Читать книгу Where Bluebells Chime - Elizabeth Elgin - Страница 13

‘Well! Did you hear the six o’clock news?’ Alice demanded hotly the minute Tom stepped through the kitchen door. ‘Think they can do anything they want, just ’cause there’s a war on!’

‘They can do anything they want!’ Tom kissed his wife’s cheek. ‘And I didn’t hear the news, so you’d better tell me.’

‘Income tax, that’s what! It’s going up to eight and sixpence in the pound in the New Year. That’s more’n a third of what folk earn – and it’s to be taken out of folks’ pay packets every week. No more paying it twice a year!’

‘Sort of pay it as you earn it,’ Tom nodded. ‘Seems fair enough to me. Mind, most folk don’t pay anything at all but let’s face it, somebody’s got to pick up the bill for this war.’

‘Well, I still don’t think it’s right! Legalized thieving, that’s what it amounts to. It wouldn’t surprise me, Tom, if both you and Daisy don’t have to start paying tax come the New Year. And there’s nothing funny about it, so you can wipe that smirk off your face!’

Alice tossed her head defiantly because to her way of thinking, taking tax out of folks’ pay packets every week was thieving!

‘Lass, lass! Daisy won’t pay tax on the pound a week she earns.’ He was careful not to mention how it would be for his daughter once she came into all that money. ‘And as for me – well, it’ll be heaven help a lot if I start paying income tax. Lady Helen and Mr Edward’ll have to worry before I will.

‘And talking about Mr Edward, I was having a word with Pendenys’ head keeper this afternoon. They haven’t told him to go yet, but he’s expecting to hear any day that the military want him off the estate. All the house staff have had to go to the Labour Exchange. They’re expecting to be put on munitions, so talk has it.’

‘Talk is cheap, Tom. What I’d like to know is what’s going on at Pendenys.’

‘And so would I! They’ve wasted no time if what I hear is true. Guard posts set up and sentries patrolling already. Barbed wire all over the place, an’ all, and Mr Edward’s only been gone five days.’

‘It’s for the King and Queen and the Princesses to come to, that’s my belief,’ Alice nodded, income tax forgotten. ‘Just wait till they start really bombing London – and start they will before so very much longer! The government’ll have the royal family out of Buckingham Palace quicker than you can say knife!’

‘The royal family, Alice? Never! What have they ever done to deserve Pendenys? If I was the military I’d make it into a prison and lock up black marketeers in it!’

‘We’ll find out if we wait long enough.’ Alice stuck the sharp point of a knife into a potato. ‘Nearly ready. Away with you and take off your boots and leggings. Daisy’ll be in soon. She’ll want her supper smartish tonight. Off to spend the evening with Drew, seeing he’s only got two more days left. Lady Helen asked especially for her to go over. Poor soul. Her ladyship’s failing if you ask me, and no one to blame for it but Hitler! Oh, but I’d like just five minutes alone with that man!’ Alice fumed because she would never, as long as she lived, forgive him for starting another war.

‘You and a million other women! Now don’t get yourself upset, love. Fretting and fratching will do you no good at all. And don’t they say that nothing is ever as bad as we think it’s going to be?’

‘And who told you that?’

‘Reuben, as a matter of fact.’ And Reuben had reminded him not so very long ago that Alice was coming to the age when women were on a short fuse and had to be handled carefully. Women that age, Reuben warned, blew hot and blew cold at the dropping of a hat, then burst into tears over nothing at all. Queer cattle women were, so think on!

‘He’s entitled to his opinion!’ Alice stirred the stew that thickened lazily on a low gas light then slammed back the lid. Jugged rabbit, stewed rabbit, savoury rabbit and rabbit roasted. Oh for a good thick rib of beef! ‘Well, go and get into your slippers. That’s Daisy’s bus now at the lane end.’

Daisy. Still no letter from the Wrens. Happen they really had forgotten her.

‘Pull up a chair, Daisy love, and have a cup. There’s still a bit of life left in the teapot.’ Polly Purvis set the kettle to boil.

Teapots were kept warm on the hob now, and hot water added to the leaves again and again until the liquid was almost too weak to come out of the spout. And she was luckier than most, Polly reckoned, having fifteen ration books to take to the shops each week. She had solved the egg problem and butter, lard and margarine she could just about manage on, but good red meat and sugar were a constant problem, especially when a land girl did the work of a man to her way of thinking, and needed a bit of packing inside her.

‘You’re all right, Polly? Not working too hard?’

