‘Watch what you’re doing with that milk, Myrtle.’ Margaret spoke more sharply than she intended.
‘It’s not on the rationing list.’ The mutter was scarcely audible but Margaret caught it.
‘Butter will be, and you already need ration cards for it in London. And to think you were brought up on a farm.’
Myrtle departed sullenly, and for once Margaret couldn’t blame her. It wasn’t the girl’s fault, it wasn’t hers either. It was the whole Rectory. It was turning into a mere boarding house, its inmates wrapped up in their own concerns. They came and went at all hours, which meant meals had to be kept hot and set times went down the drain quicker than Sanitas cleaning fluid. Once Mrs Lilley used to refer to the Rectory clock, so regular were its routines. That was the proper way of doing things, to Margaret’s mind. Rector ran the village by the Church Year clock and Mrs Lilley ran the Rectory. Tick-tock, tick-tock, time for morning prayers. Tick-tock, tick-tock, time for Fred to clean the lamps. Margaret swallowed hard for she hadn’t meant to think of him. Anyway, Mrs Lilley seemed to be more intent on running the war than the Rectory now; she was present in person, but preoccupied most of the time with her work on the Agricultural County Executive Committee under the Ministry. She would be working in her glory-hole or receiving callers in the morning room. It wasn’t just village women for her rotas now; she had a little empire of Land Girls, army corporals in charge of soldiers whom the government were now eager to get working on the land because of the food shortage, and that wasn’t all.
Thereby hung a tale. To think the day would come that Ashden would be harbouring the enemy. Prisoners of war they may be, and although she conceded that while they were in the Ashdown Forest camp Germans might as well be put to work, to expect decent folk to pass the time of day with them was too much. Yet she’d actually seen Mrs Lilley talking to a group of them, when she popped into the village yesterday. They were, so Mrs Lettice of the general stores informed her, on their way to The Towers to work on renewing poles and wire, and dressing the hop plants. She supposed it was a good thing that the hops hadn’t been grubbed up to grow potatoes, but the thought of good English beer being produced by the enemy turned her stomach right over. It was a relief The Towers was an army officers’ HQ now; they’d be keeping a strict eye open for any sabotaging or poisoning of the plants. This was one year she wouldn’t be producing hop soup from the waste sproutings.
Topsy-turviness caused by the war wasn’t the only reason for the cloud that lay over the house nowadays. Nor could it be blamed on its being early February, always a dark hour before dawn.
What had gone wrong Margaret didn’t know, but Miss Caroline hadn’t been home since Christmas, and even then she had left earlier than intended. Margaret had come to the conclusion it was all something to do with that Belgian officer. Most likely Miss Caroline had announced her intention of marrying him, and he being a foreigner was most likely a Roman Catholic. That would set the cat among the pigeons in the Rectory, for that meant Miss Caroline would have to convert her faith, and what would that do to the Rector? Margaret hadn’t been entirely happy with this reasoning, and then yesterday Mrs Isabel had talked too freely. She’d wandered into the kitchen as she often did nowadays.
‘You sit down, Mrs Isabel, you’re doing too much.’
Once upon a time you couldn’t have said that about Mrs Isabel, far from it, but now she was changed out of all recognition. Running about all over the place she was, and her having a first baby at nearly thirty. She’d been no more than a big baby herself, married or not, until she took over the cinema.
‘It’s good for me,’ Mrs Isabel laughed, though she sat down at the table all the same. ‘Where’s Agnes?’
‘Still doing the dusting.’
Mrs Isabel had taken to chatting with Agnes. Margaret wasn’t sure she approved, but after all, they were more of an age and seeing as how Agnes was having her second the month before Mrs Isabel was due, naturally they were close. All the same.
‘You have one of these buns,’ Margaret continued, concerned how thin the girl’s face was getting. When Mrs Isabel shook her head, she decided the time had come to speak out. ‘You’re looking after two, remember,’ she pointed out.
‘Good, can we have dumplings for luncheon?’
‘Dumplings but not much more, most likely.’ There were more dumplings than stew nowadays, even though this wasn’t a meatless day. Meat would be on the rations list for them sooner or later, that was for sure. She’d read so much about the new cards and coupons for butter, marg and meat in London and the Home Counties that her mind whirled. It wouldn’t take long to reach Sussex, and although Mrs Lilley thought everyone would get more once it was distributed more fairly by enforced rations, Margaret was not convinced.
