The Storms of War (14 page)

Four days later, Emmeline had an idea. They were studying
Henry V
and reading out the parts. ‘I know!’ she said. ‘Why don’t we put on a play!’

‘A play?’

‘I think it might cheer up Mama and Papa, don’t you?’

When they were children, they had put on Christmas plays for their parents, dressed up in Verena’s old curtains and her leftover gowns and hats. Arthur was Herod one year; the next, Emmeline played Cinderella, with Arthur as Prince Charming. That seemed so long ago now. They hadn’t done a play for eight years or so. But Emmeline had a glint in her eyes – the same look as when she had been determined to get the role of Cinderella.

‘It will be wonderful!’ she cried.

‘But Emmeline, I don’t know if Mama and Papa would like it.’ Celia felt as if she was caught in a train that was not stopping.

Emmeline cocked her head. ‘Well then, we’ll put on a show for the village and raise money for the war.’

‘I think that is an excellent idea, Miss de Witt,’ said Mr Janus. ‘Quite superb.’

‘Oh, you would think that,’ snapped Celia.

‘What do you want to do instead? Go to the sewing committee?’

‘It would certainly be a good way to raise money,’ said Mr Janus. ‘It would really remind the village what good patriots you are.’

‘I don’t want to do it.’

‘Well, then,’ said Emmeline. ‘We will put on the play without you.’

Celia thought of her sister parading with Mr Janus, one of the gold curtains they used to play with swathed around her. ‘Oh, very well. I will do it too.’

‘I’ve an idea.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’

‘That’s impossible, Emmeline. We are only three.’

‘You need to have more imagination, sister. We will play most of the parts.’

‘You’ll be Titania.’

‘Of course. Now, Mr Janus, we have a copy of the play, do we not?

‘We do, but I know a lot of the lines. For example: “I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again/Mine ear is much enamoured of thy note.” ’

Every day after that, the three of them closed the door in the schoolroom and rehearsed
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Emmeline was Titania, Helena, all the beautiful roles, and Mr Janus her partner. Celia played the secondary roles. She was the watcher, the fairies, as the other two danced around her. She found herself enjoying it, even when Emmeline complained about her too-fast delivery and made her give the speeches again. Certainly it was more fun than reciting dates as Mr Janus stared out of the window – a thought she admitted with a shiver of guilt for Rudolf and his determination that she would be educated.

I am busy in a play,
she wrote to Tom, in her head.
Emmeline seems very happy doing it.
But sometimes it seemed very strange to her that there was war and dying Belgians outside, and here they were putting on a play.
Do you get much time to read?
she asked Tom.
Perhaps you are too busy. If you wrote to me, then I would have a better idea of what it is you’re doing. I’d be very interested.
She waited for him to say something in reply, but he was quiet.
Are you cold, being outside so much?
she said.
I would knit you something, really I would, if I knew where you were.

On the fourth day of doing the play, something very odd
happened. They were halfway through when suddenly Mr Janus said some strange words. Celia and Emmeline stared at him. He repeated them, smiling.

‘I do not know what you mean,’ said Emmeline. He smiled again, said something else and returned to the play.

Later, Celia went to her room to find a shawl that they wanted to use for Puck. It took her longer than usual to find it in the piles of clothes in the drawers in her wardrobe. When she returned, Emmeline and Mr Janus were crouched over the floor with a piece of paper. It was covered in rows of letters in Mr Janus’s writing. He was pointing to them and Emmeline was nodding.

‘Ah, Celia,’ he said, starting when she walked in. ‘There you are.’ Emmeline clambered to her feet, a little red. Mr Janus stood, brushing himself down, holding the paper. ‘Let us resume the play.’

When they had finished that day, Celia was leaving the room when she saw Mr Janus give Emmeline the paper with the letters on it. ‘Study it well,’ he said. Emmeline smiled and took it in her hand.