‘I’m fine. The girls are a good crowd. Always popping in for a chat – mostly about boyfriends. I was lucky to get taken on here, Daisy. Keeps me busy enough and keeps my mind off – well, things. And by the way, I had a letter from Keth this morning.’

‘And?’ Daisy raised an eyebrow, not needing to ask the one question that bothered them both.

‘Not one word about that. I asked him outright last time I wrote just what he was doing in Washington, but no straight answer. The job is fine is all I’m told and that he’s saving money. Ought to be grateful for that, at least – our Keth with money in the bank! And he’s obviously managed to get himself a work permit. His letters are cheerful enough and at least he’s safe.’

‘That’s what I keep telling myself, Polly. Sometimes I wouldn’t care if he stayed in America till the war is over. Not very patriotic of me, is it, when Drew’s already in it?’

‘I feel that way, too.’ Polly stirred the tea thoughtfully. ‘But folks hereabouts understand that he’s stranded over there. I don’t feel any shame that he isn’t in the fighting. Wouldn’t want him to suffer like his father did. My Dickon came back from the trenches a bitter man.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Daisy reached for Polly’s hand. ‘One day it will all be over. Just think how marvellous it’ll be! No more blackout, no more air raids and the shops full of things to buy.’

‘And no more killing and wounding and men being blinded.’

‘No more killing,’ Daisy echoed sadly.

‘But you’ll give my best regards to Drew when you see him tonight, won’t you?’ Polly said, rallying. ‘Wish him all the luck in the world from me and Keth?’

‘I think he’ll pop in for a word with you before he goes, but don’t say goodbye to him, will you, Polly? He said sailors are very superstitious about it. You’ve got to say cheerio, or so long, or see you. I think Drew’s going to be all right, though. Jinny Dobb told me he’d come to no harm; said he had a good aura around him. Jin’s a clairvoyant, you know. She can see death in a face – and she isn’t often wrong, either way.’

‘Then I reckon I’d better ask her over for a cup of tea and she can read my cup – tell me when Keth’s going to get himself back home. Mind, I’d settle for knowing just what he’s up to and if he’s getting enough to eat.’

‘And I would give the earth just to speak to him for – oh, twenty seconds; ask him how he is.’

‘Oh, for shame!’ Polly laughed. ‘You could do a lot better’n asking him how he is in twenty seconds! Now then, how about that cup of tea?’ She began to pour, then laughed again. ‘Oh, my goodness! Did I say tea?’

‘Well, at least it’s hot.’ Daisy joined in the laughter because you had to laugh. If you didn’t, then life would sometimes be simply unbearable.

‘I won’t come over tomorrow night, Drew. I think you should spend it with Aunt Julia and Lady Helen. I’ll be there on Saturday, though, to wave you off.’

The July evening was warm and scented with a mix of honeysuckle and meadowsweet and the uncut hedge was thick with wild white roses. Beneath the trees, on the edge of the wild garden, tiny spotted orchids grew, and lady’s-slipper and purple tufted vetch.

Drew reached for Daisy’s hand, remembering scents and sounds and scenes, storing them in his mind so he might bring them out again some moment when he was in need of them.

‘My ten days have gone very quickly. It seemed like for ever when I got on the train at Plymouth. I think Grandmother is feeling it. Her indigestion is playing her up again, but I’m not to tell Mother, she says. I think she’s had it for quite a while. It’s the war. I think she remembers the last one, and gets a bit afraid. You’ll always pop over to see her, won’t you, Daiz?’

‘Of course I will. I love her a lot, and she was once Mam’s mother-in-law and Mam loves her, too. We’ll see she doesn’t fret too much when you’ve gone back – and there’ll be Mary’s wedding in the afternoon to help take her mind off your going back.’

They skirted the wild garden and crossed the lawn to the linden walk. The leaves on the trees were still fresh with spring greenness and their newly opened flowers threw a sweet, heady perfume over them.

‘Just smell the linden blossom, Daiz. I think I shall take it back with me to barracks – maybe think of it when I’m at sea in a gale, and being sick.’

‘You won’t be sick! Where do you think they’ll send you?’

‘Haven’t a clue. They say big ships are more comfortable, but if I had a choice, I think I’d go for something small and more matey – perhaps a frigate. And having said that,’ he grinned, ‘I’ll end up on an aircraft carrier, most likely. Wouldn’t mind Ark Royal. There’s always been an Ark Royal in the British Navy. There was one, even, in Henry Tudor’s time.’

‘Drew! Don’t go for Ark! Every week, Lord Haw-Haw says the Germans have sunk her!’

