Personally, I think it was extremely sporting of Miss Mattingly to have published this effort because, when it was completed, I was more than ever convinced that straight love stories should be left to such as Ursula Bloom, who have a real genius for them. I suggest that my male readers skip this story and hope that those women who read it will not feel that I let Miss Mattingly down too badly.
Love Trap
‘Grayley, I want an explanation.’ Red-faced, grey-haired Colonel Jackson drummed his fingers irritably on his desk and stared coldly at the tall, lean-jawed young man in front of him. ‘What the devil d’you mean by bringing an A.T.S. private or volunteer—I forget what they call these girls—into the Mess last night?’
A bewildered expression came into the newly joined subaltern’s brown eyes. ‘But, sir, she’s an old friend; we come from the same part of the country.’
‘I can’t help that. After the concert Major Walters brought in two of her own officers and they both complained about her being there. Naturally, I couldn’t say anything about it at the time, but it was most embarrassing. It’s against the regulations for privates of either sex to receive hospitality in an officer’s mess. If this young woman is a friend of yours you must confine your meetings to places outside the camp.’
‘How can we, sir? We’re miles from anywhere.’
‘Your petrol ration should be enough for you to drive her into Crowton or Blatwich once or twice a week.’
‘Unfortunately, sir, I smashed the front anxle of my car on Thursday so it will be in dock for some time.’
In that case you’ll have to wait for your respective leaves. It’s against the interests of discipline that you should be seen about with an A.T.S. private by your own men; what’s more, it’s bad for the girl’s reputation with the people of her own unit.’
Peter Grayley hesitated. He was very young and much more frightened of his irascible Colonel, who seemed to him to combine the powers of his ex-headmaster and a Victorian father out of a book, than he would have been of a German. But, on the other hand, he was very much in love and he intensely resented the implied slur on his adored Sheila’s reputation. Resolving to risk the consequences he took his courage in both hands and blurted out:
‘Thank you, sir. Her reputation is perfectly safe, as we—we mean to get married.’
The Colonel rose slowly to his feet and his face went an even deeper shade of red. ‘Marry? Why, you must be out of your senses! How old are you? Twenty, twenty-one? Anyway, far too young to think of such a thing. If this were peace-time you would have to ask my consent and I should have no hesitation in refusing it. As the country is at war my authority is temporarily curtailed; but if you persist in this ridiculous idea I shall show my strongest disapproval. For the present I forbid you to see this young woman in the camp or its neighbourhood. That’s all, Grayley—and don’t let me have to send for you on this matter again.’
Very pale and white-lipped, Peter saluted and left the room.
It was a few minutes before seven when Peter arrived at the thick coppice of firs where, on the previous night, he had arranged to meet Sheila. The trees were a landmark on the crest of the rolling down and stood, a little off the road, about half-way between the hutments that housed his battalion and the A.T.S. camp. On the road, groups of men and girls, all khaki-clad, were passing. He fidgeted uneasily as he waited. There was an hour or more yet to go before sunset and when Sheila turned up they might be seen together. What would happen then?
And what was he going to tell her? How could they get married in the face of his Colonel’s determined opposition? That would mean a black mark against him right at the beginning of his career; and it was not even as though he had just joined up for the duration. He was a Regular and his commanding officer could make things very difficult for him, if he chose. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to Sheila to begin their married life under a cloud of ill will.
He sighed, thinking of those halcyon days before the war when he had gone with Sheila and her mother to the South of France for a holiday. How wonderful it had all been! The hot sun glancing off the translucent blue sea with a background of silver sand and olive-green hills. The golden moon at night crowning a star-flecked sky—dancing, bathing, laughing—all with Sheila.
