Winter Roses Read Online Free PDF

life—
    Margaret Dibble, what are you saying? She was horrified at herself. This was treason, and her Joe had told her all about what happened to traitors. His battalion had been on guard duty at the Tower of London when thatevil German spy Hans Lody was executed at the end of 1914, so he could speak with authority on the subject. She, Margaret Dibble, might be rowed up to Traitors’ Gate just like Sir Walter Raleigh, poor gentleman.
    She began to cut the neglected boiled pudding into slices to pop under the roast mutton. This was the Lord’s work, and the Lord couldn’t have a very high opinion of Mrs Margaret Dibble at the moment. She hastened to make amends, guiltily aware that because of her dallying there would be no vanilla custard with the tart today.
    ‘Time, like an ever-rolling stream …’ Her voice rose up in defiance of everything and everyone who dared attack the citadel which Margaret Dibble had built for her family within the sheltering walls of the Rectory.
     
    Caroline, running up the garden path, heard it and was reassured. If Mrs Dibble was still singing hymns, then even the calamity she had to impart to Mother might be surmounted. She found her mother in the glory-hole, the outbuilding she had taken over in order to work as far away as possible from Grandmother. Here, with a small paraffin stove for warmth in the winter, Mother presided over her office, helping Caroline with the farm rotas, and packing endless parcels of books, old clothes, cooking utensils and blankets for the village war relief committees. The Rectory was a collection point. Seeing the box in the entrance hall, parishioners at the daily Rector’s Hour were reminded that there were people far worse off in the world than they were, and a surprising amount of material, despite the continuous call for it in the last two years, was donated.
    ‘Mother, have you heard what Grandmother has done?’
    Elizabeth promptly dropped the burning sealing wax as Caroline burst in, and they scrabbled on the floor to retrieve it, banging their heads together in the process.
    ‘What now?’ her mother asked wearily, as she extinguished the flame. ‘I thought she was being too quiet.’
    Grandmother had lost the battle for the flower festival. Lady Hunney had graciously intimated to her that the idea of extending the festival to vegetables and fruit was a most patriotic one, and that she had spoken (she could strike like a snake when she wished) to the organisers. Two new silver cups, engraved with the Ashden Manor crest, were to be presented to the winners of the vegetables and fruit by herself and the judge was to be a friend of her husband’s from the Board of Agriculture.
    Grandmother had been sensible enough to realise she was beaten, and since then she had been very quiet indeed. A sign of trouble, Caroline thought ruefully, if only they had taken note of it earlier. As it was, the festival was only just over two weeks away at the end of July, and nothing could be done. At least, she amended crossly, not by anyone other than Grandmother.
    ‘It’s too awful. She’s—’
    ‘Arranged for Lady Hunney to break her leg?’ Elizabeth enquired.
    ‘If only it were so simple,’ Caroline grimaced. ‘She’s stepped in to organise the Sunday School treat. Goodness knows how she’s wangled it, but she’s paying for everyone to go to the seaside in motor charabancs for the day with luncheon and tea paid for too.’
    ‘What’s wrong about that?’
    ‘It’s for the same day as the flower festival, Saturday 29th.’
    ‘What?’ her mother screeched. ‘You must be mistaken, Caroline. Even she wouldn’t—’
    ‘I wish I was, but Mr Bertram told me. He should know, he’s the organiser of the festival, and Mrs Bertram is the head of the Sunday School. What’s worse,’ Caroline added gloomily, ‘he said Rector had agreed.’
    ‘Laurence has agreed?’ Elizabeth repeated faintly. ‘Has he gone mad?’
    ‘I don’t know, but if not