‘And every week we know they haven’t. Still, I won’t have a say in the matter. I’m a name and a number for the duration. I do as I’m told. Chiefie in signal school told us to keep our noses clean and our eyes down and we’d be all right. And that’s what I shall do – and count the days to my next leave.’

‘Drew – do you remember how it used to be?’ They had reached the iron railings that separated Rowangarth land from the fields of Home Farm, and stopped to gaze at the shorthorn cows grazing in Fifteen-acre Meadow. ‘It seems no time at all since that last Christmas the Clan was together. Remember? Aunt Julia took a snap of us all. Keth, me, Bas and Kitty and you and Tatty. In the conservatory. We’d all been dancing …’

‘I remember. After that, Uncle Albert started getting a bit huffy about coming over from Kentucky twice a year, but that last summer we were all together was fun, wasn’t it – except for Aunt Clemmy and the fire in Pendenys tower?’

‘And Bas’s hands getting burned. I’m glad Mr Edward had that tower demolished – what was left of it.’

‘Poor Aunt Clemmy. It was an awful way to die. I think, really, it was because she took to brandy after Uncle Elliot was killed. He was her favourite son, Grandmother said. She never got over it. Elliot was her whole life, I believe.’

‘Yes, but I know Mam and Aunt Julia didn’t like him. Even now, if ever his name is mentioned, your mother screws up her mouth like she’s sucking on a lemon. I once heard her say he’d been a womanizer – but we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, should we, and Tatty hasn’t grown up like him, Mam says. Tatty’s okay.’

‘Yes, but Tatty’s going to have to watch it. You know how strict Aunt Anna can be and Tatty has really fallen for that air-gunner. She said she doesn’t care what happens – nobody is going to stop her seeing him. She’ll have to sneak out, tell lies.’

‘Well, I’m on Tatty’s side. Tim’s a nice young man and someone should remind Tatty’s mam that there’s a war on and that young girls don’t need chaperoning now!’

‘But Tatty’s so innocent, Daiz. She’s always been fussed over and protected. And if Aunt Anna wasn’t fussing, there was always Karl in the background to look after her.’

‘Yes, and teach her to swear in Russian,’ Daisy giggled. ‘Don’t worry about Tatty. She’ll be all right. She’s good fun – away from home. But oh, Drew, I could stand here for ever. It’s all so beautiful I can’t believe there’s a war on.’

The distant sound of aero-engines at once took up her words and made a mockery of them. A bomber flew overhead, big and black and deadly.

‘Looks as if they’re going again tonight.’ Daisy looked up, preparing to count. ‘Take care, Tim,’ she said softly as another aircraft roared over Brattocks Wood. ‘Come home safely, all of you.’

Helen Sutton sat quietly in the conservatory, watching the sun set over the stable block. It tinted the wispy night clouds to salmon pink and shaded the darkening sky to red.

Red sky at night, sailors’ delight …

Rowangarth’s sailor had gone back to his barracks on the noon train from Holdenby. Soon now he should be in barracks, then where? She shivered as the short, sharp pain stabbed inside her chest. In yesterday’s papers she had read that Somewhere in England – They always called a place Somewhere in England when it suited them not to name it – close-packed German bombers with fighter escorts had attacked harbours, fighter stations and naval bases on the south coast.

Naval bases. Plymouth and Portsmouth must surely have been targeted by the Luftwaffe. It was a part, Helen was sure, of the softening-up process so there would be less resistance when the tides were right – right for the Germans, that was. In September.

Where would Drew be then? At sea, Helen hoped fervently. He’d be safer at sea. How proud she had been today of the son Giles never lived to see, tall now, and straight and Sutton fair, with eyes grey as those of his grandfather John; like his great-uncle Edward’s, too.

Drew would come back whole from this war. Fate could not be so fiendish as to take him. Besides, Helen had spoken to Jinny Dobb at the wedding this afternoon, with Jin asking why she was so sad; telling her she was not to fret over young Sir Andrew because his aura was healthy, she insisted, and was Jin Dobb ever wrong, she’d demanded.

‘Take care of yourself, milady,’ she’d urged. ‘He’ll come back safe to claim his own, just see if he doesn’t.’

Dear Jin. Those words gave her brief comfort, Helen smiled, for sure enough, Jinny Dobb could see into the future and read palms and tarot cards – with which she, Helen, did not entirely hold. But this afternoon, at Mary’s wedding, she snatched comfort from Jin’s prophecies and smiled and waved and threw confetti when Will and Mary left Holdenby for a weekend honeymoon in quite a grand hotel in York.

