Caroline opened the envelope with great curiosity. It was a rare event to see a letter from Phoebe, and even on her birthday last year all she had received was a postcard of Charlie Chaplin with a scrawled ‘Wish I was there!’ upon it. No doubt she did, Caroline realised with hindsight. Last July Phoebe must have been in the initial stages of her romance with Billy Jones and thus all too eager to be back in London with him, rather than on the Western Front. Billy couldn’t be touring for the troops in France all the time. Not that Phoebe didn’t enjoy her work, or so Caroline had gathered from her last conversation with her; she seemed to have found her niche in driving. Thankfully, Phoebe was based away from the front; she met interesting people and was doing a worthwhile job – away from the Rectory, where, she had once confessed to Caroline, she felt the odd one out. Why, oh why, did she have to fall for a middle-aged divorced man? Caroline took the letter out hopefully; perhaps Phoebe was pouring her heart out in it because she and Billy had separated.
They hadn’t. Caroline’s cry of dismay made Yves look up anxiously. As usual he was deep in The Times, which he scoured every morning for any item of news about Belgium or the Belgian army that might not have reached him through intelligence channels. A week ago, on 30th March, the eve of Easter Day, the Germans had shelled Adinkerke, where King Albert’s home was within their range.
‘You have received bad news?’
‘Yes – no – oh, Yves, read it for yourself. Look what she’s planning to do now.’
He picked up the letter, read it, and handed it back to her. ‘So Phoebe plans to marry. This is not new. You expected it would happen.’
‘Yes, but not now. And not there. And not in a registry office. And not without Father’s consent. She’s still under twenty-one, and she writes that I am the only person she’s telling.’
Yves reread the letter. ‘You’re right, Caroline. It is serious that she is choosing to marry in France for that very reason. I do not know the French regulations on age.’
‘Is it even legal to have a civil wedding in France?’ Caroline moaned. ‘And only Phoebe would choose to go to Paris to be married when hundreds of thousands of its citizens are getting out as fast as they can.’
The two-week bombardment of Paris by the huge new long-range guns was causing panic, as the civilian death rate was high.
‘She wrote this letter on 1st April. Is it apoisson d’avril, an April fool?’ Yves asked.
‘No,’ Caroline replied hollowly. ‘I know Phoebe all too well. She intends to marry in Paris in two weeks’ time, and that’s that. You’d have more hope of changing the Kaiser’s mind than Phoebe’s.’
‘Then you must try to persuade her to come to London instead, and get your father’s consent. She will, after all, want her marriage to be legal.’
‘No, I’ll advise her to wait.’
Yves hesitated. ‘Has it occurred to you that may not be possible?’
‘Phoebe will just have—’ Belatedly Caroline realised what he meant. ‘Oh. I don’t think so.’ She remembered Phoebe denied they were lovers at Christmas. A lot could happen in three months, however.
‘Even your father would not hold back his consent in those circumstances.’
Perhaps he thought that might comfort her. If so, Yves was wrong. It would be a nightmare for Father. First she, now Phoebe, would in his view have defied the moral precepts that had guided them all their lives.
‘Phoebe will just ignore me, whatever I suggest,’ she answered miserably.
‘Billy Jones won’t. And he’s in London.’ Yves glanced at her and read her expression correctly. ‘I will go to see him. It will be easier.’
She could have sobbed with relief. ‘I suppose I should be happy for Phoebe, but I keep thinking of everything that could go wrong – and the upset.’
Yves glanced at her. ‘There is even more serious news in the newspaper, cara. Can you bear to hear it?’
She braced herself. ‘The Germans have taken Amiens after all?’ If Amiens fell, the way to the Channel ports lay open, but yesterday, on 4th April, their headlong onslaught had been halted at last.
‘No, my love, the English sausage is under threat.’
‘What?’
He laughed at the incredulous expression on her face. ‘Your government Food Controller wishes to bring the content of sausages under his control, as he has tea.’
‘He can’t do that.’ Caroline was immediately indignant. ‘You’re right. It is serious.’ Every butcher, every cook had his or her own recipe for sausages. ‘How can he control it?’
‘There are plans for pork mince to be distributed all over the country by one manufacturer who will be closely under the Ministry’s eye.’
‘Once the country loses the freedom of its sausages,’ Caroline proclaimed, ‘there may be revolution, as in Russia.’
