Caroline peered down through the attic bedroom window in Queen Anne’s Gate – or rather she tried to peer down. The heavy tracery of frost patterns on the glass prevented her from seeing anything but a faint suggestion of swirling snow outside. Mrs Dibble said it was a ‘blackthorn winter’ which meant cold and frost in April, not January.
‘Are we snowed in yet?’ Yves asked sleepily from the bed.
She breathed hard several times on the windowpane to try to clear a hole in the frost, and eventually it responded to treatment, or sufficiently so for her to see that snow still lay thickly in the road beneath them.
‘I don’t know, but I’ve sent a special prayer for a path to clear wherever your dainty boots choose to walk.’
‘They would prefer not to walk at all. Did le Bon Seigneur agree?’
‘Yes, He sent you a shovel.’
‘Captains do not shovel except at weekends. Captains stay in bed while the batmen shovel.’
‘Shall I tell Ellen on you?’
Yves sighed heavily. ‘I will arise.’
Caroline looked at him tenderly. His hair was tousled, his chin stubbly, his eyes still heavy with sleep; it was the Yves she loved best – save the very private one whom she shared only with the pillow. The moment his feet touched the floor, little by little Captain Rosier would take over from Yves; the face would subtly change, growing layers like garments donned one by one. First the long johns in this icy weather, then the vest, the shirt, and khaki breeches, until it needed only the uniform tunic for Yves to be slumbering deep inside while His Majesty King Albert’s liaison officer assumed command.
Washing and dressing were brief routines at the moment, for though the coal rationing system was working well, there was little left for bedroom fires.
‘I wish I were a motor car chase in a Harold Lloyd film,’ she complained, as she wrestled her way into her blouse and WAAC jacket, and then returned to tackle the time-consuming battle of the suspenders. ‘Then I could do this at double the speed.’ Hollywood films could speed up the action by the turn of a switch, but human beings took a little longer. She blew on her fingers, still cold from the washing water.
‘There’ll be ice on the lake,’ she said, trying to think of the bonuses of a London winter.
She had been thinking of the Serpentine, but he misunderstood, and in a moment she was warm again from his arms around her.
‘Cara, do not grieve for Ashden – there are other lakes and we will find them. How long will it last, do you think?’
How long would it last? How many ways to interpret that: the cold January weather, her happiness with Yves, her estrangement from the Rectory? Always in her life Ashden had come first, and London was merely a place where she worked and lived. Now London was her home, at least until the end of the war. What would happen then was as impenetrable a white blur as the snowy, frosty scene outside. There would then be no Yves, and perhaps no Rectory either. The ache in her heart had even made her doubt the wisdom of what she was doing. Yves and she had talked it over endlessly, and each time she had come to the same conclusion, despite Yves’ repeating all the arguments against it.
‘How can I allow you to cut yourself off from your home, cara? It is a small thing for us to be separated for a few days while you visit Ashden alone.’
‘It is not a small thing, Yves, and you know it,’ she had patiently replied each time. ‘I have made my choice, and it is you. In not accepting our situation, Father is rejecting me as well as you.’
War altered everything, save basic morality, and in her view she and Yves had not transgressed those rules. Never in her life had she so irrevocably divided herself from her father, and she still could hardly believe that it had happened. It had, though, so the less she thought about it the better.
‘Come on, lazybones, time for work.’ She dragged Yves away from the window through which he was peering with no enthusiasm at all.
‘If this is 1918,’ he said, ‘I do not like it.’ She agreed with him. Clad in galoshes, mackintoshes, scarves and gloves, and somewhat warmer inside thanks to Ellen’s breakfast, they battled their way across St James’s Park to Whitehall against a bitterly cold north-east wind and fine, driving snow. All around them white-encrusted uniforms and greatcoats were marching with similar determination. It was, she decided, a whole new army trooping to battle. Their battle, although vital, could never compare with that on the Western Front, however, where troops were captives in trenches and dugouts, without loved ones, and without home comforts. A free Christmas pudding sent to all the troops didn’t seem much compensation.
