Dark Harvest (15 page)

Seizing his chance, George rushed out after his father into the cool of the night. It was nearly half past twelve, according to the longcase clock in the hallway.

‘Look, Pa,’ he screamed. Searchlights were weaving and beaming arcs across the sky, lighting it up. Tim had told him that in May the anti-aircraft gunners had prevented Dover from being bombed to smithereens; they had driven the Zep inland and she had to drop her bombload over open country. Now it was happening all over again. Oh glory be!

‘Inside, George,’ his father ordered.

‘No fear,’ George yelled, daringly. ‘Look at that!’

An enormous black shape nosed its way through the beams, engines droning. Immediately the sound of guns could be heard as the anti-aircraft batteries went into action. George hopped up and down with excitement, almost sure he saw something dropping from the Zep. And wasn’t that an aeroplane climbing in the sky as the beams moved again? Perhaps
it was Tim? Even Father was so fascinated that he failed to order him inside.

Then the Zep disappeared from view and all was quiet. The searchlights stayed on for half an hour or so but to George’s disappointment, they saw no more aeroplanes.

Next morning they learned (from the postman, who had told the cook, who told the butler, who told them) that the Zep had been damaged by the guns and had limped home over the water. The gunners had holed her and she’d lost hydrogen. Good job too. And George had been right. An Avro had been sent up to finish the Zep off, but lost it. Dozens of bombs had been dropped in the harbour and on Admiralty Pier.

‘And some sailors feared dead,’ Laurence reminded them quietly, after George’s display of jubilation. ‘Shall we pray for them and for their families?’

Ashamed, George shut his eyes, but a little part of him was still up there in the clouds. Earlier that day Tim had taken him up in a ‘trainer’. The aircraft had
sung
as the wind whistled through the wires, stinging his cheeks. Now he knew how the chap in the Avro had felt as he soared up after the enemy.

‘Where are you taking our baby?’ Miss Emily was fretful today, as indeed she was on many days.

‘Just to feed her, madam.’ Agnes tried to speak soothingly. In fact, it wasn’t nearly time to feed Elizabeth Agnes, but leaving her so long
with a lady as old as Miss Emily didn’t seem natural somehow.

Miss Emily had been very quiet since Miss Charlotte’s funeral, with no sign of the craziness of that awful morning, and often told her how grateful she was for all Agnes was doing to help her. She never mentioned Miss Charlotte. Agnes and Mary had packed up Miss Charlotte’s clothes and personal possessions, and had stored them in an unused room, just in case Miss Emily should ask for them. The clothes weren’t good enough for Mrs Swinford-Browne’s Belgian Relief Fund anyway. The Rectory had found a solicitor to sort out the legal complexities, and life at Castle Tillow was settling into a routine once more.

After an hour or so, Miss Emily hobbled into the kitchen herself, a rare occurrence. Agnes was at the table rolling pastry, and Mary was in the scullery pummelling clothes under the one cold water tap, which ran through to the well.

‘Where is Elizabeth, Agnes?’ Miss Emily demanded. ‘You must have finished feeding her now.’

‘I like to see her as I work,’ Agnes replied truthfully.

‘It takes your mind
off
your work, young woman. I’ll take her. Besides, I want you and Johnson to go down to the village for me.’

‘With Johnson?’ Agnes was astounded; she hadn’t been asked to go to the village for months, let alone with Johnson.

‘He will explain to you why you are going,’ Miss Emily informed her loftily. ‘He’s just
leaving. Baby will be quite safe with me.’

Reluctantly and still puzzled, Agnes crossed the bridge, and caught Johnson up on the track leading to the village. Dressed in his usual black, he looked like a huge old crow walking between the hedges which were thick with rosebay willow-herb. A young thrush was banging a snail on the rough track, and flew up in alarm as Agnes reached Johnson’s side. They reacted quickly, birds. They had to, to look after themselves. It was instinctive.

Instinct!
Agnes stopped. ‘I’m going back.’

Johnson stared at her. ‘Missus says the stores.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘The stores.’ His voice rose in alarm.

‘I’m going back, I tell you.’ She turned and ran, outstripping the old man who wavered, then started back after her.

What had sent her flying back in this sudden unreasoning panic? Was she being stupid, or was she out of her mind with the loneliness of living so far away from everyone? Agnes burst through the front door, and was relieved to hear the sound of Miss Emily crooning to Elizabeth Agnes. She hesitated then, risking her mistress’s anger, followed the noise into the drawing room.

