when she opened it Margaret found not only an unexpected, but an astonishing visitor. It was the Honourable Penelope Banning, Lord Banning’s daughter. Whatever was she doing here? She’d no idea there were to be Rectory guests for tea, and even if there were, she didn’t expect them to visit the kitchens, especially through the tradesmen’s entrance.
‘I’m sorry to barge in like this’ – she didn’t look sorry at all in fact – ‘but Mrs Lilley said you wouldn’t mind. I wanted to tell you myself, so that if I can’t find Lizzie you can pass on the news.’
Lizzie? News? It had to be bad, for that was all there was nowadays. But what did Miss Penelope have to do with Lizzie? She’d never met her, to Margaret’s knowledge. Miss Banning had been Master Reggie’s friend first, then Miss Caroline’s, but since the war began they hadn’t seen anything of her to speak of, her being out east as a nurse. East! A terrible thought struck her.
‘It’s good news in a way,’ Penelope said hastily, seeing dawning realisation on her face. ‘I wanted to tell Lizzie that Frank Eliot is back in this country. He’s in hospital with dysentery at Shooter’s Hill, south of London. The hospital where Caroline and Felicia did their training.’
The world was going cuckoo. Margaret just couldn’t take it all in. Frank was the father of Lizzie’s son, and hadn’t been able to get home since he was called up eighteen months ago. He’d seen she was all right for money and written regularly, but the letters didn’t arrive the same way. They came in bunches, and they hadn’t heard from him in months. Margaret fixed on the immediate puzzle. ‘How do you know about Frank, Miss Penelope?’
‘I was a nurse on the hospital ship that brought him back from the Mediterranean. He was part of Allenby’s army.’
Now that was a name Mrs Dibble knew well – everyone did. Two weeks ago General Lord Allenby had marched triumphantly into Jerusalem, where he had given a speech in every language under the sun to make sure this was a happy day for everyone – especially Jerusalem. It was the first success the British army had had for goodness knew how long, and it was fitting, Rector said, that at this time of year it was Jerusalem to be freed from occupation by the Central Powers and Turks.
‘Frank’s a fine man, Mrs Dibble,’ Penelope continued. ‘I came to know him quite well after we discovered we had Kent and Ashden in common.’
Before the war Miss Penelope wouldn’t have had a chance to chat to Frank Eliot, even if she’d wanted to. He had been manager of the hop garden for the Swinford-Brownes, and being a foreigner to the village he’d always been regarded with suspicion. It’s not that Miss Penelope would have thought him out of her class, but that their social circles would never have collided. War was a funny thing.
‘How is he?’ Conflicting emotions battled within her. She had grudgingly come to like Frank after Lizzie moved in with him without the benefit of the Lord’s blessing, but Lizzie had to remember she was still married to Rudolf, German or not. He’d left at the beginning of the war, and they’d heard that he was still alive.
‘He’s improving, I’m glad to say, but he needs a few more weeks in hospital.’
Well, Lizzie would have some good news for Christmas after all, for surely they wouldn’t send Frank back to the wars at his age, having been so ill? He must be nearly forty, if not over. Then she remembered what they had done to Fred, and misery overwhelmed her again. They could do anything they chose.
After Penelope had left, Margaret decided to have that cup of tea after all – to get over the shock, if nothing else. Not that you could call it tea nowadays it was so weak, more like water bewitched, as her mother used to say. Perhaps, she thought as the kettle boiled, she would go to church this evening after all, just to please Rector and Percy. Even the turkey and capon stuffing looked much more interesting, even if it was mostly oatmeal and herbs. Unbidden, she suddenly found herself first humming, then singing: ‘Jerusalem! … Jerusalem! …’
‘Mrs Dibble’s singing!’ Caroline went to the drawing-room door to make sure of her facts, and returned contentedly to Yves.
‘She has not the most tuneful of voices.’
‘It’s dreadful, but that’s not the point! It’s that she hasn’t sung since Fred died.’
‘I understand now.’ Yves crossed to sit beside her on the Chesterfield. ‘Caroline, I should not attend Mass at St Nicholas this evening.’
‘Because of your being a Roman Catholic?’
‘No, because of you. I should not take communion without telling your father how things are between us.’
‘We’ve discussed that,’ Caroline said gently. ‘What’s the point of hurting them unnecessarily when we don’t know how long we’ll be together?’
