Dark Harvest (19 page)

Cautiously she tried to move, aware even in this darkness that there was blood on her. Everything seemed to be working. No broken bones. She sat up as two men loomed above her, carrying a theatre board as an improvised stretcher. She shook her head, and pointed to one of the two Gaiety lads who was lying inert a few yards away. There was no sign of the other boy. Nor of Simon. Only bodies and—pieces of bodies. She started to feel sick,
and concentrated on the fact she was a VAD with first-aid training.

Caroline staggered along the side street where the first thuds had occurred towards the corner of Exeter Street and Wellington Street. There were bodies everywhere. Vomit rose again in her throat, and she swallowed hard as she saw Nell Gwynn, as she and Simon called the orange seller who sat outside the Lyceum every night. Caroline picked her way over to her in the dark. The hand still clutched an orange, but a quick inspection told her that she was dead. Then, near the crater that the bomb had made, she heard a groan and fell to her knees to see if she could do anything to help. She felt the stickiness of blood, welling out of a shattered arm. It needed immediate attention.

A man stumbled into her and, seeing what she was doing, knelt down beside her. ‘Tourniquet,’ she said briefly, hitching up her skirts to pull off her petticoat. The buttons resisted, and his hands ripped off a strip from the bottom. She snatched it from him. ‘Help me,’ she said.

In the darkness, illumined only by occasional glimmers of a dim torch or light from the theatre, she could only see his hands, manoeuvring, then holding the shattered arm in position. She concentrated on those hands as she tied on the tourniquet. If she tried to memorise every single line and angle of them, she wouldn’t have to think about the horror in front of her, or what she had just realised was half a woman’s torso lying near them. Hands, that was all she needed to look at. Those hands.

As she finished, stretcher-bearers arrived, and began to put the seriously wounded into ambulances. She ran over to the pub on the corner of the street which had obviously had many casualties for its walls were shattered and victims were being carried outside. Then minutes later, the pub was cleared, because of a shattered gas main. She was only a little distance away when the hissing gas caught fire, exploded and sent flames roaring into the air. Soon fire engines added their presence and noise to the pandemonium. Dazed, she hurried to offer her services to the Strand Theatre where casualties were still being treated.

An hour later, when there was no more she could do, she rode in one of the ambulances to the Charing Cross hospital. There was no sign of Simon, and he might well be there, she reasoned. On arrival, however, she was too weak to protest when she was whisked off for treatment herself.

‘I’m not hurt,’ she tried to explain. ‘I’m looking for someone, that’s all.’

‘But have you looked at yourself recently?’ the nurse asked in concern.

Wearily she did so. She did not recognise the face in the mirror. There was blood all over her and she was covered in scratches; her hair was like a bush. ‘It’s not my blood,’ she said.

As her cuts were dressed feeling began to return to her. There was a heavy pain in her chest, and the whole of her body seemed one massive bruise. They insisted on her staying in for the night. ‘Simon. Lord Banning,’ Caroline
said again. ‘Is he here?’

‘Tomorrow,’ the nurse replied. ‘We’ll know tomorrow.’

When Caroline awoke next morning, she wondered where she was. Then she remembered; instantly, the horror returned.

‘How do you feel?’

She turned her head and found Angela sitting at her side. Never had she been so glad to see her. She stretched out her hand and Angela squeezed it. ‘Simon?’ she asked anxiously.

‘He’s here. Hurt, but not dangerously. I remembered you were going to be in the area, so when I heard the news about the bomb, I telephoned Norland Square, and was told you weren’t back. So here I am. And I’ve told your parents that you’re safe. One of the Zeps bombed near Tunbridge Wells, so they were doubly alarmed when they read the newspaper this morning.’

‘Was Ashden hit?’ Caroline asked. Bombs in Sussex. She felt too weak to contemplate the uproar at home.

‘No. But your mother says everyone saw the Zep.’

‘George must have been beside himself with excitement.’ Caroline tried to smile. ‘But have you seen Simon?’

‘Yes. I’ve told him you’re safe and he said he’d give you audience later this morning. Was he joking, do you think?’

Caroline looked at Angela’s serious face and wanted to hug her, but she couldn’t, her bruises
hurt too much. They arranged that Angela should take her back to Norland Square after she came off duty that evening. Then, as soon as she had had breakfast and dressed in the spare clothes Angela had thoughtfully brought with her, she made her way to Simon.

