by John Masters
He looked up, but couldn’t see Stella and Captain Irwin close by. Whips were cracking and hounds moving off, leaving a mangled piece of fur in the plough. ‘The Master’ll try Horse’s Copse, probably,’ John Rowland said, ‘and if he draws a blank there, call it a day.’
Guy fell in with his cousin Laurence Cate, well back from the leaders. ‘That was a good hunt, a tophole gallop – ’ he said ‘ – and a gallant fox.’
Laurence said, ‘Yes’: then, after a long silence, ‘Did you see me?’
‘No, I was too busy trying to keep on top of Jamie. He goes like the wind, but jumps like a flea – straight up and down.’
‘I was behind you. I saw you all clear that fence this side of the railway, about a mile back … You went over it like birds, one after the other … I funked it.’
‘There’s no need to jump every fence in Kent,’ Guy said.
‘Yes, but I wanted to. I meant to … I had Billycock ready, and he wanted to jump, and he could have. He’s a better jumper than any of the nags you’re riding. But five yards away I just couldn’t face it, and pulled him up … so hard I went over his head. Lucky he didn’t run home.’
‘Well, forget it,’ Guy said.
‘I can’t. I’ll have to tell Dad.’
‘Why? No one else will, if you don’t. I don’t suppose anyone else even saw.’
‘No one did … but I have to tell Dad … I hate hunting, Guy. I hate seeing the fox chased, and seeing it killed, like today, makes me sick. I nearly puked back there … then what would the Master have said? I would have made myself a laughing stock. And Dad.’
‘Why do you hunt at all, Laurence?’
‘Dad expects it. An awful lot of things are expected of him, because he’s the squire, and he knows they’ll be expected of me, in my turn. So …’
‘I understand,’ Guy said slowly, ‘but look, you have to be yourself. Everyone knows you’re an expert on birds, and that’s your hobby. They may think it strange that the squire’s son doesn’t hunt, but they’ll get used to it … Take me along next time you’re going birdwatching in the Isle of Sheppey, will you?’
‘Oh yes,’ the younger boy said, ‘I’d love it. But are you sure you won’t be bored?’
‘Good heavens, no! We’ll bicycle down, eh? … Heard anything about Aunt Margaret?’
The boy said, ‘She wrote Dad a Christmas letter from somewhere in Ireland … She said she was sorry for him, and us, but she had her duty to do.’
Guy thought, poor Laurence: but perhaps his Aunt Margaret was right. Even so, it was hard on Laurence, and Stella. He watched her, a few yards ahead, listening with parted lips to something Captain Irwin was saying to her in a low voice, his head bent towards her as their horses walked on side by side. The picture stirred a tremor in his loins. How to describe Stella? She looked … dewy, open, like a rose glistening in the early morning. Poor Johnny Merritt, he thought; and then, I wonder what it will feel like when I fall in love.
He turned to Laurence. ‘Why don’t you walk Billycock home now? Go with Johnny Merritt. Hounds probably won’t find again today, anyway.’
‘You don’t think Dad will mind?’
‘I’m sure he won’t. But I’ll tell him you had a headache. See you later.’
Daily Telegraph, Saturday, January 2, 1915
COST OF LIVING
Price of Bread Increased
Today the price of the quartern loaf of bread in London is 6½d. Isolated shops may be found in highly competitive localities where the price charged is only 6d. There are indications that next week the price will be 7d in very many towns and districts … There is some consolation in the reflection that even at 7d a loaf, bread is cheaper and more abundant here than in the countries with which we are at war … It is still apparent that people of moderate means are not availing themselves as fast as they might of a range of food long regarded as available only to the affluent. Game of many kinds is as cheap as some other foods of less ambitious definition. Pheasants … may be picked up for 2s 6d. Woodcock and snipe, which require no side dishes, are … 3s 6d a brace for the former and Is each for the latter, while golden plover are selling at from 8d to Is 3d. Plentiful as is the supply of game it would have been even more plentiful had the usual amount of ‘guns’ been engaged on the coverts. But a host of ‘guns’ are engaged on much more serious work now.