‘It worries me.’
‘Please come.’
Reluctantly he agreed, to her great relief. St Nicholas and midnight Mass were Christmas. Within the timelessness of its thick, grey walls, the meaning of Christmas, even in these dark days of war, came home, and how could she bear it if Yves were not at her side?
Late that evening, in the familiarity of the scene of the villagers walking along the path to the church, each clutching a candle or torch because of the blackout, it was hard to think of the suffering of the men in the trenches. It was too big and too terrible a concept. She could only see it through the faces of those around her in church who had lost sons and fathers, faces like Mrs Hubble’s and Mrs Dibble’s, and those of her own family.
The church seemed full of ghosts, for most people here had been touched by the tragedy of war. For the Lilleys it was Felicia who was in their thoughts. Felicia had never told their parents how dangerous her job really was, always implying that she and Aunt Tilly worked at a baseline hospital, but somehow as time went by, Mother and Father seemed to have gathered the information without being told, perhaps from the newspapers, perhaps from people’s comments, or perhaps by parents’ intuition. Tomorrow they would at least have Aunt Tilly with them, for she was recovering apparently from some slight illness at Lord Banning’s home in Tunbridge Wells. Simon Banning, Penelope’s father, was a good friend of Caroline’s, and she suspected that he had designs to change Aunt Tilly’s single status once this war was over. Designs he might have, but fulfilling them could prove harder, and Caroline and Penelope watched the progress of the ‘game’ with great interest.
As they emerged with their candles into the darkness after the service, ahead of her in the procession out of the church were the Hunneys. They still sat in the Hunney pew, as for centuries past.
Father had wanted to abolish the two remaining private pews now that the Norvilles had gone, but one hint of this to ‘Maud’ as she was disrespectfully known at the Rectory and even he had quailed. The Hunney pew remained.
Sir John was with Lady Hunney tonight, and also Daniel, now stomping around on his wooden leg without a second thought. All her life Caroline had battled with the domineering, awe-inspiring Lady Hunney, but now she seemed diminished in size, a woman, not the monster of Caroline’s memory. The shoulders were as stiff, but appeared bowed, although no hint of this was evident in her greeting to Caroline.
‘I am glad to see you, Caroline – and you too, Captain Rosier.’
Even as she was murmuring good wishes, Caroline could feel Reggie between them. His death, oddly enough, had brought his mother and Caroline together, just as his life had separated them. She was reluctantly now speaking to her daughter Eleanor, whom she considered had disgraced the family by marrying the vet Martin Cuss, but Martin was still beyond the Hunney pale. He was in the Royal Veterinary Corps, but had managed to wangle Christmas leave. He and Eleanor weren’t spending it in Ashden, however, but at his parents’ home in Dorset, suitably far from Lady Hunney.
The bells were ringing now – so Christmas had truly begun. With so many men at the front, it was a struggle to keep the bells going, but wives had nobly stepped into the breach, and the memory of Mrs Bertram being lifted high into the air by mistake in her training days, black boots kicking wildly under the heavy skirts and petticoats, still made Caroline giggle.
‘What’s the matter, Yves?’ Caroline asked anxiously, when they had finished the mince pies and hot chocolate provided for their homecoming. He was looking bewildered, a little lost.
‘It is so different. In Belgium we would have been exchanging presents at this moment.’
‘Can’t you wait?’ she teased him. ‘Look, you can see them all in a heap under the tree. They’ll still be there tomorrow.’
‘I will try to be less impatient.’
‘I knew you’d be feeling like this. So this is a little pre-present.’ She put a small package into his hand. ‘It’s perfectly hideous, but I did write it myself.’ It was a short poem of love, decorated with dried rose petals she’d saved from the summer. She stopped him as he was about to unwrap the tissue paper. ‘Don’t open it now. Take it to bed with you,’ she dropped her voice, ‘and think of me.’
‘I do not need aide-memoires for that.’ For a moment she thought there were tears in his eyes. ‘But I have no pre-present for you, and I love you.’
‘You are my present.’
‘Where on earth did you get the turkeys from, Mother?’ Caroline clapped as Father ceremoniously carried in the Christmas festive fare, with George behind him blowing a child’s trumpet, and the rest of them singing the Boar’s Head carol. Even Grandmother sang – she seemed unusually benevolent this year.