‘You’ll have Miss Caroline jealous,’ she replied to Mrs Isabel, highly pleased. ‘She’s always one for a dumpling or two.’
‘She’ll have to make them herself now,’ Isabel said soberly, tucking in to the bun after all.
‘She’ll be down shortly, I suppose?’ Margaret wasn’t exactly fishing for information: it just slipped out.
‘I doubt it.’
Isabel was leafing through The Lady. The family had given up their copy, but Percy insisted on buying it for Margaret – to take her mind off things, he explained vaguely, as though a magazine could take her mind off Fred. Still, she had to admit she looked forward to reading it every week, and there was no doubt it kept you in touch with how best to fight the war at home. There were times when even Margaret’s mother’s handed-down resourcefulness failed to cope with what was going on nowadays. What was the use of recipes for nettle soup when no weed would dare show its face in good ploughable land?
‘These waistless dresses’ – Isabel scrutinised the sketches – ‘will be just right for me. Harrods Bargain Floor are advertising serge and silk dresses at forty-nine and six.’
‘They won’t fit you for long, Mrs Isabel,’ Margaret said daringly.
‘Oh well, I’ll just have to ask Agnes – no, I’ll ask Mrs Hazel – to cut a hole in it with a flap,’ Isabel said carelessly. ‘Mrs H needs the work, with everyone doing their own repairing and turning nowadays.’
Well, who’d have thought Mrs Isabel would ever learn to ‘make do’, and to cast a thought for poor Mrs Hazel struggling to make a living? In her hoity-toity days, she never saw eye to eye with the village dressmaker.
‘Miss Caroline and that captain are busy, I expect.’ Margaret meant working together, but Mrs Isabel took it in a different way.
‘Don’t let Mother hear you say that. There’s a silence like the Great Wall of China about it.’ Mrs Isabel put down The Lady and blurted out: ‘I don’t think I can stand it much longer, Mrs Dibble. After the row when Caroline walked out, neither Father nor Mother said a word to me about it. I had to pump Phoebe for information. It’s too bad. Just when the Rectory ought to be happy because of my baby, Mother’s thinking about Caroline, as usual. I know she is. I can sense it.’
That was more like the old Miss Isabel. Margaret had been quite taken aback. ‘Oh, Mrs Isabel, I’m sure you’re wrong.’ It was inadequate, especially since Margaret had more than a suspicion that she wasn’t wrong at all.
‘Phoebe’s cheering Caroline on, too,’ Mrs Isabel swept on. ‘Of all the people in the world to fall in love with, why on earth did Caroline have to pick a married Roman Catholic and make our lives a misery?’
Margaret nearly dropped the basin with the dumpling dough. Married? She’d always known you couldn’t trust the Frenchies, and the Belgians were almost the same thing. Look at that couple who arrived here just after the war had broken out. Tricky customers, all of them. She’d said so then and she’d say so now. And now one had got poor Miss Caroline in his wicked clutches. And to think she’d let him cook in her kitchen.
Just then Agnes had arrived, so Mrs Isabel changed the subject. Not consciously, in all probability, but Agnes, married though she was, was the younger generation, and to Margaret’s mind it wasn’t fitting … She stopped this train of thought. Suddenly she felt very, very tired. Fitting? What a word to use in the middle of this war, a war where they shot you for being born not right in the head, a war that turned women from their homes and sent them out to work, a war that sent menfolk away from their families to live in the mud. What was the point of soldiering on?
Caroline had refused to let Yves accompany her to see Felicia; she would face the ordeal of going to Ashden, without visiting the Rectory, alone. In any case Yves was busy and so was Luke. The opening of February brought spring, and the constant watch for signs of an offensive by the enemy, perilously close. Work in the office had doubled in the last week or so, with increased enemy troop movements being reported by the La Dame Blanche train-watching agents at the important Antwerp, Liege and Fourmies junctions. Wasn’t it a good sign, she had asked Yves hopefully, that crack divisions were being taken out of the front line?
‘No.’ He pulled a face. ‘It probably means they are being rested to be ready for a March or April offensive. And they still have nearly thirty more divisions than all the Allies put together. When you remember that last autumn English and French divisions had twelve battalions each, and now only have nine, you can see why the Germans may be ready to strike as soon as possible.’
