“I think Lady Vivian meant to, if everything else failed, but Miss Vivian didn’t think it a very good plan; she was afraid the hospitals couldn’t spare any one, I suppose, and, anyhow, most of the people there are only V.A.D.’s.”
“And is there any hope of seeing her back at the office?” asked Mrs. Potter, rather faintly.
“I don’t know,” replied Grace thoughtfully. “You see, poor Sir Piers may remain at this stage indefinitely, or may have another stroke any time. They don’t really know....”
“And Miss Vivian goes on with the work just the same!” ejaculated Miss Henderson. “She really is a marvel.”
“I’m sure she’d come to the office if it wasn’t for poor Lady Vivian,” said Miss Delmege. “But I know her mother depends on her altogether. I don’t suppose she could leave her, not as things are now.”
Miss Delmege’s assumption of an intimate and superior knowledge of the ménage at Plessing was received in silence. Miss Henderson, indeed, glancing sharply at Grace, saw the merest quiver of surprise pass across her face at the assertion; but reflected charitably that, after all, Delmege had had a pretty sharp go of flu, and probably wasn’t feeling up to the mark yet. Her mis-statements, however irritating, had better be left unchallenged.
“Do you ever see anything of Lady Vivian when you’re at Plessing?” Miss Delmege inquired benevolently of Grace, but the benevolence faded from her expression when Miss Jones replied, with more enthusiasm than usual in her voice, that she always had lunch with Lady Vivian, and sometimes went round the garden with her before going up to Miss Vivian’s room for the afternoon’s work.
“Dear me! I shouldn’t have thought she’d have much time for going round the garden. But she’s not thoroughgoing, like Miss Vivian is, of course. It’s quite a different sort of nature, I fancy. Strange, too, being mother and daughter.”
Miss Henderson decided rapidly within herself that, influenza or no, Delmege was making herself unbearable.
“You’re getting tired with sitting up, aren’t you, dear?” she inquired crisply.
There was a moment’s silence, and then Miss Delmege said in pinched accents: “Who is it you’re referring to, dear? Me, by any chance?”
Grace knew the state of tension to which those aloof and refined tones were the prelude, and exclaimed hurriedly that she must go.
She did not want to hear Miss Henderson and Miss Delmege having “words,” or to listen while Miss Delmege talked with genteel familiarity of Sir Piers and Lady Vivian.
Pulling on her thick uniform coat, she went out, and slowly crossed the street.
She was thinking of Lady Vivian, who had roused in her an enthusiasm which she could never feel for Char, and who had talked to her so frankly and warmly, as though to a contemporary, that afternoon in the garden at Plessing. For all her quality of matter-of-factness, there was a certain humble-mindedness about Miss Jones, which made it a matter of surprise to her when she found herself on the borders of friendship with the woman whom she thought so courageous and so lovable.
She hoped that Miss Vivian would require her to go out to Plessing every day for a long while; then reflected that the privilege rightly belonged to Miss Delmege, who would certainly avail herself of it at the earliest possible moment.
She knew, and calmly accepted, that Miss Delmege’s services would certainly be preferred to her own by the Director of the Midland Supply Depôt; but she did not think that Lady Vivian proffered her liking or her confidence lightly, and felt a certain placid security that their unofficial intercourse would somehow or other continue. Then, with characteristic thoroughness, she dismissed the question from her mind and went into the office and to her work.
That evening Grace went to the Canteen. Only Miss Marsh, Miss Anthony, and Miss Henderson accompanied her.
“We shall have to work like blacks to make up for the absentees,” groaned Tony.
“Never mind; it isn’t quite so cold tonight. Isn’t the moon nice?”
“Lovely. Just the night for Zeppelins.”
Miss Henderson spoke from the pessimism of approaching influenza, but it happened that she was right. The first air raid over Questerham took place that night.
The work was rapidly lessening towards eleven o’clock, when Captain Trevellyan came into the hall. He stood for an instant gazing round him reflectively, then said to Grace: “Who is in command here?”
“Mrs. Willoughby, when Miss Vivian isn’t here.”