Fear seized her by the throat, paralysing her for a moment. Miss Emily
was
crooning. She was also bending over Elizabeth Agnes’s cradle with a cushion in her hands. And that cushion was pressing down somewhere near where the baby’s head would be.

With a shriek of terror, Agnes threw herself
towards the cradle, pushing Miss Emily away and sending her toppling on to the sofa. She snatched her baby up; Elizabeth Agnes’s face was congested and slightly blue. Was she breathing? Was she in time? Instinctively Agnes blew air into her baby’s mouth to help her breathe, then staggered towards the door and freedom.

‘Charlotte wants her, Charlotte
asked
.’ Miss Emily struggled up in indignation. ‘You can’t take her away. I’m sending her to Charlotte, don’t you understand?’ The old lady’s screeches pursued Agnes, resounding in her head. ‘Stop her, Johnson. Miss Charlotte ordered it.’

Johnson standing in the doorway, realised he was being given an order and lunged towards Agnes and the baby as she ran past him. He was old, but he was determined, and his bony hands reached out to bar her way.

‘Help!’ Agnes shouted as he tried to tug the baby away. Miraculously, Mary appeared. Mary didn’t like Agnes, but she decided the baby was coming to harm; there were babies at home and there were rules about babies. She heaved her considerable strength against Johnson and managed to push him over.

Gasping with relief, Agnes rushed from the castle into the fresh air. She would never return, never,
never.
Was Elizabeth Agnes dead? Once outside she stopped, full of terror. As Mary caught up with her, tears were streaming down her face, and she was incapable of looking at her baby for fear.

‘I punched him. Went down like a ton of Mus Mutter’s bricks. Now hold her out so I
can get to her,’ Mary commanded, coming into her own.

Agnes obeyed like an automaton. Mary examined the baby with surprising gentleness, arranging her head and mouth to allow more air in; the congestion had already subsided and the sound of gasping hoarse breath could be heard. ‘Best get her to the doctor,’ Mary said.

‘No.’ Agnes was beyond reason. ‘The Rectory. I must get to the Rectory.’

Elizabeth was in the kitchen with Mrs Dibble when the tradesmen’s door flew open and Agnes, wild-eyed and sobbing, hurtled in with Mary Tunstall behind her. ‘My baby, Mrs Lilley,’ she sobbed. ‘She tried to kill my baby.’ She held out Elizabeth Agnes. ‘She’s crazed. Is she alive?’

Elizabeth rushed to look at the wheezing child. First things first. ‘She’s breathing, Agnes, but we’ll take her straight to Dr Marden, shall we? Mary, who is Agnes talking about?’ she asked gently. ‘Not you, of course?’

‘No. Johnson, ma’am?’

‘No,’ cried Agnes. Didn’t anyone understand? ‘Miss Emily. She’s gone willocky.’

Horrified, Elizabeth thought through all the implications. ‘Mary, go to fetch Mr Pickering. You’ll find him in the church. Tell him I sent you. Ask him to call for PC Ifield at once and then both go up to the castle. I’ll ask Dr Parry to join them.’ Why, oh why did Laurence have to be away now? ‘Do you understand?’

‘No, ma’am.’ Mary looked frightened at the responsibility.

‘I’ll go, madam,’ Mrs Dibble announced firmly. ‘You come along with me, Mary. You can tell ’em what happened.’

When Dr Parry, Joe Ifield and the Reverend Charles Pickering arrived at Castle Tillow they found Johnson sitting outside the door of the drawing room with an old sword in his hand. The room was bolted against them, and Joe had to break in through the window, leaving Johnson just where they had found him. Inside, they found Miss Emily, lying in a pool of blood, her father’s old shotgun at her side.

‘You must stay here tonight, Agnes, unless you want to go back to your mother.’ Elizabeth sank into a chair. It had been a busy morning, telephoning Laurence, speaking to the solicitor, sitting in while the East Grinstead police talked to Agnes and conferring with Dr Marden about the baby.

‘No, Mrs Lilley. I’d like to stay here if I may.’ She was calmer now. Dr Marden said the baby was all right, and wouldn’t accept any money for what he did. But she wasn’t up to facing her mother, nor them Thorns. They’d say it was her fault. Oh, how they’d gloat. No, she wanted to stay here while she had a think about where to go. If only Jamie was here. But he was in a trench somewhere far away.

