Home for Christmas (32 page)

‘We are not enemies,’ Lydia responded hotly. ‘I was born in this country. My father lived here when he married my mother. He has given both you and this country good service ever since. He is an asset to this country, not an enemy.’

‘Please. Stop shouting,’ pleaded Lady Julieta, covering her ears with small hands wearing mauve lace mittens.

Lydia took a deep breath. ‘I came here because I need to tell Robert that I’m joining the Red Cross. I shall be in the thick of the battle. I want him to know I’ll be over there. Who knows, we may even meet up, though I don’t think it is likely. I have written a note. Perhaps you could pass it on to him?’

‘Certainly not! Do you not hear what I am saying? You are not welcome in this house and Robert can no longer consider marrying you. He is an officer of this country and a gentleman. To marry you would be tantamount to treason.’

A weaker woman might have fainted away on hearing this, but the sight and sound of this dreadful woman only made her more determined to defy everything she said.

‘Robert and I love each other.’

‘Oh? Is that so?’ Lady Julieta sat back in her chair like a Roman emperor about to deliver the death sentence.

‘My nephew has already left for France and it seems he did not bother to contact you before leaving. I have also received a cable from his parents in Australia stating that in the present circumstances, they cannot possibly approve of him marrying the daughter of a German.’

Lydia felt her face reddening, her blood boiling with anger.

‘I don’t care what they say. They have never been there for Robert. All his life they have been absent parents. They hardly know him, but I do know him and I know beyond doubt that he would not forsake me. Not willingly. I demand to know where he’s been stationed.’

Lady Ravening grasped the arms of her chair, her chin jutting forward as she raised herself haltingly to her feet. Her pale complexion turned puce.

‘The matter is finished and he is beyond your reach. Now good day, young woman. And please, never, ever darken my door again!’

England, September, 1914

My darling, Robert,

I have joined the Red Cross. Once everything is finalised, I will be heading for a small village near a town named Ypres in Flanders.

Flanders, which is in Belgium, is closer to where you are than England, and although there is only a slim chance of us meeting, to be closer to where you are will be of some comfort to me. I am presuming, of course, that you are still in France. Things have intensified since Belgium was invaded.

I have tried and tried to get a message through to you, but have been told the only way is if you know a family member in the military. With that in mind, and although I am apprehensive of using him, I am entrusting this letter to Agnes to give to Siggy in the hope that he can get it to you via military channels. I trust that under the circumstances he will do so, for after all he is your cousin.

Agnes is coming home from two weeks of training before she goes to France and has agreed to do this.

Your aunt refused to tell me where you are and it is not easy to find out. Besides that, letters can take weeks to arrive and I feel we do not have weeks. I need you to know where I am. I hope that when you see a wonderful sunset painting the clouds pink, you will think of that huge hat I wore on that day you landed the aeroplane at Heathlands. I know it will make you smile and when you do so you will think instantly of me. Wherever you are, my heart is with you. Please, we must try to meet up. I have something to tell you. Something very important.

I’m not sure when I can write to you again, certainly not until I am settled in Flanders, but I will do so at the earliest opportunity.

All my love, Lydia

After putting on her dark pink hat and coat of a similar colour, Lydia pulled back the lace curtain and looked out of the window. Mrs Gander had filled in a broken pane with a piece of cardboard until a glazier could replace it.

Lydia sighed. Egged on by his mates, a young boy had thrown the stone and shouted abuse. Only the intervention of the local bobby, a constable they’d known for years, had saved any more being broken.

‘I’m going to see Miss Stacey,’ she said to Mrs Gander.

‘Everyone seems to be everywhere but here,’ she muttered, her features pinched with disapproval.

She sounded more peevish these days because her role had diminished since Kate Mallory had moved in. Mrs Gander was besotted with Doctor Miller, her employer. With her weak chin and protruding eyes, she could not compare with Kate Mallory. However, she is loyal, Lydia decided. You had to give her that.

With the letter secreted in her coat pocket, she sped down the garden path, down the steps and out on to the avenue.

It was Sunday and families wearing their best clothes were leaving church after Sunday morning service.

Lydia hurried along, hoping nobody recognised her as the daughter of the German doctor, the Hun, the horrible monster that was gobbling up Europe.