He had loved her for a long time but he had had to wait until he was twenty-one before he could ask her to marry him. His parents were very fond of Sheila and had been friends with her mother for years; but they had felt that he was too young to be thinking of matrimony. When he reached his coming-of-age he had come into his own money and so had been free to do what he liked. Never would he forget the day that Sheila had accepted him. They had raced out to a rocky headland and, being a powerful swimmer, he had reached it first. He had caught hold of her hand to help her through the seaweed that swayed like a mermaid’s hair below the water. Then she had looked up at him, her great blue eyes laughing: He had pulled her suddenly into his arms and buried his face in her wet, curling hair.
‘Oh, my darling, I love you so much!’ He remembered the very words that had stumbled from his tongue. ‘I want us to be together always. Will you—will you …?’
She had not said a word but had put her mouth up to be kissed.
Sheila’s mother was very kind but she had insisted on a long engagement owing to their youth, and they were content to wait, sure of their love for each other. Then war had come. No one seemed to know what was going to happen next. People were rushing off to get married everywhere. Caught in the whirlpool, they saw no reason to delay their own marriage any longer.
Their families put no further obstacles in their way—in fact, everything had been marvellous till this morning. He had meant to choose his time carefully before telling his Colonel, so as to catch him in a good mood. Instead, he had just blurted it out like a fool, and now the damage was done. Peter cursed as a wave of melancholia swept over him. Then he saw Sheila.
Sheila Beaufort was really beautiful. Just nineteen, the first bloom of youth lay fresh upon her cheeks and when her mobile lips parted in a smile the lights in her wide, deep blue eyes would seem to dance with merriment. Bright chestnut curls peeped demurely from under her cap and the unbecoming khaki uniform sat easily upon her slender figure.
‘Hullo, darling,’ she laughed up at him as he imprisoned both her hands in his. ‘You look very glum! Anything wrong?’
‘Everything. Look here, darling, I’ve got to talk to you; it’s serious.’
‘Well, it looks as though it’s going to rain, so let’s walk down to the village.’
‘I daren’t; we might be seen.’
Sheila raised one delicately curved eyebrow. ‘What on earth does that matter?’
‘But it does—now,’ Peter cried desperately, and grabbing her arm he drew her deeper in among the trees before he told her everything that had passed between himself and his colonel that morning.
‘The old beast!’ she exclaimed indignantly as he finished. ‘But don’t worry; I’ll show him!’
‘How do you propose to do that, darling?’ Peter inquired in a dubious tone.
‘I’ll resign from the A.T.S.’
‘They might not let you.’
‘Oh, I‘ll think of a way; I’m sure I could find some other war work which wouldn’t necessitate wearing uniform.’
‘Maybe. But that won’t make any difference about our getting married.’
For an instant the girl’s mouth trembled, then throwing back her head she said resolutely: ‘I know; but at any rate we’d be able to see each other.’
Peter put his arms round her and kissed her tenderly. For a few moments they clung together forgetful of the harsh decree which menaced their happiness, but a heavy drop of rain splashing on Sheila’s upturned face made her draw away with an exclamation of annoyance.
It was only ten days since Peter had been posted to his battalion. For the first few evenings they had had his car, but, five nights before, he had crashed it in the black-out. Since,
they had met each evening before and after Mess for walks over the empty rolling downs and on the one occasion that it had rained they had sat in the crowded parlour of the local inn; the only non-military place in which they could be together for miles around.
Now, they were barred from being seen together in the area of the camp and on a wet night it was certain that the inn parlour would be packed with officers. Yet, until Peter’s arrival at the camp, they had hardly seen each other for months, because only twice since the war had their leaves coincided. At any time he might be sent overseas, so every hour was precious. It was damnable, intolerable, that they should be robbed of even a single evening in each other’s company.
The rain was sheeting down now and a bitter wind had begun to blow. Great drops were pattering on to them through the scant cover of the fir trees. Cold and wet, they huddled together preoccupied with their worries, the cruel injustice of a hard world being uppermost in their minds. Sheila’s teeth had begun to chatter as she said: ‘We must go, darling; we’ll get soaked to the skin if we stay here.’