Moreover it wasn’t just the soldiers; there were those that looked after them. People like Felicia. She felt humble remembering what the sister they had all believed to be so fragile was enduring.
‘Glory be!’ she said thankfully, as at last they reached their office. Someone had lit a small fire.
‘I bestow upon them the order of Leopold II,’ Yves said thankfully, as they collided in their eagerness to reach the warmth first.
‘I thought army captains were impervious to cold.’
‘That is true – save for those who are not.’
‘Luke’s back!’ Caroline cried, spotting the portmanteau by his desk. ‘He must have come straight to the office.’ She had been surprised not to find him there when they returned to the office after the Christmas break, and were told that he had taken leave. Then Luke himself appeared through the door to greet them.
‘You don’t look well, Luke,’ Caroline said, concerned that his usual cheerful face was drawn and colourless. Did she imagine it, or had a glance passed between the two men even as she made her comment?
‘Bad journey.’
‘From Reading? That’s where your parents live, isn’t it?’
He appeared not to hear the question, for he disappeared through into the small adjoining office, and brought in some hot cocoa for them which Caroline seized gratefully.
At last Luke did reply. ‘My journey wasn’t from Berkshire. I came from France and there are gales in the Channel, as you probably know.’
‘You’ve been to see Felicia,’ Caroline exclaimed. ‘How is she?’ The moment she had spoken, she knew she had misread the situation, and the excitement was lost in a wave of inexplicable fear. ‘You didn’t spend Christmas here, did you? You were in France all the time.’ Of course. How could she not have realised that before?
Luke nodded.
‘And it isn’t the gales making you look so ill, is it?’ she pressed him. ‘It’s Felicia.’ The words just came, from where she did not know. ‘Is she dead?’ she asked jerkily.
‘No,’ Luke answered quickly, quietly. ‘She’s not. She is very ill though. That’s why I went.’
She could hardly take this in. ‘How long? Where is she? How ill?’ She blurted out the questions like bullets. ‘Do my parents know? How did you know?’ Oh, the hurt. All over Christmas Felicia had been lying ill, while Caroline had been escaping from the war at Ashden.
‘She would not allow anyone to know, particularly her parents. I heard by chance. Tilly knew, of course.’
Aunt Tilly had been at Ashden at Christmas. ‘How could she not tell us?’ Caroline cried unbelievingly.
‘To spare your parents, Caroline. To spare all of you the worry. It was Felicia’s decision.’
‘Do not blame her, cara,’ Yves said quietly. ‘She took the same decision as you, to spare others’ pain.’
Caroline longed to cry out that this was different, that Felicia was ill, needed them, could not be held responsible for what she said. She could not do it, however, as she realised the hurt inside her was purely selfish; it was on her own account, not on Felicia’s. Felicia, unlike Caroline, had always known what she wanted, and if this meant suffering alone, her decision should be respected, however hard to bear for her family.
‘Tell me about it, Luke,’ she asked quietly.
‘She and Tilly were both gassed, Felicia much more seriously than Tilly, in the last stages of the battle for Passchendaele Ridge in November. Tilly recovered well enough to return to England in December, as you know, but Felicia did not.’
‘So it wasn’t pneumonia.’ Of course it wasn’t. Caroline realised she had subconsciously known something was wrong, but hadn’t pursued the thought, intent on her own concerns. November. All that time, and they had merely assumed Felicia was manning the advance dressing post on her own, and since she very seldom wrote, no matter the season, her silence had not worried them unduly. War, as Caroline had been reflecting earlier this morning, changed everything.
‘She’s in hospital at Étaples now,’ Luke continued, ‘not well enough to be moved.’
Caroline licked her dry lips. ‘I heard that serious gas cases died quickly.’ She tried not to think of what she knew of the effects of gas. The skin burnt with mustard-coloured blisters, the effects on the eyes, and the choked-up throats that slowly closed for ever. Surely God would spare Felicia’s beautiful dark eyes? She fought panic and tried to think rationally.
‘That’s so, and she’s survived the first few weeks.’