She found him sitting up in bed reading
The
Times,
a bandage round his head.

‘And there’s one round my middle you can’t see,’ he informed her. ‘Shrapnel. Honourable war wound in the Strand front line.’

‘You should have given yourself a tin-lined topper, like the hat you gave Aunt Tilly.’

‘Do you think she’ll come rushing to my bedside?’

‘Far more likely she’ll send you a comforter knitted by her own fair hands,’ Caroline joked. Both knew Tilly would never leave her post now the Germans were counter-attacking so heavily on the Hohenzollern Redoubt.

‘I’d even settle for that.’ He paused. ‘Do you realise how lucky we’ve been? I got blown towards the Strand and all I could think of was what had happened to you. We have merited a short report on page eight of
The
Times.
“A certain number of incendiary devices and explosives were dropped”, it says, “eight killed and thirty-four injured, but little material damage done”. I rather think we’ll be reading amended figures tomorrow.’ He smiled at her. ‘Stay with Angela as much as you can. Don’t be on your own, Caroline. They say I can go home tomorrow.’

From the talk in the hospital during the
day, Caroline learned that there had been far more bombs dropped than the ones she had been aware of. In the Aldwych, a home for Belgian refugees had been hit, and the headquarters of the Belgian Relief Committee, Lincoln’s Inn, Old Square, Holborn, and Gray’s Inn, had all been bombed with high explosive or incendiaries. All rained down from one Zeppelin. His companions had bombed other areas, including Dover and Tunbridge Wells. It was by far the worst raid so far. So far? She tried to put out of her head the niggling thought that if London were so well defended, as she had always believed it to be, how had just one Zep managed to wreak such carnage?

Next morning, back at Norland Square, Caroline telephoned the Rectory. She had been putting it off, unwilling to relive her experience even to her family. Today’s
Times
revealed that at least fifty-six people had been killed and well over a hundred injured, a figure which Simon predicted would rise when the final tally was known.

‘Darling.’ Her mother’s relief was obvious, even though she knew already she was safe. Caroline could hear the tears in her voice. ‘You’re really all right?’

‘Just bruised.’ Mentally, Caroline thought, as well as physically.

‘I’m coming up to town immediately.’

‘Why? What’s wrong?’ Caroline asked sharply. ‘The Zep didn’t bomb you?’ Fearful images of Nanny Oates lying like the orange-seller filled
her mind, of Phoebe or George mutilated, or the Rectory’s walls blasted.

‘Nothing like that. It’s Reggie, darling. He’s been wounded, and his mother is insisting he comes back to Ashden to recuperate.’

Elizabeth returned to the breakfast room to tell Laurence about Caroline’s call, but before she could do so the telephone rang again. This time Laurence answered it and was gone a long time. When he came back into the room he looked grey with worry.

‘That was Charles,’ he told her. ‘One of Wednesday night’s Zeppelin bombs fell in the grounds of Buckford House. The Dower House was hit and is uninhabitable. Mother has therefore decided to come here next month when the military take possession of the main house.’

‘No!’ Elizabeth’s answer was almost a shout.

‘I cannot refuse her.’

‘Laurence, if you value our home, do not do this. You are the one who cannot bear disturbance in the Rectory. Now you are throwing open the door to trouble.’

‘But the alternative is slamming it when my mother most needs us.’

‘You will allow her to insult me here?’

Laurence flushed. ‘Of course not,’ he answered. ‘I shall explain to her that you are the mistress of this household and that she must treat you with respect.’

For the first time in their married life, Elizabeth walked out of the room and slammed
the door behind her. Ahab, ambling from the kitchen in search of a favourite stick, barked a chorus of reproach. Laurence, left alone, wondered what further ordeals might lie in God’s plan.

Isabel put down Robert’s letter, reflecting that Gallipoli sounded almost as boring as Sussex. All Robert could find to write about was that nothing much was happening, and there were signs that winter was on the way. The biggest excitement since he arrived had been the flocks of birds passing over migrating from Russia; birds, apparently, were not seen in Gallipoli often. Father had talked about fighting at Suvla Bay, but if Robert had been involved, he hadn’t mentioned it.