The next day, Mr Janus spoke the strange words again. This time, Emmeline replied in the same tongue, slowly and a little haltingly, her face growing pinker. Mr Janus patted her hand. ‘Good!’ he said, and said some more, slowly. Emmeline answered. He touched her hand again and a smile spread over her face, gradually, like sunlight coming into a room.

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Celia. ‘Are you talking about me?’ Mr Janus shook his head. ‘Tell me!’

Emmeline looked at Mr Janus. He turned and patted Celia’s arm. ‘Don’t fear, Celia. Once Emmeline knows the language fully, then we shall teach it to you.’

That night, she lay in bed, spoke to Tom.
They are always talking in this language, it is very odd. I have tried to understand it but it seems confusing. I don’t think it’s fair that they are always leaving me out.
Then she thought better of it.
Still, we are probably much warmer than you. Is it very hard there?

A week later, and the play was going well. Celia had been learning her lines in bed before she got up to dress, and Emmeline had
conceded that her speaking voice had improved. Celia thought it apt that in the same way that everyone in the story had become caught up in their night-time playings, the three of them had grown entirely absorbed. It was as if Emmeline had never tried to throw herself off the roof. Sometimes Celia even found herself so caught up in the poetry that she forgot about Michael and Tom and how they must be already in France.

When Emmeline and Mr Janus began in their strange language, Celia simply took the time to think over some of her speeches in her head. She had decided that she didn’t really care if they explained it to her or not. She thought it was probably the same as some of the made-up languages the girls at school used. Once you knew it, it was completely dull. Occasionally Emmeline forgot it and Mr Janus had to write down letters on a piece of paper to teach her again. He stuffed the papers behind the desk. Celia had taken them out to look at them, but still she could not understand the words they were saying.

She did sometimes question when they were ever going to put the show on for the village. ‘Oh, that’ll come later!’ said Emmeline, every time she raised the question of when they should stage it, or even where, since Thompson had said that they had moved the recruiting station from the green to the village hall.

It was a Friday morning and the sun was dropping through the windows. Emmeline and Mr Janus were playing out their favourite scene. They hardly needed to practise, but still they were insistent on doing so. Emmeline said it had to be perfect.

My Oberon! what visions have I seen!

Methought I was enamour’d of an ass.

… Come my lord, and in our flight

Tell me how it came this night.

Celia watched them standing there. Mr Janus had opened his mouth but he was not saying the words. He was already holding Emmeline’s hand, and now he clutched it to his heart. The air in the schoolroom was shivering, Celia thought, trembling. She
gazed at Emmeline. Something was going to happen. Mr Janus took up the hand and kissed it. Then he put his other hand out to her sister’s cheek.
No!
Celia thought she should shout, but she did not. Instead, she stood there and watched as he ran his fingers over her sister’s face. Emmeline looked up.

Celia stared, the scarlet velvet limp around her body. She could hear nothing but the drumming of blood in her ears. She did not hear the sound of feet walking smartly up the stairs, of someone coming along the corridor, of a hand grasping the door knob and turning it. ‘What on earth is going on?’

It was Verena. Celia turned and felt her face flush scarlet. Her mother stood there, tall in her long black skirt and white blouse. She was clutching a piece of paper in her hand. ‘What is happening?’ Celia looked back at her sister. Mr Janus had dropped his hands and stepped away. Emmeline was gazing at her mother, her face frozen in horror, the crown awry on her head.

‘Mama,’ she began.

‘No,’ Mr Janus broke in. ‘I must speak. I am responsible. Mrs de Witt, we were rehearsing a play. We were producing
A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
to put on for the village.’

‘Indeed.’

‘We intended to raise money for the war effort.’

Verena folded her arms. ‘And you, Emmeline? I presume you are Titania?’

Emmeline nodded.

‘What role are you playing, Mr Janus?’

‘Oberon.’ He dropped his head, shame-faced.

‘I see. And you, Celia. What is your role in all of this?’

‘I’m acting too.’

‘Really? It rather seems to me that your presence makes it appear as if lessons are going on. Which is some way from the case, is it not?’

