Celandine (27 page)

‘She won’t. She’ll not dare touch me. And she’ll not touch you either. They’re frightened half to death, the whole lot of them, of being found out. Miss Belvedere’s on the warpath, and if
she
ever discovers the truth . . . well, they know what would happen to them. They’ll leave us alone from now on, you’ll see.’

‘Mm.’ Nina’s face looked troubled. She picked up the blue envelope that lay on her bedside cabinet. ‘Actually, it doesn’t really matter any more. Not for me.’

The envelope had been opened, and Nina ran her fingers along the rough edge of the torn paper. ‘My parents are moving back to England. Because of the war, I think. They’ve taken a house in Taunton, and so they say there’s no need for me to be at a boarding school any more. They’re taking me away from here. I’m leaving.’

‘What? No! You
can’t
be leaving. You just
can’t
. When?’

‘End of this term. Christmas.’

Christmas. Who would have thought that its advent could be so dreaded, or that it could ever arrive so quickly? It came around all too soon for Celandine, who found herself counting the days in quite the opposite of the usual spirit. How would she ever survive at Mount Pleasant once Nina was gone? She would be entirely friendless. There would be nobody at all for her to talk to. To make matters worse, she
could
see that she was far more upset at the prospect of remaining than Nina was at leaving. Perhaps she shouldn’t blame her friend for that – for who would not gladly escape this place if they could?

Some things, at least, had changed for the better. Just as Celandine had predicted, Mary Swann and her followers kept themselves at a very safe distance during the last weeks of term, and there was no longer any threat of violence. Miss Belvedere, despite her most vigorous investigations, learned no more of the swimming pool affair than she had upon that first night – and the culprits were at pains to keep things that way. Celandine and Nina felt relatively safe.

Life had become a little easier, then, for the time being. But there was an atmosphere growing around Celandine that spread far beyond her own dormitory or classroom. Miss Craven’s daily bulletins suggested that the war was now unlikely to be over by Christmas. The battles raged on, and although the Germans were perpetually being ‘held in check’ or ‘suffering great losses’, it was plain that the Allies were far from actually winning. Miss Craven called upon all girls to pray to God and do their duty with a will. The Sewing Club would be rescheduled to accommodate extra sessions, and half of all produce from the kitchen garden would be sold to aid the War Loan. Miss Craven reminded the school that any trace of the Hun – pens, geometry equipment, sheet music, anything that was suspected of being German in origin – was now strictly forbidden. All to be impounded, or destroyed.

Anti-German feeling had risen so high that it was close to becoming a second religion – or a witch-hunt.

It would not be long, Celandine thought, before they got around to her.

And Nina was leaving. She would have to face it all alone.

Chapter Eleven

THE ATMOSPHERE AT
Mill Farm had become tense. Several of the farm hands had enlisted, and there was now a shortage of manpower – a matter of great inconvenience to Erstcourt Howard and his remaining workers.

Mrs Howard was beginning to have problems domestically. The egg woman no longer called, having declared that she could live without ‘German eggs’, and Cook had taken to muttering ‘
Jahwohl
’ to each and every request. The local shopkeepers seemed suddenly to require that all bills be paid promptly, and social invitations had dwindled almost into non-existence.

‘What do they think, these
schtupid
people?’ Mrs Howard complained to Celandine. ‘I am a submarine, with . . . with
bombs
in my skirts?’

Celandine shrugged her shoulders. She wasn’t really listening. She had more than enough troubles of her own, but at that particular moment she was trying to write a letter, and was also thinking about the possibility of a visit to Howard’s Hill. This wouldn’t be
so
easy in the winter. The ground was sodden and muddy from the persistent rain, and for all she knew the little wicker tunnel could be knee high in water, perhaps worse. Would Freddie’s wading boots fit her, she wondered? It looked as though she might have to put it off once again.

She and Nina had faithfully promised to see each other if they possibly could, though a visit over the Christmas holiday didn’t seem very likely. She could write, at least.

‘
Dear Nina
 . . .’

The end of her dip-pen had been gnawed to a splintery pulp, and bits of paint were sticking to the tip of her tongue. So far she had found very little to say.

‘
It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m sitting at the parlour table where we played cards at half term. It’s still raining, and I don’t feel in the least bit Christmassy
.’

Celandine looked up in wonder. She had been remembering how she had sat here with Nina, and how Freddie had suddenly appeared on the motorcycle. Now, amazingly, here was that very sound again –
brpp-mmm . . . brpp-mmm
 . . .

It was as though she were watching a moving picture, a newsreel that she had already seen. The motorcycle flashed past the window, the two greatcoated figures hunched against the rain, and then disappeared from her view. The engine slowed to a steady beat –
thumpeta-thumpeta-thump
– and she heard Freddie’s voice, faint upon the gusting wind. ‘Thanks, Jock! Monday . . . yes . . . Merry Christmas.’

The engine speed picked up again and faded away in the lane. Celandine turned to look at her mother, saw the apprehension on her face – and knew that they had both been thinking the same thing.

‘Oh! . . . Erstcourt . . .’

Freddie looked thinner. And yet bigger somehow – taller, more angular. The roundness of his face had gone, and his cheekbones were clearly visible. His uniform no longer hung so loosely about his shoulders.

‘Where’s Father?’ It was all that he said – just two words – but it seemed to Celandine that his voice had changed as well. The cold wind blew into the hallway as Freddie stood holding the door open, ready to either come in or to go back out again, whichever was necessary. Lizzie ran forward as if to hug him, and then held back, awkwardly. She merely touched the wet sleeve of his army greatcoat instead.

‘Oh Freddie, it is so
good
you are safe . . . but your father, he is with Mr Hughes. I think perhaps the cider barn . . . Yes, I hear the machine. But, Freddie . . .’