‘Oh.’ It was easy to deal with the facts staring at them from white-paper reports, but Caroline immediately translated them into a personal reality. Shortly it was all going to begin again. The balloon would go up, and Robert would be in it. George would be flying on battle patrols, Joe and Jamie Thorn were out wallowing in the front-line mud, Phoebe might be at risk, and everybody’s loved ones would increase their odds against survival on the seesaw of war. Thank goodness at least Felicia was safe and Aunt Tilly too, for the doctor had point-blank refused her permission to go back to Ypres. Not that that alone would stop Tilly, nor even the War Office refusal to countenance it (Simon’s hand?), but the news that other volunteers had been found to man their front-line post did satisfy her, after intense interrogation of their suitability.
Since Daniel had told Caroline that although Felicia was at Ashden Hospital, now, she would shortly return to the Rectory, Caroline decided to go straight away.
‘Wait and visit her at the Rectory,’ had been Yves’ advice.
‘Not until you can come with me.’ Yves said no more.
The train was as crowded, uncomfortable and slow as ever, which made the journey a physical torment as well as an emotional one. How had she so mishandled her life as to be going to Ashden Station, but not to her home? Caroline steeled herself as she jumped down from the train. Relief that at least the moment had arrived was replaced by a sharp lurch of her stomach. How could the station look so normal? Mr Chappell was collecting tickets, Mrs Chappell was manning the tea counter which Phoebe had set up early in the war, young Joey Sharp – a man now – was home on leave from the Navy, one of the Thorns was boarding the train for the Wells. And here was Caroline Lilley, barred from being part of it all.
‘Haven’t seen you for a time, Miss Caroline.’ Mr Chappell took her ticket.
Was this her replying so cheerily? ‘No, duty calls.’
He nodded solemnly and, feeling a hypocrite, Caroline tried to march jauntily off down Station Road, by thinking of something happy. Apart from the prospect of seeing Felicia, she failed dismally. Her conviction that she was right to remain with Yves was weakened by this homecoming that was no such thing. Perhaps her mistake had been to take Yves home in the first place. That, however, meant the ‘crime’, if crime it was, remained the same and only the need to conceal it was at stake. She had believed she was right to take and give happiness as she could, yet as she passed the first catkins of spring, sudden doubt assailed her. She did not question her love for Yves, but could true happiness be achieved with such a Damoclean sword hanging over its future? Sometimes she found herself fostering comforting hallucinations that Yves’ wife had fallen in love with someone else, or that she would refuse to have Yves back, and worse, she was ashamed to admit, than those. How long would the war go on anyway? How could one long for its end, yet dread it so much? At the moment it appeared to be stretching out forever and ever. The fighting never stopped, even for winter, but the coming of the catkins heralded major offensives. When she reached the junction of Station Road and Bankside, Caroline went straight across to the main road, trying not to glance at the cottages and her home opposite. How could she pop in to see Nanny Oates on Bankside in these circumstances? It was better that she did not know Caroline had been in Ashden. There was little chance of that, unfortunately, and her heart sank as she was immediately recognised.
‘Morning, Miss Caroline.’
Rosie Trott from the Dower House staff shot her a curious look, as she passed on her way to the baker’s.
It was inevitable that she would meet at least a few people and news would get out, but Caroline did her best to look as though it was normal for her to be crossing the road towards Ashden Park, not the Rectory. She breathed a sigh of relief as the grey bulk of St Nicholas hid the sight of her home from her. Why should she feel a traitor? It was ridiculous, but she could not rid herself of guilt, and she walked as fast as she could along the drive to the hospital. Through the windows she could see a few convalescent officers sitting downstairs, but there was no sign of Felicia. She would be well tucked away, of course.
Too well, it seemed.
‘Miss Lilley has two visitors already,’ was the Matron’s uncompromising stance, as she looked Caroline up and down, seemingly finding her wanting.
‘I’ve come a long way, and haven’t long,’ she pleaded winningly. ‘Is there somewhere I could wait to see my sister, or should I go to the Dower House to wait for an hour or two?’