‘Sounds rather like “Let them eat cake”,’ Johnny Merritt said, handing back the newspaper.
Cate said, ‘The real problem is that city dwellers of moderate means, as the Telegraph puts it, have never eaten pheasant or woodcock, still less snipe. The women would look askance at the strange birds on the butchers’ slabs, and think they wouldn’t know how to cook them, or whether their husbands would like them. Country people would be happy to buy them – but they aren’t the problem, in England.’
Stella came in, kissed him on top of the head, and went to the sideboard, saying, ‘Good morning, Daddy. Good morning, Johnny.’
‘Good morning, Stella. Are you stiff, after yesterday?’
‘I am. I don’t ride as much as I used to, with VAD work.’
‘I thought you usually worked at Lady Blackwell’s on Saturdays,’ Cate said, seeing that she was not in uniform.
She sat down with a plate of porridge. Garrod came in with fresh toast and poured coffee for her, saying, ‘Good morning, Miss Stella. That’s a nice dress … very pretty.’
‘Thank you, Garrod … Johnny’s taking me to lunch in Canterbury, Daddy. He wants to see the cathedral, too, and where Thomas a Becket was murdered.’
‘When will you be back?’
‘Oh, by tea time, won’t we, Johnny?’
Garrod poured coffee into Christopher Cate’s cup. Glancing at her lined face, he saw disapproval there. She didn’t think Stella should be allowed to go off by herself to lunch with Johnny. Perhaps not. But she went off to the hospital on other days, and undressed men, helped bandage them in intimate parts, and probably took them to the lavatory if they couldn’t go themselves. Margaret might have put her foot down, but somehow he doubted it. Times were changing; he must learn to change with them, a little. And he felt that Johnny Merritt was an entirely honourable and trustworthy young man.
20 Hedlington: Saturday, January 16, 1915
Three days after the New Year’s Day meet, Captain Irwin had kissed her, in a dark passage of the hospital, where he was making the last of his weekly visits to have the condition of his leg checked. Meeting her in the passage on her way to a ward, he had told her about it. She had put out her hands to him, so glad for his sake, and he had taken them and, after a quick glance up and down the passage, pulled her into an alcove and pressed his lips to hers. His moustache tickled her, the bronze buttons on his tunic bit into her breast, his tongue was sliding into her mouth; she could hardly breathe; and a flood of feeling that welled out from a source somewhere in the base of her stomach was so strong that when, after a minute, he stood back from her she had to lean against the wall to be sure she would not fall. Her knees were shaking, her hands trembling, her lower lip hanging loose, her eyes fixed on him. The passage was still empty and silent. He stepped forward, his breathing shallow, and took her in his arms again, this time thrusting his pelvis against her lower body. She felt the hardness at his loins and pulled away, as a nurse passed across the far end of the passage. Then he whispered, ‘Stella … oh Stella …’ but she had hurried off, unable to stand any more just then.
It was obvious to her, without the necessity of putting it into words, what would happen next: and it had. Secret rendezvous, more whispers, more kisses; and now, this.
She was wearing her uniform as a VAD, a long blue and white striped dress with a high collar, a blue apron, a white handkerchief tied in a big bow at the neck, black shoes, a simple white cap, and a badge at the left breast. On the rack above her in the compartment was a small case, looking like a doctor’s black bag; it contained a pretty skirt and blouse, hat, silk stockings, a nightdr
ess, another pair of shoes, and a few toilet articles. She had told her father that she and some other Immobile VADs had been asked to take night duty for two nights, to help the hard-pressed nursing sisters; and that the VAD authorities would house them with the Mobiles, and feed them each night they served. All that was true; but she had not volunteered for duty this night. She was going to meet Captain Stephen Irwin.
