Charles led Diedre toward the nave where they stood waiting. She could smell the old familiar church fustiness, the dampness embedded in the ancient stone walls, but the mustiness was not too strong this afternoon, probably since Harry had filled the church with marvelous displays of flowers placed everywhere. Because it was a chilly winter’s day, the freestanding heaters had been placed around the church, and the atmosphere was warm and welcoming.
Diedre was glad it was a clear, sunny day. Bright sunlight poured in through the many high, stained-glass windows, filling the church with shafts of rainbow hues. Her gaze rested for a moment on those windows, which depicted her ancestors in their armorial bearings, warriors all.
The church had been built at the same time as Cavendon Hall, and the first Inghams had worshipped here, just as she had as a child. Generations of us, she thought.
She was one of many Ingham brides who had gone before, and that was the reason she was glad to be having a small wedding so she could be married here. The church was much more intimate and meaningful than the larger village church in Little Skell. Here it reeked of family history, the past, their heritage … and the future.
Mrs. Parkington was still the organist, and she was playing “O Perfect Love,” filling the church with music to the rafters. But Diedre could hear odd little noises around her … the rustling of clothes, coughs, whispers, shuffling of feet … she blocked everything out, her thoughts drifting.
Paul came into her mind, and for a moment she focused on him. He had a special place in her heart, would always be there deep inside her. She knew he would want this for her, and for Robin. Someone to love them, take care of them. A good man like William Lawson, who had already proved he would be a good husband, and a loving father to Robin.
The sudden loud commencement of the wedding march made Diedre jump, and she glanced at her father, looking startled. He whispered, “Mrs. P likes to do that … it shakes up the bride.”
Patting her hand, her father stepped forward and so did she. They walked down the aisle, arm in arm and in step, staring straight ahead.
They came to a standstill at the altar, where William was waiting for them with his brother, Ambrose, who was his best man.
When her father handed her over to William and stepped back, she looked at her groom and smiled, and he smiled back, and Diedre felt a sudden sense of peace, of contentment.
* * *
Following local tradition, the villagers from Little Skell, High Clough, and Mowbray were gathered outside the church, cheering them, wishing them much happiness, a good life together, and showering them with confetti and rose petals. Diedre and William walked down the path, smiling, waving, thanking them, and a few moments later, they had crossed the stable block and were opening the door to Cavendon Hall.
The large entrance hall was still, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock. William put his arms around Diedre and held her close; they kissed, then stood apart.
He gazed at her. “You’re my wife … that’s so hard to believe.”
“Believe it,” she murmured. “You’re stuck with me now.”
“With very strong glue, I can tell you that,” he answered with a laugh.
“Come on. Miles told me we should go down to the pale green drawing room in the South Wing. He and Ceci will be meeting us there in a few minutes with the photographer.”
“It’s awfully quiet,” William remarked as they went along the winding corridors.
“Because the entire staff attended the wedding. But they’ll be back here soon, take my word for it.”
The pale green sitting room was empty, and as they moved across the floor to the area where the chairs had been placed, William stopped suddenly, looked at Diedre.
“Are you sure you still want to go to Paris? Spend our honeymoon there?”
“I do, yes.”
William nodded. “So be it, darling. Anyway, I love Paris. And this might be our very last chance to visit the City of Light. Before holy hell breaks out.”
Miles and Cecily arrived with the photographer and his assistant, and a few moments after that the families came wandering in.
“I hope this won’t be an endless session,” Diedre said to Miles quietly.
“I’ll make sure it isn’t,” her brother answered. “Leave it to me.”
Part Two
WOMEN & WAR
1939–1945
AGAINST ALL ODDS
We shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.
—Winston Churchill “Speech to the House of Commons, June 4, 1940”
Forty-six
Alice Swann went down to the cellar to collect some of the jams and bottled fruit and vegetables stored on the shelves there. She went straight to the bottles which were labeled June 1939, and filled her basket with various items.
After returning to the kitchen, and lining them up, she shook her head in disbelief. How the year had flown. It was now May 1940, and she still had a bit of the old stock left. But like everyone else in the country she was very careful with food these days.
There were many shortages of produce because there were no imports coming in from abroad. They all had to live on what they could grow on the land and make here in Great Britain.
Alice sighed under her breath as she wiped the jars with a damp cloth. They had been at war with Germany since September 3, 1939, almost a year ago now, and nothing much had happened. They had gone on doggedly, doing their daily chores and countless other things as well, listening to the wireless and reading newspapers, exchanging information with each other. Now everyone was calling it the Phony War, and it seemed to be an apt name to Alice.
A week after war had been declared the government had issued ration books for food; they had been well prepared, had seen this coming for a long time. Everyone had a ration book, including children, and every type of food was rationed. Except for fish. Fortunately, they lived on an island, and fish was still being caught on a daily basis. For the moment. God forbid there was ever a shortage. It was their one true staple. The saying was there were nine ways to skin a cat; Alice had twelve ways to cook fish and make it taste different.
