“I must say it was most awfully crooked. I noticed it myself,” said a pretty little giggling girl whom the others always called Tony, because her surname was Anthony. “How killing,” I thought; “there’s Miss Vivian with her hat on quite crooked.”
“Yes, wasn’t it killing?”
“Simply killing. I thought the minute I saw her: How killing to see Miss Vivian with her hat on like that!”
“She looked perfectly killing hurrying down the platform,” remarked Miss Marsh, with an air of originality. “She was carrying cigarettes for the men, and her hat got crookeder every minute. I was pining to tell her.”
“Go on, Marshy! She’d have had your head off. Fancy Marsh stopping Miss Vivian in the middle of a troop-train to say her hat was on crooked!”
Every one laughed.
“I should think she’d be shot at dawn,” suggested Tony. “That’s the official penalty for making personal remarks to your C.O., I believe.”
“You know,” said Miss Delmege, in the tones whose refinement was always calculated to show up the unmodulated accents of her neighbours, “one day I absolutely did tell Miss Vivian when her hat was crooked. I said right out: ‘Do excuse me, Miss Vivian, but your hat isn’t quite straight.’ She didn’t mind a bit.”
“I suppose she knows she always looks nice anyway,” said Tony easily.
“I mean she didn’t mind me telling her,” explained Miss Delmege. “She’s most awfully human, you know, really. That’s what I like about Miss Vivian. She’s so frightfully human.”
“Yes, she is human,” Miss Marsh agreed. “Awfully human.”
Miss Delmege raised her eyebrows.
“Of course,” she said, with quiet emphasis, “working in her room, as I do, I suppose I see quite another side of her — the human side, you know.”
There was a silence. Nobody felt disposed to encourage Miss Vivian’s secretary in her all-too-frequent recapitulations of the privileges which she enjoyed.
Presently another worker came in, looking inky and harassed.
“You’re late tonight, Mrs. Potter, aren’t you?” Tony asked her.
“Oh yes. It’s those awful Belgians, you know. Wherever I put them, they’re miserable, and write and ask to be taken away. There’s a family now that I settled simply beautifully at Little Quester village only a month ago, and this afternoon the mother came in to say the air doesn’t suit them at all — she has a consumptive son or something — and could they be moved to the seaside at once. So I told Miss Vivian, and she said I was to get them moved directly. At once — today, you know. Of course, it was perfectly absurd — they couldn’t even get packed up — and I told her so; but she said, ‘Oh, settle it all by telephone’ — you know her way. ‘But, Miss Vivian,’ I said, ‘really I don’t see how it can be managed. I’ve got a most fearful amount of work,’ I said. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if you can’t get through it, Mrs. Potter, I must simply put some one else at the head of the department who can.’ It’s too bad, you know.”
Mrs. Potter sank into the only unoccupied wicker arm-chair in the room, looking very much jaded indeed.
Tony said sympathetically:
“What a shame! Miss Vivian doesn’t realize what an awful lot you do, I’m perfectly certain.”
“Well, considering that every letter and every bit of work in the whole office passes through Miss Vivian’s hands, that’s absurd,” said Miss Delmege sharply. “She knows exactly what each department has to do, but, of course, she’s such a quick worker herself that she can’t understand any one not being able to get through the same amount.”
Mrs. Potter looked far from enchanted with the proffered explanation.
“It isn’t that I can’t get through the work,” she said resentfully. “Of course I can get through the regular work all right. But I must say, I do think she’s inconsiderate over these lightning touches of hers. What on earth was the sense of making those people move tonight, I should like to know?”
“Miss Vivian never will let the work get behindhand if she can help it,” exclaimed Miss Marsh; and Miss Henderson at the same instant said, rather defiantly:
“Well, of course, Miss Vivian always puts the work before everything. She never spares herself, so I don’t quite see why she should spare any of us.”
“The fact is,” said the small, cool voice of Miss Delmege, as usual contriving to filter through every other less refined sound, “she is extraordinarily tender-hearted. She can’t bear to think any one is suffering when she could possibly help them; she’ll simply go miles out of her way to do something for a wounded soldier or a Belgian refugee. I see that in her correspondence so much. You know — the letters she writes about quite little things, because some one or other wants her to. She’ll take endless trouble.”
