Regret to Inform You... (40 page)

There
were certainly no cheers in Rusfield. Each village death was a further hammer blow; everyone knew another family where a loved one had died. The news in early March that Willy Johnson had been killed touched so many people; generations of the family had lived in Rusfield. This strong-featured young man was remembered as the captain of the all-conquering football team and a popular lad; an unlikely person to die on the battlefields of northern Europe. Ruby was in ruins for weeks, first Fred Smith and then her beloved brother to whom she had always looked in awe; now both gone. Her mother thought it was Peter Woods that saved her from total breakdown. They had been fond of each other for several months and on her brother's death, Peter had been wonderfully understanding and supportive. Ruby's regard for Peter was revealed when she showed him the buzzard on its nest; her parents knew he must be very close to her when she let him into the secret of Willy's tree. All too soon followed other deaths, until by the end of May, twenty-five men from the village and other parts of the parish had died; all but two had been through the school. The villagers not only shared in the shock and sorrow of those killed, but trembled at a similar fate for their immediate loved ones.

It was after the service on the second Sunday in June that Grace Reynolds and Doris Groves agreed to an afternoon walk on Bramrose Hill. They had always been neighbours and their friendship had flourished at the village school and for the years they shared work at Spinney Farm. Doris had often been grateful for her friend's steadying influence; Grace envying Doris her greater flamboyance; they remained very close. As they joined the track just beyond Hezekiah Freeman's cottage, they listened to each other's stories of work. However, it was not long before their conversation turned to the cloud hanging over the village.

‘When did you last hear from Abraham?' Doris asked.

‘Just three weeks ago. He never says much about how he's
getting
on, but seems well enough. I'm sure that from all we read and hear, it must be terrible, but I don't think he's allowed to say anything about where he is or what he's doing. Anyway, Abraham's never been one for saying much about himself. But what about Albert?'

Grace noticed the slight pause, suggesting her friend needed to gather her thoughts before replying. ‘I worry about him. I don't hear from him very often, it's nearly two months since I last heard and then his letters seem odd.'

‘Odd? How do you mean?'

‘Well, it's difficult to explain. I know life out there must be terrible, but he sounds so troubled. I know he and Abraham are always different, even for cousins, but Albert does go on a lot about himself and it always sounds as if everything is so bad. I'm sure it must be, but it's not really like the wonderful Albert I used to know.'

Grace stopped and placed her arm round her friend. ‘Oh, Doris, I'm sure it will be fine when this terrible war is over. I remember we talked about this, after Abraham and Albert were both home on leave together just over a year ago; Abraham was worried about him then. But, Doris, Albert had an awful injury and he shouldn't really have had to return to France, but that's what's happening in this war. Once he gets back home I'm sure he will be the old happy-go-lucky Albert again.'

‘Oh, I hope so, but I've been thinking a lot. Somehow I think Albert doesn't really want me to keep writing. Perhaps he has gone off me even though we were so very close when he was last home. I still like him a lot, but I think it may be best if I gave him the chance to feel we are a little freer of each other. I really think that would be best.'

As they approached the sun-drenched hill where they had played so many times when young, they were silent for a while. ‘Let's sit down for a few minutes,' suggested Grace. They stopped in the shade of an oak tree which she and
Abraham
often sat under, before either of them thought their lives would be interrupted by war. She looked at her friend and saw tears trickling down her pretty face. ‘Doris, it's obviously up to you what you do, but don't you think that Albert might be really upset?'

‘I just don't know. I'll have to think about it some more; I just think Albert may feel happier if he doesn't think I'm trying to cling to him.' She withdrew a little lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her frock and wiped her tears away. ‘Come on, let's race each other up to the top, like we used to!'

They stood up together; Doris still with her confused thoughts, Grace wanting to help, but fearing what Doris might do and how that might affect Albert.

The war clouds continued over the village as they did over the whole of Europe, but there was another tragedy in Rusfield that had nothing to do with the fighting. The vicarage had become a focal point of much sadness; the young and once vivacious Eleanor was severely ill and everyone was worrying about the much-loved wife of their vicar. As Sparky Carey, who had never been known to step inside the church except for baptisms and funerals, said to his old friend Bernie Thomas: ‘Whenever I go past the church, I pop in and say a prayer. She is such a lovely lady, the kindest and best I've ever known. I don't know whether I believe in God or not, but surely he will save her. She's so young.' Bernie knew that even the most convinced non-believer in Rusfield would echo the same feelings.