‘We have to thank your grandmother for it. And three capons and a goose. One for Mrs Dibble to cook for the servants and the rest for tomorrow.’
‘Well, I do thank you, Grandmama. What fun to have turkey.’
‘Oscar thinks so,’ chortled George. ‘Percy would have been after him with a cleaver otherwise.’
‘If that pig has any sense, it will teach itself to truffle-hunt to earn its keep,’ Laurence declared, setting down the bird and brandishing the knife.
‘Unless the war ends,’ declared Elizabeth. ‘Even the Kaiser couldn’t be so cruel as to deprive us of Oscar.’
‘He’d always be part of us, Mother,’ George consoled her gravely.
‘George!’ Caroline warned – before she realised he was no longer a mischievous schoolboy, but was a lieutenant in the Royal Flying Corps, and one whose cartoons of life in the air were rapidly becoming as popular as Bruce Bairnsfather’s of trench warfare.
He winked at her to show he’d understood exactly what she was thinking.
There were only ten of them round the table this Christmas. Conscious of the expected battle for food, the Hunneys, the Bannings, and Aunt Tilly would not be joining them till the afternoon. Caroline was almost glad of this, because it made the family circle more intimate, and this now – so far as she was concerned – included Yves. Phoebe seemed to think the same way about Billy, for she kept an adoring eye on him throughout the lunch. He had been awkward at first in the Rectory, being no churchgoer and clearly unaccustomed to family gatherings, at least at Rectory tables. He seemed to have found his feet quickly and firmly – indeed, almost too firmly.
Caroline smiled to herself as she thought of her mother’s whispered comments yesterday evening. ‘He’s very unusual, isn’t he?’
Compared with Ashden folk, Caroline supposed he was. ‘Probably there’s something about him that reminds her of Harry Darling.’ Phoebe’s sweetheart had been wounded at Loos, and died in hospital.
‘Besides the cockney accent and lack of table manners?’ Elizabeth asked drily. ‘And his age. He must be over forty and she’s only twenty. Suppose she wants to marry him? What would your father say?’
‘I imagine Father would want Phoebe to be happy, first and foremost.’
Her mother had a final shot however. ‘Certainly, if Billy were like Yves. You must enjoy working with him.’
Did she imagine it or was there a slight emphasis on the working? ‘Yes,’ Caroline had answered uneasily.
She decided she liked Billy very much. He had a presence that rivalled even Father’s in company, as he reeled off jokes and anecdotes of music-hall life, while Phoebe giggled at his side.
‘You seem to lead a very full life, Mr Jones,’ Lady Buckford remarked glacially, after one outrageous story. Obviously Billy Jones was still beyond the limits of tolerance that Grandmother was prepared to consider as part of her war effort.
Billy grinned. ‘Now I do. They never let the likes of me out of the East End before they were needed in the trenches, your ladyship.’
‘From what I gather, you left the East End some time ago, Mr Jones.’
‘But not for your drawing room, eh?’
Billy was running straight towards the portcullis at the end of Grandmother’s drawbridge, marked ‘No entry, fear of boiling oil’, and his ease of manner wouldn’t be enough for Grandmama to show mercy.
‘I spy a currant in here,’ announced George hastily, investigating his slice of pudding. ‘Has it escaped from somewhere and if so, do I have to hand it back?’
Margaret Dibble looked at her diminished family, Percy, Lizzie and little Frank, all doing their best to jolly her along so that she would forget Fred. She’d tried to make an effort, but was it worth it? Why should she bother? The reins should be handed over to the younger generation. She was fifty now, and the grey hairs were coming. Even old Peck and Lewis were looking to her as though she was solely responsible for cheering everybody up. Lizzie at least was happy that Frank was back, and was planning to leave the baby with her tomorrow while she went to visit him.
Mind you, Lizzie might look happy, but inside she was a worrier like Margaret, though unlike Percy. She had a lot to worry about too. It was all very well and nice Frank coming home to be with his baby, but how was she going to choose between him and Rudolf? Someone was going to get hurt.