Mr Janus opened his mouth and began to speak. Verena held up her hand. ‘Actually, Mr Janus, I do not wish to hear from you. I came up to the room to find Celia. I had looked in Emmeline’s room and found her not there, so I presumed she was in the
garden. I wished to speak to both my daughters to show them this letter.’

Celia felt her heart rise. ‘Michael!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s Michael!’ She jumped forward. ‘Oh, Mama!’

Verena held the letter away. ‘It is indeed from Michael. If you might remember, daughters, he left us to fight. The country is at war. Your father is very concerned for us. But you two – indeed, three – are carrying on as if you are living in some kind of …’ She waved her hand. ‘Photograph!’ she ended triumphantly.

Celia fought to control a flush of laughter at her mother’s choice of words, dipped her head.

‘I am glad you find everything so amusing, Celia. I rather think that all of you are in trouble.’

‘Please may I look at the letter, Mama?’ said Celia. ‘How is he?’ Michael’s words on a piece of paper, so close to her.

‘He is alive and not injured, which is all that counts. Your father thinks they are about to continue their training in France. I will perhaps show you later if you can be better behaved. You can spend the rest of the week in your room. Go now.’

Celia crept away, nodding, casting a look at Mr Janus’s pale face. Verena didn’t watch her go, so she stood quietly at the door.

‘I am very shocked and disappointed, Emmeline. This is not the sort of behaviour I expect from you.’

‘I’m sorry, Mama.’

‘And Mr Janus, I trusted you in our home. My husband trusted you. This is how you have repaid us.’

‘I apologise, madam. It was only a play.’
No!
Celia wanted to cry.
Don’t talk back to her. Just nod and agree.

‘Indeed, only a play. So you tell me. But how do I know this? And how do I know that if I had not arrived when I did, something else might not have happened? You’re fortunate that it was me and not my husband. Now, sir, do you have all your belongings here?’

‘My bag is here. My coat is downstairs.’

‘Very well. You will collect your bag and you will come
downstairs for your coat. My husband will forward to you the rest of the month’s salary. And we will not see you again.’

‘Mama!’ Emmeline cried.

‘I have no interest in what you wish to say, Emmeline. Mr Janus is leaving us.’ She turned. ‘Celia, I told you to go to your room.’

‘But Mama, he rescued—’

‘No doubt he did rescue you, dear. From geometry and comprehension and everything else you were supposed to be doing. Rudolf thought that a man would have a better standard of education. You will be taught by governesses in the future.’

‘No! You don’t understand. He helped—’

‘I understand entirely. Go to your room, Celia. If you succeed in behaving yourself for the rest of the day, I might bring you the letter from Michael. Not that you deserve to see it, having forgotten about your poor brother as you have.’

‘I didn’t!’

‘To your room. Or you won’t see the letter.’

Celia turned and looked at Emmeline. She was standing there on the pile of books that they had used for a stage. Her golden gown was slipping from her shoulders, her crown had fallen to the floor. Two big tears were falling from her eyes. ‘I lose everything I want,’ she said, as if to herself. Celia thought she looked sadder than even Cordelia could, the saddest person in any play in the world. Then Verena slammed the door, pushed Celia towards her room and headed downstairs with Mr Janus.

Dear Ma, Pa, Emmy, Ceels,

We are off to France soon. We are getting plenty to eat, so don’t worry. Have been marching a lot, the people cheer when they see us and the girls wave their handkerchiefs. When we get to France, we will be going down to the trenches and then we will see the enemy. I think we are taking over the trenches from the French. Perhaps they will leave us some cheese and wine about!

We have a few men who used to be doctors, so we will be in good hands!

Everything seems a long way from Stoneythorpe here. I hope you are all well. I miss you. Send me a kiss. All the chaps say we will be back in England before you know it – a couple of months, we think.

Love

Michael

PS Tell Celia to be good!