London-type diplomacy paid off, though Caroline hated resorting to it. The casual mention of Lady Hunney’s residence immediately sent a flicker of doubt over the woman’s face, and Caroline was led through the all-too-familiar corridors with their wartime clinical smells and sights towards some safe haven where the Matron’s other patients would not be contaminated by the sight of a khaki-clad WAAC.
‘Caroline!’
She stood horrified, unable to move, as the familiar voice cried out. Why hadn’t she thought of the possibility of her mother being here?
Seeing her mother’s dear, anxious face, now white with shock, Caroline wanted to throw herself into her arms, and for a split trembling second it looked as though Elizabeth would have liked nothing more. Yet how could she make the first move? Caroline agonised. It would be a betrayal of Yves.
‘How’s Felicia?’ Caroline managed to jerk out. ‘And everyone?’ Inside, every nerve was crying out for her mother to reply: ‘Come home and see.’
But she didn’t. ‘Felicia’s better. Caroline—’ Elizabeth broke off, her lips quivered, and she walked quickly away.
Her mother walking away? Caroline couldn’t believe it. This was some ghastly nightmare. Walking away out of her life? Leaving her there? Without a word? Without love? She watched, rooted in horror as her mother’s back, familiar in its old blue serge costume, retreated before her. Then it stopped, and slowly her mother turned round. She was coming back! Cold with terror, Caroline waited. Elizabeth took her in her arms, and kissed her.
‘Change your mind,’ she pleaded hopelessly, as though already knowing the answer. ‘Please do.’
‘Would you?’ Caroline could not move in her mother’s embrace, in case she broke down. The hug grew briefly warmer, then her mother had gone. Trembling, Caroline hurried after the Matron, and collapsed in the room to which she was shown, trying to regain her composure. Five minutes later Isabel burst in. Here were the hugs and the warmth she needed.
‘Oh, why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Oh, how marvellous to see you. Did I tell you in my letter I’ve got Lord Kitchener?’
If anything could make her laugh, Isabel could – without her sister having the slightest notion of why.
‘Ghost or alive?’ she enquired with a straight face.
‘Silly. The new film, of course. Don’t you hear about anything up there in London? And The Gay Lord Quex. And Felicia’s coming home next week. Oh, Caroline, why—?’
‘No, Isabel. I can’t.’
‘I don’t understand,’ her sister wailed. ‘You’re working with Yves, so it’s all respectable, even if you love him too. You can’t help that, even if he is married. From what Phoebe says you’re not threatening his marriage. Why—?’
‘Isabel,’ Caroline interrupted, agonised, ‘let’s stop, shall we? I’m here to see Felicia.’
‘Thanks very much,’ Isabel grumbled. ‘So much for me. Don’t you want to know how the baby is?’ She patted her stomach proudly. ‘You can see for yourself now, I suppose. Only five months to go. And if you still refuse to come here, I’ll have to come to see you in London. I miss you,’ she added with indignation.
‘But the baby, and the trains—’ Caroline was appalled at this suggestion. ‘You can’t possibly do that.’
‘Don’t you want to see me?’ Isabel glared.
‘Oh, Isabel, of course.’ Caroline hugged her, conscience-stricken.
‘Well then, I’ll come. When the weather’s better,’ she added practically.
Isabel departed, to Caroline’s guilty relief, for she preferred to see Felicia alone.
She hardly recognised her sister, who was propped up against the pillows with her eyes closed. Her face still bore traces of yellow from the gas, and her breathing was rasped. She was thin, so thin.
Caroline bent over and kissed her, and the eyes flew open. ‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ Felicia whispered. ‘I didn’t think you would.’ She coughed, the effort painfully shaking her whole body.
‘You did your best to keep us in the dark,’ Caroline teased. Didn’t I think she would?
‘So have you,’ Felicia retorted weakly.
‘Ah.’ Question answered. ‘Do you blame me?’
‘No. I saw you in France with Yves, remember? I saw how suited you were to him, as well as happy. A different happiness than with Reggie. If he’s your choice, it’s also yours to balance family against him. I’m glad that doesn’t include me.’
‘But Father—’
‘Caroline,’ Felicia interrupted gently, ‘I’ve been on the Ypres Front for nearly three years. I’ve seen enough death to believe that life should have its turn whenever possible and however briefly.’ The racking cough again.
Was it true that Felicia was getting better? Caroline firmly dispelled the sudden doubt. She hesitated, then asked: ‘You’ve lost your faith too?’