‘Better get it over with, then. Back in a minute . . .’

He closed the door, and was gone. But Mrs Howard, after waiting uncertainly for a few moments, opened the door once more. Celandine joined her mother at the threshold. Together they stood and watched, narrowing their eyes against the sleeting drizzle, as Freddie crossed the yard and disappeared into the barn.

It wasn’t long before Mr Hughes came out, followed by Robert the head stableman. Whatever was
being
said in there was obviously not for their ears. The two men hurried over to the stables.

‘Will it be all right, do you think?’ Celandine needed her mother’s reassurance.

‘Yes, I think so. Your father is still very angry – yet he was too a soldier, when he was young. He will become over this. But I – I shall worry always. Come. We are wet, and we can do nothing.’

Celandine sat with her mother in the parlour and listened fearfully as the boots came stamping into the hallway, Erstcourt’s loud voice haranguing, questioning, criticizing.

‘Now you listen to me, boy. You will tell me exactly which regiment you are with, and the name of your commanding officer – because as far as the Somersets are concerned, they’ve never dam’ well heard of you! No record of you whatsoever!’

‘Well, I’m
not
going to tell you, and so it’s not a bit of good your carrying on. All you need to know is that I’m safe and well. I’ve got forty-eight hours leave for
Christmas,
and then I’m going back to barracks on Monday.’ Freddie’s voice was calm and unflustered, but absolutely adamant.

‘Back to barracks? You’ll do no such thing, my lad! Now that you’re here, you’ll dam’ well stay here and do as you’re told!’

‘I’ll go right now if you don’t stop shouting at me!’ Freddie was beginning to get angry. ‘Yes! And you shan’t stop me. I’m
sorry
, do you hear? I’m
sorry
, Father. Truly I am. I don’t mean to cause you worry and . . . and pain. But it’s done. I’ve joined the army. I’m a soldier now. There’s an end to it.’

The two men entered the room, both red-faced, uncomfortable. Erstcourt appealed to his wife.

‘Lizzie – what are we to
do
with this . . . this . . .
foolish
little drummer boy?’

‘Let him beat his drum, Erstcourt, as once you beat yours.’

Celandine felt the tears spring to her eyes. It was quite the best thing that she had ever heard her mother say – and the first time she had known her father to be defeated. She saw him shrink somehow, as his anger collapsed within him, and she knew that there would be no more argument. Freddie had won his battle.

The atmosphere at Christmas dinner the following day was a little strained, though it might have been a lot worse. Thos remained disapproving of Freddie’s actions, but was no longer openly scornful, and Erstcourt went as far as to say that there was no better
life
for a man than the army, under the proper circumstances. He still maintained that these were
not
the proper circumstances and that Freddie had acted most unwisely, but no son of his would be disowned for attempting to do his duty, however misguidedly.

‘Nevertheless, this is still unfair on your mother, Freddie, to refuse to tell us which regiment you’re with. It’s a great worry to her, not knowing where you are. I’ll trouble you for the parsnips, Lizzie, if I may.’ Erstcourt’s gentler tone had more effect than his previous bluster, and Freddie gave ground.

‘Well, all right then,’ he said. ‘I’m with the Dorsets, not the Somersets. So now you know. I’d still rather not say where, though. But you mustn’t worry, Mama. I shall write. Training is nearly over, and once I’m posted I promise I shall tell you where I am. I’ve already given you as my next of kin. If I was ever, you know . . . hurt . . . they would know who to write to.’

He looked tired, thought Celandine, tired and distant. And he looked like a soldier. They had cut his hair, and changed the shape of him and the sound of him, and made him theirs. Somebody else owned him now.

All he wanted to do, he had said to her privately, was sleep. The training was hard, and they kept them at it from dawn till dusk. Soon he would be sent to France or Egypt – perhaps even to Gallipoli. It all depended.

When dinner was over, Thos and Erstcourt left to attend to some farm business, a necessary thing be it Christmas or not, and Mrs Howard went upstairs for
her
nap. Freddie and Celandine settled down in the parlour for a game of canasta. Freddie soon lost interest however, and they ended up simply building card houses, and talking.

‘How’s school?’ said Freddie.

‘Terrible. I wish
I
could run away and join the army.’

Freddie laughed, and once again Celandine was aware of how different he sounded, how much he had altered. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I can just see you stabbing at sack-dummies with a fixed bayonet. Or a pair of scissors.’ Then he looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . you know . . . remind you.’

‘Oh . . . it doesn’t matter.’ She thought about it for a moment, remembering. ‘I can’t believe I actually did that.’

‘Can’t you? I wish I knew that I could “actually do that”, if I had to. We talk about it quite a lot, you see . . . wondering whether we’ve really got it in us . . .’ He carefully balanced another card on the construction in front of him, to make a roof. ‘And we hear stories in the mess. About deserters. They shoot them for cowardice, as an example to the others. They have to, because it’s letting down the side – can’t have men just wandering off and deserting. But some of them can’t help it, you see . . . they get the jim-jams . . . can’t take it any more. And so they blindfold them . . . sit them in a chair . . .’

‘Freddie, don’t!’ Celandine was horrified. ‘That’s dreadful! Aren’t you very frightened?’

‘I don’t
think
so.’ He stood up, restless again, and walked over to the window. The little parlour seemed
too
enclosed for him now, too small to hold him. ‘Not that I think I’m particularly brave or anything. I just want to
be
there. Just want to get
started
. I can’t bear all this waiting around.’

Some things about him hadn’t really changed after all, Celandine thought. He was just as impatient as ever.

‘Do you remember that time we walked all the way round Howard’s Hill,’ he said, ‘looking for fairies?’ He was still standing at the window, although little could be seen of the darkening afternoon landscape.