‘But tonight?’ he protested. ‘I must see you again after Mess. We’ve got night ops. for the next three days and the only time we can meet now is after dark.’
‘I know. But where can we go? The pub’s out of bounds for us now, and there’s nowhere else.’
‘I’ve got it,’ Peter said with sudden resolution. ‘Toby Fanshaw, my stable companion, is on leave, so I’ve got my room to myself. You haven’t got to be in till ten. I’ll be waiting for you there at half past eight, directly I get out of Mess. Do come, angel. We’ll snatch an hour together. Please say you will. Please!’
Sheila’s blue eyes widened. ‘I can’t, darling! There’d be the most frightful row if we were caught. You might even be court-martialled, and I should be summarily dismissed with ignominy.’
‘No one will see you in the black-out,’ Peter insisted optimistically, ‘and you won’t have to pass the guard if you come through the back of our lines. Listen: I’ll tell you what to do.’
He paused to fumble in his pocket and, pulling out a long, buff official envelope with his name typed on it, pressed it into her hand. ‘My room is the second from this end in the third block of huts behind the officers’ Mess. The only place where you might run into anybody and be questioned is in the passage between the door of the block and the door of my room, but that’s not likely as the officers will be in the Mess. Still, just in case you do, show them this envelope and ask them which is my room. They’ll think you’re on late duty and have been sent to leave an official message for me. I’ll be inside waiting for you.’
Sheila lifted her head and grinned mischievously into his serious brown eyes. ‘I can see both of us ending up in the Tower. But I’m game—on one condition. If we’re found out I shall say I walked into the wrong room by mistake and was asking you for directions.’
‘We won’t be found out,’ Peter replied, returning her grin. ‘Now don’t forget what I’ve told you. At half past eight we’ll shut the door on this filthy world for an hour, anyway, darling.’
Again they clung together, while the drips from the branches drummed upon them and the wind tore through the trees like a stampede of wild horses. The storm had brought nightfall early and it was dark when they parted to hurry the short distance back to their respective camps.
Over her evening meal Sheila was unusually silent and the noisy chatter of her messmates provided only a background for her anxious thoughts. With half her mind she was longing for her hour with Peter—but the other half told her that she had been a weak little fool to agree to his suggestion. There would be such a frightful rumpus if anything went wrong. Not that she cared about her own reputation, but she would never forgive herself if he got into trouble on her account.
As soon as she could get away, she left the dining-room, and collected her macintosh from the hut which she shared with half a dozen other girls. As she opened the door she walked right into the arms of her Section Leader—tall, parchment-faced Miss Wentworth.
The Section Leader had been one of the two A.T.S. officers who had seen Sheila in Peter’s Mess the previous night. ‘Hello, Beaufort!’ she exclaimed suspiciously, ‘Where are you off to?’
Sheila muttered something about a walk.
‘What, in this downpour?’ Miss Wentworth’s tone was acid, but she had no authority to stop the girls going out in the rain if they wished to, so she said no more, and Sheila hurried away into the darkness.
The driving rain stung her face and trickled down the back of her neck as she stumbled blindly forward up the muddy road, clinging to her cap for dear life. Presently the huts of Peter’s camp loomed up in front of her. Leaving the road, she struck across the wet grass in a half circle to come round behind them. Protecting her eyes with her hand, she first counted them, then walked up to the third behind the Mess. The door was blown open the moment she pressed the latch and she found herself in the dimly lit corridor. No one was in sight.
With a sigh of relief she went quickly forward till she reached the second door from the end, and stepped cautiously inside. The room was in semi-darkness, lit only by the chinks of light from a glowing iron stove. Peter was not there; he must still be in the Mess. Taking off her macintosh, she folded it neatly and laid it over the back of a chair, then put her sodden cap on top of it. She noticed that there was only one camp bed in the room, but took it that Toby Fanshaw’s had been packed up while he was on leave. Kneeling down in front of the stove, she ran her fingers through her bright chestnut curls.