Felicia answered readily enough. ‘No, but it’s buried deep in the mud.’
‘I thought once you might become a nun.’ Her sister glanced at her.
‘It’s still possible.’
‘As an escape from choosing between Luke and Daniel?’ She should not have asked, for Felicia was too weak. Caroline was annoyed with herself for her stupidity. So eager to reclaim her sister from death, she was behaving thoughtlessly. Felicia’s eyes were closing again, and Caroline rose to creep out, with just a whispered: ‘You just told me life should have its turn, little sister.’ The eyelids fluttered in what might have been acknowledgement.
If anything could cheer Margaret up in bleak mid February it was Lizzie’s news. She even found herself humming again this morning – a good sign, Percy said approvingly as he passed through the kitchen to the scullery to trim the lamps. Margaret promptly stopped humming – that had used to be Fred’s job.
She forced herself to concentrate on Lizzie. Miss Penelope had telephoned the Rectory to ask for her, Margaret Dibble. She had carefully wiped her hands on her pinny, apologised to the Rector for yet one more intrusion on his telephone, and picked up the receiver. ‘Who’s there?’ she bawled, since you never knew where folk might be telephoning from.
‘Penelope Banning,’ was the cheerful answer. ‘I have a message for Lizzie.’
‘Frank? He’s not dead, is he?’ Margaret braced herself. February might as well bring one more disaster while it was about it.
‘Good gracious, no. I’m bringing him home to Lizzie tomorrow. He can’t wait to see the baby!’
Margaret couldn’t take in all the implications at first, then she had a strong cup of tea, and set off to give the good news to Lizzie. Lucky it wasn’t time to serve luncheon yet, and Myrtle could do the vegetables for once. Miss Penelope had continued to take an interest in Frank’s progress, which was good of her, and sure enough the next day she turned up at Lizzie’s cottage, bumping poor old Frank along Pook’s Way in an ambulance. How Margaret had longed to be present to see Frank meet his son, but Muriel, who was visiting that afternoon, said better to leave them alone.
Margaret had been mutinous. ‘Miss Penelope will be there. Why not me?’
‘She’s a nice lady, you always said. She’ll leave as soon as she can.’
Margaret had no answer to that, and was rewarded by Lizzie rushing up to the Rectory that night, clutching her dimmed torch, just to describe the scene to her. ‘Oh, ma, he says Baby Frank has got his hair and he can see a moustache already.’ She burst into tears.
‘Well I never did. Don’t you take on so, Lizzie. I said he was no good, that Frank Eliot.’ Margaret was shocked, and fiercely defensive.
‘I’m not upset, Ma,’ Lizzie snivelled. ‘I’m just happy.’
‘Mm.’ Margaret was still doubtful. ‘Well, just you remember I bath that baby too, and I’ll give Frank a piece of my mind if he starts criticising the little fellow again.’
Lizzie’s sobs turned to howls of laughter, until Margaret grew quite worried about that too. No one would be laughing when Rudolf came home, least of all Lizzie. Still, it looked like the war was going on and on forever, so there was no use worrying overmuch about its end when every single day clamoured for your attention. Like what to have for luncheon, for example.
They said in Sussex you could turn anything into a pudding, but these scalded bacon rinds gave even Margaret pause for thought. A nice onion or two and a leaf of sage might do it. She sighed. It was easier to preach food economy than practise it. She looked up in surprise as Lizzie arrived unexpectedly again. Two visits? And she’d said she was working today, Frank or no Frank. What’s more, she had a stranger with her, a man in uniform. She didn’t recognise it, but then one never did nowadays. What she did know was that unless Frank had lost twenty years or so and sprouted ginger hair, it wasn’t him. And he was skinny, so skinny.
‘I need your help, Ma. Or rather Joachim does. He’s bruised and cut his hand on the farm. I thought some of your arnica might help. And rice flour – I’m out of it.’
Poor young man. He looked as though the rice flour inside him was what was needed.
‘You would be out of it, girl,’ Margaret replied grimly while she was inspecting the damage. Lizzie was no housekeeper.
‘There, that’ll stop the bleeding, young man. You go and see your medical officer when you get back to camp. Might need stitching up.’
One of them soldiers from King’s Standing, she supposed. Dr Marden didn’t charge much, but if he could get it seen to by the Army, it would be cheaper still.