Mrs Dibble coughed. ‘Begging your pardon, Mrs Lilley.’

Elizabeth misinterpreted the severe look on her face. ‘I’m sure we can manage for a few days, Mrs Dibble.’

‘I was going to say, seeing as how Agnes can’t go back to that place, and seeing as how we have a vacancy—’

‘How foolish of me,’ Elizabeth exclaimed. They both looked at Agnes. ‘I realise you might want to think it over, but how would you like to come back to the Rectory as parlourmaid?’

Frank Eliot strolled round the hopgarden, inspecting the hops, which were beginning to ripen. They’d be ready for picking in a week or so, in row upon row of leafy green tunnels strung over the avenues. He’d only had three seasons in Ashden, and it looked as if this would be his last. The hopgarden would be sold, or turned over to wheat. He’d signed up on Registration Sunday stating he’d be willing to serve, though at thirty-seven he was growing old by military standards. He doubted if even the trenches would have room for the likes of him.

As he straightened up from inspecting a bine, he saw a woman coming towards him: someone he’d seen before but couldn’t quite place. She was in her twenties and simply dressed, a land-worker perhaps—her face had had the sun and rain and wind upon it.

‘I heard you was looking for volunteers for hop-picking,’ she said gruffly.

‘That’s right,’ he replied. ‘Mrs Lilley has the lists. Have you seen her yet?’ Isabel, he had learned, had passed the job back to her mother.

‘No. I will though. I’m Lizzie Dibble.’ She
stumbled a little on the last name.

‘Aren’t you—?’

‘That’s right.’ She nodded bitterly. ‘I’m the Hunwife. It makes me as bad as the enemy.’

‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s all right. I’m used to it.’ She grinned.

He looked at her more closely and liked what he saw.

‘My mother, she’s housekeeper at the Rectory, wanted me to go there as parlourmaid, but I wouldn’t. Go into service under my own mother? Anyway, I like the open air.’

‘There’s plenty of work here too before the picking, if you want some.’

‘Is there?’ Her eyes lit up. ‘I’m mucking out stables at Ashden Manor at present. They’ve only got one horse left after requisitioning, so they’ll be grateful if I leave. Her ladyship can do the mucking out herself.’

She laughed, and he with her.

At last! A letter from Reggie. She had heard nothing for nearly five weeks. Full of relief, she drew the paper from its envelope. Immediately she knew something was wrong—it consisted of a couple of short paragraphs only. Her mouth dry, she forced herself to read it.

Then followed a few sentences answering
questions in her letter, and that was all. Surely this wasn’t the Reggie she knew? Was he wounded? Ill? Hoped she’d have time to come. Of course she would. The war effort could wait. She’d stay until his leave was over. Why, Reggie
was
her war effort! She dashed off a letter in the hope it would reach him, assuring him she would be at the Rectory by the Friday evening.

The days dragged by until Friday finally arrived. Never had the Rectory seemed so welcoming. She arrived in time to join the family—including Isabel, who had lost no time in moving back home—for dinner. In such familiar surroundings she began to feel reassured. Of course nothing was wrong. But her father, perceptive as ever where she was concerned, questioned her after dinner and she realised her worry hadn’t gone away after all.

‘What’s wrong, Caroline?’

‘I don’t know,’ she burst out. ‘I only know something is. Do you think he no longer loves me?’

‘I doubt that very much. It’s more likely to do with the war and the terrible scars it causes on the living as well as those it kills. Take heart, my love. Our Lord is with you.’

A little comforted, she went into the garden willing the hours to pass quickly until she could see Reggie again.

And suddenly there he was! He must have come through the side gate, straight from the railway station, for he still had his pack with him. His arrival had been so quick, so quiet,
that she doubted her own eyes for a moment. ‘Hello, Caroline,’ he said.

She realised she’d been imagining all sorts of ridiculous things for nothing. She ran to him and the arms that held her tight were as loving and warm as those that had enclosed her in the orchard last summer.

‘Oh, Reggie, I’ve been such a fool,’ she said at last. ‘Even though I know how hard it is for you to write letters, when I didn’t hear for such a long time, I thought you didn’t love me any more.’

He held her close. ‘Never,
never
think that. I do love you, Caroline. Oh, I love you.’

She thought she heard a note of desperation in his voice, but perhaps that too was her imagination, for the hunger in his eyes for her was undoubted. He loved her still. Nothing could go wrong.