The tram to Myrtle Street was full of people talking about the war, wistfully discussing when it was likely to be over, how brave their men folk were, but there, the sooner they put an end to such savagery, the better.

‘Home by Christmas.’ That was what everybody was saying.

Agnes’s family had just returned from Sunday mass at St Patrick’s Catholic church that nestled amongst rows of terraced housing.

The smells of a summer Sunday hung enticingly in the air; petals falling from cabbage roses, heat rising from the pavements, the slight smell of sweat mingling with that of washed linen.

Sarah Stacey was removing her hat. Her mother was in the kitchen from whence came the delicious smell of a Sunday roast.

‘Hello, Lydia. I wasn’t expecting you so soon, though we have to make the most of it, don’t we? She’ll be off soon. More’s the pity,’ she added shaking her head at the same time as battling with a worried frown. ‘Fancy! Our Agnes driving an ambulance. I’ve told her to be careful. She might be behind the lines, but all the same …’

It was easy to see that Sarah Stacey was far from unaffected by the prospect of her daughter being so close to the battlefront.

‘At least she’s only driving an ambulance,’ said Lydia. ‘If she had her way, she’d be an aviator, up there in the sky with the birds.’

Sarah Stacey managed to laugh, though the concern stayed in her eyes.

‘She’s changing her dress up in her room, love. Go on up if you like,’ she said.

Lydia climbed the narrow staircase to the tiny landing, drumming her fingertips against the letter in her pocket.

If she hadn’t had things that were more serious on her mind, Lydia would have laughed aloud to see her friend struggling to get out of the dress she’d worn for Sunday service. Her face showed through the neckline, but the dress had jammed around her generous bosom and a button had hitched on her hair.

‘Well, don’t just stand there, ninny,’ Agnes snarled, her knickers showing above her black stockings. ‘Get me out of this thing. Undo the buttons or whatever. Do something!’

Lydia stifled her giggles as she assisted the wriggling Agnes until her corset followed the dress on to the bed.

‘Thank goodness it’s only once a week,’ said Agnes, sighing at the pleasure of scratching her freed midriff. ‘That’s the most insufferable item of attire I own. I’m not taking it to France, I’ll tell you that much.’ She paused on seeing Lydia’s worried expression.

‘What is it?’

Lydia slumped on to the bed. Agnes sat down beside her in such a way that she could peer up into Lydia’s face.

‘You’ve got the look of a cracked teapot,’ she said. ‘Come on. Out with it.’

Feeling her eyes smarting, Lydia closed them and took a deep breath before telling her about the attack on her father, and that he was fine now he had Kate Mallory to look after him.

‘I don’t feel so guilty about joining the Red Cross now Kate’s there with him,’ she added.

Agnes was nothing if not perceptive. ‘Is there more?’ Her almond-shaped eyes, as golden as a cat’s, looked searchingly into Lydia’s face.

Lydia told her that Lady Ravening had forbidden her and her father to set foot in either of the Ravening properties ever again.

‘Hmm,’ said Agnes, pulling a ‘so what’ kind of expression. ‘That now makes four of us. Can’t say I’ve missed it.’

Although Agnes sounded unconcerned, Lydia knew that both Agnes and her mother missed the great house a good deal. It had been Agnes’s childhood home. It had been her mother’s refuge, home to both her and the man it had been her fate to love.

‘So,’ said Agnes, ‘you’ve missed church and you haven’t been invited for Sunday lunch, so I presume you have a special reason for visiting.’ She paused suddenly, the cotton blouse she was putting on half over her head and sitting on her shoulders. ‘I think I’ve guessed. She’s told you Robert will not be marrying you, but it’s possible Robert does not know this. Am I right?’

Lydia shrugged. ‘I don’t know for sure, but I have to find out. I’ve written a letter. That was the easy bit. Now all I have to do is get it to him. Letters travel quicker if they’re sent through military channels. Is it possible that you could take this letter to Siggy? He’s an officer. He could find out where Robert is and get the letter to him.’

Lydia looked down at the floor whilst fingering the letter in her pocket. ‘We’re travelling by boat to Holland and then Flanders, to some small town about fifteen miles from a place called Ypres. It’s a hospital. That, at present, is all I know.’

Agnes sucked in her breath. ‘My word. We’re like birds flying south for the winter.’