Mary had looked beautiful. Blue certainly suited her and she and Tom walked solemnly down the aisle to where Will and Nathan waited. How nice, those cosy country weddings.

The door knob turned, squeaking, and Tilda walked softly to Helen’s side.

‘I’ve brought your milk and honey, milady. Miss Julia asked me not to forget it.’

‘Tilda, you shouldn’t have bothered, especially as you’ll be managing alone until Mary gets back. You’ll have all your work cut out –’

‘Oh, milady, I’ll be right as rain. There’s only you and Miss Julia and the Reverend to see to and not one of you a bit of bother. It was a grand wedding, wasn’t it, though I gave up thinking long ago that anyone’d ever get Will Stubbs down the aisle. But fair play, Mary managed it though no one can say those two rushed headlong into wedlock, now can they?’

‘Tilda!’ Helen scolded smilingly. Then raising her glass she took a sip from it. ‘And here’s wishing them all the happiness in the world!’

‘Amen to that.’ Tilda turned in the doorway. ‘You’ll think on, milady, not to forget and switch the light on?’ An illuminated conservatory would fetch every German bomber on the Dutch coast zooming in over Rowangarth and would land them with a hefty fine and a severe telling-off from the police for doing such a stupid thing.

‘I’ll remember. I think you’d better remind me tomorrow to ask Nathan to take the light bulb out.’ A conservatory was too big and awkward to black out effectively. Best take no chances. ‘And don’t wait up. Goodness knows when the pair of them will be back from Denniston. They have a key. You’ve had a long day – off to bed with you.’

And Tilda said she thought she could do with an early night, but that she would see to the doors and windows first, then check up on the blackouts.

‘Good night, milady,’ she smiled, closing the door softly behind her.

Dear Lady Helen. They would have to take good care of her for there were few left from the mould she’d been made from; precious few, indeed.

Tom Dwerryhouse hung up his army-issue gas mask, took off his glengarry cap, then leaned the rifle in the corner.

There had been an urgent parade of the Home Guard called for this evening and he and several others had had to leave the wedding early and put on their khaki for a seven o’clock muster.

It was a relief to be told that their rifles – ammunition, too – had arrived at last and he opened the long, wooden boxes only to sigh in disbelief. Those long-promised rifles – and he knew it the minute he laid eyes on them – were leftovers from the last war and had lain, it seemed, untouched and uncared for in some near-forgotten store.

He took the rifle, breaking it at the stock to squint again down the barrel. Filthy! It would take a long time to get the inside of that barrel to shine like it ought to. There would have to be a rifle inspection at every parade to let them know that Corporal Dwerryhouse wasn’t going to allow any backsliding when it came to the care of rifles, old and near-useless though they were.

He snapped it shut, gazing at it, remembering against his will when last he fired such a rifle. It was something he would never forget. He knew the exact minute he took aim, awaiting the order to fire. And his finger had coldly, calmly, squeezed the trigger that Épernay morning.

It was the bullet from his own rifle, he knew it, that took the life of the eighteen-year-old boy. Aim at the white envelope pinned to the deserter’s tunic to show them where his heart was, that firing squad had been told. But the other eleven men had been so uneasy, so shocked that he, Tom Dwerryhouse, took it upon himself to make sure the end would be quick and clean.

A sharpshooter, he had been, but an executioner they made him that day. Refuse to take part and he too would have been shot for insubordination and another, less squeamish, would have taken his place.

Then, directly afterwards, the shelling started and heaven took its revenge for the execution of an innocent and directed a scream of shells on to that killing field so the earth shook. That was when he fell, surrendering to a blackness he’d thought was death.

Rifleman Tom Dwerryhouse did not die in that Épernay dawn. He awoke to stumble dazed, in search of the army camp he did not know had been wiped out by the German barrage.

How long he walked he never remembered, but a farmer had taken him in and given him food and shelter and civilian clothes to work in. And Tom acted out the part of a shell-shocked French soldier, and those who came to the farm looked with pity at the poilu who was so shocked he uttered never a word.

The Army sent a letter to his mother, telling her he had been killed in action and his sister wrote to the hospital at Celverte, to tell Alice he was dead.

The night of that letter, Alice was taken in rape. She had not fought, she told him, because she too wanted to die, but instead she was left pregnant with the child who came to be known as Drew Sutton.

Now white-hot anger danced in front of Tom’s eyes. He flung the rifle away as though it would contaminate him and it fell with a clatter to the stone floor.

He hoped with all his heart he had broken it.