Songs of Spring (14 page)

Once outside, she saw the whole of Bankside seemed to be aglow, but it was a different shape somehow, and figures were silhouetted against the reddish light. Still, the screams. She could hear Joe Ifield’s voice yelling to make way for the ambulance. Ambulance? What had happened? Someone caught in the fire? She could now see that half of Bankside seemed to have disappeared, but then she stopped thinking at all, as she plunged through the crowd to add her authority to Joe’s and the Rector’s, wherever he was. Order was needed here, and there she could help, as
stretchers were lifted into the ambulance, and the crashing of wood gave place to moans. The ambulance was moving off, and out of the blackness the Rector was running in her direction, following the vehicle. His face streamed with blood, covered with dust, he staggered into her, so hard she had to put her arms round him to support them both.

‘Isabel,’ he moaned.

‘Hurt?’ Margaret asked sharply. Miss Felicia could help, wherever she was, and maybe she could give a hand too.

The Rector’s reply was a howl of grief, but the words were quite distinct.

‘She’s dead.’

Not tonight of all nights. It was Whitsun and tomorrow was a holiday – or was it already today? Whatever time was it? The telephone bell was ringing and ringing insistently.

‘If that’s C,’ Caroline hissed to Yves, ‘tell him the operator has the wrong number.’ A call in the middle of the night could only mean a top-level call from the SSB; she supposed she had no right to grumble because it was only due to the need for Yves and Luke to be reached at all times from all places that the stingy secret service had provided them with a telephone at all at Queen Anne’s Gate. Caroline glanced sleepily at the clock; half past one, and they had not long been in bed, thanks to the air raid.

‘I’ll go.’ Yves was already up and disappearing through the door. Caroline comforted herself that the call could not be for her, for C would hardly be calling the office clerk. Unless – sudden fear made her sit bolt upright in bed, for
the night brought nightmares to the semi-wakeful as well as the sleeping – it was bad news for one of them. George, it could be about
George
. She battled to remember whether Mother had really told her George was on leave, and sent up a fervent prayer to wish him safe at Ashden. She could hear her heart thumping, as she sat up in bed waiting for Yves to return. If she lay down, the nightmares would intensify.

At last she heard the murmur of voices, so Ellen or Luke must have jumped up too. She realised she was shivering, although the May night was warm. Surely Yves wasn’t being recalled to Belgium so soon? Perhaps it was a call from King Albert, or from GHQ to say that Ludendorff’s expected new offensive had begun.

‘Come back, Yves,’ she muttered, thumping the pillow, ‘come
back
.’ It was too much, after the noise and disruption of the air raid. It had been an attack in force from the sound of it, and so bright was the waxing moon last evening, she supposed they should have expected it. There had been no raids on London for some time now, however, and everyone had relaxed, believing that the Germans were reserving their bomb power for the Western Front. Then just before eleven-thirty, while they were preparing for bed, came the familiar dimming of the lights, and the sound of the maroons. Instead of the luxury of her first full night of reunion with Yves, they had been in the basement sheltering while the searchlights flashed over their limited view of the sky. Although the aircraft approached silently now, once overhead the noise was formidable. They stayed there for an hour and a half
before they deemed it safe to return to bed. And now
this
.

Perhaps it was bad news from Simon’s house. Tilly? Penelope? Caroline’s imagination ran riot until at last she heard Yves open their door. She lit the oil lamp at her side, rather than turn on the electric light, and in its eerie glow it seemed to her his face looked very pale. He sat down by her on the edge of the bed, rather than returning to her side under the bedclothes, and she waited with apprehension.

‘What is it?’ she whispered. It was not just the effect of the oil lamp, Yves’ face was pale with shock. ‘Do you have to leave again?’

‘No.
Cara
, it is terrible news from Ashden.’

‘George! It’s George, isn’t it? He wasn’t on leave. He’s been shot down, he’s dead? I must go.’ She pushed the bedclothes aside to move, until he gently restrained her.

‘No, my love, it is not George. He was on leave, and was injured, but he is alive. It is Isabel’ – his voice broke – ‘who has died.’

‘Isabel?’ Caroline stared at him. His words didn’t make sense. ‘The baby, you mean? She’s had a miscarriage?’

There were tears in his eyes. ‘No, the baby too. Both dead. A Gotha must have lost his direction home in the battle with our aircraft, and probably had a hung-up bomb. It fell on Ashden.’