Celia gazed at the letter in her hands. ‘Is there no more?’ It was the morning after Verena had discovered them all playing Shakespeare. Celia had begged so hard that her mother had relented and allowed her to read the letter. She touched the writing. ‘But it’s so short.’

Verena gave her a sad look. ‘Papa thinks that the men can only write so much. That they are told to keep it short.’

Celia ran her finger over the page. She lifted it close to her nose. She thought she could smell carbolic soap and something like rust. She couldn’t smell Michael. ‘It doesn’t sound like him, Mama.’
Tell Celia to be good!
Was that all he was going to say to her?

‘Papa says that all their letters are read by the War Office, so they make them simple. He supposes that Michael is also kept busy writing letters for the other men who can’t write.’

‘He must be an officer, then.’
Where is Tom?
she wanted to cry out to the letter.
Please tell me.
He might be with Michael, the pair of them polishing their boots. Or he might be miles away. She had thought they were together, imagined them marching side by side. But now where were they?

‘Papa says that if he was an officer, he would have sent us a different sort of letter. He’d be allowed to write a longer one.’

‘When will he be back? Do you really think a couple of months?’

‘So the newspapers say. After all this fuss he’ll never set a toe in France, I expect. Now, Celia, give me the letter. Your father wishes to keep it.’

Celia could not help it. In a moment, her eyes were full of heavy tears. They were streaming down her face.

‘Oh Celia, don’t cry.’ Verena sat down and put her arms around her. ‘Please don’t cry. It will all turn out fine, just wait and see. He’ll come back and swing you around in the garden, just as he did when you were a little girl. The war will be over and everything will be forgotten.’

Celia wept into Verena’s bosom, her tears pooling over her face and on to the dark material of her mother’s bodice. She cried and hiccupped, with Verena stroking her hair, saying soft words, just as she had when Celia was a child, until it felt as if there were no more tears. ‘Why can’t he come back?’ she cried. She meant Tom and Michael in one, both of them

‘Come now, Celia,’ said Verena. ‘Things are not so bad. Michael will be home soon. The war will be over before he boards the boat. Now, I should take this letter to Emmeline, and then return it to Rudolf. You will soon feel better.’

Celia felt her head spinning, sickness rising. ‘Please, Mama. Please can I go outside?’

Verena gazed at her, then nodded her head, smiling. ‘The air will do you good. I am too soft on you, always have been, you
know. After that, you are back to your room, do you understand? I haven’t forgotten what happened – and I won’t.’

‘May I write a letter to Michael?’

‘Of course. We’re all going to write.’

‘How is Emmeline?’ Celia asked tentatively. She had been lying in her room listening, desperately hoping that she would not hear Emmeline’s feet rushing past to the roof once more. She did not know what she would do if she did. Scream and scream, she supposed. ‘Don’t lock me in,’ she had begged Verena, but her mother had been adamant.

‘Your sister is quiet. Well.’

‘You know, Mr Janus really did save us.’

Verena held up her hand. ‘I do not wish to hear it. Stop talking now, Celia, before I reconsider my kind decision to let you go outside.’ She turned, and Celia followed her. It was impossible to know what to say. How could she tell Verena what Emmeline had tried to do? Her mother would despair, and never let either of them out of her sight again. And yet if she knew what he had done, she might invite Mr Janus back.

Celia wandered down the stairs and out into the back garden. She didn’t feel like playing. She didn’t want to go to her little den. She couldn’t go to the stables to see Tom. What she wanted to do, more than anything, was to go to the Cottons’ house, back to his room, lie in his bed and wait for him to return. But she could not. She gazed around. At that moment, she hated the garden, the place where the whole village had humiliated them by not coming to their party.

She wandered out to the side gate, where she knew she should not go. The same gate that Tom and his sister had come through for the party, where she had walked with Michael on the way to the village. She stood out on the front lawn. There was nobody there but her. She sat down on a rock and gazed at her feet. Princesses got stuck in castles, this she knew. How did they while away the time?

‘Celia! Psst! Miss de Witt!’ A voice came from the bushes a little lower down the drive. ‘Celia! Come over here!’