‘I told Mrs Lake you’d help,’ Lizzie said with satisfaction as Margaret bound it round with lint.
‘And I daresay she was only too happy to let me do it,’ Margaret grunted, highly pleased at being needed. ‘There you are, young Joe.’ She patted the hand gently and restored it to him.
‘Danke schön, Frau Dibble.’
Margaret froze. ‘You from up north, Joe? Scotland maybe?’ But she already suspected he wasn’t.
‘No,’ Lizzie laughed. ‘He’s one of the prisoners of war on the farm.’
Margaret jumped back as though this Joe had a bayonet pointed straight at her. ‘You mean I’ve been helping a German, Lizzie Dibble?’ she screamed.
It wasn’t hard for Joachim to realise what was going on, whether he spoke English or not. He went white, hastily rising from the chair and backing towards the door.
‘Ma,’ Lizzie shouted. ‘He’s hurt. Of course you’d help him.’
‘What you do for one you do for the Kaiser, my girl.’ Her kitchen had been polluted by a German. ‘And bringing him to a rectory, of all places.’ Even Margaret could see there was a flaw in her argument, but she didn’t care. She was furious.
‘That’s why I came,’ Lizzie said quietly. ‘Frank said I should. Joachim’s a good Christian.’
‘Then why’s he fighting for the Kaiser?’ Margaret asked – unanswerably, as she thought.
She was wrong, for Lizzie retorted unforgivably, ‘Suppose Fred had been a POW – wouldn’t you want some nice German lady to be serving him dumplings and binding up his cuts?’
‘Lizzie Dibble, how could you?’ Margaret burst into tears.
‘It’s no use, Ma, you’ve got to face it. Fred is dead, and it’s not Joachim’s fault. He’s a soldier just like Fred.’
‘Not just like Fred,’ Margaret muttered, eyeing him up and down.
‘No, he’s got all his wits,’ Lizzie said, ‘but that—’
‘That’s not what I meant. Fred always had a square meal inside him. And I suppose, Joe, or whatever your name is, I’d better do the same for you.’
Mrs Lilley popped her head into the kitchen en route from her outside glory-hole to luncheon. She looked surprised, and no wonder. It came to a pretty pass when a German POW can be sitting at the kitchen table when her own daughter couldn’t.
There’d been more ructions, Margaret didn’t need telling – she’d heard them. Mrs Isabel had let slip about seeing Caroline at Ashden Manor and Margaret put two and two together. She said Mrs Lilley had been present too. As a result, for the first time in her life, Margaret had heard the Rector and Mrs Lilley having what was undoubtedly a first-class row. She supposed it had happened before, but never had they been storming at each other without caring who might be listening. Mrs Lilley stormed out of the Rector’s study with the Rector’s voice shouting after her just as if he was lecturing one of the children – and that only when they were small. There was such an atmosphere, Margaret had held up supper not knowing what to do, until Mrs Lilley had come in, and told her quite calmly she had a headache and would not be requiring supper. The Rector and Lady Buckford ate alone in silence, or so it appeared whenever Margaret went in. Mrs Isabel took a tray for herself and disappeared, most likely to sit with her mother.
Lady Buckford had other things to worry about too, for last night there was an air raid on Dover with a lot killed, and a hospital bombed. Today her ladyship had been very quiet, the poor old soul.
‘How’s Felicia?’ Tilly was lying on a chaise longue by the morning-room window. Caroline liked coming to Simon’s London house where she had lived for a while in 1915, for it felt like a second home. Deprived of one, she still had this, and to see Tilly here seemed entirely natural. Caroline hadn’t seen her aunt since Christmas, and her visit to London provided an unmissable opportunity.
‘Much better.’ Caroline’s fears had been groundless. Felicia was much better, so Isabel told her. ‘She’s going home to the Rectory soon.’
‘You too, I hope.’
Caroline sighed. Did the whole world know about her predicament? ‘Isabel, I suppose?’
‘Your father, in fact. I asked him why you left so suddenly at Christmas, and with some reluctance he told me.’
‘Do you disapprove?’
‘Of what?’
‘Of my refusal to stop loving Yves.’