Caroline began to shiver violently. This was all part of her nightmare, wasn’t it? It couldn’t be
true
! Air raids didn’t affect villages like Ashden. She doubted if the village had ever seen a Gotha, it was rare enough to see our own aircraft. Isabel dead, Isabel
dead
, she forced her brain to repeat over and over again, but it still wasn’t real.
Isabel bouncing into her bedroom, crying, ‘Caroline, can I borrow Granny Overton’s jet? Darling, I simply must have the jet,’ Isabel marrying Robert, Isabel so proudly at the cinema, Isabel’s ‘I’ll never be unhappy again.’ Those were real. Bright images of life raced through her mind. The word dead, and remembering Robert in his POW camp, not knowing he had lost both wife and baby – those were for later.

‘Felicia?’ she asked jerkily. ‘Mother? Father? Everyone else in the Rectory?’

‘No one else in the Rectory was seriously hurt, and the Rectory suffered only broken glass and damage to the front door when it was blown in. The bomb fell on Bankside. Your sister was not the only victim.’

It still didn’t make sense. What could Isabel have been doing out at that time of night? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was needed at the Rectory.

‘I must go immediately.’ She swung her legs to the floor, but Yves restrained her.

‘We’ll both go by the first train. I have checked and there is none till seven o’clock. Luke will remain in the office, and I will return in the evening, so that he may come down if Felicia wishes.’

Details flowed on through her head without registering, taking on a soothing quality, a stick to grasp in a drowning nightmare. Only one was important. ‘There is one task for you, beloved,’ Yves said. ‘Felicia asked if you could tell Phoebe. Felicia was telephoning from Ashden Hospital, and is needed there. Then you must rest to gather your strength.’

Rest? The night would be an endless vigil until they walked to Victoria to return home to the Rectory.

What terrible places railway termini were. Yves had briefly deserted her to buy tickets, and all around were reunions and partings, tears and laughter, servicemen returning from Whitsun leave, preparing to go back to the front, and brothers, sisters, wives, parents, sweethearts dispersing after having said goodbye to their loved ones. In the middle of it all stood Caroline Lilley with a lump like lead in her stomach. It felt so heavy it was as if she had only to give it the slightest push and off it would roll, so that she would realise it wasn’t true after all.

The train crawled interminably to East Grinstead, and then even more slowly through Hartfield towards Ashden. As they stepped down from the train, the lump of lead inside her dissolved and spread all over her, numbing her. Even at the station, the pall of disaster was heavy in the air, reflected in the pallor and silence of those around them. Through the open door of the booking office Caroline could see Station Road, stretching out into the distance. Once it was a joyful path to tread, but not today.

How could the birds still sing? How could the hedgerows still flower in their spring glory, when such tragedy had hit the village? Not everything looked the same in Station Road, however. There was more motor traffic going in and out of The Towers than she had ever seen before. Lorries, wagons, staff cars, all fully laden. As Caroline and Yves reached The Towers, they stopped to allow one lorry
through the gates. Poking over the side was a grandfather clock, one she recognised.

‘Nanny Oates too?’ Caroline asked Yves, stunned into fresh horror.

‘Yes,
cara
.’

‘What are they doing with her clock?’ she choked.

‘Possessions have to be removed to prevent looting and to clear debris from the buildings.’

Looting happened in Belgium, France and other far-off places. But
here
in Ashden? Caroline tried to brace herself for what she realised she must see shortly, but sickness and dread welled up inside her as they drew near, and she held on to Yves’ hand so tightly she could feel her nails digging into it. It was ten o’clock. Normally on a bank holiday the village would already be bustling with everyone preparing to enjoy the day in his or her own way. This morning it looked deserted, save for Bankside.

The first thing she noticed was that the oak tree on the corner of Station Road seemed to have turned black, its leaves and branches scorched by fire. It too was in mourning for the jagged scar opposite. Between the Norrington Arms and the cinema had been four cottages. Now there was none, and on the green slope down to the pond before them was a large crater. Part of the pub wall had vanished, and Isabel’s beloved cinema now had a gaping hole, exposing its innards like a doll’s house. The smell of smoke and dust of the debris hung everywhere, as soldiers and village folk cleared rubble and possessions together. Standing apart from them, like a Greek chorus observing the tragedy, was a large and silent group of villagers. Everyone dealt with
it in a different way; some hid their eyes, some had theirs glued on the evidence of reality.

The sight of the Rectory, with its glorious muddle of architectural red-brick styles, made Caroline weep anew, so reassuring was it. Perhaps there had been some horrible mistake? Isabel couldn’t really be dead, for if the Rectory had so little damage, Isabel could not have been killed within its walls, and she could have had no reason to be out so late last night.