She stood up and peered down the garden. The yellow and pink flowering bushes, Verena’s great pride, were shaking. She could not see who was in there. ‘Who is it?’

‘Just come over here.’ A hand waved from the leaves.

Knowing she shouldn’t, she walked to the bushes. Two branches parted and Mr Janus’s face poked out.

Celia wanted to laugh. ‘What on earth are you doing there?’

‘Crouch down!’ He was waving his hand frantically. ‘Someone might see.’

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said as she sat down. ‘Mama would be angry.’

‘I wanted to ask you something.’ He had a big smudge of dirt on his nose.

Then she really did laugh. ‘You have been down there all this time waiting for me? But what if I had never come out?’

‘I’d have gone to the back garden. I’d have found a way. Miss de Witt, I need you to take this.’ He held out a letter. ‘Give it to Emmeline.’

She stopped laughing. ‘I can’t. Mr Janus, you know I can’t. Mama would never allow it.’

‘This is not about your mother. You must give this to Miss de Witt. It is important.’

She shook her head, feeling it heavy on her shoulders. ‘I really can’t.’

‘You must. Miss de Witt, I cannot emphasise to you how important this is. Your sister’s happiness hangs in the balance. Without this letter, she’ll suffer. And you know what happened last time she suffered?’

‘Yes.’ She could only whisper.

‘Do you want the same to happen again? Remember, I won’t be here this time.’

‘No.’

‘Well, this is what you must do. Take it, and go. I suppose Emmeline is still confined to her room, so it will be easy enough for you to give it to her.’

She nodded.

‘You promise?’

‘Yes.’ She took the letter. ‘What if I read it? I might, you know.’

‘You know you shouldn’t read other people’s letters.’

‘Those historians you were always praising to me went peering into the letters of Henry VII and the rest, didn’t they?’

‘Go on, Celia. Emmeline will be waiting. Hurry. Tell her seven.’

‘I can’t. What if Mama sees me?’

‘You will have to find a way. Remember, your sister needs you to do this. You want her to stay well? You must do it. Now
walk
back, do not run. You must keep the letter on you, do not go straight to her room. Behave as you would normally. Pretend you are in a play.’

‘You’re not teaching me any more.’ But he had gone back into the bush.

Celia walked back to the house, feeling Mr Janus’s eyes upon her. The letter was burning her hand, and she thanked the stars there was no sign of her mother. Inside the corridor by the kitchen, she tore the envelope open. The paper fell into her hands. It was all gobbledegook, like the silly words they had spoken in the middle of the plays. She stared at it, trying to get the better of the code, but could not make out a single word.

Up at Emmeline’s room, she slipped the paper under the door and heard footsteps on the other side. Then, after ten minutes or so had passed, she knocked. ‘Emmeline? Has Mama locked you in?’

‘I think she meant to, but she forgot,’ Emmeline hissed back. She opened the door a crack and ushered Celia in. Her hair was loose around her shoulders. She was smiling.

Celia looked at her pink cheeks, her bright eyes. ‘He said seven. I don’t know what he meant.’

Emmeline bent down and gave her the first unprompted kiss on her cheek that Celia could remember for years. ‘Thank you. Thank you. Tell him “Yes, K Yknn Eqog. Oggv cv Vgp. Until then.” ’

‘No! I’m not going back. Mama will catch me if I do.’

Emmeline’s eyes glittered. ‘You have to. You’ve taken one letter. You’re already in this.’

Celia gazed miserably at the paper. She’d started now, she had
wound herself into this thing and she could not get out. ‘I can’t remember that.’

‘You will. Repeat it to me.’

Celia tried a few times, and failed.

‘Come on, Celia, get it right.’

Finally, after two more attempts, she had it to Emmeline’s satisfaction.

‘That’s not bad. Now, when you say it, start with a “Yes”. Tell him “Yes”, and then these words. You understand?’

Celia nodded. ‘I am not taking any more messages between you, you know.’