‘Can you get it to him?’

‘Yes. Of course, I can. He’s in that recruiting place, isn’t he?’

Lydia nodded. ‘He has an office there. I’ve checked, but he won’t be there until Tuesday, the day before you leave …’

‘For the war,’ said Agnes, swiftly finishing the sentence. ‘I’ll take the letter to him before I depart for the war. Is that what you want?’

Lydia nodded and sucked in her lips. The letter is very private. I don’t want anyone to read it.’

‘I wouldn’t!’

‘I know you wouldn’t. But Sylvester Travis Dartmouth … You know how he is.’

For a moment, her friend’s eyes turned a deeper grey as though she were weighing up the consequences of that.

‘I’ll guard it with my life until it’s safely flying to wherever Robert happens to be,’ she said, her chin jerking in a decisive way. ‘There’s no question of it. Of course I’ll take your letter.’

As she handed over the letter, Lydia felt an overwhelming sense of great relief. She’d half-expected Agnes to be evasive and ready with excuses. After all, she was shipping out in a few days, but at least, she reflected, Agnes did have a few days. All she had was today and half of tomorrow. Time had become more precious from the moment war was declared.

Blown by the wind, leaves rustled against the window before flying onwards. The day was perfect, intermittent clouds rolling across a powder-blue sky. In any other year such a day would be a joy, something worth celebrating. This year was different. This year we are at war and the world isn’t the same as it was, thought Agnes, but I’m damned if I’ll get melancholy.

‘We’ll both be off soon and it’s a nice day. Fancy a Sunday stroll?’

‘Only if you don’t mind accompanying a woman not wearing corsets,’ said Agnes. ‘My grandmother is right. Only horses should wear a harness like that, and they have no choice! My, but I feel liberated! Must tell the Suffragettes that. Discard your corsets and victory is yours!’

Despite everything, Lydia laughed.

The park was full of people enjoying the summer sun even though the clouds of war were darkening its brightness.

Up on the bandstand, a brass band was belting out patriotic marches and some people were waving flags, shouting out ‘Rule Britannia’ and ‘God Save the King’.

‘If I was a man, I would join the Flying Corps,’ Agnes said breathlessly.

‘That,’ said Lydia, ‘is no big surprise. I will tend the sick and injured whoever they are and wherever I am needed.’

Their mood had lightened by the time they got back to Myrtle Street, though not for long.

Hunkered at the edge of the pavement, her face buried against her crossed arms, Beatrice Allen, Edith Allen’s eldest daughter, was sobbing fit to burst. The bicycle she so loved lay beside her, one wheel spinning forlornly.

Agnes tousled the girl’s hat as though there was some kind of joke going on. ‘Come on, Beattie, girl. Nothing can be that bad.’

Lydia caught sight of the crumpled telegram in Beatrice’s hand and froze. In the absence of enough telegram delivery boys, some being so cheeky as to join up early or take over the jobs of grown men, anyone with a bicycle delivered the dreaded messages.

Agnes’s head jerked up when she felt Lydia’s hand shake her shoulder. Two pairs of eyes settled on the crumpled piece of paper.

Agnes softened her approach, settling to one side of the girl whilst Lydia settled on the other.

Feeling as though she were freezing from the inside out, Lydia asked her what the matter was.

Agnes had already gone pale and, just for once, she couldn’t find her voice. She didn’t know which one it was, but she knew that somebody – either Beatrice’s father or her brother – would not be coming home.

Beattie handed the telegram to Lydia who straightened it and read the name.

‘Mrs Allen,’ she said, her voice softening as though it would break.

Lydia and Agnes exchanged looks. Telegrams were rapidly becoming the harbingers of bad news.

Lydia bent down.

‘Beattie. You haven’t opened it. Your mother must do that. We won’t know what it says or who it concerns until she reads it.’

‘It’s me brother. I know it’s me brother.’

The poor girl’s eyes were red rimmed, the pain behind them too much for one so young.

Lydia felt obliged to reassure her. ‘Men are being taken prisoner, which means they are still alive. So dry your eyes.’

Agnes leaned forward, her long pale fingers tucking Beatrice’s hair back under her hat, which had fallen to one side. ‘It might be better if I deliver it for you. Would you prefer that?’