She had felt uncomfortable and nervous ever since Norton had driven her down to the station in the trap – from a combined anticipation and fear of what she was going to do; and from having lied to her father, whom she loved. Her condition was sharply aggravated when she saw her cousin Naomi Rowland on the platform, obviously waiting for the same train. Palmer, the High Staining groom, was with her, but no Rachel Cowan. Stella was surprised at that until she remembered that Rachel had gone back to her home, wherever that was, a week after the New Year’s Day meet.
Naomi greeted her. ‘Hullo, Stella, off to tend our Brave Boys?’
‘Yes,’ she mumbled, ‘I volunteered for night duty. And you?’
‘Going back to Girton,’ Naomi said; then the train chuffed in and they got into the same 1st class compartment, and Palmer put in Naomi’s bags and waited, smiling, his hand to his cap, as the train pulled out.
They were alone, and Naomi stretched out her legs in an unladylike manner, yawned and said, ‘Back to the female zoo. I hate living with nothing but women all the time. I think they ought to take men into Girton … and of course girls into the men’s colleges.’
Stella relaxed. She had always liked Naomi, respected her for her brains, and admired her for the way she could handle young men without apparently feeling at all overawed or overwhelmed by them.
Naomi continued, ‘I wish I could find a man I could really look up to. Then I might fall in love, and do something exciting. Throw my cap over the windmill … You are in love, aren’t you?’
Stella blushed furiously and Naomi laughed, and went on, ‘So when you’re not nursing Our Brave Boys you can drink coffee in the Cadena with Johnny Merritt and let him hold your hand under the table.’
Stella smiled. She felt comfortable now. She leaned a little forward. Naomi knew everything. Why didn’t she ask her what it felt like, with a man? Whether there was anything special a girl should do … But she couldn’t. Even if Naomi had done it, she wouldn’t talk about it. And she probably hadn’t; nice girls didn’t.
She sat back, and they spoke desultorily of other matters until the train reached Hedlington, where Naomi had to change. Her train was already in its platform and she hurried over, a porter carrying her bags, waving goodbye to Stella.
Stella breathed a sigh of relief. It was close to three o’clock. She wondered whether Stephen had had to tell a lot of lies to get off duty; but the army didn’t seem to do much on Saturday afternoon, even with the war on. She walked towards the Ladies’ Room, feeling peculiarly detached from her body. It would lie under Stephen, as the girl had lain under the boy in the hawthorn hedge; but would it be she, Stella Cate, in that body?
She was relieved to find the Ladies’ Room empty. She let herself into a cubicle with a penny and, with some difficulty in the confined space, changed from the VAD uniform into the skirt and blouse and hat she had packed in the bag. When she was ready she heard another woman washing her hands in one of the basins in the main part of the room and waited till she had gone; then she came out, took a quick look at herself in a mirror, and adjusted the hat and veil to hide her face. Then, bag in hand, she went out of the station building into High Street, and turned right, walking steadily, avoiding all eyes.
No one spoke to her. Boots and shoes, men’s and women’s, passed her downcast gaze. A soldier whistled at her from a doorway, she kept her head low … The Park: she was glad to see it was fairly full. It was a cold day, but not raining, and some earlier snow had melted. Children played on the swings, old people walked together down the avenues, and women with shopping bags hurried along the cross walks, using them as short cuts from the streets on one side of the Park to those on the other.
Stephen Irwin was sitting on a bench at the corner, under the statue of Sir John Mills (benefactor of the town in 1845, to the tune of a water fountain inside and a cast iron horse trough outside the Park railings; also thrice Mayor). She sat down beside him on the bench, whispering, ‘Stephen!’
She had expected him to be wearing his uniform; soldiers had to wear uniforms all the time now, she thought, even officers; but he was in a tweed suit with a golfing cap and heavy shoes. He stood up at once, and said, ‘Let me carry that bag.’
‘But you’re not supposed …’ she began; meaning to remind him that officers in uniform were not permitted to carry bags of any kind in public. But he was not in uniform, and she handed the bag over. He held out his arm and she took it, squeezing it as they strolled towards the eastern exit of the Park. Passing through the opened gates he turned left. Fifty yards along the street he stopped in front of a car halted at the kerb, unoccupied. He opened the door, and held it for her.