Clothes were rationed; they had coupon books to buy them; petrol was rationed, and coal, and just about everything else. Every woman in the three villages had more than one job. They ran their homes, looked after their children, cooked meals, and also made jam. Lady Denman and the National Federation of the WI in London had been well aware of trouble coming long before the declaration of war, as early as 1935, and so they were ahead of some of the other women’s organizations in their planning.
So was Charlotte. It was she who made the production of jam in the villages much more professional. In the summer of 1939 there was a glut of fruit. She bought two canning machines, and Cecily bought two more, so that the women of their WI no longer needed to borrow the canning machine from the Harrogate WI.
Five women from Little Skell and High Clough were soon experts, and one of them even invented the best way to cool the hot cans. Gladys Miller had a large tin bathtub brought to the village hall, where the canning was done. It was filled with buckets of cold water; the hot cans were first laid on a large sheet, and then four women picked up the corners and placed the sheet holding the cans in the tub. Once cool, the cans were removed. Several days later they were labeled and sold.
Alice and Charlotte were very proud of their jam-making success, as were other women who were members of the WIs all over England. Eventually, Lord Woolton, the Minister of Food, told Lady Denman he was going to model a nationwide government-sponsored enterprise on the jam-making process created by the Women’s Institutes. Be
cause sugar was rationed by then, the government gave it to the WIs across the country for their national jam-making endeavors.
Placing the bottles of jam and bottled fruit and vegetables in her shopping basket again, Alice picked it up and left the house.
She crossed the main street in Little Skell, and a moment later she was knocking on the door of Charlotte’s House and walking inside.
Paloma came hurrying to meet her, and embraced her, kissed her cheek. “Right on time,” she whispered. She then indicated the cradle. Unable to resist, Alice put the shopping basket on the floor and went to look at her grandson. He was fast asleep, one fat little hand curled up against his pink cheek.
Alice smiled at Paloma and nodded, her love shining in her eyes. He was already one year old. Two weeks ago, on May 10, he had celebrated his first birthday. Alice would always think of that particular birthday as very auspicious, since it was the same day Winston Churchill had walked into 10 Downing Street as prime minister. She would never forget May 10, 1940, for that reason.
Paloma said softly, in a low tone, “I’ve made a pot of tea for you, and the tray’s over there. With a little treat, some Cadbury’s chocolate fingers, no less. Hard to get these days.”
“Thank you, love,” Alice said, and watched Paloma as she glided across the room, out through the French doors, and into the garden. She was going to the old hut at the far end of the lawn, which Harry had enlarged so that she could use it as a darkroom for developing her film. For the time being her favorite subject was a little boy: Edward Walter Swann, named for his two grandfathers.
* * *
Despite the war, the worry of it all, the hard work they were doing, and the dismal future ahead, Alice always felt a little rush of happiness when she came into this house. Paloma had made it beautiful, but that was not the reason her mood became lighthearted.
It was because of Paloma, who had changed Harry’s life, and therefore hers and Walter’s as well. They both loved his young wife. Not only because she was beautiful and wellborn, but because she was a sincere and genuine young woman, who adored their son and made him happy.
There was a calmness and serenity about Paloma. She was kind, and also clever and intelligent. Alice Swann knew deep down inside that she would always be true and loyal to Harry, a good wife, and a good mother.
Paloma was a blessing, and she had come into Harry’s life at exactly the right moment. And the baby had been born at the right moment. Alice felt certain that there would be more children, and Harry would have the large family he had always longed for. Paloma would keep Harry safe.
She sighed to herself, her mind suddenly going to the war. The British Expeditionary Force had gone to France, to help them fight the Germans, who were advancing rapidly across the country. All of the young men in the three villages had been called up. The ages of conscription for men were from eighteen to forty-one, married men exempt. For the moment. Alice knew only too well that as a war progressed more men were killed … and more men were wanted.
Charlie, Lady Daphne’s son, had been called up and so had his best friend, Kenny Bourne, the son of Evelyne and Tommy. Kenny was one of Cecily’s scholarship students, and had been at Oxford with Charlie. They were both twenty-two, just boys really.
Harry was forty-two and Miles was forty-one, and they wouldn’t be going yet, if at all. They were married men, and also they ran an agricultural estate, and were exempt, had reserved occupations. Therefore they might not have to go and fight at all. She prayed that would be so.
A slight rustling noise made Alice turn her head. Much to her surprise she saw Evelyne standing in the doorway of the living room. She looked so upset, Alice immediately rose and went to her.
Taking hold of her arm, she said in a whisper, “The baby’s sleeping, let’s go outside.” As she spoke she led Evelyne through the entrance foyer and into the small front garden.
“Whatever’s wrong?” Alice asked. “You look as if you’ve had some sort of shock.”
“I heard something. When I was in Harrogate earlier today … that all our boys are stranded on the beaches of France. And they’re going to die there. They’ll be killed by the Germans!”
“I think that’s an exaggeration if ever there was one,” Alice said in a soothing voice. “It’s true the BEF has had a tough job of it, and they are retreating to the French coastline, but our boys will be rescued.”
“But that’s not what I heard,” Evelyne mumbled, pushing back tears.