“I know she’s wonderful,” said Mrs. Potter, looking remorseful.
She was a middle-aged woman with light wispy hair, always untidy, and wearing a permanent expression of fluster. She had only been at the Hostel a few weeks. “Isn’t it nearly supper-time?” yawned Tony. “I want to go to bed.”
“Tired, Tony?”
“Yes, awfully. I was on telephone duty last night, stamping the letters, and I didn’t get off till nearly eleven.”
“There must have been a lot of letters,” said Miss Delmege, with the hint of scepticism which she always managed to infuse into her tones when speaking of other people’s work.
“About a hundred and thirty odd, but they didn’t come down till very late. Miss Vivian was still signing the last lot at ten o’clock.”
“She must have been very late getting out to Plessing. It’s all very well for us,” remarked Miss Marsh instructively; “we finish work at about six or seven o’clock, and then just come across the road, and here we are. But poor Miss Vivian has about an hour’s drive before she gets home at all.”
“She’s always at the office by ten every morning, too.”
“She ought to have some one to help her,” sighed Miss Delmege. “Of course, I’d do anything to take some of the work off her hands, and I think she knows it. I think she knows I’d do simply anything for her; but she really wants some one who could take her place when she has to be away, and sign the letters for her, and see people. That’s what she really needs.”
“Thank goodness, there’s the supper bell,” said Tony.
They trooped downstairs.
The house was the ordinary high, narrow building of a provincial town, and held an insufficiency of rooms for the number of people domiciled there. The girls slept three or four in a room; the Superintendent had a tiny bedroom, and a slightly larger sitting-room adjoining the large room on the ground floor where they congregated in the evenings and on Sundays, and the dining-room was in the basement.
Gas flared on to the white shining American-cloth covering the long table and on the wooden kitchen chairs. The windows were set high up in the walls, and gave a view of area railings and, at certain angles, of a piece of pavement.
One or two coloured lithographs hung on the walls.
There was a hideous sound of scraping as chairs were drawn back or pulled forwards over the uncarpeted boards.
“Sit next me, duck.”
“All right. Come on, Tony; get the other side of Sprouts.”
Miss Delmege, aloof and superior, received no invitation to place herself beside any one, and settled herself with genteel swishings of her skirt at the foot of the table.
The Superintendent sat at the head.
She was a small, delicate-looking Irish woman with an enthusiastic manner, who had married late in life, and been left a widow within two years of her marriage. She worked very hard, and it was her constant endeavour to maintain an atmosphere of perpetual brightness in the Hostel.
It was with this end in view that she invariably changed her blouse for a slightly cleaner one at suppertime, although all the girls were in uniform, and many of them still wearing a hat. But little Mrs. Bullivant always appeared in a
rather pallid example of the dyer or cleaner’s art, and said hopefully: “One of these days I must make a rule that all you girls dress for dinner. We shall find ourselves growing dreadfully uncivilized, I’m afraid, if we go on like this.”
The Hostel liked Mrs. Bullivant, although she was a bad manager and could never keep a servant for long. She made no secret of the fact that she could not afford to be a voluntary worker.
Every Hostel in the district, and they were numerous owing to the recently-opened Munitions Factory near Questerham, had rapidly become, as it were, fish for Miss Vivian’s net. Each and all were under her control, and the rivalry between the Questerham Hostel “for Miss Vivian’s own workers” and those reserved for the munition-makers was an embittered one.
“What has every one been doing to-day?” Mrs. Bullivant asked cheerfully.
The inquiry was readily responded to.
The angle of Miss Vivian’s hat, when she had gone down to meet the troop-train, was again the subject of comment, and Miss Delmege was again reminded of the story, which she told with quiet and undiminished enjoyment, of her erstwhile daring in approaching Miss Vivian upon the subject.
“Did you really?” said Mrs. Bullivant admiringly. “Of course, it’s different for you, Miss Delmege, working in her room all day. You see so much more of her than any one else does.”