Emmeline put her arms around her and held her close. ‘It is kind of you, Celia. You know I am grateful. I am your sister, always will be. My dearest little Celia.’

Celia wanted to wriggle out of her embrace.
I’m only four years younger than you!
But she held still, unsure about what Emmeline would do next.

‘I remember when you were first born. Papa let me look at you in the crib when Mother was ill. He said I wasn’t allowed to touch you, but he let me look at you. I thought I had never seen anything so small. Papa said I had been a baby once too, but I could not believe it.’ She patted Celia on the back. ‘You should go now. Mr Janus will be waiting. But don’t forget it. You are my precious sister.’

Celia hurried down the stairs, reciting the words to herself, over and over.
Yes
,
K Yknn.
She didn’t look around with much caution as she walked out into the garden and around to the bush.

‘Well?’ he said, peering through the leaves. ‘I’ve been waiting.’

‘I don’t have a letter. She sent me with a message. She said, “Yes, K Yknn Eqog. Oggv cv Vgp. Until then.” ’

He listened gravely, nodded. ‘Thank you, Miss de Witt.’

Celia stared at him. She had hurried through the house and dared to go past her parents, and all he could do was nod, as if she was reading out an essay about George III.

‘I am not taking a message back, you know. I’ve done enough.’

‘I understand. Instead, just say it to me one more time.’

She repeated it. He smiled.

‘I’ll go now.’ Celia felt rather confused. She had expected him to fall on her, beg her not to stop taking messages. But he was just sitting in the bush, smiling. Still, she thought, reminding herself of the phrase that Rudolf liked: do not look a gift horse in the mouth. She was spared from carrying any more letters. ‘Goodbye, Mr Janus.’

She did not knock on Emmeline’s door. Instead she arrived back to find Miss Wilton waiting for her. ‘Where have you been? Time to arrange your hair for dinner, miss.’

‘But I am not supposed to be allowed to dinner.’

‘Mrs de Witt has changed her mind. You may come down, she says. Miss Emmeline too.’

But Emmeline was not at dinner – Jennie came through with the word that she had a headache. Celia played with her broccoli on her fork and felt sad for her sister. She must be sitting up there thinking about how she would miss Mr Janus, how she would never see him again. After dinner, she went up to knock on Emmeline’s door. ‘Sister?’ she said. ‘I wanted to see how you were.’

There was no answer. She tried again, then walked away. Maybe Emmeline was asleep. In the last of the light, she sat down to write her letter to Michael, feeling a little guilty that she had been distracted by Mr Janus and had not written before.

Dear Michael,

We were glad to get your letter. I miss you very much. Not much is happening here. I’m glad Papa managed to keep the horses but I think he misses the car. It is hot and I have been reading. How is it where you are? What can you see?

She forced herself to keep writing, sending questions, telling him about her day. Then she folded up the letter, ready to give to Smithson to post. She went once more to Emmeline’s room, but there was still no answer.

That night, Celia did not sleep well. There were odd pictures in her mind, tormenting her and running through her head: a monster chasing her around what felt like a maze, an old man who came up to her and told her he was dying. When she woke next morning, her head hurt.

She went to Emmeline’s room again. No answer. A wave of sadness swept over her. ‘I will take another letter if you like,’ she said at the door. ‘I am sorry for saying I wouldn’t. I don’t mind really.’ Still there was no answer. Poor Emmeline, Celia thought, two things taken away from her.

Verena had lifted the curfew, so she was free, but there was nothing to do. She wandered downstairs to talk to Jennie, but she was busy polishing the candlesticks and told Celia she was just getting in her way.

‘I can’t think of anything to do,’ she said dolefully to Smithson when she gave him her letter for Michael.

‘Of course you can, miss. What about embroidery?’

‘Very funny. You know I hate it. I’m tired of books.’

‘Well then, you’re clearly missing Mr Janus. If he’s not here, you should educate yourself. That is what I think. Go and learn some geography.’

‘Why is nothing interesting?’