Songs of Spring Read Online Free PDF Page B

eighteen months ago. He’d seen she was all right for money and written regularly, but the letters didn’t arrive the same way. They came in bunches, and they hadn’t heard from him in months. Margaret fixed on the immediate puzzle. ‘How do you know about Frank, Miss Penelope?’
    ‘I was a nurse on the hospital ship that brought him back from the Mediterranean. He was part of Allenby’s army.’
    Now that was a name Mrs Dibble knew well – everyone did. Two weeks ago General Lord Allenby had marched triumphantly into Jerusalem, where he had given a speech in every language under the sun to make sure this was a happy day for everyone – especially Jerusalem. It was the first success the British army had had for goodness knew how long, and it was fitting, Rector said, that at this time of year it was Jerusalem to be freed from occupation by the Central Powers and Turks.
    ‘Frank’s a fine man, Mrs Dibble,’ Penelope continued. ‘I came to know him quite well after we discovered we had Kent and Ashden in common.’
    Before the war Miss Penelope wouldn’t have had a chance to chat to Frank Eliot, even if she’d wanted to. He had been manager of the hop garden for the Swinford-Brownes, and being a foreigner to the village he’d always been regarded with suspicion. It’s not that Miss Penelope would have thought him out of her class, but that their social circles would never have collided. War was a funny thing.
    ‘How is he?’ Conflicting emotions battled within her. She had grudgingly come to like Frank after Lizzie moved in with him without the benefit of the Lord’s blessing, but Lizzie had to remember she was still married to Rudolf, German or not. He’d left at the beginning of the war, and they’d heard that he was still alive.
    ‘He’s improving, I’m glad to say, but he needs a few more weeks in hospital.’
    Well, Lizzie would have some good news for Christmas after all, for surely they wouldn’t send Frank back to the wars at his age, having been so ill? He must be nearly forty, if not over. Then she remembered what they had done to Fred, and misery overwhelmed her again. They could do anything they chose.
    After Penelope had left, Margaret decided to have that cup of tea after all – to get over the shock, if nothing else. Not that you could call it tea nowadays it was so weak, more like water bewitched, as her mother used to say. Perhaps, she thought as the kettle boiled, she would go to church this evening after all, just to please Rector and Percy. Even the turkey and capon stuffing looked much more interesting, even if it was mostly oatmeal and herbs. Unbidden, she suddenly found herself first humming, then singing: ‘Jerusalem! … Jerusalem! …’
     
    ‘Mrs Dibble’s singing!’ Caroline went to the drawing-room door to make sure of her facts, and returned contentedly to Yves.
    ‘She has not the most tuneful of voices.’
    ‘It’s dreadful, but that’s not the point! It’s that she hasn’t sung since Fred died.’
    ‘I understand now.’ Yves crossed to sit beside her on the Chesterfield. ‘Caroline, I should not attend Mass at St Nicholas this evening.’
    ‘Because of your being a Roman Catholic?’
    ‘No, because of you. I should not take communion without telling your father how things are between us.’
    ‘We’ve discussed that,’ Caroline said gently. ‘What’s thepoint of hurting them unnecessarily when we don’t know how long we’ll be together?’
    ‘It worries me.’
    ‘Please come.’
    Reluctantly he agreed, to her great relief. St Nicholas and midnight Mass were Christmas. Within the timelessness of its thick, grey walls, the meaning of Christmas, even in these dark days of war, came home, and how could she bear it if Yves were not at her side?
    Late that evening, in the familiarity of the scene of the villagers walking along the path to the church, each clutching a candle or torch because of the blackout, it was hard to think of the suffering of the