The clock ticked irritably on a wooden shelf and she began to fidget restlessly. Peter should have arrived by now. How stupid she had been to follow the foolish impulse that had made her agree to his crazy idea. She realised that no one could stop him from coming to his own room, but through these thin partitions someone might hear them talking and learn from her voice that he had a girl with him; or perhaps she would be seen leaving.
Why didn’t he come? Perhaps he had slipped on the wet road and hurt himself—twisted an ankle. Supposing he was lying out there helpless in the darkness, unable to move out of the way of any oncoming car…. She shook herself for allowing her thoughts to run on in such a fashion, but as the minutes went slowly by and Peter still failed to arrive she became really anxious.
What was she to do? She couldn’t go back to her own quarters without knowing whether he was safe. Suddenly she heard the sound of two men talking outside the door. Startled out of her anxiety, she grabbed her hat and mac, and looked frantically round for a place in which to hide in case either of the strangers should decide to come in. In the far corner of the room hung a long curtain, almost reaching the ground. Underneath it Sheila could see several pairs of shoes, and she guessed that it must be a makeshift cupboard. She had just concealed herself behind it when the door opened.
‘I’m going to have a wash and brush-up,’ she heard a gruff voice say, ‘Hello! that damn servant of mine has left the light on again. Well, see you in the Mess, Major.’
‘Right you are, sir,’ the other man replied. The door slammed and the echo of his footsteps retreated down the passage.
Sheila bit her lip and clenched her hands together. She had obviously made an awful mistake and got into the wrong room. Her heart began to beat against her ribs, so loudly that she felt certain that the man whose hut she had invaded would hear it. Pressing herself back against the hanging coats, she hardly dared to breathe. Her thoughts were tumultuous. What if he should want to change his shoes? He would not be able to help seeing her feet—he might, anyway; the curtain didn’t quite reach the floor. Perhaps he would smell the scent of her powder and get suspicious. Oh, how she wished she had never come! If she were found, the most awful things might happen to Peter. He came from a family whose sons had been soldiers for generations; his parents would never forgive either of them if he were disgraced. She could hear the splash of water poured into the wash-basin and the squelching of soapy hands rubbing together
; then the chair scraped against the wooden boards, and the man began to mutter irritably to himself, ‘Why can’t Hopkins dry things properly instead of letting them drip and make such a confounded mess all over the floor?’
Sheila closed her eyes. What if he should guess that someone else’s things had been the cause of the little puddle of water at which he was grumbling? She felt sorry for Hopkins and hoped that he would not suffer too much because of her carelessness. Her feet seemed to be growing larger and larger, so that they stuck out right in front of all the other shoes and her macintosh was beginning to weigh heavily on her arm. She realised she couldn’t bear the strain much longer. She wanted to laugh—to cry—to do anything, rather than stifle behind the curtain. Her nose began to tickle. She pressed her finger against it as hard as she could, but it was no use. Her violent sneeze vibrated through the room.
A wet hand wrenched the curtain aside and Sheila found herself facing an elderly, grey-haired man. He was in his shirt-sleeves and even in her panic she noticed that his braces dangled down behind him like an absurd tail. But his face terrified her. For a second rage seemed to choke him, then, apparently recovering his voice, he rapped out:
‘Well, young woman, who the devil are you? What d’you think you’re doing here? Gome on, speak up!’
Sheila stared dumbly at him in horrified dismay as, without waiting for an answer, he peered into her face and went on: ‘Why, I remember you; you’re the girl young Grayley brought into the Mess last night.’ His voice became harsh as his indignation grew. ‘I had him on the mat about it this morning. And now I know what you’re doing here. You thought this was his room, didn’t you? Didn’t you?’
‘No,’ Sheila whispered, almost tongue-tied with distress at the sudden realisation that, of all people, she was face to face with Peter’s colonel.
‘Well, you’re right—it isn’t; but you didn’t go far wrong. I’ll have him court-martialled for this.’
Gunmen, Gallants and Ghosts Page 18