his awkward attempt to comfort her – ‘he’s got to do his bit. But as a mother it’s so … well, you understand, of course. With your Donald.’
Reverend Chichester had smiled grimly and nodded. When his son had left, his parishioners assumed that he had gone off to fight like all the rest. It was an impression his father had done nothing to dispel. It wasn’t a lie, not at first, but it had taken root and grown to the point where his silence screamed of falsehood. But what was he to do? Admit the truth and lose the respect of all the Mrs Parnells in his congregation, just at the time they needed him most?
Or lose his self-respect, by admitting that every time he looked at his son he was reminded of Jennie and everything he had lost, and acknowledging that, in spite of a lifetime of faith and duty, he still couldn’t cope? He’d spent three years in a tunic constantly spattered with blood and he’d survived, yet inside he felt … a coward. Which is why the word had sprung so easily to his lips and been hurled at his only son.
‘Our young men are like the Apostles,’ he told them. ‘Sent out to follow in the footsteps of Our Lord and to cleanse the world from sin. May the Holy Spirit be with them, too.’
A chorus of ‘amens’ rippled through the congregation. The sun shone through the south windows into the nave, filling the church with warmth and comfort. He hoped it was an omen.
‘And let us take the words of Our Lord as our message today, when he said: “I am going away and I am coming back to you.” Coming back to you. Jesus passed through many trials and tribulations, but he came back to us – as we pray with all our hearts that our loved ones shall. May the Holy Spirit be with them, to bring them courage in all they do and victory in their task. May the Lord comfort them, keep them in His care and deliver them from evil, for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory …’
As he offered the sign of the cross and bade his flock to stand for the next hymn, his mind went back to the map on the board. He’d noticed there were no battle fronts or lines of trenches marked on it, not like last time, just the outline of a chunk of northern France and Belgium. But that was understandable, he decided. The Reverend Chichester, like so many others, concluded that the BEF was probably advancing too fast for the cartographers to keep up.
The morning had burst forth most gloriously, filled with birdsong and with the aroma of fresh spring grass still carried on the breeze. The clouds stood high and like gauze – an excellent day for cricket, Don thought, or some other game the Germans were no good at.
The old brewery in which the 6th had landed turned out to be rancid, full of pigeons and other pestilence. The task of transforming it into a Casualty Clearing Station was Herculean, and to be finished by the end of the day, they were instructed. They set about their labours with hoses and mops, encouraged by both the barks of their NCOs and the strengthening sun, while around them the local inhabitants carried on with their lives as they had always done: the milk was delivered, post collected, the children sent off to school as if war were no more than a distant rumour. And so it seemed. As the day drew on the men in Don’s unit began to relax; there had still been no sign of the enemy. Perhaps Hitler had thought better of the whole idea.
The news was brought to them while they paused for their first brew of the afternoon.
‘Right, then,’ the sergeant announced. ‘Pack it all up again. We’re moving.’
‘Where?’
‘Back.’
‘But, Sarge, I don’t understand, we only just got here …’
‘If you had been meant to understand, matey, God would have made you a general instead of a bleedin’ nursing orderly. So let’s just agree in this instance that the Almighty knows a half-sight more than you and jump to it. We move out. In an hour.’
‘We haven’t had a single casualty,’ Don complained, bemused.
‘And you’ll be the first, Private, if you don’t get off your backside …’
A wasted day. Grand Old Duke of York stuff. Yet Don found consolation. The fresh orders suggested there was an alternative plan. They were moving back towards the defensive positions they’d spent so long constructing. That had to make sense, so Don told the others. Only problem was, it seemed to involve so many filing cabinets once again.
The two men met in the middle of the huge walled garden. One bowed, they shook hands.
‘I must confess that I have been lying in wait for you, Edward.’
‘Then it is my turn to confess, sir, and tell you that I fear I’ve been avoiding you.’
They walked on, casting long evening shadows on the lawn, taking in the false sweetness of that spring. They were the two most respected men in the country, yet both victims of their birth. One was King, the other the most influential of aristocrats, and between them they represented all the powers and privileges that had kept the kingdom undiminished for a thousand years. Now it might not see out the summer.
‘Why have you been avoiding me, Edward?’
‘Because I fear I have let you down.’
‘Perhaps you have let yourself down.’
‘I fear that, too.’
King George VI walked on in silence with Edward, the Third Viscount Halifax, at his side. The two men were far more than monarch and Foreign Minister. There was an intimacy between them, a deep friendship that extended far beyond their formal roles. They and their families dined together, went to the theatre together, sometimes prayed together, down on their knees, side by side, and Halifax had been given a key to the gardens of Buckingham Palace for his own private recreation. Two days earlier he’d also been given the opportunity of becoming Prime Minister, and only because of his own overwhelming reluctance had the office been handed to Winston Churchill. Now, as they walked, Halifax’s tall, angular frame was bent low, like a penitent. A flight of ducks flew noisily above their heads, wheeling sharply in formation before crashing into the lake, where they began a noisy confrontation with the birds they had disturbed.
‘The ducks rather remind me,’ Halifax began tentatively, anxious to avoid the King’s questions, ‘of those poor Dutch ministers.’
‘The Dutch? Tell me, I’ve heard nothing,’ the King insisted anxiously. He was always concerned about keeping up with information; he found his job wretched enough without having to do it in the dark.
‘They were flying from Holland yesterday when they were intercepted by German fighters. They made it through, but badly damaged. Forced to ditch in the sea off Brighton. And that’s where the most dangerous part of their enterprise began. They managed to swim and stumble ashore and had just fallen exhausted upon the sand, when they were surrounded by a suspicious mob and arrested by the constabulary on suspicion of being enemy spies.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Desperately so. By the time they arrived in my office they were in a terrible state. I told them they had set a splendid example, and were clearly invincible.’
‘What did they want?’
‘Oh, an army.’
‘Pity. Brave souls.’
‘I’ve just seen their ambassador – you know him I think, van Verduynen. Assured me that the Dutch will resist with the same stubbornness and perseverance they have always shown.’
‘Without an army,’ the King added softly.
‘The Belgian ambassador assures me of victory. Says they are ten times stronger than in 1914.’
‘And they have our prayers.’
‘Not forgetting our own Expeditionary Force,’ Halifax added a trifle too quickly, missing the irony.
The conversation was proving difficult, and at first Halifax was relieved when they were diverted by the arrival of the Queen, Elizabeth. Halifax responded to her warm smile by kissing her hand and enquiring