‘I believe you, Caroline. This may be a Bolshevik plot. Or perhaps the Unseen Hand has penetrated the Ministry of Food.’
She caught Yves’ eye, ran round the table and into his waiting arms. ‘Into battle, mon capitaine. Let us to work to defend the noble sausage from rape and dishonour.’
Margaret read the news with great disquiet. If it wasn’t one thing it was another. No sooner had the enemy met his just deserts at Amiens, where the British army stood firm, than the government slipped this through. Meat rationing was one thing, laying government hands on the sausage was quite another. What would they do about home-produced sausages? Every decent housewife could make their own sausages, and what else had the Good Lord sent us sage to grow in the garden for? Despite her talk at the cinema on this coupon system, Wally Bertram complained he had a queue a mile long while he worked out how to clip the blessed coupons. She’d told him if he could be bothered to come to her talks, he’d find out. He pointed out someone had to be in the shop, but that was no excuse, for he opened and shut when he felt like it, and Mrs Bertram was there often enough when he fancied a lie-in. Being a churchwarden, he reckoned he was too high and mighty to be bothered with coupons. He was always in the right, just like – this traitorous thought slipped unchecked through her mind – the Rector.
Mind you, the Rector hadn’t said anything more to upset her when she returned from Tunbridge Wells. He knew where she’d been all right, but it was her afternoon off and she’d do what she liked. If that was going to a medium to have a chat with Fred, it was her decision. The Rector just asked her whether it had helped. She’d said yes, because she couldn’t very well say anything else. On the whole, though, she wasn’t sure it wasn’t more upsetting than comforting. Perhaps Percy had been wise not to come.
She used to think messages from the other side came to you through the table rocking, but it wasn’t always like that with Raymond’s medium, nor with Mrs Orvino in Tunbridge Wells. They’d all sat there quietly waiting and hoping, as she went into a trance. That meant she was being taken over by her control, and so she had begun speaking in a very gruff voice. It turned out her control was called Pythagoras. One by one Mr Pythagoras contacted all their loved ones, and passed over their messages. After Mrs Hubble had heard from young Timothy, and poor Mrs Sharpe had heard from Joey who’d gone down with his ship when the Tuscania was sunk by one of those sneaky German submarines in February, Margaret began to get cold feet, for soon it would be her turn, and there was no doubt it was scary. She had reminded herself that the Rector had declared that Fred was up there in heaven, and that was all she needed to know really, for it stood to reason that one could not be unhappy in heaven. Why bother with dragging Fred back? Then Mr Pythagoras had said in his funny deep voice: ‘There’s somebody here who’s very cheerful with a big grin. An F, is it? Or A?’
Margaret had gone very cold. ‘Alfred,’ she croaked. ‘My Fred.’
‘He’s saying something. He wants you to know he hasn’t broken a single egg since he reached the other side.’
Well, that had almost finished her. She was in tears right away. It was Fred all right, making a joke about the way he used to break some of Nanny Oates’ eggs when he carried them into Tunbridge Wells to sell. There was no way the medium could have known about that, was there? It proved it was Fred up there. Even so, she wasn’t sure, now she’d been reassured, that she’d want to go through it again. Mrs Orvino had said they’d try the table next time, or even writing under the influence, which might not be so scary.
She had to admit the level of messages from above hadn’t reached that of Raymond. Raymond had explained to Sir Oliver about the spheres and how those very fond of someone on earth never went too far away in the heavenly system but remained near so that they could greet you when you yourself passed over. Now, that was a lovely thought: Fred would be there grinning his silly old head off as soon as she got up to heaven.
Unfortunately everything had gone clean out of her head when she had realised Fred was actually there. She should have asked a thousand things that had since come to her, but all she had found herself blurting out was:
‘Are you eating well, Fred? Keeping your strength up?’
No one in the room or even Mr Pythagoras seemed to think this was silly, so Margaret took heart, and presently the answer came back: ‘Yes, but I miss your Sussex pudding, Mum.’
That did it. Margaret was jelly for the rest of the evening. Fred was there even though she couldn’t hug or scold him. Perhaps she’d come again, because he’d miss her if she didn’t, her having made contact once. The others had been back twice already, but Margaret had two living children to think of too. Maybe she’d pop back for a word with Fred when there was good news to impart. Or would he know it already? Her lip quivered. It was hard to work out what was what up there.