Arthur and Eleanor's love for each other was clear to all. As the villagers agonised over her illness, they marvelled at the way Arthur continued to give so much of himself to others who suffered their own tragedies. His good friend, Frederick Richards, remarked to his wife, Pauline: ‘It's as if Arthur's own personal tragedy somehow makes him even more aware of other villagers' suffering.'

On
this late July morning, Arthur sat by his beloved's bedside, left hand gently resting on her pale wrist. To Arthur she was as beautiful as ever, but pale, much thinner-faced and, as she slept, he could hear the rasping of her laboured breathing. Arthur had wished a thousand times that he could absorb this dreadful illness; surely there was a cure, but then everything had been tried. He remembered it was in the height of the previous summer that she had returned from a church meeting and gone directly to bed. Her cough had persisted and Betty Hazlett had prescribed a simple medicinal liquid, but when this failed she asked Doctor Christopher to call. The doctor had spoken of his concern, for by this time Eleanor's cough was producing phlegm that showed traces of blood. It had been Jack Mansfield who drove them to Canchester hospital. Stethoscope examination had revealed, all too clearly, a problem with Eleanor's lungs and this was later confirmed by the recently installed x-ray, enabling Mr Wraith, the consultant, to diagnose and track the progression of the disease. Later, he spoke plainly but sensitively to Eleanor and Arthur of his diagnosis: ‘Whether you know it as consumption or tuberculosis, I'm afraid that is my convinced diagnosis. It means the lungs are affected, the left most severely.'

‘But I thought,' interjected Arthur, ‘this illness only happened in crowded cities.'

‘It's certainly most common in London and other crowded cities, but there are many local cases. I'm sure there have been others suffering with the same disease in your village.'

By the time Christmas and the New Year had passed, other symptoms that the consultant had foreseen showed their ugly features: Eleanor's breathlessness became more apparent and Arthur had increasing difficulty in persuading her to eat properly. Her tiredness dragged on for days until total exhaustion overtook her body, making movement up and down the vicarage stairs a laboured task. Arthur marvelled that
for
all her increasing ill-health, Eleanor's spirit never declined; she smiled and showed gratitude for the simplest offering. When the memorial service was held at the end of March for Willy Johnson, Eleanor quietly sat in a side pew and whilst her beautiful voice was silent, she gently mouthed the words.

Arthur made enquiries of Doctor Christopher and gently relayed his thoughts before Eleanor. He was surprised to see Eleanor smile. ‘What is it my love?'

‘Well, I remember reading that some of these new convalescent establishments had been built in Germany, but the war makes that hard for me to attend. Now we know some of our coastal towns have convalescent homes that have been bombed. It seems the Germans have it in for me.'

But with the coming of early June and east-coast bombing raids something of the past, Eleanor was persuaded to go to a convalescent cottage hospital near Clacton. The Seaspray was close enough to the coast for the rich sea aroma to be present, but after three weeks Eleanor asked Arthur that she be allowed to return home. ‘I don't really feel any better and I miss home. I miss friends calling, I miss hearing all that's going on in the village and I miss seeing you all the time. I suppose I'm selfish, but I want to go home.' How much they loved each other. Two days later, the beginning of July, she returned to Rusfield.

As Eleanor's eyes opened now, she smiled at Arthur. ‘My love, what news have you for me?' He knew how much she loved to hear all that was going on; she could still be part of Rusfield.

‘Well, Violet Rushton tells me that there are over 150 parcels ready to go off, each with a packet of cigarettes, some sweets and a knitted item. Oh, and all the children have made a card, each one with the name of the man to whom the parcel is going. Some of the parcels have been added to by families putting in a few extras to their loved ones; a good idea, rather than sending separate parcels.'

‘That's all wonderful news,' gasped Eleanor, her pale face
breaking
into a radiant smile. ‘Is there news of any of the men away?'

