Winter Roses (17 page)

‘There is just one problem,’ Mrs Lilley continued.

‘Yes, madam.’ Any problems could be solved today.
Margaret was overflowing with pleasure at the thought of it all.

‘Do you think you could possibly manage seven more for luncheon?’

Margaret couldn’t believe her own ears. Before the war, madam would hardly have needed to ask. Now the destination of every currant had to be considered, and here was madam wanting to almost double the numbers just like that.

‘Sir John and Lady Hunney, and three guests of theirs are coming. I understand Caroline knows at least one of them, and Mr Robert is coming, and Miss Burrows is staying after all, I’m afraid.’

‘What about Miss Eleanor, ma’am? Mrs Eleanor, I should say.’ Margaret tried to pull herself together. Mrs Lilley looked so apologetic, she would have to do her best.

‘Dr Cuss has leave, so they are spending it alone.’

And a good job too, in Margaret’s view, since Lady Hunney still wouldn’t speak to poor Dr Cuss, for having had the impudence to marry her daughter. She battled with her conscience. There was a war on and she should be generous. She also reminded herself that she had a family too and they deserved Christmas, yet she’d never forgive herself if she let herself down by serving an inadequate meal in the Rectory. After all, you could do a lot with a tough chicken, and plenty of folks didn’t even have that.

She took a deep breath and spoke. ‘It just so happens, ma’am, when I went to collect the butcher’s last, he told me he’d managed to put two geese aside for me—’

It was worth the sacrifice to see the relief on Mrs Lilley’s
face. Then she looked horrified as she interrupted: ‘But what will you eat, Mrs Dibble?’

‘Besides the one for me, that is,’ Margaret lied.

‘Sometimes I think the Rectory is becoming a war front all on its own,’ Laurence said ruefully. ‘I’m glad you’re back, my love; at least I recognise your face and can understand what you say. Unlike our Miss Burrows and – I gather from Sir John – one of his Belgian guests.’

Caroline grinned. ‘It’ll be good for your French,’ she informed him cheerfully. ‘You’ll enjoy it. Look how big a cast you’ll have for the Family Coach.’ This game was the traditional way of passing Christmas afternoon.

‘Ah yes.’ Her father made a face. ‘I’m afraid that our Lord must have had too much on His plate this year for He has not yet provided me with an inspiration for its theme.’

‘You’ll have to hurry up. It’s less than twenty-four hours away now.’ Caroline was alarmed, for usually her father had this planned weeks in advance.

‘The midnight service is somewhat more important.’

‘You can’t compare them, Father. You know that perfectly well.’

He smiled. ‘Perhaps. And as half of the western front and a large part of the home front will apparently be breathlessly awaiting my every word tomorrow afternoon, I had better start thinking in earnest.’

‘You could always repeat last year’s.’

He looked indignant. ‘I could not, and you know it, Caroline. That means surrender. I did find my narrator’s costume this afternoon buried deep by mistake in your
mother’s glory-hole, so perhaps an idea will follow in its wake. Incidentally, I wonder if you would keep close to your grandmother at the service this evening?’

‘Why?’ Caroline asked guardedly.

‘I’m afraid the peace that we all assumed now existed between her and Lady Hunney may be about to break down, if it has not already done so. You know how much store Lady Hunney sets on the carol concert, almost as much as the flower festival. I am quite sure it was by pure coincidence, but your grandmother’s maid, Miss Lewis, held a sing-song in the village hall on the same night, and the concert at the hospital was very poorly attended.’

Caroline sympathised with Lady Hunney. She had always enjoyed the concert, which, if the weather were clement enough, ritually ended in a procession from Ashden Manor round the village and back through St Nicholas carrying candles. Because of the lighting order, the procession could no longer take place, but the concert could. It was an old tradition that Grandmother – and she was quite sure she must have had a hand in it – had no right to disrupt.

‘So Tweedledum and Tweedledee are spoiling for a fight again. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on her,’ Caroline said confidently, and, as she left the room, failed to see her father suddenly spark with the beginnings of an idea.

It was wonderful to be home. Everyone was so delighted to see her – especially Mrs Dibble. Caroline had gone to the kitchen first of all, to rid herself of the precious burden she had been carrying. No need to fear its going off in this arctic weather. She had hurried in, swinging her trophy by the handles of its covering bag.