“I see, thank you.”
Looking very doubtful, he sought Lesbia, who was preparing to discard her overall and to take her departure with the Pekinese.
“Johnnie! How too sweet of you to turn up just in time to see me home! My Lewis hates my going back alone in the dark; we’ve very nearly quarrelled over it already.”
“The fact is,” said Trevellyan, wondering if Mrs. Willoughby were the sort of person to have hysterics, “that there’s been a telephone warning to say an air-raid is on, just over Staningham. They’re heading this way, so we may hear a gun or two, you know; some of our machines are in pursuit.”
He gazed anxiously at Lesbia, whom he characteristically supposed to be about either to burst into tears or to threaten a fainting fit.
The ideas of Captain Trevellyan were perhaps not much more advanced than those of Lady Vivian’s secretary.
But Mrs. Willoughby discounted his solicitude, at least on one score, in a moment.
“Zepps!” she screamed excitedly. “How too thrilling! Can I possibly get on to the roof, I wonder? I’ve never seen one yet.”
“Stop!” said the astonished Trevellyan. “You don’t realize. They’ll be over here in a few minutes, and our machines may be firing at them, besides the guns on the hill; there’ll be shrapnel falling.”
Mrs. Willoughby tore off her overall and snatched up Puff.
“I must, must see it all!” she declared wildly. “Have you got a pair of field-glasses?”
Trevellyan restrained her forcibly from dashing to the door.
“Mrs. Willoughby, we’ve got to consider that there are a number of people here, and that they are all in a certain amount of danger — not so much from bombs, though goodness knows they may very well drop one, but from our own shrapnel. Is there a basement?”
“You can’t send us to the cellar? My dear boy, I, for one, refuse to go. We’re not children, and we’re not afraid. We’re Englishwomen!”
On this superb sentiment Mrs. Willoughby swept into the middle of the hall and announced in penetrating accents that a Zepp raid was on, and had any one got a pair of field-glasses?
There was a momentary outbreak of exclamations all around, and then Captain Trevellyan raised his voice: “Please keep away from the windows. There may be broken glass about.”
“Is it dangerous? What are we to do?” gasped Tony, next him. She was rather white.
At the same moment the very distant but unmistakable reverberation of guns became audible.
Trevellyan took instant advantage of the sudden cessation of sound in the room.
“If there is a basement, it would be as well for everybody to go down there, please — just for precaution’s sake. And then I’m going to put out these lights.” His hand was on the nearest gas-jet as he spoke.
“Nothing will induce me to stir while there’s any danger. I can answer for every woman here!” cried Lesbia, with a gesture of noble defiance.
Grace Jones came into the middle of the room.
“Hadn’t we better obey orders?” she asked gently. “There is a basement beyond the kitchen.”
She held out her hand to Miss Anthony, and they went through the door into the kitchen.
After an instant’s hesitation, the other women followed. Trevellyan saw that they had lit a candle, and in a moment he heard them beginning to talk quietly amongst themselves.
A few soldiers in the hall had congregated together, and were talking and laughing. The others made a dash for the door as the firing grew loude
r, and simultaneously exclaimed: “Here they are!”
The sound of the huge machines far overhead was unmistakable. They could see the shrapnel bursting, and the guns on the hill boomed heavily and intermittently.
“Look!” shrieked Lesbia, almost hurling herself out of the door. “They’ve got one of them! I can see it blazing!”
Far away, a red spot began to glow, then suddenly revealed the cigar-shaped form in flames, dropping downwards.
“They’ve got it!” echoed Trevellyan. “Look! it’s coming down. Miles away, by this time. I wonder how many of ours are giving chase.”
The air was full of whirring, buzzing wings, and very far away a red light in the sky seemed to tell of fire.
Occasional sparks and flashes told of the bursting of shrapnel, but the sounds were dying away rapidly.
“It’s over, and, by Jove, we’ve got him!” shouted Trevellyan, dashing back into the kitchen. Every one was talking at once, Mrs. Willoughby’s voice dominating the rest.