“I don’t care what you’ve heard,” Alice said in a confident voice. “Winston Churchill is now prime minister. He’s not going to let any of us down. We are in safe hands. Have a bit of faith, love. He’ll save our boys.”
Evelyne leaned against the door. “I’m sorry, Alice, I don’t mean to upset you. It’s just that I’m so worried … I worry about Kenny and Charlie … Lady Daphne must be heartsick, too. Charlie’s over there as you well know. In the midst of the fighting with my Kenny.”
“They’ll be brought home safe,” Alice said in a strong voice, wishing to reassure her friend. And in actual fact she did believe that … because long ago she had put her trust in Winston Churchill. She believed, and without the slightest doubt, that he was the leader they needed to win the war. The leader the world needed … to save civilization.
Forty-seven
Deep in the bowels of the earth, in the many secret tunnels beneath Dover Castle, there was always constant activity. Built into the white chalk of the famous White Cliffs of Dover, the tunnels were, in fact, bunkers to house officers and men who were there to defend Great Britain, the Straits of Dover, and the English Channel.
They had been carved out and constructed at the behest of Winston Churchill, and they housed gun battery teams to pound Nazi ships if they entered the Channel, sink submarines, and whatever other dangerous weapons came in sight.
Vice Admiral Bertram Ramsay, the flag officer in Dover, was in charge, and it was from there that he was currently directing the evacuation of French and English soldiers stranded on the beaches of Dunkirk. It was May 24, 1940.
One of the senior officers was Commodore Edgar Jollion. He was there at the request of Vice Admiral Ramsay, who was well aware of his fine reputation. Plus his enormous knowledge of the French coastline, the ins and outs of it, and its peculiarities. Jollion also was an expert on the English Channel and the Atlantic Ocean in these areas.
Taking a sip of his tea, the commodore sat back, thinking about his luck at being where he was at this moment. He had arrived in March of 1940 to work with Ramsay in defending the English Channel. With his new position had come a promotion.
In 1938, when he had taken over his new ship, which was not a new ship except to him, he had been made a captain. But within a year the ship was sent back into dry dock to have its engines checked, among other things. No ship. No job. He had to be assigned to a new vessel, and was impatient to get one.
Not long after this, he was offered the job to work with the vice admiral, and unexpectedly, there was another promotion … commodore, just one step below rear admiral. And he loved the job he had now. When the disaster of Dunkirk occurred, Vice Admiral Ramsay was immediately put in charge of the evacuation. Its code name: Operation Dynamo. Commodore Jollion was a big part of it.
Edgar, a career naval officer, loved the sea and being a sailor, but he was highly patriotic, and rescuing their soldiers, many of them the same age as his son, was a rewarding mission.
His son, Noel, was as patriotic as he was, all the Jollions were. Noel was now in the Royal Air Force, a fighter pilot flying Spitfires, bombing the advancing German army in France. His squadron was based at Biggin Hill, just outside London, and whenever he got a bit of leave he went to London to stay with Edgar’s sister, Adrianna Bellamy. She had joined the Red Cross, and so had her daughter Claudia.
His wife had her hands full running Burnside Manor, especially since most of the younger men who worked on their land had gone off to fight, or had taken j
obs in munitions factories. But their wives had helped to fill the gap, helped to work the allotments, the vegetable and herb gardens at Burnside. The latter had become important to the Ministry of Agriculture, who sought all manner of herbs for medicines. And the food they produced was vital. The shops were empty these days.
Phoebe came into his mind, and he suddenly realized he had forgotten to write to his sister about evacuating Phoebe and her siblings to Burnside. They would be much safer there, once the invasion started. And start it would.
Thousands of English children had already been evacuated, taken out of the towns and cities and relocated to rural areas. He knew from his niece Paloma that evacuees had started to arrive in Little Skell village, High Clough, and Mowbray, and had apparently settled in nicely. Although that wasn’t always the case. Some were horribly homesick.
Lovely Paloma, who had given him his first great-nephew. Her marriage to Harry Swann had pleased him no end; Harry was the salt of the earth.
Edgar stood up, stretched his legs, and decided to take a walk around some of the tunnels. It was his way of keeping fit at the moment. Leaving his office, he strolled down a long corridor, which led to the wireless room. The interconnecting tunnels, all thirty-five hundred square feet of them, were reinforced with iron girders and metal sheeting. In a way, it was like a small town, with dormitories, bathrooms, kitchens, and mess rooms. Not too bad at all, under the circumstances. And the work they were doing was crucial. It was imperative that they rescue as many men as possible; soldiers were needed to protect the country. Edgar had been startled to discover what a small army the British had, and an even smaller air force. Only the Royal Navy was large, well equipped, and in total order. But then they were an island race, their navy had been their secret weapon for centuries. Not so secret, he thought, smiling to himself, and thinking of Horatio Nelson.
He was just about to turn around and go back to his office when he heard his name being called. He looked over his shoulder. It was one of the ensigns from the wireless room, who hurried toward him, explaining, “I was coming to see you, Commodore. This message has just come in.”