On the way home she remembered what Lizzie had said about some German woman feeding Fred, and suddenly made her mind up. Unpatriotic or not, if Rector and Mrs Lilley didn’t mind – and how could they? – she’d take action. After all, she didn’t want to miss her chance of meeting Fred again by being consigned to hell for passing by on the other side, like a ‘Bad Samaritan’.
Next morning, she packed a basket, put on her hat and coat and boots, and set off in the bitter cold for Lake’s Farm. It might be April, but that poet who wrote about blackbirds singing couldn’t have had April 1918 in mind. It was colder than most Januarys, and Percy was fussing about the effects of frost on his vegetables. It was his own fault; she’d warned everyone it was a blackthorn winter, and she’d been right.
‘Whatever are you doing here, Ma?’ Lizzie straightened up with amazement. She was looking weary and no wonder, her mother thought. It was no life for a girl digging fields in this weather, and her with a baby to look after and a convalescing husband too. Well, almost a husband. Frank was now pottering about the cottage garden, in which, with the Lakes’ permission, Lizzie grew her own produce.
‘I’ve come with some oatmeal scones for you and Frank, and’ – Margaret took a deep breath and plunged – ‘for that Jockey or whatever his name is.’
Lizzie grinned. ‘Thanks, Ma.’
‘What’s more, I’ve asked Mrs Lilley if we can offer him the odd meal with us in the servants’ hall, and she’s no objection. She knows one or two others, too. I wouldn’t want any of them to starve.’
‘You won’t be popular in the village, Ma. “Let ’em starve” is most people’s attitude, “because we’re half starving ourselves, thanks to them.”’
‘Then most people need educating. You leave the village to me, my girl, and get on with your digging. And you watch you don’t overdo it. You’re looking peaky.’
‘It’s not the hoeing, Ma. We’ve had bad news. Now conscription for men up to fifty is probably coming in, Frank may have to go back.’
‘Back there out East?’ Margaret was aghast. ‘Haven’t the troops out there got some nasty germ? Influenza of some sort? They can’t do that to Frank. It’ll kill him.’
‘We hope he’ll get home duties, but you never know. He’s only just forty.’
Margaret had read about this in the papers, but hadn’t thought about its affecting Frank. A lot depended on when your birthday was. There was a couple of twins in the village. One born at five minutes to midnight, the other five minutes past, fifty years before the bill became law. So one brother would escape conscription because he was fifty-one, and off the other would go, probably to his death. And him with a grandchild the age of Baby Frank. There was no justice anywhere.
‘Did Billy see sense?’
Caroline had stayed up waiting eagerly for Yves to return. He was very late. He had gone out to dine with Billy after his show finished at the Theatre Royal, east Stratford, in London. From there Billy had insisted on taking him to Chinatown. Limehouse, he had told Yves gloomily, was not the place it was; the war had seen to that. Dora, the Defence of the Realm Act, had banished the more esoteric and dubious amusements carried on in alleyways behind closed doors; the Food Controller had laid his bland hand on its colourful food, and though dockland was packed with seafaring humanity of every colour and race, the war had robbed them of zest and consigned them to destitution. Nevertheless Billy had managed to find a pale imitation of the old Limehouse in a back alley, which provided them with chow-chow, noodles and a fight with flying crockery, overturned tables, and ripped clothes. Billy had put an end to it by singing one of his famous songs so that he could then get on with his awabi and ersatz suey-sen tea.
‘Never mind the food, what about Phoebe?’ Caroline demanded, patience at an end.
‘Good and bad news. He can easily persuade her to change to London by telling her he is committed to theatre performances here.’
‘And the bad?’ Caroline waited, heart in mouth.
‘Phoebe wasn’t telling you the entire truth. Billy had insisted on seeing your father, who did not take the news well. In fact, he refused point-blank to give his consent. Billy mentioned a look of Henry Irving. Does that make sense?’
‘It does.’ Father had nursed a secret desire to be an actor, and unaware of what he was doing would often fall into dramatic poses in dramatic situations. If he was playing Henry Irving, Yves was right. It was bad news indeed. There would be no changing his mind. ‘What happened?’
Yves took her hand. ‘The wedding will go ahead, cara. It is as we suspected. Billy has told your father that Phoebe is to have a baby in November. He has therefore given his consent, but refused to bless the marriage or to be present. Your mother supports him, and your parents both informed Billy what they thought of him.’