Every one except the complacent Miss Delmege looked reproachfully at the little Superintendent. She was incapable of snubbing any one, but the Hostel thought her encouragement of Miss Delmege unnecessary in the extreme.
Mrs. Bullivant changed the conversation rather hurriedly.
“Who is on telephone duty tonight?” she inquired.
“I am, worse luck.”
“Miss Plumtree? And your head is bad again, isn’t it, dear?”
“Yes,” said Miss Plumtree wearily.
She was a fair, round-faced girl of five or six and twenty who suffered from frequent sick headaches. She worked for longer hours than any one else, and had a reputation for “making muddles.” It was popularly supposed that Miss Vivian “had a down on her,” but the Hostel liked Miss Plumtree, and affectionately called her Greengage and Gooseberry-bush.
“Greengage got another headache?” Miss Marsh asked concernedly. “I can take your duty to-night, dear, quite well.”
“Thanks awfully, Marsh; it’s sweet of you, but I haven’t got leave to change. You know last time, when Tony took duty for me, Miss Vivian asked why I wasn’t there.”
“I can say you’re sick.”
“Oh, I’m sure she wouldn’t like it,” said Miss Plumtree, looking nervous and undecided.
“I think you ought to be in bed, I must say,” said Mrs. Bullivant uncertainly.
“She certainly doesn’t look fit to sit at that awful telephone for two and a half hours; and there are heaps of letters to-night. I can answer for the Hospital Department, anyway,” sighed Miss Henderson. “Marshy, you look pretty tired yourself. I can quite well take the telephone if you like. I’m not doing anything.”
“I thought you were going to the cinema.”
“I don’t care. I can do that another night. I’m not a bit keen on pictures, really, and it’s raining hard.”
“Thanks most awfully, both of you,” repeated Miss Plumtree, “but I really think I’d better go myself. You know what Miss Vivian is, if she thinks one’s shirking, and I’m not at all in her good books at the moment, either. There was the most ghastly muddle about those returns last month, and I sent in the averages as wrong as they could be.”
“That’s nothing to do with your being unfit for telephone duty tonight,” said Miss Delmege, with acid sweetness. “I think I can answer for it that Miss Vivian would be the first person to say you ought to let some one else take duty for you. I’d do it myself, only I really must get some letters written tonight. One never has a minute here. But I think I can answer for Miss Vivian.”
In spite of the number of times that Miss Delmege expressed herself as ready to answer for Miss Vivian, no one had ever yet failed to be moved to exasperation by her pretensions.
“On the whole, Plumtree, you may be right not to risk it,” said Miss Henderson freezingly, as she rose from the table.
“I’ll manage all right,” declared Miss Plumtree; but her round apple-blossom face was drawn with pain, and she stumbled up the dark stairs.
In the hall there was a hurried consultation between Miss Marsh and Miss Anthony.
“I say, Tony, old Gooseberry-bush isn’t fit to stir. She ought to be tucked up in her bye-byes this minute. Shall I risk it, and go instead of her, leave or no leave?”
“I should think so, yes. What have things been like today?”
“Oh, fairly serene. I didn’t see Miss Vivian this morning, myself, but nobody seems to have had their heads snapped off. There wasn’t a fearful lot of work for her, either, because Miss Delmege came in quite early.”
“Delmege makes me sick, the way she goes on! As though nobody else knew anything about Miss Vivian, and she was a sort of connecting-link between her and us. Didn’t you hear her tonight? ‘I think I can answer for Miss Vivian,’” mimicked Tony in an exaggerated falsetto. “I should jolly well like Miss Vivian to hear her one of these days. She’d appreciate being answered for like that by her secretary — I don’t think!”
“I say, Marshy, can you keep a secret?”
“Rather!”
“Well, swear not to tell, and, mind, I’m speaking absolutely unofficially. I’ve no business to know it officially at all, because I only saw it on a telegram I sent for the Billeting Department. Miss Delmege is going to get her nose put out of joint with Miss V. Another secretary is coming.”