Anyway, Robert was alive, and that was good news. But so, she reminded herself, was she—though sometimes it was hard to remember. Life at the Rectory was pleasant enough, she admitted. Every week she visited Hop House to keep an eye on Mrs Bugle, though in fact it was unnecessary, since Mrs Bugle was quite appalling, eye or no eye. But at least her visits kept Mother Swinford-Browne content. And she rarely saw her father-in-law, who was always busy at the factory. Deprived of the social benefits both of marriage and of
being single, she found herself at a loss. She was twenty-six, at the height of her beauty, and the years were passing with no one to appreciate it.

Isabel dressed carefully in the shade of blue she knew flattered her most, glad that Agnes was back. Harriet had never learned how to iron properly, but even linen obeyed Agnes’s calm, competent hand which banished all wrinkles. Today, she decided she would do some war work. She would visit the wounded, more particularly Reggie, who was now in the Manor Hospital. She had always got on well with him, whereas Daniel had always teased her unmercifully. Luckily, he was living at the Dower House, so she could avoid him except when she went to see Aunt Maud. Isabel got on well with Lady Hunney and could never understand why Caroline should have such difficulty in doing so.

She found Reggie sitting up in bed reading the
Illustrated London News.

His eyes lit up when he saw her and he dropped the magazine. ‘This is good of you, Isabel.’

Feeling virtuous, she leaned over and gave him a sisterly kiss on the cheek. ‘How are you?’

‘Much better, thanks.’

But I heard you’d shattered your leg and, oh Reggie, you’re wincing. Your arm—’

‘It’s nothing, Isabel.’ He spoke harshly, then explained, ‘Compared with the other chaps, I’m lucky, you see. I should be
there,
not here being
fed grapes and tucked in at night by Mother.’

‘But aren’t you pleased to be out of it?’ She was puzzled by the anger in his voice.

He supposed he was—in a way. But how with honour could he be? The fighting this autumn had deprived his battalion of almost all its officers from the old regular army, and here, in this bed, he felt isolated, as if he were betraying his men. All 1st Division had had to do was take the Hohenzollern Redoubt and one small village, Loos. They had been taken, but not by his battalion, for the flower of the Royal Sussex lay dead in No Man’s Land. If he closed his eyes, he’d be back there: the gas, suffocating through the masks, the noise, the Moaning Minnies, the bodies, the fog, the desolation of death, and the occasional image—of one sergeant in particular who was to be recommended for the Victoria Cross, dashing for the wire, leading the tattered remnants of the platoon. He had been dead in seconds.

‘How long will you be here?’ Isabel asked brightly.

‘About three months, they think.’

‘Oh good, you’ll be here for Christmas. That will be fun.’ Too late, Isabel remembered the rift between Reggie and Caroline. How could the Hunneys all come to the Rectory as usual, if Caroline were home? Robert wouldn’t be back of course, but she had been looking forward to a Rectory Christmas, and perhaps even a dance for all their friends. She smiled at him, in the way that had won Robert’s heart. ‘And in the meantime we shall have fun here too.
I’ll cheer you up. Just like Felicia used to look after Daniel.’

‘Felicia was one of the staff.’

‘I can still wheel you around.’ Isabel felt hurt and showed it.

‘That’s very kind of you. Especially when,’ Reggie added awkwardly, ‘you must all think me a prize rotter.’

Isabel was surprised, and belatedly realised he must be thinking of Caroline. ‘Of course not,’ she said warmly.

He hesitated. ‘How is Caroline?’

‘Very well, she says,’ Isabel replied offhandedly. ‘Having a wonderful time in London. She goes to all the shows and restaurants. They’re packed with servicemen. And she can go with girlfriends; she doesn’t have to have an escort even. It’s exciting.’

‘Oh.’

Isabel’s conscience smote her as she remembered Caroline’s haggard face when she last saw her and how unhappy she had been that Reggie had not answered her letter. ‘She misses you.’

‘Does she?’ Reggie’s handsome face looked strained. ‘It’s easy over there, Isabel,’ he said after a moment, ‘but here it’s not. Tell her that.’

She didn’t understand what he was talking about. ‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘But I’ll help. I’m missing Robert awfully.’

Reggie looked guilty. ‘I haven’t asked you about him, I’m sorry.’