‘I will stay here, Caroline, until you come for me,’ Yves said gently, letting her hand drop with a kiss.

Surely his banishment didn’t matter now in this family tragedy? Then, she realised, at least to Yves, it still did, and for the first time she thought of how
he
had felt at her father’s rejection. Only she saw Yves as a member of the family, not he, nor her parents.

The Rectory door was open, and it was easier than she had thought to take the first step through it. Felicia was coming down the stairs, but it was a Felicia she scarcely recognised. No need to ask if there had been a mistake – there hadn’t. This is what Felicia must have looked like when she was first gassed, only now the yellow skin had become a drawn pallor. She embraced her, and there was only need for a few words.

‘Mother was at the hospital sitting with George all night, and Dr Parry has given her something to make her sleep.’

‘How is he?’

‘Not seriously injured. Cuts and bruises – bad ones. He’s in Ashden Manor though, with everyone else.’ Felicia gave a hard laugh. ‘Odd to think yesterday was to have
been my last day. I’ve been there all night, and Mrs Dibble and Agnes are taking it in turns to sit with Mother, in case she wakes up.’

‘And Father?’

‘In the study. He hasn’t moved since he returned from the hospital. He refused to see Dr Parry, just told us to look after Mother and get some rest ourselves. He came out once to go to the bathroom, but then went straight back. He refused breakfast, everything.’

‘Is the door locked?’

‘I don’t know. His face is, though – I saw it when he came out. I suppose he’s shutting us out, and blaming himself for allowing Isabel to take Nanny Oates home instead of going himself. I can’t think why – George was there, after all. Oh Caroline, I thought I could bear anything after what I’d seen at the front, but I can’t.’ Tears began to soak into Caroline’s shoulder, and they stood clasped together in the hallway. ‘This morning was awful, when I got home at last. Elizabeth Agnes was laughing and shouting, for all Agnes tried to keep her quiet. She’s taken her to her grannie’s now. Mrs Dibble is trying to run the house as if nothing was wrong, while looking like a ghost. Caroline—?’

‘Yes. I’ll try.’ Caroline picked up the appeal in Felicia’s voice and knew exactly what she wanted.

‘There are things to be done,’ Felicia said hopelessly. There were always things to be done after a death – registration, funerals – and Caroline would have to bear the brunt of it all. The whole panoply of horror stretched out clearly in front of Caroline, but the most important
element was Father, behind that study door, alone and grieving. She knocked tentatively, after Felicia had left to return to the hospital, and when there was no answer, she went in.

This wasn’t the father she knew. He was always in control, so tidy, so calm and reassuring. Today he was unshaven, with streaks of dust on his face and stains on his trousers. Worst of all was the agony on his face. His expression hardly changed as he saw her, but he stood up, though with visible effort.

‘Caroline,’ was all he said.

She put her arms around him, and could feel the emotion in him. ‘I am glad you have come,’ he managed to say. ‘You are alone?’

‘Phoebe will be here in an hour or two.’

‘I am glad for that too. And Yves?’

‘He is outside. On—’ Caroline could not even say the word Bankside, so she compromised, ‘within the drive.’

He nodded, as though this were natural enough. ‘I’ll ask him in,’ he said. And that seemed natural enough too.

She followed her father out and watched him cross to where Yves was standing, regardless of curious, sympathetic eyes from the watching crowd. Father put his hand on Yves’ shoulder in a curious gesture, since Yves was the taller. It was almost as though he were seeking support. Yves too had come home.

‘Me and Agnes will do luncheon, Mrs D,’ Myrtle offered solicitously. ‘You go and have a rest.’

Margaret made an effort. ‘That you will not, Myrtle. Things are coming to—’ She stopped, because she just
didn’t have the strength to fight any more. ‘Thank you, Myrtle. I wouldn’t mind having a break.’

The thought of sleep was welcome not so much to restore her after last night’s sleepless horrors, but just to escape them for a while. How could she sleep, though, with poor Mrs Lilley liable to wake at any time and remember it all over again? Now Miss Caroline was here, and she could look after her parents. But when Miss – how hard it was to think of her as Mrs – Phoebe arrived, would she have remembered her coupon book for meat rations in all the turmoil?

Margaret’s tired brain raced through the hundred and one problems that presented themselves until finally, unable to deal with any of them, she laid them aside. Myrtle and Agnes would do luncheon, Agnes would keep an eye on Mrs Lilley, and Percy was busy fixing new windows. Mrs Thorn had opened up the ironmongers specially this morning. Everyone in Ashden was doing his or her bit, but in the midst of such a tragedy that bit wasn’t very much.