‘Susannah told me that Olivia received a letter from Jack yesterday and was hugely relieved to learn he is well. After all the tragedies that Olivia has gone through, to lose Jack would be devastating; he's such a splendid young man. It's hard to remember that he has been away for three years.' He went on to tell Eleanor about the flower arrangement Olivia Atkins had arranged in the pedestal by the altar which he was then asked to describe. This caused Eleanor to smile again when he added at the end of his description: ‘I hope I've got the colours right.'

‘Don't worry Arthur, while I may not be able to go and check, I can ask mother to look.'

They both looked towards the door as Charlotte Windle came in carrying a small tray, covered with a pretty Chinese-designed cloth, which she placed on the table next to Arthur. ‘Ruth brought round a dozen tomatoes yesterday which make a most nutritious soup.' She stooped down and gently kissed Eleanor on the forehead. ‘I hope you enjoy it. I've also made some small egg custards. Rachel Fielding was telling me when she brought half a dozen eggs round earlier this morning that her chickens are really doing well. Anyway, if you fancy one, Arthur can go down and get it from the cool box, but they will keep until tomorrow, if not.'

At the beginning of August, Arthur had carried Eleanor downstairs and now she lay on the chaise longue which village choir members, supported by other benefactors, had presented with much love. This followed Eliza Carey, who now came in to help every day, mentioning to Isabella de Maine that the spare bed brought downstairs had not looked very elegant in the conservatory. Only Isabella knew what a generous contribution her brother, Sir Lancelot Prestwish, had made; she knew how highly he regarded Eleanor, since first meeting her some years previously.

Now permanently in the conservatory, Eleanor slept for
increasingly
long spells during the day, which partly made up for broken nights when fits of coughing disturbed her sleep. Arthur had been as thrilled as Eleanor with the gift, not only as a most generous sign of people's affection, but to help raise her head in a more upright position; lying flat promoted even more coughing.

As August moved on, the weather dramatically changed. It had been the sunny weather that had given Arthur the idea of moving Eleanor into the conservatory overlooking their lovely garden which several parishioners now helped Arthur to maintain. However, Eleanor insisted on staying there even as the rain fell. With prolonged pauses, she said: ‘It's all part of God's world. I don't agree with everything the church says, but I do believe God created the world and that sunshine and rain are both part of that creation.' Lying on the chaise longue, she saw some things more sharply than ever before. ‘I love the patterns the rain makes as it runs down the glass, and just now when the rain stopped, two beautiful butterflies came out to celebrate and danced on and around that red dahlia by the patio. Arthur, please look out the butterfly book and show me, I think they were gatekeepers, but I do get them muddled up.'

Arthur made sure that he kept the birdseed container well filled, for although he knew that birds were now finding plenty of seeds in the fields, many did not reject the opportunity of easier feeds in the garden.

‘I think butterflies and birds are two of God's most glorious creations, they are so beautiful.' She watched the birds in between her fitful periods of sleep and the visits of friends, who all understood they were rationed to short periods by the caring Arthur. Eleanor was delighted to find that Betty Hazlett who called in almost every day, both as a nurse and a dear friend, shared her love of birds. Eleanor would relate the ones she had seen and together they would watch out for the tits, sparrows and different finches that went to the hanging feeder and the starlings, chaffinches and thrushes that fed mainly on
what
the other birds dropped. One day she could hardly wait to tell Betty, and later Arthur, that she had seen nine long-tailed tits.

Eleanor knew she was dying. She told Arthur how he must look after himself when she was no longer with him; remarkably she sometimes made a joke of it. ‘Don't forget to take your sermon with you when you go on a Sunday and remember to keep feeding the birds.' On another day, she said how they should both remember the life they had had together. ‘Even though it's been for fewer years than many share, it's been richer and more wonderful than anyone else could imagine. Arthur, you are a marvellous husband and I do believe in God and I know that we shall never be far apart.' She turned and smiled at him; he leant forward and kissed her. He could hardly bare to hear her speak of dying, but had the sense not to deny something which he knew was near. His mother would stay as long as Arthur wished and she and Arthur took it in turns to sit, sometimes sleep in the armchair in the conservatory; Eleanor often needed a drink or to have her brow mopped. The rains continued with unseasonal flooding in parts of the garden as the days shortened.