‘You can’t stop loving him. Even Laurence would realise that. It seems to me that Laurence just expects you to stop sleeping with him, and preferably, seeing him at all. You must admit, Caroline, it’s a shock for a country rector who hasn’t seen what we have over the past year or two, and who is busy maintaining old standards in every situation. If you and Yves had planned to remain together at the expense of his marriage, I might agree with Laurence, but as I gather you haven’t, I don’t.’
Caroline thought very hard. Should she explain the situation fully, for she doubted if Father had. ‘Yves’ is not a normal marriage,’ and when Tilly looked at her enquiringly, she explained.
‘Ah.’ Tilly reflected for a moment. ‘And how old is his wife?’
‘Twenty-seven or eight.’
‘She might change.’
‘Thank you,’ Caroline said wryly. Trust Aunt Tilly to go straight to the wound.
Tilly grinned. ‘Don’t discuss things with me if you don’t want unpalatable comments. It’s what your father would be thinking.’
‘But I still don’t agree with him,’ Caroline burst out, ‘and that hurts. Father has always been my standard in life; you don’t have to trail across the world to see beyond your own horizons.’
‘No, but it helps. Can’t you get used to the idea that you can still love and respect your father without accepting everything he says?’
‘Not yet, but I suppose I will. After all, he disapproved of your suffragette activities, but he still defended you and housed you. Why can’t he do the same for his daughter?’ Caroline smarted anew.
‘Because you are his daughter, made in his image, or so he hopes. I gather your parents have had a mother and father of a row, incidentally.’
‘Over me?’ Caroline was appalled, though a tiny part of her registered pleasure. The wound of her mother walking away from her was still deep. Tilly nodded.
‘You mean my father relented, but my mother wouldn’t?’ In Caroline’s experience it had always been her mother whose standards were intractable, and Father who had more instant understanding of the situation.
‘Wrong. Your mother wants to accept the situation for the sake of seeing you.’ Tilly looked aghast. ‘What have I said? Why are you crying, Caroline? I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘I thought she didn’t love me any more,’ Caroline sobbed.
Tilly sighed. ‘Rubbish. I don’t always get on with Elizabeth but I know her well enough to know you could never doubt that, no matter what stance she takes. I think it’s Laurence beginning to demonstrate one more unfortunate effect of having my mother in his home.’ Tilly had looked after her mother for years, who had never suspected her suffragette activities. When she was sentenced to prison, and the truth emerged, her mother refused to allow her to return, and it had been Father who welcomed her, regardless of his opposition to her militancy.
Caroline sniffed, blew her nose, and decided to change the subject. ‘What do you feel about the fact that you now have the vote?’
Tilly shrugged. ‘A compromise. We wanted equal footing with men. They haven’t conceded the point at all; it’s lip service giving the vote to women over thirty, and there’s nothing about our being able to stand for parliament. That’s still gentlemen only. Patronising old fools.’
‘Tilly!’ Caroline laughed. ‘I’m shocked.’
‘You’re not. You feel the same, don’t you? In the middle of this mess of war it seems almost immaterial; even darling Emmeline has sided with the politicians.’ Whereas Tilly and most other militant suffragettes, as well as their non-militant sisters, had gone into war work, Mrs Pankhurst was still heavily embroiled in politics.
‘So what are you going to do now? Get married?’ Caroline asked.
Caroline meant it as a joke, but Tilly did not take it so. ‘You were a suffragette too once, Caroline. Is that the way you think now? That once the war is over, women will return to purdah behind closed doors? Is that what you would do if you remained with Yves?’
It was her own fault. Caroline knew she had brought this on herself, and must bear the consequences. ‘I can’t remain with Yves, so it’s no use even considering that question,’ she replied evenly. ‘And what will I do? I haven’t the slightest idea. Though’ – she searched for a painful honesty – ‘I most certainly won’t look for the first man to marry me.’
‘You can go back to the Rectory.’
‘To creep back into the womb of comfort?’ Caroline tried for honesty. ‘I would try not to.’
‘Well done,’ Tilly said approvingly. ‘Nothing wrong with doing so, but it just seems a pity after all you’ve achieved. I’m sure there’s scope for us both after the war.’
‘Yes, but—’ Caroline hesitated, but if Tilly could intrude on her private life, then so could Caroline on hers. ‘Tilly, don’t not marry Simon just to prove a point, will you?’
There was a silence, then Tilly replied amiably: ‘No.’