‘Look what I’ve got for you,’ she crowed. ‘A goose!’ She had queued up for an hour to obtain one.

‘Oh, Miss Caroline.’ The way Mrs Dibble looked, her eyes were devouring that goose then and there.

‘It seemed only fair,’ Caroline had explained, ‘since I’m responsible for two extra people.’

‘Three,’ Mrs Dibble corrected her absent-mindedly. ‘Sir John has three guests.’ Her eyes were still glued to the goose.

‘What’s another guest or two at Christmas?’ Caroline waved an airy hand and departed, anxious to see her parents.

‘Nothing now,’ Margaret said to herself thankfully as the door closed.

Caroline opened her eyes, realised it was already light, wriggled her toes luxuriously, and looked to see if there was an orange at the end of the bed. Santa Claus had always left this magnificent offering in her childhood. She had never been sure what relationship Santa Claus had to God, and Father could never explain to her satisfaction, so she just accepted Him and His gifts as one of those mysteries of life. This year there was only the still-painful memory of Reggie climbing in her window to greet her on Christmas morning two years ago. No orange, and now no Reggie.

‘
Boo!
’

Caroline shrieked, as a head shot up at the end of the bed. Felicia’s head. Her sister laughed. ‘That surprised you, didn’t it?’ She emerged from her hiding place, as Caroline leapt out of bed to embrace her.

‘You might have worn a Christmas stocking on your head with an orange tucked in it,’ she laughed.

‘Stockings are too precious to wear on my legs, let alone on my head.’

‘What are you doing here? You told us you couldn’t get away for Christmas.’

‘I thought I couldn’t. Then Luke arrived and told me he had to be in Ashden for some reason at Christmas, and I was coming too.’

‘He’s not supposed to be at Ypres
or
here, he’s supposed to be at GHQ Montreuil,’ his junior assistant said indignantly.

‘You know Luke. He explained to me St Luke was the apostle who told the best Christmas story, and so that gave his namesake the right to arrange other people’s Christmases for them. He had it all fixed up with Tilly before I could get a word in—’

‘She’s here too?’ Caroline asked joyfully.

‘No. We decided one of us must remain – no Christmas truces now – in case there’s an attack on the Salient.’

‘But surely there won’t be an offensive till spring?’

‘There doesn’t have to be an offensive for us to be busy. If you read in the newspapers that the fighting moved to the Somme, that doesn’t mean it stops on the other fronts. There are always skirmishes, always shells, and always attempts at breakthrough. Oh, what am I talking of war for, when it’s Christmas and I’m in the Rectory? And before you ask, don’t worry about Tilly. Simon’s gone out there. She asked him to do so when he still didn’t know Penelope’s fate, and now she’s safe, he refuses to let her back out.’

‘Simon? But he’s in the Foreign Office, not in uniform.’

‘He’ll think of some reason to get to the front. He’s as determined as Luke. Tilly decided I needed a rest, though I’m strong enough.’

Caroline looked at her sister. Her mental stamina was greater than her physical, and her face now looked drained of any colour at all, save a sallow yellowing by the weather. Oddly enough, the lines on the once flawless complexion were increasing her beauty rather than diminishing it, giving it a depth it had not had before.

‘And where’s Luke? Disguising himself as your Christmas stocking?’

‘Caroline! I’m shocked.’ Felicia laughed. ‘We only got here an hour ago. He’s tucked up in the pink bedroom, small but cheerful.’

‘Luke is?’

Felicia threw a pillow at her. ‘The bedroom, idiot.’

Caroline longed to ask: ‘What about Daniel?’ but she would not spoil this unexpected moment of pure happiness. ‘It seems to me,’ she laughed, ‘what with Luke, Sir John, Yves and Monsieur Fabre coming, I might as well have stayed at Folkestone.’

‘Oh no.’ Felicia flung her arms round her and kissed her. ‘This is home. We’re back in the Rectory, together.’

There used to be twelve places set for Christmas luncheon; sometimes thirteen with Aunt Tilly; now there were sixteen, and some of them were for new faces. Thank goodness Isabel had persuaded Robert to stay here for Christmas Day, although they were leaving for East Grinstead tomorrow
morning. At last Caroline would have a chance to talk to the famous Miss Burrows. She had seen what Mother had meant by George’s finding her fascinating; he had been sitting next to her at breakfast, torn between talking to Robert and ogling Kate. Her large beaming face was quite unlike that of a Sussex woman, and she looked as if she was well accustomed to working outside with her hands. Mother had told her, however, that Kate had an excellent brain and was far more organised than she was herself. In short, Caroline gathered, Kate was a success even if her bluntness and clumsiness made daily life in the Rectory somewhat hair-raising.

