Not tonight of all nights. It was Whitsun and tomorrow was a holiday – or was it already today? Whatever time was it? The telephone bell was ringing and ringing insistently.
‘If that’s C,’ Caroline hissed to Yves, ‘tell him the operator has the wrong number.’ A call in the middle of the night could only mean a top-level call from the SSB; she supposed she had no right to grumble because it was only due to the need for Yves and Luke to be reached at all times from all places that the stingy secret service had provided them with a telephone at all at Queen Anne’s Gate. Caroline glanced sleepily at the clock; half past one, and they had not long been in bed, thanks to the air raid.
‘I’ll go.’ Yves was already up and disappearing through the door. Caroline comforted herself that the call could not be for her, for C would hardly be calling the office clerk. Unless – sudden fear made her sit bolt upright in bed, for the night brought nightmares to the semi-wakeful as well as the sleeping – it was bad news for one of them. George, it could be about George. She battled to remember whether Mother had really told her George was on leave, and sent up a fervent prayer to wish him safe at Ashden. She could hear her heart thumping, as she sat up in bed waiting for Yves to return. If she lay down, the nightmares would intensify.
At last she heard the murmur of voices, so Ellen or Luke must have jumped up too. She realised she was shivering, although the May night was warm. Surely Yves wasn’t being recalled to Belgium so soon? Perhaps it was a call from King Albert, or from GHQ to say that Ludendorff’s expected new offensive had begun.
‘Come back, Yves,’ she muttered, thumping the pillow, ‘come back.’ It was too much, after the noise and disruption of the air raid. It had been an attack in force from the sound of it, and so bright was the waxing moon last evening, she supposed they should have expected it. There had been no raids on London for some time now, however, and everyone had relaxed, believing that the Germans were reserving their bomb power for the Western Front. Then just before eleven-thirty, while they were preparing for bed, came the familiar dimming of the lights, and the sound of the maroons. Instead of the luxury of her first full night of reunion with Yves, they had been in the basement sheltering while the searchlights flashed over their limited view of the sky. Although the aircraft approached silently now, once overhead the noise was formidable. They stayed there for an hour and a half before they deemed it safe to return to bed. And now this.
Perhaps it was bad news from Simon’s house. Tilly? Penelope? Caroline’s imagination ran riot until at last she heard Yves open their door. She lit the oil lamp at her side, rather than turn on the electric light, and in its eerie glow it seemed to her his face looked very pale. He sat down by her on the edge of the bed, rather than returning to her side under the bedclothes, and she waited with apprehension.
‘What is it?’ she whispered. It was not just the effect of the oil lamp, Yves’ face was pale with shock. ‘Do you have to leave again?’
‘No. Cara, it is terrible news from Ashden.’
‘George! It’s George, isn’t it? He wasn’t on leave. He’s been shot down, he’s dead? I must go.’ She pushed the bedclothes aside to move, until he gently restrained her.
‘No, my love, it is not George. He was on leave, and was injured, but he is alive. It is Isabel’ – his voice broke – ‘who has died.’
‘Isabel?’ Caroline stared at him. His words didn’t make sense. ‘The baby, you mean? She’s had a miscarriage?’
There were tears in his eyes. ‘No, the baby too. Both dead. A Gotha must have lost his direction home in the battle with our aircraft, and probably had a hung-up bomb. It fell on Ashden.’
Caroline began to shiver violently. This was all part of her nightmare, wasn’t it? It couldn’t be true! Air raids didn’t affect villages like Ashden. She doubted if the village had ever seen a Gotha, it was rare enough to see our own aircraft. Isabel dead, Isabel dead, she forced her brain to repeat over and over again, but it still wasn’t real. Isabel bouncing into her bedroom, crying, ‘Caroline, can I borrow Granny Overton’s jet? Darling, I simply must have the jet,’ Isabel marrying Robert, Isabel so proudly at the cinema, Isabel’s ‘I’ll never be unhappy again.’ Those were real. Bright images of life raced through her mind. The word dead, and remembering Robert in his POW camp, not knowing he had lost both wife and baby – those were for later.