‘But that means she’s improving,’ Caroline said eagerly. ‘There’s no longer any danger to her life?’
Luke hesitated. ‘Probably not.’
The sick feeling returned. ‘Tell me the truth, Luke.’
‘It’s true that usually survival of the first weeks means gradual improvement. In Felicia’s case, it’s more complicated.’
‘Because of lack of resistance caused by poor diet and exposure?’
‘Lack of resistance in my view, yes, but not for the reasons you think.’
‘What then?’ She waited, heart in mouth.
‘I don’t think she has the will to survive any more.’ Luke tried to speak impassively, but the effort was obvious.
‘Then we will give it to her. Mother and Father and I will go. Phoebe can go, George—’ She broke off, seeing his expression.
He shook his head. ‘She’s quite adamant, Caroline, that she wants to see no one, and that no one was to know, even you. If – when – she dies, everyone will believe she died from a German bullet.’
‘There must be something we can do.’
Even as he replied slowly: ‘There is one way,’ she guessed what it was.
‘Daniel. You want me to tell him.’
‘Yes.’
She dared not think how much it was costing Luke to admit that Daniel might succeed where he had failed, and that all his dedicated determination to marry Felicia was not strong enough to overcome the bond that still held her to Daniel. Even in this extreme situation, Luke’s self-sacrifice must be immense.
‘I’ll see him today.’
‘To what do I owe the honour of your company at luncheon?’ Daniel laughed, waving a hand round their ‘luxurious’ surroundings.
Caroline had suggested lunch in order to give herself time to get over the shock, as well as not to alarm him in advance. She had been somewhat taken aback when Daniel had laughingly suggested they meet in St James’s Park at one of the many new open-air cafes which his friend Lieutenant Latham had opened in London. It seemed – in thick snow and ice – not an ideal choice, and she was relieved to find that temporary walls and a roof had been added to provide shelter. With the lake drained and covered with huts for government workers, it was a good spot to choose. Even so, they were the only customers, and the one-armed soldier behind the counter looked as pleased as punch to see them. Lieutenant Latham had conceived this plan to fight his depression after his disablement, and had staffed the cafes with other disabled servicemen. It was better than selling matches, as so many were reduced to, and judging by the enthusiasm with which this old soldier was humming ‘Dear Old Blighty’, he agreed.
‘It’s self-help here,’ Daniel explained. ‘New idea of Latham’s. You don’t need waiters, you just go up to the counter and collect whatever you want, rather like being served drinks in a pub, or the war kitchens. Clever idea, isn’t it? Now tell me what you wanted to see me about,’ he commanded, once they were established with coffee (of a sort) and a fish-paste sandwich. At least it was one up on Mrs Dibble’s leftover mashed potato and anchovy essence sandwiches, as recommended in the food economy talk Caroline had dutifully attended once in Ashden. ‘Something about Ashden, is it? I gather from Mother you and Yves ran into a stone wall. Folk who aren’t actually in the war don’t understand, do they?’
‘You heard so quickly?’
‘Your mother was pretty upset, according to Isabel.’
‘Ah.’ Now she understood. Isabel was on good terms with Lady Hunney and was not the most discreet person in the world.
‘Bad news always travels fast,’ Daniel said consolingly, then glanced at her face. ‘It’s not that at all, is it? It’s Felicia,’ he said sharply. ‘Dead?’
‘No.’ She laid her hand on his arm. ‘She’s been gassed. She needs you. She’s very ill.’
‘She’s asked for me?’ He was poker-faced, and she realised that he was containing shock by sheer willpower.
‘She’s still in France, at Étaples. She didn’t want anyone to be told, but Luke found out and went to see her. He thinks she is dying because she has no will to go on living.’ With all that Felicia had achieved, it would seem a crazy thing to believe, for anyone who did not know her.
‘Say that again, please, Caroline.’
She did so, and saw him swallow several times as if fighting back emotion. He was silent for a few moments. ‘Is Luke engaged to her? Does she—?’ He broke off. She knew he had been going to ask, ‘love him?’ but there was no need for they both knew the truth: that whatever her feelings for Luke they were outweighed by her love for Daniel.