‘Poor Billy,’ Caroline said soberly. ‘I can imagine he ended up feeling like a Chinese noodle himself.’
‘On the contrary. He was upset and annoyed on Phoebe’s account, but as for himself, he told me that he might look a skinny runt, but he had a back as broad as the fat lady at the circus.’
Caroline tried to laugh, but failed dismally. ‘What a beginning for a marriage. And what’s Phoebe going to do? She can’t go on working. And what about Father? And—’
‘Cara.’ Yves put his arm round her and pulled her to him. ‘You once took a decision that raised even more questions over the future. Let us sort ours out, leave Billy and Phoebe to their own.’
‘But Phoebe’s so young.’
‘Not any longer. War is a predator of youth.’
Georgette? Brocade? Surely for a wedding even in a registry office one need not adhere too closely to the austerity of war, but on the other hand a formal white wedding gown for Phoebe and bridesmaid’s dress for herself would look out of place, not to mention inappropriate, even if white and cream had started coming back into fashion after a year or two in abeyance at the beginning of the war. Phoebe had telephoned to say she didn’t care what she wore and she’d leave it to Caroline to buy a dress for her. The wedding had been arranged for Wednesday I7th, and Caroline had promptly panicked at this responsibility. She had telephoned Isabel, the family’s fashion consultant – or rather, she used to be. Isabel turned up trumps and insisted on coming up to superintend the purchase herself. ‘After all,’ Isabel had pointed out, ‘you have no dress sense at all, so it’s the least I can do for Phoebe.’ With only two days to go before the day, there was no time for failure, and Caroline had taken leave so that the clock would not hound her.
It was not to be. Just as Caroline was about to leave to meet Isabel at Victoria, the telephone rang. It was Isabel.
‘I won’t be coming on the shopping trip. I’m sorry, Caroline.’
‘Nothing’s wrong with the baby, is it?’ Caroline was alarmed at Isabel’s strained voice.
A pause, then a muffled: ‘No. It’s Robert.’
‘Oh, Isabel.’ Tragedy struck out of the blue. You knew the odds were on its coming sooner or later, but nevertheless the shock of the telegram’s arrival was undiminished. How could Isabel be so unlucky? Why now, just as she had found happiness again with Robert, and was carrying his baby? ‘Is he—?’ Caroline couldn’t frame the word.
‘No. He’s missing, and you know what that means. The balloon was apparently shot down over enemy lines. He was carrying one of these parachute things, but the Germans shoot at them anyway.’
Till recently, George had told her, the Royal Flying Corps (now a new service called the Royal Air Force) had refused to provide parachutes for they were thought bad for morale. In fact, George said, the numbers of deaths on the Western Front had meant the opposite was true. But parachutes or not, that didn’t mean Robert was safe, for apart from the danger of enemy planes shooting at him, often these parachutes failed to work.
‘I’ll come down,’ Caroline said immediately, and unthinkingly.
‘Don’t,’ Isabel replied. ‘It would be hard on you, and what can you do? Besides, unless you want to change your mind about Yves and the Rectory, where would you go? I know you’re thinking of me and that’s enough. Besides, I don’t know Robert’s dead for sure,’ she added brightly and unconvincingly. ‘And there’s lots of work to do, now that Lord Beaverbrook has formally launched the first fleet of ten cine-motor cars with his blessing. East Grinstead Council has asked my advice on the best films to show. Imagine, fifteen hundred to two thousand people can watch at once. It’s a great—’ Isabel’s voice wobbled, then gave way, and she burst into tears. How useless telephones were when you wanted to be with someone, Caroline fumed, not at the end of a wire miles away.
Hearing about Robert cast a pall over the whole day. How Caroline remembered the dreary days of waiting and waiting for news from the war front. She had to force herself to don hat and coat, and make her way to Oxford Street. Perhaps it was as well she was on her own, she told herself unconvincingly, because to Isabel shopping began and ended in Bond Street, even though they still lived on Robert’s salary and the pittance William Swinford-Browne paid her to run the cinema.
It proved an easier task than she’d feared, even though she marched the length of Oxford Street before she found something she thought would please Phoebe in Marshall and Snelgrove – an empire-line, lilac satin and georgette calf-length gown, and, by coincidence, an exact colour-matching hat. Caroline wondered how Mrs Hazel was faring nowadays. Once the village dressmaker would automatically have made all such dresses; now Ashden’s social life no longer demanded new frocks even if the materials had been available.