‘How about one or two of your songs, Louise?’ Percy said in desperation to Miss Lewis. Louise Lewis, the highly respectable personal maid to Lady Buckford, had turned out to have hidden talents. She had been giving sing-songs on the Rectory piano for the wounded officers from Ashden Manor Hospital. ‘Carols, of course,’ Percy added quickly, his eye on Margaret, ‘seeing it’s Christmas.’ There was an old piano in the servants’ hall. It wasn’t up to much, but it served its purpose.
‘Why not?’ Louise said. ‘And I’ll tell you what. Let’s ask Billy Jones to come and give us a song, seeing that it’s Christmas.’
Margaret stared at her as though she’d suggested flying to the moon. In normal times she would never have dared ask the Rector if one of his guests could come to the servants’ quarters to give them a song, but suddenly she too thought: why not?
‘I’ll go.’ Resolutely, defying umpteen years of protocol, Margaret marched into the drawing room where it seemed an army of people had now gathered and were drinking tea. The Hunneys and the Bannings had arrived, and there propped in a chair looking very pale was another familiar face.
Caroline was the first to notice her entrance. ‘Look who’s arrived, Mrs Dibble. Isn’t it marvellous to see her?’
Yes, it was, Margaret decided, though Miss Matilda (she always refused to be called your ladyship as she was by rights) didn’t look well. Seedy, almost yellow in the face she was. Too many late nights in that hospital of hers, Margaret thought knowingly.
‘Pleased to see you, Miss Tilly, and how’s Miss Felicia?’
‘It’s me let the side down,’ Tilly rasped, ‘not her.’
She was a shadow of her old self, Margaret thought, alarmed, and Lady Buckford was fussing over her like a newborn lamb, for all they hadn’t spoken for years. That was because Miss Tilly had let the side down then too, by being a suffragette. Funny to think she, Margaret Dibble, being over thirty, would probably have the vote next year if this bill went through parliament, and it was all because of Miss Tilly.
‘I beg pardon for interrupting, Rector,’ Margaret remembered her mission, ‘but I speak for us all in the servants’ hall in asking whether Mr Jones might favour us with a song there at his convenience.’ She looked uncertainly round. ‘Seeing as how it’s Christmas.’
‘Right you are.’ Billy leapt up to come straight away, but he couldn’t do that. Margaret knew this was the time that the Rector started the traditional Christmas game of the Family Coach.
‘Any time would suit us, Rector. We’re only a small group, as you know,’ Margaret said, alarmed at the inconvenience to the Rector’s programme.
Caroline saw a glance pass between her father and mother, but even she was surprised when her father said warmly: ‘I’ve a better idea, Mrs Dibble, if your family agrees. After we’ve played the Family Coach, why don’t you all come to join us? We’ll have tea and entertainment together, if Miss Lewis would oblige us on the piano and Mr Jones is agreeable. And of course if you yourself have no objection, Mrs Dibble.’
Objection? Margaret was dazed. Never would she have thought it proper for servants to sit with family drinking tea and chatting, but now the Rector suggested it, it seemed highly sensible. Seeing that it was Christmas. It took an hour and a half with so many players for the Family Coach to reach its destination. Father allotted everyone a role, refusing to be put off by his mother’s bleak face. Fortunately, Grandmother’s rivalry with Lady Hunney meant she could not afford to refuse to play. Every year Father chose a different story to relate as narrator, to invoke a different set of circumstances, and this year, following last year’s triumph of ‘The Hunting of the Snark’, he had chosen Through the Looking-Glass, Lewis Carroll’s sequel to Alice in Wonderland. The coach rattled its way through the battles of Tweedledum and Tweedledee, and the Lion and the Unicorn, and past the White Knight, and by the time it had arrived back through the Looking-Glass they were ready for the tea which father summoned.
‘Dear Lord,’ he finished in his customary prayer for the year ahead, ‘as we rattle through this topsy-turvy looking-glass war, into the year ahead, full of uncertainty and fear, may we overcome with Thy help all such monsters and obstacles before us.’
After tea had been cleared, the servants self-consciously filed in, automatically gravitating to the back and sides of the room. By now they included Agnes and Elizabeth Agnes, since Agnes had decided to make her visit to her parents short and sweet – if that was the word for the gloomy hellfire atmosphere of her childhood home.
‘No,’ said Laurence firmly. ‘Sit with us, if you please.’
Even the tradition of family prayers every morning had long since gone by the board, Caroline knew, for everyone breakfasted at different times, so this mixing of the two components that made up the Rectory was indeed breaking new ground.