‘You know that he loves her,’ was her reply. ‘Yet Luke wants you to go to Felicia. He said that you were the only person who might be able to give her the will to survive. And he of all people would hardly say that unless he meant it.’
‘If Luke could do nothing, why should I?’ His voice was hard.
‘You know why, Daniel. And Luke knows why, and Felicia’s life means more to him even than his love for her.’
‘You don’t understand, Caroline,’ Daniel said jerkily. ‘Even if I go, nothing can come of it. If I go, what then?’
‘We’ve both seen enough of war not to reckon with the “what then?” That’s God’s department, not ours. Look’ – she pointed to the painted cafe sign above the counter – ‘your friend’s cafes are called “Fortune of War”. Your leg, Felicia’s illness, my love for Yves, Felicia’s love for you – none of us can legislate for an uncertain future. We don’t know when peace will come, and what it will bring. Don’t think of whether or not you and Felicia can marry. Think of all the good Felicia can do if she lives. Think of all the lives she’s saved in the past.’
‘I do. Mine was one.’
Oh for the Rectory. Even if not always warm it had always provided a cocoon against the harsh winds of winter. In London no matter where she went she never seemed warm for more than a moment or two at a time. Except, she thought to herself gratefully, in bed with Yves’ arms around her. The severe weather continued, although it was past the middle of January. London froze in sixteen degrees of frost, and the wind still blew. And to cap it all, the authorities still claimed the Serpentine’s ice was not thick enough to bear, and skating was therefore forbidden. It had been icy enough for the Peter Pan Cup for swimming in the Serpentine to be postponed, but had not yet reached the obligatory thickness of three inches.
‘I have a surprise for you,’ Yves announced, seeing her mutinous face on their day off. She had thought without doubt that in return for their enduring such cold, Fate would be fair enough to grant such a small desire as thick ice in Hyde Park. But then Fate was never fair, and she was ashamed of her pettiness anyway.
‘If it is an oatmeal cake for tea, I don’t want it.’
‘It’s a toboggan. We’ll go to Parliament Hill Fields and slide down slopes, instead of across ice.’
‘Oh Yves.’ She hurtled across the room and threw herself into his arms.
‘Why are you crying?’ he asked in surprise.
‘I feel so … so … childish. And Felicia—’
‘Cara, you can pray for Felicia, and remember Daniel is with her.’
Daniel had sent her a short note saying he was taking leave to go to Étaples, and since then Luke had been extra cheerful both in the office and at home, to the point of driving them mad.
‘But why should I enjoy myself when I know she’s so ill?’ Caroline wailed.
‘You owe it as your duty to me,’ Yves pronounced. ‘In fact it is an order from a captain to an insubordinate WAAC.’
She managed to laugh at that. ‘Very well, but only if I can hurl snowballs at you to show what I think of you.’
He made her a quaint little bow, one hand on heart. ‘You may vanquish me with snowballs, cara, as you have conquered my heart.’
He had only to look at her with his melting dark eyes, only to lay his hand on her shoulder, and her body would tingle, longing to be with him, so that the third Yves, the private one, would be hers alone, looking at her in passion as well as love.
‘I suppose,’ she said unsteadily, ‘we could go tomorrow instead?’
‘But why?’ He looked anxious. ‘Are you not well?’
‘Quite well.’ Her voice seemed to be a croak. ‘I thought – since Luke is at work and Ellen out, we might make hay.’
‘Make hay?’ He stared at her in astonishment. ‘You make teacakes of hay?’
‘No.’ She was torn between laughter and blushing. ‘An English phrase. It means to take advantage of a situation for—’
‘For what?’ He still seemed perplexed.
‘Love!’ she bawled at him in exasperation. Really, men could be so stupid.
His lips began to twitch, his eyes to gleam. The next moment she found herself upside down over his shoulder, staring at his boots.
‘Ma mie,’ he said softly, as he dumped her on the bed, ‘I shall make a whole haystack.’