For herself, Caroline chose a pale blue brocade and lace gown, also calf-length, but her satisfaction was less without Isabel to share it. Ellen, Yves and Luke would have to be her audience. It was only on the bus she remembered she needed a hat. There would have to be yet another expedition.
She decided she would go to the office for the luxury of walking home with Yves, and to see what had been happening today, and was disappointed not to find him there.
‘Where’s Yves? He said he’d be here.’
‘Gone.’ Luke was looking harassed. ‘You’ve missed a whole lot of signals from GHQ.’
‘Gone where?’ she asked blankly.
‘To Queen Anne’s Gate to pack, and he leaves at six. The balloon’s about to go up on the Belgian Front. We’ve been driven off the Passchendaele Ridge, the Germans have bagged Merville and Bailleul, and good old Foch wants King Albert to release two of his precious divisions to the British. You can see him agreeing to that, can’t you?’
‘Then why is Yves going now?’
‘Because having started fighting on the Lys, they won’t stop. It’s going to intensify and Yves has to be there. The Belgian army will be under pressure,’ Luke explained patiently. ‘What’s wrong, Caroline?’
‘Nothing,’ she muttered. How could she say, he’ll miss Wednesday’s wedding, and he’s a witness.
Luke looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Seen the new bedroom farce at the Apollo, Be Careful, Baby?’
‘No,’ she retorted through gritted teeth. By the time she had reached home, she had forgotten Luke’s warning in a swell of self-pity, made worse by Isabel’s bad news. The one bright spot on her horizon had been Phoebe’s wedding, and now Yves would not be at her side. She rushed up the stairs, threw her shopping boxes on the sofa, and went to find Yves. It was stupid, she knew, but she could not help herself – or keep the slight whine out of her voice, as she said, ‘Luke tells me you’re going to Belgium.’
‘Cara, I have to.’ He came across immediately to embrace her.
‘Is there no hope you’ll be here for the wedding?’
‘Almost none,’ he replied gently. ‘The King has signalled for me to join him, and even had he not, I would believe my place to be at his side. This could be a long campaign.’
‘What about my side?’ The words were out before she could hold them back.
Yves did not reply, turning his back on her to complete his packing.
‘Say something,’ she shouted at his stiff back.
He swung round. ‘Caroline, just like the newest conscript I have to go.’
‘But you will return?’ She began to panic.
He misunderstood. ‘I have told you, there is little chance.’
Desperately she sought reassurance. ‘But sometime you will?’
‘What do you mean?’ He stared at her blankly.
‘You won’t decide your place is already at your wife’s side?’ she blurted out. ‘You promised me,’ she added childishly, when he said nothing. ‘To the end of the war.’
‘I did, but now I doubt if it was wise. Perhaps your father knew best.’
‘No,’ she cried in anguish. ‘I chose. You chose.’
Yves made a visible effort to speak calmly. ‘Cara, this is not the time, nor the place for us to quarrel or to discuss this. I will return when I can and that is all I can say.’
She watched him finishing his packing, wanting to put matters right, to admit she’d been in the wrong, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t even believe that she was. She wanted to yell at him: if you feel so lukewarm, don’t bother to come back. Go back to her. She managed to restrain herself, but no other words replaced them. He departed without saying anything more, after one kiss on her unresponsive mouth, and even that he hesitated before bestowing on her. His lips were as cold as ice.
When he had gone, she found herself numb with terror, unable even to cry, and in the following days she threw herself into work, seizing on GHQ situation reports as avidly as if by doing so she was helping Yves. How could she be so sensible where other people’s relationships were concerned and so silly over her own?
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Luke finally asked. ‘I may not be Yves, but there’s no need to snap my head off every two minutes.’
She apologised and instead exploded her frustration to Ellen at lunchtime. Only to a woman could she explain with any hope of understanding what a mess she had made of the last few weeks. Or so she had fondly thought.
Typically, Ellen dismissed her problem over Yves as of no account. She had no romantic problems of her own, having just become engaged to a soldier on Defence of London duties, and couldn’t comprehend others’ dilemmas. ‘He’ll be back,’ she informed Caroline matter-of-factly. ‘Who’s going to be the other witness, if Yves isn’t back?’