Caroline saw Lady Hunney exchange a quick look with Lady Buckford, obviously to gauge the reaction of the other at this novel procedure. Fortunately neither of them dared to be the first to make an objection, which would afford the other the opportunity to display Christmas goodwill. Baby Frank broke the ensuing ice by trying to clamber onto Lady Buckford’s lap, sending Lizzie chasing after him.
‘I will hold him, if I may,’ Lady Buckford said graciously. ‘It is a long time since Lady Matilda could be held in my lap.’ She glanced at her daughter, with whom she now had an uneasy relationship again, after Tilly had been cast from the house in 1914 for her suffragette activities.
One up on Lady Hunney, Caroline thought appreciatively. Her ladyship retaliated by bribing Elizabeth Agnes’s attention with one of Mrs Dibble’s few precious home-made jelly sweets. No truffles and chocolates this year.
‘How’s Felicia?’ Daniel Hunney asked nonchalantly, coming to sit next to her (for that express purpose, Caroline suspected).
‘Aunt Tilly says she’s well, though she’s insisted on staying at her post.’
‘What’s wrong with Tilly?’ he asked, keeping his voice low.
‘I don’t know. Simon says some kind of pneumonia, but she looks odd, doesn’t she? I’m amazed Tilly’s held out so long in those appalling conditions.’
‘I’m amazed at both of them.’ Daniel frowned as he looked at Tilly, but he said no more and Caroline dismissed the odd niggle from her mind. Felicia was deeply in love with Daniel, but there was a bar to their marrying – which Caroline had correctly deduced had to do with impotence due to his war wounds. Luke Dequessy was equally deeply in love with Felicia. What a pickle it all was, Caroline thought despondently. Herself and Yves, Felicia – war had a lot to answer for, and whom or whether one could love was the least of it.
After Billy Jones had sung several of his own Cockney songs and then Albert Chevalier’s ‘Wot Cher’ and ‘It’s a Great Big Shame’, Percy disappeared, at Father’s suggestion, to make some of his famous punch. It wouldn’t have quite so much ‘punch’ in it as usual, since the brandy had all been used in the puddings, but he said he’d see what he could do. When pushed, Percy was as adept at ‘making do’ in his field, as Mrs Dibble was in hers.
‘Caroline told me you believed the days of music hall were numbered, Mr Jones,’ Laurence said. ‘Why do you believe that?’
Billy shrugged. ‘The old tunes and songs spring from everyday life, that’s why. Now the war’s on, there isn’t one. So we sing war songs or little bits of nothing.’
‘What about a nice love song?’ Margaret asked belligerently. ‘“My old Dutch”. That’s a good one.’
‘Then I’ll sing it for you, madam.’ He made her a deep bow, and she gave a mental sniff just to show she wasn’t going to be smarmied.
When he finished, another volunteer took his place. ‘I too will sing you a love song, Mrs Dibble.’
Caroline’s jaw dropped, as Yves went to the piano and whispered to Miss Lewis. Could Yves sing? How odd that after all this time, she hadn’t the least idea.
It was soon apparent that he could. He stood, in the grand manner, one hand on his heart, the other on the grand piano, singing majestically: ‘Under the old apple tree, When the love in your eyes I could see, The old apple tree.’ Caroline had to struggle to keep back tears. It was in their orchard of apple trees she had met Yves again, and mistaken him for Reggie, for it was in that same orchard that she and Reggie had become engaged, once upon a time and long ago. To sing this song was Yves’ way of reminding her that he, as Reggie, loved her and that he was not jealous of old ghosts.
‘I’ve just come to say goodbye.’ Phoebe had taken advantage of the Rectory tradition that if one’s bedroom door was open, one was available to anyone who wanted to pop in.
‘You’re off to France already? I thought you said it wasn’t till Friday, and this is only Wednesday. It’s Boxing Day. You can’t go yet.’
Phoebe beamed happily. ‘Billy hasn’t got another tour in France until March, so we want a day or two together before I have to leave.’
‘Oh, Phoebe, I do worry for you.’ Caroline spoke impulsively before thinking, and her sister immediately flared up.
‘Why worry? Billy and I are going to marry, and that’s that.’
‘But you’re underage, and anyway, isn’t he married already?’