Hampstead Heath Railway Station seemed full of toboggans and people wrapped up like Eskimos, obviously bent on the same purpose as them. As they approached Parliament Hill Fields, they could see well-worn tracks in the snow, and queues of tobogganers. They must have been the oldest, but it didn’t matter a jot.
She lay face down on the toboggan, in a way of which Mother would most surely not have approved, but which was easily the most fun.
‘George always used to push me off with a “Steady the Buffs”,’ she yelled at Yves. ‘I thought he was talking about chickens at first, not being brought up on toy soldiers.’
‘Then Vive La Belgique!’ Yves gave the toboggan a mighty push and she was off, flying into a white sky.
She hurtled onwards, exhilarated, as the snow churned up around her and stung at her face. She seemed to be rushing through life itself, unable to control her path, until at last she came to a sliding halt at the bottom of the hill and tumbled off into a soft pile of snow. At the top she could see Yves’ tall figure waving, and she waved back, setting off on the long trek upwards, dragging the toboggan behind her. She watched as, his long legs splaying out over the toboggan, he propelled himself off on the same journey. Her heart was in her mouth as she saw him tumble off into deep snow and the toboggan careering on without him. Her ridiculous worry that he would never emerge from the drift was laid to rest as he reappeared, looked round for the toboggan in vain, and set off in leaps and jumps to retrieve it. His lanky figure looked so ridiculous, she was still laughing when he returned.
‘What amuses you, cara?’ he asked breathlessly as she hugged him.
‘Nothing, I’m just pleased to see you return from the Antarctic.’
‘There are very few polar bears in Parliament Hill Fields.’
‘How strange,’ she remarked later, as they returned to the railway station, ‘to think while I was tobogganing in Ashden Park as a child, you were a young lad doing the same thing in the Ardennes, and we neither of us knew that we would meet one day.’
‘Are you glad you came here now, cara?’
‘Yes. It still makes me feel guilty that everyone can’t be here today, but I’m glad we are. We could have a bigger double toboggan one day—’ She stopped, realising what she’d said. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just talking nonsense.’
His face relaxed. ‘Nonsense is necessary from time to time, to make us forget not only today, but tomorrow.’
He was right. She longed for a double toboggan, and for a tandem to ride through the countryside together like Daisy Bell and her swain. She longed for Yves’ baby. All three wishes belonged to a tomorrow that would never be. Yves took painstaking precautions to ensure she would not conceive, and each time he did so, wise though she knew it was, that bleak tomorrow grew a little closer. In return, she had his love not only for today, but for ever, even though they would be parted. Sometimes that seemed enough, and sometimes it did not. It was her private war effort to make it appear enough for always, and for Yves not to see the struggle this cost her.
‘The maroons!’ Caroline groaned. Improving weather at the end of January brought its drawbacks. The air raids would begin once more, and here came the warning! At least they were not yet in bed. In the autumn they had slept badly, half attuned for the sound of the maroons, the government system to warn them of approaching bombers. This was a belated improvement on the previous methods which, looked back on, were laughable: a bugler standing in the back of an open car, or a policeman on a bicycle, pedalling furiously with a notice to take cover. There had been no raids since before Christmas, however, and this was an unwelcome reminder that spring was on its way with the consequent hotting up of the military war as well as the air war.
They rushed to gather blankets to shelter in the basement cellars. Many people took shelter in the Underground railway stations. At the time of the full moon they were usually gathering from early evening onwards, causing problems for late home-goers, as they stumbled over recumbent bodies.
Tonight Luke and Ellen had beaten them to it, and they promptly joined in the consumption of the iron ration cocoa and biscuits that Ellen routinely provided there. Occasionally, if the warning came early enough, they took down their small gramophone and some records to dance to, but jollification at such times took a lot of determination.
London’s anti-aircraft batteries and its balloon barrages had done much to allay fears in the inhabitants at first. Now the Gothas and Giants seemed to have things all their own way, and despite the formidable defences erected around London, they seemed to roam wherever they liked.