“I saw the whole thing too perfectly! At least five of the brutes, and two, if not three, of them in flames! I saw them with my own eyes!” she proclaimed, with more spirit than exactitude. “And where are those poor creatures hiding like rats in the cellar?”
“The noise was awful!” said Tony, shuddering. “It felt as though it were right over our heads. But,” she added valiantly, “I do wish we’d seen it all!”
Trevellyan turned to her apologetically. “I’m so sorry. But I really couldn’t help it. They sent me down on purpose to see that this place was warned. It was really perfectly splendid of you to go down like that and miss all the fun.”
“I was very frightened,” she told him honestly, “though I do awfully wish I’d seen it. They must have had a splendid view from the Hostel at the top of the street.”
“There was a splendid view from here,” said Lesbia cuttingly. “I saw everything there was to be seen.”
Trevellyan was looking for Miss Jones.
“Thank you so much for giving them the lead you did,” he said to her gratefully. “It was very good of you. I felt such a brute for asking you to do it; but there really is danger, you know, especially from the windows, if shrapnel shatters the glass.”
“Oh yes, I know. I wonder,” said Grace thoughtfully, “whether they heard it much at Plessing.”
“I know. I was thinking of that all the time. Not that she’d be nervous, you know, except on his account.”
“It would be dreadful for Sir Piers. Oh, I do hope they didn’t hear much of it,” said Grace.
One of the men approached her. “If you please, Sister, could you come down into the kitching ‘alf a minute?”
Grace went.
Trevellyan watched them all disperse, and escorted Mrs. Willoughby to her tram, wondering if he ought not to see her home.
But Lesbia refused all escort, declaring gallantly that she did not know the meaning of fear, and, anyway, Puffles would protect his missus from any more dreadful, wicked Zepps.
He left her entertaining her tram conductress with a spirited account of all that she had seen, and much that she had not seen, of the raid.
As he turned down Pollard Street again, a soldier with his hand bound up lurched out of the open door of the deserted Canteen.
“Is there any one in there to shut the place up?” Trevellyan asked him.
“One of the ladies is still in there, sir. Beg pardon, sir; she’s a bit upset like.”
Trevellyan thought of little Miss Anthony, who had owned, with a white face, how much the sound of the guns had frightened her.
He went into the hall. It was dark, but there was a light in the kitchen.
“Who’s there?” said John.
“I am. It’s all right,” replied an enfeebled voice; and he went into the kitchen.
Grace Jones was half leaning and half sitting against the sink, her small face haggard, her hands clutching the only support within reach, the wooden top of a roller-towel.
“I’m afraid you’re ill,” exclaimed Trevellyan, looking desperately round him for a chair.
“It’s all right; please don’t wait.”
“But it’s over now. They brought the brute down. It’s miles away by this time.”
He multiplied his reassurances.
“No, no; it’s not that,” gasped Miss Jones, looking whiter than ever.
“There were certainly no casualties over here. We should have seen signs of fire somewhere if they’d dropped a bomb.”
“It’s not that!” Grace told him desperately.
Trevellyan gazed at her helplessly, and repeated in an obtuse manner: “It’s all over now — absolutely safe.”
Grace gazed back at him with a wan smile.
“Would you mind going?” she asked him feebly. “I shall be all right in a minute. It’s very tiresome, but the sight of — of blood always upsets me like this, and that man had cut his finger rather badly, and I had to do it up. It’s only — that.”
She put her hands up to her damp forehead as though the effort of speech had brought back the sensation of nausea.
“You’re going to faint!” exclaimed Trevellyan. “Let me get some water for you.”
“No, I’m not. Oh, do go!”
“I can’t leave you like this,” protested the bewildered John.
Grace staggered to her feet, and stood holding on to the edge of the sink.
“I’m afraid — I’m only going to be sick,” she said with difficulty.
Ten minutes later they locked up the Canteen and went up Pollard Street.