‘Felicia?’ she asked jerkily. ‘Mother? Father? Everyone else in the Rectory?’
‘No one else in the Rectory was seriously hurt, and the Rectory suffered only broken glass and damage to the front door when it was blown in. The bomb fell on Bankside. Your sister was not the only victim.’
It still didn’t make sense. What could Isabel have been doing out at that time of night? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was needed at the Rectory.
‘I must go immediately.’ She swung her legs to the floor, but Yves restrained her.
‘We’ll both go by the first train. I have checked and there is none till seven o’clock. Luke will remain in the office, and I will return in the evening, so that he may come down if Felicia wishes.’
Details flowed on through her head without registering, taking on a soothing quality, a stick to grasp in a drowning nightmare. Only one was important. ‘There is one task for you, beloved,’ Yves said. ‘Felicia asked if you could tell Phoebe. Felicia was telephoning from Ashden Hospital, and is needed there. Then you must rest to gather your strength.’
Rest? The night would be an endless vigil until they walked to Victoria to return home to the Rectory.
What terrible places railway termini were. Yves had briefly deserted her to buy tickets, and all around were reunions and partings, tears and laughter, servicemen returning from Whitsun leave, preparing to go back to the front, and brothers, sisters, wives, parents, sweethearts dispersing after having said goodbye to their loved ones. In the middle of it all stood Caroline Lilley with a lump like lead in her stomach. It felt so heavy it was as if she had only to give it the slightest push and off it would roll, so that she would realise it wasn’t true after all.
The train crawled interminably to East Grinstead, and then even more slowly through Hartfield towards Ashden. As they stepped down from the train, the lump of lead inside her dissolved and spread all over her, numbing her. Even at the station, the pall of disaster was heavy in the air, reflected in the pallor and silence of those around them. Through the open door of the booking office Caroline could see Station Road, stretching out into the distance. Once it was a joyful path to tread, but not today.
How could the birds still sing? How could the hedgerows still flower in their spring glory, when such tragedy had hit the village? Not everything looked the same in Station Road, however. There was more motor traffic going in and out of The Towers than she had ever seen before. Lorries, wagons, staff cars, all fully laden. As Caroline and Yves reached The Towers, they stopped to allow one lorry through the gates. Poking over the side was a grandfather clock, one she recognised.
‘Nanny Oates too?’ Caroline asked Yves, stunned into fresh horror.
‘Yes, cara.’
‘What are they doing with her clock?’ she choked.
‘Possessions have to be removed to prevent looting and to clear debris from the buildings.’
Looting happened in Belgium, France and other far-off places. But here in Ashden? Caroline tried to brace herself for what she realised she must see shortly, but sickness and dread welled up inside her as they drew near, and she held on to Yves’ hand so tightly she could feel her nails digging into it. It was ten o’clock. Normally on a bank holiday the village would already be bustling with everyone preparing to enjoy the day in his or her own way. This morning it looked deserted, save for Bankside.
The first thing she noticed was that the oak tree on the corner of Station Road seemed to have turned black, its leaves and branches scorched by fire. It too was in mourning for the jagged scar opposite. Between the Norrington Arms and the cinema had been four cottages. Now there was none, and on the green slope down to the pond before them was a large crater. Part of the pub wall had vanished, and Isabel’s beloved cinema now had a gaping hole, exposing its innards like a doll’s house. The smell of smoke and dust of the debris hung everywhere, as soldiers and village folk cleared rubble and possessions together. Standing apart from them, like a Greek chorus observing the tragedy, was a large and silent group of villagers. Everyone dealt with it in a different way; some hid their eyes, some had theirs glued on the evidence of reality.
The sight of the Rectory, with its glorious muddle of architectural red-brick styles, made Caroline weep anew, so reassuring was it. Perhaps there had been some horrible mistake? Isabel couldn’t really be dead, for if the Rectory had so little damage, Isabel could not have been killed within its walls, and she could have had no reason to be out so late last night.
‘I will stay here, Caroline, until you come for me,’ Yves said gently, letting her hand drop with a kiss.