‘I don’t hear anything,’ Caroline said hopefully after a while.
‘Don’t leave yet,’ Luke said. ‘They’ve got a new technique – they’re cutting down the noise of their approach by stopping and starting their engines to circle in silence. And they’re reducing engine noise. We just have to wait for the guns to start.’
They did, and for two hours they listened to their noise, and those other duller sounds that meant exploding bombs.
‘Did you hear,’ Ellen asked brightly, ‘about that fellow in Piccadilly last autumn who heard the bomb drop on Swan and Edgar’s and saw a woman’s head rolling towards him?’
‘Don’t be so gruesome,’ Caroline said sternly.
‘I’m not. It was one of the dummies from the window. What a coup for the Kaiser, eh?’
The next night the Kaiser sent yet another Gotha and Giant raid across. It meant another night short on sleep as they all trooped to the cellars. It had not been a good day either. When they arrived in the office, there was no fire lit. A bomb had hit the Odhams printing works in Long Acre. Although not many people were working there, the cellars were crowded with people sheltering from the raid. Most of the dead were children, and of the women killed one was their office cleaning lady. That was why there was no fire. Out of respect, they left it unlit for the rest of the day.
The death of Mrs Hopkins depressed Caroline greatly. That unlit fire symbolised for her the whole stupid wastage of human life this war had caused. On the 30th, the day after the second raid, there was more bad news at work too, especially for Yves. The Germans had scored a victory in Brussels in their long-running battle against the clandestine newspaper La Libre Belgique. Arrests were not uncommon, but this time they had tracked down not only the two most wanted contributors, code-named Fidelis and Ego, but hundreds of others too, distributors, organisers and printers.
Caroline moped for several days over the general gloom of this winter – until Yves produced a bag from behind his back, and flourished it. She had finished work early since it was a Saturday and returned home to tea to find Yves just arrived – he had been out of the office since early that morning.
‘What’s that?’
‘See!’ Proudly he tipped the contents onto a plate on the living-room table.
‘Muffins!’ she shouted in delight. ‘We can have real tea. Where did you get them?’
‘Cara, I cannot provide the Rectory for you, but I can be second best,’ he said seriously. ‘Stolen muffins are a small price. I acquired them in the Belgian Embassy. There is good news to celebrate.’
‘Good news?’ Was there such a thing nowadays?
‘Sir John told me that Daniel is bringing Felicia home to Ashden Hospital.’
For a moment she could hardly take it in. Then all at once the full glory hit her. ‘She’s going to live!’ she cried in triumph.
‘She’s well enough to make the journey.’
‘That does mean she’ll live. Oh, how wonderful.’ She promptly burst into tears.
Yves regarded her anxiously. ‘There is more good news too. Can you bear it? On Thursday night Governor von Falkenhausen was toasting their victory over La Libre Belgique with champagne when a special delivery arrived. It was a copy of the next issue of the newspaper with a photograph of the Governor on the front page and a jeering message. The editor, whom the Germans mistakenly thought they had arrested, has found new printers, and business is to be as usual. Now you can have your muffin.’
‘Did you really steal them?’ she asked when she could speak again after all the excitement.
‘I cheated. I put in an order for them to feed couriers bearing vital intelligence from Belgium.’
‘This courier is very grateful.’ Caroline promptly bit into one. ‘It’s real,’ she said contentedly. ‘Not made of potatoes.’
‘Nor am I.’ He put his arm round her and kissed her.
‘I wish you hadn’t done that,’ she complained.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want to leave this fire.’
‘Why should you? There is a comfortable sofa here.’
She laughed. ‘Suppose Luke comes in?’
‘He will not. He is on a special mission chasing wild geese, and it’s Ellen’s day off.’ By this time his lips were on hers, and she wouldn’t have cared if the Kaiser himself had come in.
‘All this – and muffins too,’ she purred, as he took her into his arms.
It was her turn for office duty on the Sunday, and she set out for work early. Today she lit the fire. It was her personal signal to the enemy that the embers of England still glowed, and would burst into flames once more – no matter what they did.