“He has stopped us, darling. Nobody could make love after that. His manner’s better than a cold bath.”
Elizabeth was crying.
“Please, Paul, take me with you.” Her voice was hysterical. “I love you. Please don’t go.”
Paul sat her in a chair and knelt beside her.
“Good-bye, my sweet. You may be right and this may be a real good-bye, but we’ve had fun. Don’t let’s spoil it all by turning serious now.”
John found Elizabeth crouched face down on the arm of a chair. He drew up another beside her and waited. Presently, when she was crying less, he said apologetically:
“As a future novelist you must see no father could say, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry to have disturbed you,’ and walk up to bed. Now could he?”
Elizabeth choked back her sobs. “You see, he’s going to be killed.” John accepted her statement.
“Even if he is, what you planned to-night wouldn’t help. Do you honestly think that he would die happier or you be glad for ever afterwards? A lot of hysterical rubbish comes to the top in war-time, and one of the silliest is that you can make people happy by handing them a love affair as if it was a box of chocolates.” He hesitated. “You showed me just now that you know something I hoped you didn’t know. That your mother’s never known.”
“Oh, Mother! Well, she never sees things. I’ve known for ages.”
“I see. Well, you probably think that, because there is another woman in my life, I’ve stopped loving your mother. But you’d be wrong. I love her and shall always love her. What I mean is, what you contemplated tonight isn’t the only sign of love. There are other things.” He got up. “Mop your eyes. I’m going to get you a drink.” He smiled. “I might be a decent father for a change. Come and talk things over with me if ever you feel like it.”
January 15th, 1918.
“Sir Auckland Geddes submitted to the House of Commons to-day the most interesting and comprehensive survey of the man-power problem to which it has listened during the war. He announced that it was necessary to raise immediately in this country 420,000 to 450,000 men from among those now in civil life, and that the Government had decided to make available for military service a very large number of the young men now employed in essential industries. He warned the nation that the alternatives to the continued immunity of these mean:
“to drag out your fathers,
“to send those who had been wounded again and again to the trenches, and
“to stop the leave of the men at the front.”
“And that,” said Laurence, laying down The Times, is very depressing for an officer and a gentleman going back to France to-morrow.”
Violet looked at the paper.
“I don’t know why he says send those who have been wounded again and again to the trenches, as if it was something new. Your board did not seem to think it a novelty sending you back.”
Laurence lit his pipe.
“Lucky to have been home so long. I told you when I was hit it didn’t even look like a blighty.”
Violet got up, too restless to sit still. She went to the window and drummed a dismal tattoo with her finger-tips on the pane. She stared unhappily at the bare winter garden.
“I wish it was spring. Things don’t seem so bad when the flowers are out.”
Laurence joined her. He put his arm round her shoulder.
“Come and sit down. I’ll draw the curtains. It’s a filthy afternoon. Don’t let’s look at it.” She leant against him. He stroked her hair. “Come back to the fire, sweetheart.” He led her to the sofa, lifted up her feet and patted the cushions in her back to hold her in the position at which he knew she breathed easiest. “All the flowers will be out by the time he arrives.” He nodded in a possessive way at where, by her outline, it was obvious their baby was lying. He gave a puff or two at his pipe. “Do you mind a surname used as a Christian name?”
“Torrys? No. I’d thought of that.”
“You can add Desmond or Algernon as well, if you feel like it.”
She made a feeble effort at making a face at him. A little gesture to show that two could play the game that nothing was wrong, that he was not going back to France in the morning.
“I’ll call him Cuthbert if you aren’t careful.” She spoke more seriously. “As a matter of fact, I thought I’d like William. Bill’s such a nice name for a boy, don’t you think? Bill Torrys England. He sounds square, and good at cricket, and as if he’d get awfully excited about things like Christmas and going abroad for the summer holidays.” Her voice wobbled and tailed away. She turned her head from him. “Put on a record, will you?”
He got up and put on a record of the ‘Maid of the Mountains.’
“I wonder if Mum’s in yet.”
Violet spoke with her face still turned to the wall.
“She will be in a minute. You must make her sit with us. After all, it’s her last evening with you too.”
Laurence came to the sofa. He slipped his fingers through hers. How cosy the room was. Somebody else must have gone cold that they might have such a big fire.
They were sitting like that when Caroline came in.
“Hullo, Mum.” Laurence got up and kissed her and tried to lead her to a chair. “How many teas and coffees did you upset this afternoon?”
Caroline freed herself.
“It’s no good my sitting down, because I shan’t stop. I’ve got to be back at the canteen in an hour. Someone has influenza.”
“Oh, Mother! Didn’t you explain it was Laurie’s last evening?”
Caroline succeeded in looking vague.
“I think they knew, dear. It made no difference. I had to offer.”
“Well, sit down for a minute.” Laurence patted the chair he had pulled forward for her. “We’ve been deciding what to call the baby. We’ve fixed on William Torrys. How do you like it?”
“Bill for short,” Violet explained.
Caroline gave Laurence a quick look. Then she turned and muddled with some papers in a drawer of her desk under the window.
“You’re going to take the name of Torrys anyhow. Won’t Torrys Torrys be too much?” She came back to Laurence and, needing an excuse to touch him, rearranged his tie.
He did not look in her face.
“You can’t have too much of a good thing.” She patted his shoulder.
“I’m arranging for you two to have your dinner here. I managed to buy something rather nice at the fruiterer’s. That kind man had saved it for me, as he knew about to-morrow.” She moved serenely across the room. “Have a happy evening dears.”
Laurence opened the door for her.
“Good-bye, Mum. It’s sickening you’ve got to go out.” He came with her into the passage. “I wish you wouldn’t come with me to the station in the morning. I’d much rather you stayed with Violet, but I suppose it’s no good talking to you, you difficult old woman.”