Surely his banishment didn’t matter now in this family tragedy? Then, she realised, at least to Yves, it still did, and for the first time she thought of how he had felt at her father’s rejection. Only she saw Yves as a member of the family, not he, nor her parents.
The Rectory door was open, and it was easier than she had thought to take the first step through it. Felicia was coming down the stairs, but it was a Felicia she scarcely recognised. No need to ask if there had been a mistake – there hadn’t. This is what Felicia must have looked like when she was first gassed, only now the yellow skin had become a drawn pallor. She embraced her, and there was only need for a few words.
‘Mother was at the hospital sitting with George all night, and Dr Parry has given her something to make her sleep.’
‘How is he?’
‘Not seriously injured. Cuts and bruises – bad ones. He’s in Ashden Manor though, with everyone else.’ Felicia gave a hard laugh. ‘Odd to think yesterday was to have been my last day. I’ve been there all night, and Mrs Dibble and Agnes are taking it in turns to sit with Mother, in case she wakes up.’
‘And Father?’
‘In the study. He hasn’t moved since he returned from the hospital. He refused to see Dr Parry, just told us to look after Mother and get some rest ourselves. He came out once to go to the bathroom, but then went straight back. He refused breakfast, everything.’
‘Is the door locked?’
‘I don’t know. His face is, though – I saw it when he came out. I suppose he’s shutting us out, and blaming himself for allowing Isabel to take Nanny Oates home instead of going himself. I can’t think why – George was there, after all. Oh Caroline, I thought I could bear anything after what I’d seen at the front, but I can’t.’ Tears began to soak into Caroline’s shoulder, and they stood clasped together in the hallway. ‘This morning was awful, when I got home at last. Elizabeth Agnes was laughing and shouting, for all Agnes tried to keep her quiet. She’s taken her to her grannie’s now. Mrs Dibble is trying to run the house as if nothing was wrong, while looking like a ghost. Caroline—?’
‘Yes. I’ll try.’ Caroline picked up the appeal in Felicia’s voice and knew exactly what she wanted.
‘There are things to be done,’ Felicia said hopelessly. There were always things to be done after a death – registration, funerals – and Caroline would have to bear the brunt of it all. The whole panoply of horror stretched out clearly in front of Caroline, but the most important element was Father, behind that study door, alone and grieving. She knocked tentatively, after Felicia had left to return to the hospital, and when there was no answer, she went in.
This wasn’t the father she knew. He was always in control, so tidy, so calm and reassuring. Today he was unshaven, with streaks of dust on his face and stains on his trousers. Worst of all was the agony on his face. His expression hardly changed as he saw her, but he stood up, though with visible effort.
‘Caroline,’ was all he said.
She put her arms around him, and could feel the emotion in him. ‘I am glad you have come,’ he managed to say. ‘You are alone?’
‘Phoebe will be here in an hour or two.’
‘I am glad for that too. And Yves?’
‘He is outside. On—’ Caroline could not even say the word Bankside, so she compromised, ‘within the drive.’
He nodded, as though this were natural enough. ‘I’ll ask him in,’ he said. And that seemed natural enough too.
She followed her father out and watched him cross to where Yves was standing, regardless of curious, sympathetic eyes from the watching crowd. Father put his hand on Yves’ shoulder in a curious gesture, since Yves was the taller. It was almost as though he were seeking support. Yves too had come home.
‘Me and Agnes will do luncheon, Mrs D,’ Myrtle offered solicitously. ‘You go and have a rest.’
Margaret made an effort. ‘That you will not, Myrtle. Things are coming to—’ She stopped, because she just didn’t have the strength to fight any more. ‘Thank you, Myrtle. I wouldn’t mind having a break.’
The thought of sleep was welcome not so much to restore her after last night’s sleepless horrors, but just to escape them for a while. How could she sleep, though, with poor Mrs Lilley liable to wake at any time and remember it all over again? Now Miss Caroline was here, and she could look after her parents. But when Miss – how hard it was to think of her as Mrs – Phoebe arrived, would she have remembered her coupon book for meat rations in all the turmoil?