The mystery of the third guest had been solved after morning service. ‘The Three Musketeers’ George named them promptly, as Yves, a considerably tidier Olivier Fabre than Caroline was accustomed to, and Henri Willaerts appeared with Sir John and Lady Hunney. Henri and Luke? Wasn’t that a little odd? However, she forgot this as, glowing with pleasure, and feeling that she had, as her father had predicted, bumped into God once more, she began to relax. Perhaps she had subconsciously feared that Yves would feel out of place here, as he had at the tennis match in the summer. Far from it, he was animatedly talking to Father on the way back to the Rectory and he seemed to have little difficulty with the Church of England service. Perhaps he was getting used to Communion being in English, not Latin. She herself hadn’t found the midnight service, which he did not attend, as moving as she usually did. The ‘eye’ she had been told to keep on Grandmother should have been a ball and chain. Grandmother had not
entered the former Norville pew, where she usually sat with Peck and Miss Lewis guarding her like Gog and Magog. Instead she had marched up the aisle to sit at the very front. It seemed innocent enough, but it did mean she would be taking Communion before Lady Hunney.

Yves was surprised and a little embarrassed that among the presents heaped – even in wartime – under the Christmas tree were several tiny parcels for him, Olivier and (hastily wrapped up at the last moment) Henri. For the latter two she had bought English pipes; for Yves, after a little thought, a nicely bound copy of the
Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám
.

‘In Belgium, Christmas morning is only for the children,’ he told her, crestfallen. ‘The adults exchange presents on the evening before. Forgive me.’

‘I prefer our tradition,’ she said quickly. ‘I like having everything together.’

‘Then I see why you chose this poem for me.’

‘You know it then?’

‘Yes, but not in English. It is more beautiful, I think, in your language.’ He looked through it, and read to himself more than her: ‘“Ah, Love! Could you and I with Him conspire/To grasp this Sorry Scheme of Things entire/Would not we … /Remould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire.”’

She wondered what thoughts were running through his mind, but then he briskly changed the subject. ‘Now, tell me if you please, about this Rectory here. How does it come to be so oddly shaped?’

‘You like it?’ Caroline was highly pleased.

‘Yes, it is a warm house.’

‘Even with the coal shortage?’ she said lightly, deliberately misunderstanding. She decided she would take him on a quick tour of the house before luncheon, so that she could explain how mediaeval, Tudor, Stuart and Victorian owners had all had a hand in the shaping of the Rectory. ‘The twentieth century has added nothing,’ she concluded when her tour was complete.

‘Every owner adds something, even if it cannot be seen. At my home—’ Yves broke off, and reverted to talking about the priest-hole which she had just shown him.

This time she would not let him. ‘Would you tell me about your home?’ she prompted.

‘It was somewhat like this; ugly but warm.’

She was about to retort that the Rectory was not ugly, when she realised he meant it as a compliment. He said ‘was’ though, not ‘is’, and she tried to decide whether this was significant.

‘This is the kind of house,’ he continued, ‘that says “come in” and not “go away”. My home was like this, only rather more Gothic. We too have our tower and gables.’ So the home did still exist, and there had been no significance in his use of the past tense. Why on earth was it so important anyway? she asked herself impatiently.

At luncheon he sat next to Monsieur Fabre whose conversation was non-existent, partly because of language and partly, she suspected, because he was under strict instructions not to utter profanities. He gave the occasional grunt and that was all. Henri, as usual, made up for him, and seemed bent on charming Grandmother, to Caroline’s
amusement. Her attention was diverted as the grand procession arrived at the dining-room door.

‘The goose!’ she cried out. Not
the
goose; to everyone’s surprise not only was Agnes bearing a second goose, but behind her Myrtle had another. And, yes, Percy with
another
. How many geese were there? Even her mother looked startled. Perhaps her father had performed some miracle, multiplying geese as Jesus had the loaves and fishes. Then she forgot to wonder about it any more, as her father said grace, and the meal began.