‘I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about that, but I suppose I could ask. Phoebe’s only got a forty-eight-hour pass, and then has to go back for another three weeks before she can leave permanently because of the baby.’
‘Why don’t you ask Isabel?’
‘Surely that’s the last thing Isabel would want to do with her own husband still missing.’
‘You underestimate her, Caroline.’
‘Do I?’ Caroline considered this. Perhaps sometimes she did. ‘All right, I’ll ask her.’
By the time Caroline had left work that evening, she was feeling almost cheerful again. When she got home, Isabel would already be installed, and Ellen fussing over her like another Mrs Dibble. She was amazed to find when she arrived that Isabel was in no need of fussing at all. She was bright-faced, happy and laughing.
‘Caroline,’ she shrieked, leaping up to greet her, ‘Robert’s safe.’
‘Isabel, that’s wonderful news. Was he injured?’
‘I don’t know. He’s a prisoner of war in Germany, that’s why we didn’t hear at once. Isn’t it marvellous that he’s not dead?’
‘Yes.’ Being a prisoner of war was bad enough, but infinitely preferable to Isabel losing him altogether.
‘Now I shall really enjoy the wedding,’ Isabel continued, ‘and I’ll never be unhappy again. I even felt young Master or Miss Swinford-Browne inside me give a kick of pleasure on the way up to this flat. If I ever find myself getting miserable again, I’ll just remember this glorious moment.’
‘Come and inspect the dresses.’ Caroline dragged her into her bedroom where Isabel proceeded to tell her exactly what was wrong with her choice, though ending up with a gracious: ‘I suppose they could have been worse.’
‘Please, God,’ Caroline prayed that night, ‘let some of Isabel’s good fortune rub off on Phoebe and Billy. And if there’s any left over’ – though she hardly dared ask – ‘on Yves and on me.’ For the first time since Christmas, she felt that the cloud of bitterness that had blurred her faith was lifting just a little.
The unseasonably bitter cold month of April turned up trumps, thank goodness, and produced a sunny, if still chilly, day for Phoebe’s wedding. Perversely, Caroline woke up that morning not thinking of Phoebe’s happiness or Isabel’s good news, but of Father and Mother, and how sad it was that they would be missing the wedding. Felicia had declared her intention of getting up to London by hook or by crook, even though she was now working at Ashden Manor, and with George away, that meant her parents would be at home alone.
Caroline’s heart ached for them. Their hearts were so warm, and their standards so rigid. She decided then to put all thoughts of them out of her mind. It was Phoebe’s day, and Phoebe, as had she, had made her own decision. Caroline had to come not only to like Billy but to understand what Phoebe saw in him. At the Marylebone registry office, he looked as proud and pleased as punch – and about as handsome, his future sister-in-law thought irreverently. Even Isabel reluctantly conceded that the lilac dress suited Phoebe, although perhaps her happiness would have shone out over a dress made of dishrags. The Rectory ugly duckling had become a swan at last.
Phoebe’s wedding day was a memorable one for other reasons. Luke had worked late into the night after the wedding, and unable to sleep with excitement, Caroline got up to make him and herself cocoa.
He flung himself down on the sofa. ‘It’s begun,’ he told her. ‘The Germans attacked in force on the railway line from Ypres to Thourout, and overran the Belgian front line.’
Caroline felt dizzy with shock. It was too much, coming after today’s happiness.
‘Yves?’ she asked stupidly.
‘No word yet, but the news gets better. The artillery and the reserves – those that Foch wanted to pinch – recaptured the entire lost ground and took six hundred prisoners.’
She clapped her hands in delight. ‘So it’s over?’
‘Far from it. This is only the beginning of Armageddon.’
Three days later came the next major attack on the Belgian Front. Once again the enemy gained ground, and once again they were driven back in a counter-attack into which, so reports said, the Belgians went singing, and ‘fought like men possessed’, so determined were they to recapture their homeland.
And at last they heard from Yves. Just her luck – Caroline was out of the office when the precious telephone call came through. All Luke could talk about when she returned was how successful the British attack on Zeebrugge had been, and how it was now known that the Belgian army had saved the British in the Ypres salient by foiling a German plan to encircle them.
‘Did he mention me?’ Caroline asked hopefully, when Luke at last shut up.
‘He sent you his love.’
‘But no word of when he’ll be back?’
‘No.’