“You see, it had nothing to do with the raid,” Grace told him gently. “It was just that poor man bleeding. I’ve always been like that; it’s the only way I’m delicate, because I’m never ill, and I don’t ever have nerves. But it is very tiresome. That’s why I couldn’t go and work in a hospital. I did clerical work in the hospital at home for a little while, but it wasn’t any good.”
“Bad luck!”
“It is, rather. I hate anybody’s knowing about it; that’s why I said I’d stay behind and lock up. I knew it was going to happen, and I didn’t want any one to be there.”
“I’m sorry. I thought it was the raid that had upset you, and that you might be going to faint.”
“Nothing so romantic,” said Miss Jones regretfully.
But her regrets were as nothing to those of the Hostel when they learnt what had happened.
It was impossible to conceal it from them, since the window of the ground-floor bedroom had been open, and Mrs. Potter and Miss Marsh, leaning from it, and listening eagerly, had heard every word of Captain Trevellyan’s final discourse to Miss Jones, and her repeated assurances of being now completely restored.
They flew into the hall to meet her.
“Gracie dear, what has happened to you? Tony was in such a state when she found you hadn’t come in with her and the others.”
“Was it that beastly raid upset you?”
Grace once more repudiated the raid with as much energy as she could muster.
“You look as white as a sheet, dear! Come into the sitting-room.”
Every one was in the sitting-room, including those first back from the Canteen, and the pseudo-invalids who, having been in bed when the raid began, felt that only tea could enable them to face the night, and had hurried down in search of it.
“Oh, Gracie, there you are! I was just going back to see what had become of you,” said Tony.
“Miss Vivian’s cousin brought her home!” giggled Mrs. Potter. “You know, the Staff Officer one. She’s been awfully upset, poor Grace! Turned quite faint, didn’t you, dear?”
“But you were so brave!” cried Tony, aghast. “You were all right all the time the raid was on. You didn’t mind a bit!”
“Came over you afterwards, I expect, didn’t it?” said Miss Delmege kindly. “It’s often the case. I’m always perfectly cool myself when anything happens — I was tonight — but I generally suffer for it
afterwards. Reaction, I suppose. When I came downstairs after it was all over I was simply shaking, wasn’t I, Mrs. Bullivant?”
“Now, it’s a funny thing,” remarked Miss Henderson, without giving any one time to dwell upon Miss Delmege’s personal reminiscences— “it’s a funny thing, but I simply didn’t feel the least bit of fear. Not for myself, you know. I just thought, well, I hope mother doesn’t see any of this — she’s got a bit of a heart, you know — but I didn’t seem to feel a bit as though I was in any kind of danger myself. Not a bit.”
“Now, just sit down, child, and drink up this tea,” said Mrs. Bullivant to Grace. “You’ve not a scrap of colour in your face.”
“I’m really all right now, thank you very much,” Grace told her as she took the tea gratefully. “And it wasn’t anything to do with the raid.”
Everybody looked rather disappointed.
“Aren’t you well, then, dear? I do hope it isn’t another case of influenza.”
“I bet I know!” suddenly cried Tony. “It was doing up that man’s hand upset you, wasn’t it? He cut himself somehow in the excitement and was bleeding like a fountain, poor fellow! I thought you looked rather squeamish while you were doing it, poor thing! but I never thought of its bowling you over like this. Are you one of those people who faint at the sight of blood?”
“I didn’t faint,” said Grace mildly.
“Jolly near it, I expect, judging by your face now,” said Tony critically. “Poor old dear!”
“Did Miss Vivian’s cousin come back to find you?” asked Miss Delmege sharply.
“He came into the kitchen while I was still there, and afterwards he helped me to lock up.”
“Afterwards?”
A tinge of colour crept into Miss Jones’s face.
“I’m afraid you won’t think I rose to the occasion at all,” she said deprecatingly. “It always does make me rather ill to see blood, though I know it’s idiotic, and it was the soldier’s hand, not the air-raid a bit, I didn’t mind that at all.”
“What happened? Were you hysterical?” demanded Miss Delmege, with an inexplicable touch of umbrage in her refined little voice.
“Certainly not,” said Grace emphatically. “If you really want to know, I was just sick over the sink.”
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 43