Having nibbled at the less stale center of her sandwich and drunk her lemonade, Agatha accompanied John to the far edge of the field, where the municipal grass had been torn up and the dark smell of fresh earth drew them to the model trenches. There was only room to walk single file on freshly cut duckboards and Agatha had to be content to watch her nephew’s blushes above the heads of three talkative flag girls, who giggled behind him as he tried to explain the construction advancements his trench displayed.
“And you can see that by placing each sandbag perpendicular, as in the Flemish brick pattern, we get a stronger wall,” said Daniel, patting the eight-foot-high stack of bags that made the trench cool and muted the sounds of the fete outside.
Agatha took her turn peeping in at the snug dugout with its folding cot and table, oil lamp, and a willow shelf containing three poetry books. Two or three poems had been pinned to the walls, where they fluttered like moths. The doorway to the dugout could be closed with a hanging blanket, now tied back with a long plaited straw, and in a small window in the sandbags, framed and divided with whittled alder branches, sat a small earthenware vase containing a handful of corn and wild poppies. Further down the trench itself, a small alcove contained a rustic bench woven from willow, and on this bench a fellow officer of the Rifles sat smoking a large pipe and painting on a small handheld watercolor pad.
“It’s like the darlingest little cottage, isn’t it,” said one of the girls.
“A cottage made for two,” said another, and they giggled some more as they wandered away.
“I’m not sure what we were thinking asking girls to hawk flags like peddlers,” said Agatha. “We have created monsters of forwardness, it seems.”
“Very well built, Second Lieutenant,” said John to Daniel.
“The trench or the girls, sir?” asked Daniel.
“Daniel!” said Agatha.
“Aunt Agatha, may I introduce my friend Worthington? He’s a painter from Norfolk. Had a piece accepted to the academy last year.”
“Your work is lovely,” said Agatha, looking at the seascape brushed quickly but with confidence on the thick paper.
“Watercolor is not really my thing, madam,” said the officer, rising from his bench and giving an awkward sort of salute encumbered as he was in both hands by his tools. “But we wanted to give a little artists’ atmosphere, you know, and oil paint is awfully smelly in confined spaces.”
“The entire effect is very well done,” said Agatha. “Will it be very hard to keep clean in all the action?”
“We’ve made a whisk broom of local straw,” said Daniel, “but I expect it will get pretty muddy underfoot with twelve of us in an area this big.”
“What, will you sleep one at a time?” asked Agatha.
“Dugout is for the ranking officer and maybe signals,” said Worthington. “Rest of the men won’t get any sleep until they get back behind the lines.”
“That’s why we need poetry, singing, daubing pictures on the walls with clay,” said Daniel. “Keeps up the spirits in battle.”
“Perhaps the vase is a little much,” said Agatha. “I’m not sure flower arranging will keep up the martial spirit.”
“Quite right,” said Daniel. “We were a little competitive and eager to show off in front of Colonel Wheaton’s lot. Their trench is no more than a big ditch.”
“But they have beer in it,” said Worthington. “Quite against regulations, but they are getting more visitors than we are.”
Agatha was slowly becoming aware of a buzzing mechanical sound growing louder above the excited voices outside. “What on earth is that sound?” she said.
“That is my big surprise for you, dearest Aunt Agatha,” said Daniel, planting a hearty kiss on her cheek. “A big surprise for your fete, for which you shall have all the credit.”
“Sounds like a broken steam engine,” said Agatha. “Whatever have you done now, Daniel?”
“Just come and see,” said Daniel, catching up her hand. While she was alarmed at what he might be up to, Agatha was absurdly happy as he pulled her along. Not since he was a small boy had Daniel wanted to be hugged or lavished with affection, and for her, a clasp of the hand was surprise enough.
They left the trench and, with the flowing crowd, climbed up the dyke to the open path that ran between the town Salts and the river. Hugh and two of his men waved as they pushed through the crowd to join them. The splutter and buzz of multiple engines grew even more raucous, coming from the west, and then a line of four biplanes, each cabled like a box kite, with a bulbous engine in the front, like the head of a fly, came into focus, flying single file towards them across the marshes from the west.
“How can this be happening?” asked Agatha.
“It’s Craigmore and his platoon,” said Daniel, kissing her cheek. “They are on their way to Folkestone, and I asked him to come and buzz the fete for you.”
“I can’t believe it,” said Agatha. “They are so beautiful.”
“What brings them to Folkestone?” asked Hugh, shading his eyes as the small craft came closer to the gathering crowd and each pilot rolled his craft upside down and back again, sending herds of sheep scattering in the fields.
“They are embarking for France, and Craigmore wrote to say he could not go without saying goodbye,” said Daniel. “He is catching a train here just as soon as they land.”
“What a surprise,” said Hugh. “I am so happy for you.”
“Bettina Fothergill will be beside herself with envy,” said Agatha. “Let’s wave.” John Kent stood watching intently, his eyes shaded, while Agatha joined Daniel, Hugh, and the rest of the crowd clapping and cheering like the children among them. They waved handkerchiefs and fans and hats, and gasped and ducked as the planes buzzed lower over their very heads. The band struck up a jolly march as high over the church spire they soared, round and down again, dipping towards the river like a flock of geese. Then up and over the crowd once more. After several such loops in the sky, the band segued into its fifteenth rendition of “Land of Hope and Glory” as the planes flew off across the marsh. The last pilot peeled away from the disappearing line to execute his own finale, a long, slow pass, parallel to river and fete, the plane so low and close that they could see the pilot push back his helmet and goggles to wave wildly at the crowd. It was young Craigmore with his golden hair streaming and a big grin on his face. Agatha could see his face etched as clearly as if he were standing on the other riverbank.
“Craigmore!” screamed Daniel, waving. “I’m here, I’m here!” Craigmore waved once more and gave a brief salute, but Agatha doubted he had seen any of them individually, not with the air rushing into his eyes.
“Three cheers for the Royal Flying Corps,” shouted John, and the crowd took up the loudest of hoorays as Craigmore’s craft sped away to catch up to his flock. Daniel watched until the last tail of smoke disappeared against the blue sky, and they waited with him, even as the crowd flowed away, back to the fete’s other amusements.
“However did you keep such a secret?” asked Agatha, when Daniel finally stopped looking and turned around. She took advantage of his obvious happiness to kiss both his cheeks and squeeze his hand one more time. “It was superb, my darling boy.”
“Young Craigmore is off to the front already?” asked John. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“He assures me he begged for the opportunity,” said Daniel. His face grew wistful. “I would argue the case, but he asked to see me before he leaves, and I must not risk our fragile reunion by urging him to stay. His father must win that argument for now.”
“Your aunt and I are proud of you,” said John, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Your maturity is showing, my boy.”
“Youth’s lost companion may be the measured friend of old age, I hope,” said Daniel. “I may write a poem on the subject.”
“Dear God, it sounds more like a cross-stitched pillow than a poem,” said Hugh.
“Says the old man of my youth,” said Daniel. “He of the ancient wisdom and sour face.”
“Well, I for one am ready for a ride on the roundabout,” said Agatha. “Let’s make sure we see Bettina on the way so she can congratulate me on the day’s complete triumph.”