Dark Harvest by Amy Myers Page B

their blight on the table and the Hunneys had been absent. This year Reggie would still be absent; could she bear to see the others without him? Sir John might or might not be there depending on his work at the War Office which, now the spring offensive had taken place, was heavy.
    Although the newspapers had been told, and had duly reported, that Neuve Chapelle had been a success, when the casualty lists began slowly to appear, the extent of the carnage revealed itself. Thousand upon thousand of men lost. Men like Anthony Wilding, Robert’s Wimbledon hero. Men like Johnnie Hay, the midwife’s son, with freckled face and bright red cheeks, who should be whistling in the general stores, not lying dead in France. Nor had the offensive been the success claimed. A breakthrough sweep on to Lille had been the objective, not flattening one small village, however gallant the efforts had been in taking it.
    There had been an outcry against the misinformation given to the newspapers by the Government. Surely from now on the truth would be told? Reggie could so nearly have been on the appalling Roll of Honour of fallen officers, but she had received a letter ten days ago assuring her all was well. The 2nd Sussex had been in close reserve but had not taken part. But when would the next offensive be, for he would surely be involved in that? She made an effort to concentrate on Easter.
    Isabel would be at luncheon, no Robert though. No Felicia. Only Lady Hunney, Daniel and Eleanor and, thankfully, not the Swinford-Brownes. Even Mrs Dibble’s lamb followed by her primrose pie could not have compensated for that. Thinking of Mrs Dibble reminded her of last night. She had been in the kitchen when Eleanor arrived at the door, still in her working boots which she carefully removed before entering. This had revealed to Mrs Dibble the horror of trousers underneath Eleanor’s long overall.
    ‘And who do you think you are, Miss Eleanor?’ she had asked. ‘The Empress of China?’
    Eleanor laughed. ‘Just being practical, Mrs Dibble.’ They had always got on well. As a child Eleanor had frequently taken refuge in the Rectory kitchen and would beg to be allowed to help, to stir, to do anything. At home this was strictly forbidden.
    ‘’Tis a man’s job being a vet.’
    ‘But there are not enough men left to do them all, Mrs Dibble. Besides, I’m good at it.’
    Caroline had rescued her friend and borne her off to her bedroom. ‘How are you getting on?’
    Eleanor made a face. ‘Slowly. I’m trained to give first aid to people, not animals, but I’m learning. Martin’s a good teacher. I delivered a breech birth calf the other day.’
    ‘Well done!’ Caroline detected a slight flush on Eleanor’s cheeks when she spoke of Martin Cuss, the vet. Caroline had always thought of him as rather awkward and uninspiring.
    ‘How’s your mother adapting to your being a vet?’
    ‘Adapt? The Forth Bridge bends more easily. She ignores it. Short of asking me to leave home, there’s nothing else she can do.’
    ‘You can always come here.’
    ‘Thank you. I would, but there’s Daniel, you see. Mother would drive him mad if I left. No, she doesn’t refer to what I do and nor do I. The arrangement works very well.’
    ‘Perhaps it will work like that for me.’
    ‘I doubt it.’ Eleanor was frank. ‘She still seems adamant that you’ll ruin Reggie’s life.’
    ‘I may ruin her plans for Reggie’s life, yes.’ She felt hurt.
    ‘I suspect that’s what she senses.’
    ‘What could I do to improve matters?’ Caroline forced a laugh. ‘Short of typing for the concert committee.’
    ‘Be very careful with your farm labour scheme.’
    ‘Why?’ Caroline was indignant.
    ‘She says it’s unsuitable.’
    ‘Has she written to Reggie with her views?’
    ‘Only very generally, I think. She may be biding her time.’
    Caroline shrugged, though she did not feel at all nonchalant. ‘I can’t do my work with one eye on what your mother