“She’s not! D’you mean Delmege has got the sack?”
“Oh, Lord, no! It’s only somebody coming to help her, because there is so much work for one secretary. She’s coming from Wales, and her name is Jones.”
“I seem to have heard that name before.”
They both giggled explosively; then made a simultaneous dash at the hall-door as Miss Plumtree, in hat and coat, came slowly out of the sitting-room.
“No, you don’t, Plumtree! You’re going straight up to bed, and I’ll tell Miss Vivian you were ill. It’ll be all right.”
“You are a brick, Marsh.”
“Nonsense! You’ll do as much for me some day. Goodnight, dear.”
Miss Marsh hurried out, and Miss Plumtree thankfully took the felt uniform hat off her aching head.
“Get into bed,” directed Tony, “and take an aspirin.”
“Haven’t got one left, worse luck.”
“I’ll see if any one else has any. I believe Mrs. Potter has.”
Tony hurried into the sitting-room. Mrs. Potter had no aspirin, but she hoisted herself out of her arm-chair and said she would go round to the chemist and get some.
She went out into the rain.
Tony borrowed a rubber hot-water bottle from Miss Henderson, and a kettle from somebody else, and went upstairs to boil some water, forgetting that she was tired and had meant to go to bed after supper.
Presently little Mrs. Bullivant came upstairs with a cup of tea and the aspirin, both of which she administered to the patient.
“You’ll go to sleep after that, I expect,” she said consolingly.
“I’ll tell the girls to get into bed quietly,” Tony whispered.
Miss Plumtree shared a room with Miss Delmege and Miss Henderson.
“I never do make any noise in the room that I am aware of,” said Miss Delmege coldly; but she and her room-mate both crept upstairs soon after nine o’clock, lest their entrance later should awaken the sufferer, and they undressed with the gas turned as low as it would go, and in silence.
Padding softly in dressing-slippers to the bathroom later on, for the lukewarm water which was all that they could hope to get until the solitary gas-ring should have served the turn of numerous waiting kettles, they heard Miss Marsh returning from telephone dut
y, bolting the hall-door, and putting up the chain.
“You’re back early,” whispered Miss Henderson, coming halfway downstairs in her pink flannelette dressing-gown, her scanty fair hair screwed back into a tight plait.
“Wasn’t much doing. Miss Vivian got off at half-past nine. Jolly good thing, too; she’s been late every night this week.”
“Was it all right about your taking duty?”
“Ab-solutely. Said she was glad Miss Plumtree had gone to bed, and asked if she had anything to take for her head.”
“How awfully decent of her!”
“Wasn’t it? It’ll buck old Greengage up, too. She always thinks Miss Vivian has a down on her.”
Miss Delmege leant over the banisters and said in a subdued but very complacent undertone:
“I thought Miss Vivian would be all right. I thought I could safely answer for her.”
II
Plessing was also speaking of Miss Vivian that evening.
“Where is this to end, Miss Bruce? I ask you, where is it to end?” demanded Miss Vivian’s mother.
Miss Bruce knew quite well that Lady Vivian was not asking her at all, in the sense of expecting to receive from her any suggestion of a term to that which in fact appeared to be interminable, so she only made a clicking sound of sympathy with her tongue and went on rapidly stamping postcards.
“I am not unpatriotic, though I do dislike Flagdays, and I was the first person to say that Char must go and do work somewhere — nurse in a hospital if she liked, or do censor’s work at the War Office. Sir Piers said ‘No’ at first — you know he’s old-fashioned in many ways — and then he said Char wasn’t strong enough, and to a certain extent I agreed with him. But I put aside all that and absolutely encouraged her, as you know, to organize this Supply Depôt. But I must say, Miss Bruce, that I never expected the thing to grow to these dimensions. Of course, it may be a very splendid work — in fact, I’m sure it is, and every one says how proud I must be of such a wonderful daughter but is it all absolutely necessary?”
“Oh, Lady Vivian,” said the secretary reproachfully. “Why, the very War Office itself knows the value of dear Charmian’s work. They are always asking her to take on fresh branches.”
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 33