Margaret’s tired brain raced through the hundred and one problems that presented themselves until finally, unable to deal with any of them, she laid them aside. Myrtle and Agnes would do luncheon, Agnes would keep an eye on Mrs Lilley, and Percy was busy fixing new windows. Mrs Thorn had opened up the ironmongers specially this morning. Everyone in Ashden was doing his or her bit, but in the midst of such a tragedy that bit wasn’t very much.
She made one last stab at normality. ‘You’ll find the remains of the beef in the larder, Myrtle. Make a nice shepherd’s pie, and put the cold veg in it too, so it goes further. And not too much sugar in the stewed apple. Use a piece of bread instead. Oh, and mind what I told you about the gravy. None of your powders.’
‘Yes, Mrs D. Oh, Mrs D!’ Myrtle’s voice rose in alarm, as she saw that Margaret was crying. It was like Fred’s death all over again. It hadn’t really seemed real that Mrs Isabel was dead, and Mr George in hospital. Nanny Oates was dead too, but she was old, and Mrs Isabel was at least young enough to have a baby. Now the baby was lost as well as Mrs Isabel. Myrtle began to sniff.
‘Don’t you go crying into the gravy, Myrtle.’ With that, Margaret hurried out of the kitchen before she collapsed.
Caroline had left Yves with Father while she went to release Agnes and sit with her mother. She looked so peaceful asleep, away from the day’s nightmare, although every so often lines of pain would spread across her face. Caroline knew everything about that face, every laughter line and every crease of anxiety, but this was a pain she could not lift from her, because she shared it.
‘She’s been asleep two hours,’ Agnes had said, ‘but I don’t think she’ll be asleep much longer. She’s beginning to get restless.’
After her mother had woken up and if she could be left, Caroline decided she would go to Ashden Manor to see George with Father and Yves. Felicia came back at lunchtime for half an hour, and told her that George was mainly suffering from concussion and shock, as well as the cuts and bruises. Last night he had broken down when he had learnt of Isabel’s death. There had been six deaths in all; the others were Samuel Thorn, Father’s verger, Nat Mutter’s son, a soldier roistering about on the green after the Norrington Arms closed and Jenny Hargreaves, daughter to Mrs Hazel the dressmaker, who lived further along on Bankside. Half an hour earlier there would have been far more deaths as people spilt out from the public house on to the green.
‘Where—?’ The words had stuck in Caroline’s throat, but Felicia understood.
‘The bodies are in the hospital mortuary.’
‘Can I—?’
‘No, darling. It’s better not to.’
‘She should be here, in her home.’
Felicia took her hands. ‘Caroline, you know she is.’
‘Know? Felicia, how can you still say that? Even after what I went through when I was involved in those bomb incidents, I realise that’s nothing to the horrors you’ve seen. How can you be sure there’s a loving God? I thought I’d found my faith again, but this – this has put an end to it.’
Felicia thought for a moment. ‘I wasn’t sure when I was first at the front. But as time went by, I realised the strength Tilly and I found to keep going wasn’t just our own.’
‘I wish I could realise that,’ Caroline said bitterly.
‘You will. It’s not just the major disasters that restore it. It’s the small trials. For instance—’ Felicia hesitated, ‘There’s something you can do for me. Edith and William Swinford-Browne are coming over at four this afternoon and as Mother won’t be able to face them, one of us has to. There are still eleven people injured in the hospital, so I must go back.’
Felicia watched her expression as Caroline’s heart plummeted. ‘Isabel was their daughter-in-law, and the baby would have been their grandchild. Please, Caroline.’
Of course Felicia was right. How could they close the doors of the Rectory to anyone at a time like this? The Swinford-Brownes were part of Isabel’s family, and must be received as such. With deep gratitude, Caroline remembered Yves was here and could help her.
In the event, she returned with Felicia to Ashden Hospital, leaving Yves and her father to receive Phoebe when she arrived. Their path was doubly a sad one, for many victims of war had walked along it before Isabel and George. At their head was dear Reggie, whom she had loved so much. That love had never been tested as had her love for Yves, and he remained enshrined in her memory as distinct from the present as were her childhood and girlhood.
George was in a room with two convalescent army lieutenants from France, but he was not joining in their conversation. His eyes brightened when he saw Caroline.