‘He divorced his wife, if you must know. And after what I’ve been through, Father must realise that I know my own mind.’
‘Has he spoken to Father?’ Divorce? He’d have a fit.
‘No. Billy thought we should wait until my twenty-first birthday in June, though goodness knows what difference that makes. Anyway,’ she added defiantly, ‘that’s why we’re off. Dearly as I love the Rectory, staying here does have certain disadvantages – doesn’t it?’ She fixed large, challenging eyes on Caroline.
‘You mean you’re lovers?’
The horror on her face must have been all too plain, for Phoebe retorted furiously: ‘No, in fact. And how can you talk? I bet you’re sleeping with Yves.’
‘Yes, but—’ She broke off, seeing Phoebe staring aghast over her shoulder, and turned round. Her mother was standing in the doorway, and had obviously overheard and been appalled by their conversation.
‘Is this true, Caroline?’ she asked jerkily.
Caroline groaned. Of all things to happen, of all ways and times for her parents to find out, this was positively the worst. ‘Yes, Mother, and I’m very happy.’
‘I can’t believe it, Caroline. I realised you were growing fond of him, but never dreamt you would let it go this far. You deliberately kept it from us, letting us believe you just worked for him. What’s your father going to say?’
‘Nothing, I hope,’ Caroline said wretchedly. ‘You know it would hurt him and—’
‘Hurt? My dear child, it’s rather more than that, and if you’re hoping I won’t tell him, you’re very much mistaken. I can’t keep it from him, even if I wanted to. He is a priest of God and you are his daughter. How could he condone sin in you, even if he forgave you? To say nothing of the risk,’ Elizabeth added practically.
‘There is no risk,’ Caroline assured her unhappily, watching the storm cloud rush down the staircase. How could her mother be so understanding in some ways, yet so intolerant in others?
‘What is the matter, Caroline?’ Yves answered her knock on his door, and drew her inside. ‘You’re trembling.’
‘Mother knows about us.’
He held her very close. ‘Then I will go to see your father now, and talk to him, as I should have done long ago.’
‘No—’
He kissed her, and the door closed behind him.
She sat on his bed feeling sick. How could the happiness of Christmas have vanished so completely? She struggled to think clearly, and some minutes later she managed it. She should be with them, not leaving it to Yves to face Father alone. If she was the independent, mature woman she thought she was, and not the innocent girlish victim her mother clearly believed, she must follow Yves down those stairs to defend herself, however much she wanted to hide under the bed and pretend it hadn’t happened. Her mind made up, she walked, legs trembling, down to the study. As she approached, she could hear the rise and fall of voices, her father’s even tones, and Yves’ less controlled voice. She went straight in, and both men stopped in mid flow. Her mother stood by the window, white-faced and alien.
‘I want you to know, Father, that it was against Yves’ better judgement that we kept our love from you. He wanted to tell you, I stopped him.’ Bravery was easier to plan than carry out.
‘Then I am deeply and gravely disappointed in you, Caroline.’
‘Yves and I both know our own minds and hearts.’ Always before her father had been understanding. She was convinced she had only to find the right words this time and he would see her point of view.
He listened while she talked, with the occasional interpolation by Yves, but all he said when at last she finished was: ‘Are you quite determined to continue with this ungodly relationship, Caroline?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even though Captain Rosier tells me he is a married man?’
‘In name only,’ Yves pointed out.
‘I presume you made your wedding vow under that name?’
‘I did, and I am always aware of it. Had I not and if I was not prepared to honour the promise I made then, I would now be free to marry Caroline.’
Caroline was terrified. She had never seen her father’s face so bleak. She ran to him, throwing her arms round him and pleading childishly, ‘Please don’t say I can’t come home any more.’
He put her aside gently. ‘Caroline, I won’t say that. There is room here for everyone, even for those God sees as sinners, but I cannot give you my blessing on this relationship. It follows that, much though it pains me, I must ask you not to accompany Caroline here in future, Captain Rosier.’
Before Yves could reply, Caroline spoke first, not on impulse, but out of the sure knowledge of her own heart. ‘I love Yves, Father, and he is as much to me as Mother was to you, when you walked out of Grandmother’s home because she did not approve of your choice of loved one. If you cannot welcome Yves here, then I cannot come alone.’
The last words were almost swallowed in the effort to hold back her tears.