‘He’s safe. God has looked after him.’ The words came out as a whisper. ‘We’ll have to
help each other, won’t we? Be good companions in distress.’

She put out her hands to clasp his, and he took them. ‘Good companions, Isabel.’

‘He’s safe, Mrs Dibble.’ Agnes beamed. ‘Do you hear that, Elizabeth Agnes? Your daddy’s safe. This letter is dated the eighteenth and, do you know what, I don’t think 7th Battalion can be doing any fighting at all at Loos, or anywhere else, because all he’s doing is marching up and down practising. But,’ she frowned, ‘even that is dangerous. He says one of his mates got killed when he lit a detonator on a new weapon thinking it was a cigarette.’

‘But it wasn’t your Jamie. You look on the bright side, my girl.’

‘And how’s Joe?’ Agnes remembered to ask.

‘Muriel reckons he’s not in the action either. The 5th did their bit at Aubers Ridge in May. She tells me that he’s doing woodwork.’

‘What?’ Agnes stared.

‘Sussex men are good at that,’ Mrs Dibble announced. ‘And our Joe’s the best. Muriel says he’s been moved to do special work somewhere. Perhaps he’ll come home at Christmas and tell us,’ she added wistfully.

‘Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Margaret, if all our men came home?’ The forbidden name slipped out, but Mrs Dibble didn’t seem to mind.

‘Why don’t we have a bit of a celebration tonight, both of them being safe? I’ve got a nice chicken in the larder—Mrs Lilley won’t
mind—and I’ll ask Percy to get a bottle of his home-made wine out. I might even have a glass myself.’

Agnes laughed.

‘And what’s so amusing, if I might ask?’ Mrs Dibble adopted her usual forbidding face.

‘I thought you belonged to the Band of Hope, Mrs D.’

‘So I do. And hoping is what we’ll do tonight. Hoping our menfolk come home safe and sound. Now, since the Rectory can’t be allowed to starve, I’ll get Myrtle to give me a hand with the minced beef turnovers.’

It was on the tip of Agnes’s tongue to point out that Myrtle was her exclusive property in the mornings, but today she could afford to be gracious. What was a bit of soda and chloride of lime on the steps compared with the wonderful news that Jamie and Joe were alive?

By the weekend of 23rd October, Caroline decided she could delay no longer. She missed the Rectory intolerably. Reggie or no Reggie, she must go home. She had not heard from him since her mother told her the news over a week ago. Should she visit him? Would he want her to? Surely it was the natural thing to do, even though Eleanor had warned her that he was unlikely to change his mind about their future.

‘Not judging from the conversations I’ve overheard,’ she qualified. ‘Mother is still adamant.’

To Hades with Mother, Caroline thought
angrily. ‘What about you and Martin?’ she had asked when Eleanor visited her in London. ‘Has she turned her attention to you?’

Her friend laughed. ‘I’m biding my time to break the news. Don’t dare tell anyone will you? Martin says we’re still young, so we’ve all the time in the world to wait for the right moment to tell her we want to get married.’

Oh, the heartache of walking along the familiar path to the Rectory and seeing St Nicholas, just the same as ever, waiting for her—and by its side the drive to Ashden Manor. A few minutes’ walk, a knock on the door and she could see Reggie. How easy it would be.

She turned in to the Rectory where Isabel immediately pounced on her. ‘Darling, tell me all about London. Oh, and that terrible bomb. You still look black and blue. You poor thing.’

Caroline tried to oblige her sister. She described the clothes, the uniforms, the crowded pavements, the night life, even the odd characters like the famous Australian Old Robertson who wandered the Strand with a card in his hat reading: ‘Please do not give me money. I am searching for my errant daughter.’ She told her about the famous Trocadero, she even told her about Rules. But she didn’t tell her about the bombing, the dead, the injured, or the battlefield that was London, and Isabel did not ask again.

‘And how about you? Are you raising money for this Gallipoli Plum Pudding Fund of Lady Davies’s?’ The idea of soldiers eating Christmas
puddings out in Turkey amused her when she saw the appeals in the newspapers.

Isabel looked blank. ‘No.’

A pause. Caroline desperately wanted to ask about Reggie. ‘How’s Daniel?’ she compromised.

‘Going to St Mary’s Roehampton soon to be fitted with his artificial leg.’