‘Is this yours?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t know you had a car.’
‘Borrowed it,’ he said briefly, as she climbed in. He went round and got in behind the wheel, and said, ‘Wish I’d thought of this earlier … we could have gone out into the country plenty of times.’ He squeezed her thigh. She felt safe behind the veil but wished he had a car of his own. What reason had he given his friend for wanting to borrow the car?
Stephen adjusted some levers, clambered down, went to the front and swung the starting handle a few times. Soon the engine coughed into life and he ran round and climbed back into the driver’s seat. They moved off jerkily, the engine stuttering at first, then, after a few final hiccups, settling down to a steady roar.
Fifteen minutes later, having passed slowly through Hedlington by side streets, they came to North Hedlington, its factories silent and its chimneys smokeless on this Saturday afternoon. Stephen jerked his head at a narrow side street as they passed and said, ‘That’s where they found the murdered woman a fortnight ago … strangled and mutilated. Horrible! And that’s the White Horse Inn … our love nest.’ He drove the car round to the back of the inn, where a few bicycles were leaning against the wall, and a motor cycle and sidecar parked on the gravelled area in front of the stables. He had a little bag of his own and, picking that up as well as Stella’s, led up four steps to the inn’s back door. It was unlocked and they went in. ‘Stay here,’ he muttered. She listened to the murmur of voices from the rooms at the front of the inn, and waited, beginning to tremble. She saw Stephen open a door, stick his head round, and exchange a few words, but did not hear what was said; then he came back, a key in his hand, motioning to her to go before him up the back stairs. On the landing he peered right and left, then walked to a door marked with the number 5 in brass. He unlocked the door, went in, flung the two cases to the floor, and turned, his arms out to her. She was breathless and gasped, ‘I must go to the … where is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘At the end of the passage, probably.’
She opened her bag with trembling hands, took out her toilet case and hurried out and along the passage. The door at the end was marked WC in brass lettering, and the next room BATH, in the same manner; there was also a piece of paper stuck on with a drawing pin, bearing the handwritten legend: BATH 3D NOTIFY MANAGEMENT BEFORE USING AND PAY. She was feeling queasy and after urinating she hung a long time over the hand basin, fearing she would vomit. After a few minutes her stomach seemed to settle. She awkwardly washed her sexual parts, using her own Roger & Gallet soap, and, grimacing, dried herself on the grubby hand towel hanging from a hook behind the door, and slipped back to Number 5.
Stephen was there, his back to her, looking out of the window. It was gloomy outside, rain clouds gathering. He turned, passed her, and locked the door. Then he went back and drew the curtains; finally he turned on the gas, lit the mantle with a match, and came towards her, hands spread.
‘Why?’ he said, ‘I want to see you … all of you … what I’ve been dreaming about ever since I first met you.’
She unpinned her hat and took it off. His hands were at the buttons of her blouse and she was finding it hard to breathe. The blouse came off, and she struggled with the fastenings of her bust bodice … that came off, too, to be dropped on the floor – then her skirt, and one of his hands was inside her drawers, sliding down, where she knew the material was soaked with her secretions. It was his turn to gasp as he muttered in her ear, ‘My God, Stella!’ His hand was on her pubic hair, fingers sliding down between her swollen lips. Her knees began to give way and, half-pushing half-carrying, he took her to the bed, hurled back the blankets and stretched her out on the sheet. It was ice cold and she winced to its touch along her back and buttocks. Then she looked at him, and saw that he was hurling off his clothes, the trousers flying this way, the jacket that, off with the waistcoat, shirt, woollen vest, shoes, socks … there was the thing she had never seen clearly except on Laurence when she was too young to remember (for the boy in the hedge had been buried in the girl) – standing out like an inflamed red pole from the thicket of dark hair at Stephen’s loins. She drew in her breath as he came towards her, the thing jerking with his movements.