‘My big sister says I can come home tomorrow,’ he managed to laugh.
‘This even bigger sister thinks that’s good news.’ Did she? Could the household cope with a semi-invalid. She dismissed such stupidity. George would recover quicker at home, surrounded by family, and the fact that he was able to maintain a front of cheerfulness would be another element in his getting quickly on his feet again. He didn’t maintain it for long.
‘It doesn’t seem fair,’ he said vehemently. ‘How could it happen here in Ashden? On the front we expect it, crashes, dogfights, deaths, accidents, blood and funerals, but here it’s different. It shouldn’t have happened.’
‘I suppose we imagined Ashden would remain untouched, while we were away,’ Caroline replied sadly. ‘We need something to come home to, something safe to remember from the old days.’
‘Perhaps. I tell you, Caroline, no more skylarking and cartoons for me. We chaps out there thought we were fighting to keep England unaltered. And all we’ve done is wreck it. I can’t imagine Ashden without Bankside, without Nanny Oates’ cottage, and without Isabel. Why wasn’t it me? I’ve been close enough to death scores of times, and yet she was killed.’ He turned away his head so that she would not see him crying.
Caroline put out her hand to stroke his cheek. ‘You have helped, and so have your cartoons. You mustn’t give them up. They mean a lot to people.’
He took no notice. ‘She must have taken the full force of the bomb. I can’t bear it, Caroline.’
Caroline shuddered. In the two bomb explosions she had seen at close hand, one dropped by a Zeppelin near the Gaiety and one in a Gotha raid on Folkestone last year, she had seen mangled bodies, torn limbs and sightless eyes in plenty, and the thought of Isabel, her baby and poor Nanny Oates like that brought vomit into her throat. Yes, she knew what it was like, and so did George and Felicia for they had both seen it all. Even Phoebe had been close to war. Now Father and Mother had seen it too, and the bonds of the family must surely strengthen, not break apart.
By the time Caroline arrived back at the Rectory, Phoebe and Billy had arrived and so had the Swinford-Brownes. Yves appeared to be holding his own with William and Edith, but Phoebe leapt up to embrace her. ‘I can’t believe it, Caroline,’ she cried. ‘Can I see George? Where’s Felicia? And how’s Mother? She hasn’t appeared yet. Oh, Caroline, hold me tight. I never want to lose the Rectory again.’
Caroline tried to calm her down, but Phoebe would not be silenced. ‘There was an air raid in France too yesterday. Six WAACs were killed. It could have been me, but I understand that, because it’s in the war zone. It’s Isabel I don’t understand. That poor baby.’ She burst out crying.
‘Come upstairs, darling, and we’ll talk. You can rest until Mother’s awake.’
‘Rest? How do you think I can rest?’ Phoebe moaned.
‘Whether you can or not, you’ve a baby to think of.’
Phoebe was showing no signs yet of approaching motherhood, but that made no difference. She must take life more peacefully and this tragedy was not going to help at all.
Caroline returned to William and Edith, and a thankful Yves. The Swinford-Brownes seemed to have aged considerably, whether through time or shock. Edith looked shrunken and grey against her dark gown, and William robbed of his usual cocksure arrogant manner looked almost human. Impulsively, Caroline kissed them both, and Edith promptly burst into tears.
‘How’s your poor mother?’
‘Asleep.’ (I hope, thought Caroline. She would not be able to bear Edith’s solicitations, however well meant.)
‘The funeral arrangements—’ William began, almost diffidently for him. ‘Phoebe tells us your father is in a bad way, poor fellow. Edith and I would like to hold it in East Grinstead, if it would help.’
Caroline was saved from the terrible predicament by her father’s entry into the room. ‘There is no need. I’m most grateful, William, but how,’ he stopped, then managed to continue, ‘how could my daughter go to Our Lord without my blessing her on her way?’
‘Have you the strength, Father?’ Caroline asked quietly. ‘No one would blame you for not holding it here. And there are five other funerals, as well.’
‘With the love and support of my family, and that includes you Edith and William, Billy and Yves, I know I can.’