‘That’s splendid. And Felicia—have you heard from her?’

‘Father had a short note last week to say they were still busy at Loos but it was slackening off and she hoped to write more soon. Reggie says—’ Isabel grew red and broke off.

‘Reggie?’ Caroline asked sharply.

‘I didn’t want to upset you by mentioning his name but I went to see him once. Someone had to,’ Isabel added virtuously.

The wound tore open again. ‘How is he?’

‘Getting on well. He’ll be here till the New Year.’

‘Should I go to see him? Did he ask after me? Mention me?’ Caroline couldn’t help it, she had to ask.

‘Darling, I’m sorry, no, he didn’t. Don’t blame him too much. He’s been through so much recently.’

Not even to ask after her. Caroline felt numb. ‘I shall go to see him; he would think badly of me if I did not.’

‘If you like,’ Isabel replied carelessly. ‘But don’t go while the young fair-haired nurse is on duty.’

‘Why not?’

‘They seemed to be getting on rather well
when I called. Reggie was joking with her and she was blushing, you know how he is. He needs someone to take his mind off this terrible war.’

No mention of her, and laughing with a nurse? Caroline left Isabel and hurried to her room where she curled up in a ball of misery.

There was nothing she could do. Reggie had not even answered her letter. She’d written again, to the hospital this time, just a short note saying how sorry she was to hear he was wounded. He had not replied. She toyed with the idea that Lady Hunney might have intercepted the letter, but rejected it. Reggie did not want her, and there was nothing whatsoever she could do about it.

Frank Eliot walked home from the station, still slightly shocked by the decision he had just taken. At the end of this week, on 29th October, the new Derby Scheme would come into operation. The new Director of Recruiting, Lord Derby, was asking men between the ages of nineteen and forty-two to attest that they would be willing to serve if called upon. Rather than wait goodness knows how long for the canvassers to come banging on his door with their little blue and white cards, Frank had taken the train to East Grinstead and insisted on registering immediately. Of course he couldn’t join up right away; he had to sort out the hop yield first. But as an unmarried man, he knew he would be called upon before too long. What had he
to lose but his life? He could see no future here.

As he approached his house, he saw someone waiting for him on the step and recognised Lizzie Stein, or rather Dibble, for she had taken to using her single name. He quickened his pace, for they had grown friendly in the last few weeks, since she’d moved into a cottage nearby on the Swinford-Browne estate.

‘Mangle stuck again, is it?’ he called teasingly. She had hated coming to him for help.

‘I’ll have to go back to Ashden,’ she said flatly. ‘That’s what I came to tell you.’

‘But you’ll not be safe there.’ He frowned. ‘You might be attacked again.’

‘I’ll not be safe here much longer. Them Thorns started again last night now Mrs Swinford-Browne’s taken the guards off the hopgarden. One of them killed in action—and it’s all Rudolf’s fault apparently. And mine. I signalled to that Zep to come over too, they reckon. I don’t fancy being out here all through the winter. I’ll be nearer my folks in Ashden.’

Frank was surprised to realise how much he’d miss her. She was not as attractive as his Jennifer, but she was warm-hearted. He opened the front door and ushered her in. ‘There’s another alternative,’ he said, as she stood awkwardly in the doorway of his parlour.

‘And what’s that?’

‘You could move in here—as my housekeeper,’ he added quickly, not wanting to offend.

She looked surprised. ‘Good of you, Mr Eliot, but what would folks say?’

‘They’d say a lot, but they’d get used to it. Then when the war’s over and Rudolf comes back—’

‘
If
he comes back.’ She hesitated. ‘If I moved in here, housekeeping’s all you’d want?’

‘As you want, Lizzie.’ Their eyes met. He liked her directness. ‘Do you trust me?’

‘No, but Rudolf taught me how to defend myself,’ she replied.

He laughed. ‘You won’t have to do that,’ he promised.

Phoebe threw off her coat and ran straight to her room. Fred had brought the letter home from Tunbridge Wells as usual, but it wasn’t Harry’s writing. Terrified, she ripped it open. It was from an address in East London and it read: ‘Dear miss this is to inform you that my son Harry is in hospital here in England wounded in the big battle for his country—he got gassed and is very poorly yours truly Mrs Edna Darling.’ It didn’t even say where he was.