Free Dark Harvest by Amy Myers

Germans in this field single-handed.
    Caroline stood upright to rest her aching back, glanced at her wristwatch (a present from Reggie at Christmas), and realised with pleasure it was time for lunch. Sometimes she brought sandwiches, but with Agnes’s baby already overdue—it had been due last weekend, the 2nd May, and now it was Saturday—she wanted to be at the Rectory as much as she could. How busy they all were! Even Mother. Caroline felt somewhat conscience-stricken at how much time her mother was having to spend out of the Rectory, chasing women who had been ‘thinking it over’, and altering rotas after last-minute changes of plan owing to the fickle weather which obstinately ignored the fact that it was spring and remained cold and grey.
    Father also spent much more of his time out in the village. As well as the sick, the elderly and the bereaved, the war had brought practical problems of how to survive when old meansof livelihood were threatened and new ways seemed slow to appear. There were far too many problems to deal with in Rector’s Hour. Some of the villagers were, in any case, too proud to attend such a relatively public parade of their troubles, but could be persuaded to respond to a personal visit.
    Caroline jabbed at a recalcitrant clump of scarlet pimpernel, aware that she was still frustrated to be here while Reggie was facing such terrible horrors on the Western Front. She knew there were two faces to this war, the one put over in the newspapers, full of successes and gallant heroes, and the one she had seen during her VAD work at Dover, which manifested itself in mangled, gangrenous limbs and now, after the terrible use by the Germans of gas at Ypres, eaten-away lungs.
    She poked another clump. This was no time for despondency. If every woman added her pile of weeds, yes, it would help, for every job done by a woman would free a man for the front. That was the message being put over by the suffragette movement now. Yet so far little seemed to be coming of the Government’s register of women willing to work. Although she had put her name down immediately, she had heard nothing, nor seen anything more about it in the newspapers.
    She leaned her hoe against the hedge and hopped over the stile into Silly Lane to return to the Rectory for lunch. As she emerged past the barrier created by the thick May growth of hedgerow, she almost collided with LadyHunney, the last person usually to be found strolling in the lane. What could she be doing here? Lady Hunney, immaculately dressed in a severe navy costume and hat, eyed Caroline, from the Wellington boots, up the trousers and old smock she wore over them to the battered panama hat of Father’s which she had crammed on her head. A large mud patch adorning one knee completed her toilette.
    ‘Is this your usual attire for your new organisation, Caroline? It seems somewhat strange.’
    It was a mild comment, but somehow this woman had the power to reduce her to one of Mrs Dibble’s less successful jellies. Caroline summoned her strength. ‘No, but I’m helping the cereal harvest at the moment. The Kaiser has imposed a submarine blockade, as you know.’
    Lady Hunney ignored the Kaiser. ‘I greatly regret that you have taken no notice of the guidance I gave you. Good-day, Caroline.’
    Before she had a chance to reply, Lady Hunney had walked on. Caroline was relieved that she had escaped comparatively lightly. She shrugged off the slight uneasiness the encounter had left her with. After all, the only hold Lady Hunney had over her was Reggie. She must try to avoid conflict with his mother for his sake, and perhaps Lady Hunney felt the same—hence her less than virulent words just now.
    The ever-nagging fear when she did not hear from Reggie had been allayed by a letter yesterday; at last she knew that the terriblebattles that had taken place at Ypres in late April had not claimed him, for the letter was dated 1st May. He had written of the yellow