Margaret came into the kitchen after two hours’ blessed sleep to find Agnes looking harassed.
‘What am I going to do, Margaret?’ she asked. ‘Mrs Lilley still isn’t here, so I have to make my own mind up. The Rector doesn’t reckon Mrs Phoebe and Mr Billy are married. Should I get two rooms ready, or one? Captain Yves has gone back to London, otherwise I’d have the same problem there. Worse, since they’re not even half married.’
Yesterday Margaret would have been in no doubt what to do. Today everything had changed. ‘One room, Agnes. That’s what the Rector would want, and I’m sure it’s certainly what Mrs Phoebe will want, poor girl. There’s nothing worse than crying alone.’
Her mother had woken briefly, and taken some tea, but she was still so dazed and distressed that Caroline gave her another pill, as Dr Parry had directed. Reality could wait a little longer.
It waited until the next day, by which time her mother was up, though very silent, and by now Felicia was able to take Caroline’s place, and Luke had arrived too. Caroline took on the task of going round the village to visit the bereaved, after her father’s calls on them, which he had insisted on making. There was an open door now for the Rector, although many had closed it since the war began, preferring to nurse grief away from what they saw as an impotent Church. Now the Rector was one of them again, since he too had lost a loved one.
‘Poor lamb,’ Mrs Farthing observed. ‘And your ma too, bless her.’
Poor lamb? Blessing the Rector’s wife? Before the war the villagers would have as soon called Lady Hunney a poor lamb as the Rector, so much respect was he held in. He still was, but the respect had changed direction. It was respect for his humanity, not his role at the end of God’s telephone line.
Luke explained to them that evening what had happened, after taking Caroline’s advice as to whether her parents were up to it. It had been a full-scale raid on Dover and London, with nearly thirty Gothas getting through to strike at London. They came in from Kent and Essex, but on reaching the London defences some of them had been turned away. As he had thought, one of them seriously lost direction, coming as far west as Tunbridge Wells. The Crowborough defences fired at it, which had driven it further west and in the process its hung-up bomb had fallen. The raid had caused much loss of life in London and Dover too, with nearly fifty people killed.
They listened in silence. Luke’s story assumed reality only when Caroline remembered the funerals on Friday.
Normal life was in abeyance until then, but she made an effort to bear work in mind. ‘Do you need me at the office before next week?’ she asked Luke.
‘Strictly speaking yes, but Yves and I have decided we can manage. Ellen is coming in to help out.’
‘Good.’ The idea of madcap Ellen coming in to sort through reports would have appalled Caroline under normal circumstances. Now it was irrelevant.
Isabel was buried on a calm spring day in a joint service for all six of the dead, which began with an address by Father on Bankside with the congregation – the whole of Ashden – packed around him.
The debris had been taken away now, and only the missing cottages and the barren earth where the grass had been burnt from it spoke of Sunday’s tragedy. They sang one favourite hymn for each victim, and then moved on to St Nicholas. In this church Isabel had been baptised, confirmed and married. Its solid grey walls had seen tragedy and triumph over the ages, given comfort and doubled rejoicing, and with Yves at her side, Caroline found the service bearable, simple, loving and dignified. Committing Isabel to the earth was far harder in the stark bleakness of the farewell. How could they turn away and leave her there in the churchyard? Help came from a surprising quarter. After the last committal, that of Mrs Hazel’s daughter, Len Thorn stepped forward in his corporal’s army uniform.
‘Shall it be tonight, Rector?’
Father just stared at him, not understanding. ‘Shall what be tonight?’
‘The tree.’ Len reddened, for when Fred Dibble had died, he had been the ringleader in insisting his name was erased from the long list of those who had sacrificed their lives in this war carved on the bark of the now war-torn oak tree. ‘I reckon your daughter, Rector, and the others, they all died for the war. We Tommies are on the Western Front, and this is the Home Front. There’s no difference now between the two of them, so those six names should be on the list with the others.’
Father was finding difficulty in speaking, he was so moved, so Len did it for him.
‘I’ll do the carving, Rector.’
‘And I’ll help you, Len.’ Nat Mutter stepped forward.