Caroline said nothing. The muscles of her face felt stiff. She started to go upstairs. At the bend she turned and paused. Laurence was just disappearing into the sitting-room. The door shut. Caroline quickly put her hand to her lips, but not before a sob like a hiccup broke through. Shocked, she looked round, but no one was about to see her moment of weakness. Fumblingly she went on up to her room.
Caroline sat by John’s bed. He was semi-conscious. He muttered and grumbled. Elizabeth came to the door and looked in. Caroline went over to her.
“How is he?”
Caroline shook her head. “His pulse is weaker.”
“There are a whole lot of reporters downstairs,” Elizabeth whispered. “I’ve explained about it being pneumonia, and how he got it on his beat as a special. There’s nothing else to say, is there?”
“No. Where are Violet and Bill?”
“Out in the park. Helen’s gone to help
push.” Caroline smiled.
“I’m so glad.”
The nurse came bustling out. The starch in her apron made a rasping sound as she came.
“Will you ring the hospital again, Miss England? Ask them to try and get a message to Doctor. Tell them it’s urgent.”
Caroline came back to her chair by the bed. Her eyes wandered to the window. How blue the sky was. How odd it should be fine outside. How nice that dear little Bill was out in this nice sun. Her head suddenly dropped forward. She quickly put it straight, but her lapse made her realise how tired she was. It was three days since she had been to bed. She forced her eyes to remain open, but let her body relax.
“Caroline.” John’s voice was faint and gusty. “What were you thinking about?” Caroline laid her hand on his.
“Such a funny thing. An evening just after we moved here. You were not going out for once, and you came to the schoolroom and we all played tiddly-winks.”
“Tiddly-winks?” He whispered the word in a puzzled way. “Tiddly-winks?”
Miss Brown’s head came round the door. She whispered to the nurse, who gently touched Caroline.
“A message, Mrs. England.” Caroline disengaged her hand.
“I shan’t be a moment, darling.”
In the passage Miss Brown handed her a telegram. “I don’t know if it’s for you or Mrs. Laurie, but she’s out with baby.”
“Give it to me.”
Quite calmly Caroline slit the envelope.
DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT CAPTAIN LAURENCE ENGLAND, R.F.A., WAS REPORTED KILLED IN ACTION ON SEPTEMBER 14. THE ARMY COUNCIL EXPRESS THEIR SYMPATHY
SECRETARY WAR OFFICE
Caroline folded the telegram. She put it in her pocket.
She went back to John. He smiled at her weakly. “Who was it?”
Was there eagerness in his voice? How selfish of her not to have thought of it.
“Is there anyone you’d like to see? Lilias Dines perhaps?”
The ghost of his old smile flickered in his eyes. “You are a pet. Lilias. God no!”
Caroline moved nearer to him. His voice was so faint it was hard to hear what he said. The telegram crackled. A spasm crossed his face, but she managed to smile.
“You’re a dear, Caroline,” John murmured.
She laid her hand on his. He had closed his eyes and seemed not to want to talk any more. She deadened her mind. John. Laurie. Don’t think. Time enough for that later. Don’t think. Don’t think.
The nurse was speaking.
“He’s dead, Mrs. England.”
PART III
The Grandmother
Chapter XX
Two birds outside the window began a noisy argument. The sound pierced to Caroline’s consciousness. She stretched out a hand (as she had done every day for over forty-two years) to touch John. As her fingers felt the emptiness of the other half of the bed she opened her eyes. A faint chink of light came through the curtains. She sat up and pulled the chain of the gas lamp over her head. She looked at her clock. It was early yet. Still half an hour before Pells would call her. She examined the strip of light between the curtains. It looked as though it might be fine. It was very easy to draw the curtains and find out, but it was pleasant being in suspense. Not a sound of drips, and there always was a dripping sound when it was wet, where the rain hit the roof that jutted out over the bath-room. Then the birds. Surely no birds would make a noise like that on a wet morning. She got out of bed, threw her dressing-gown round her shoulders and drew back the curtains. It was fine. The sun had not risen long. The garden was still grey and full of shadows, but it was certainly fine. She shivered and looked at the gas fire. A very bad habit the modern idea that you could not dress or undress except in a heated room. Very weakening. In an age when it seemed to her that everybody was giving way to everything she made a practice of small self-denials; they must, she was sure, be stiffening. But still to-day was her birthday, and to be sixty rather a special birthday. Some time yet to wait for her tea. The fire would be a little treat which perhaps she might allow herself this one morning. She lit a match and turned on the gas. Back in bed she wedged her pillows behind her, and sitting bolt upright opened her prayer-book: her lips moved with the words—
“Almighty and most Merciful Father; we have erred, and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep—”
She followed the prayer with the collect for the day, then she got out of bed and knelt for The Lord’s Prayer, and her own special petitions. As she got up from her knees her eyes fell on the carpet. Dear me, how worn it was getting, but of course it was the same bedroom carpet she had at Swan. Very stupid when she moved not to have had it turned the other way. Naturally kneeling on the same spot night and morning all these years it would get a little thin. It would be a big undertaking to move it now. The room was so small and the wardrobe so big. She would talk to Brownie about it; a little mat perhaps.
She got back into bed. Dear me what a busy morning ahead of her. She must go straight out after breakfast and see to the flowers. Such a difficult time of year to spare any flowers for cutting. She did want her garden to look its best for the children. She ran her mental eye up and down her flower-beds. Very fortunate the daphne was out, it made such a pretty patch of pink. She could spare a bowl of primroses, but of course not the blue ones, they were so charming as they were. Some more of the forsythia would be out to-day. Now what should she put on the table? She ought to pick the iris reticulata. Their purple heads looked well against the amethyst bowl. On the other hand, they were a great ornament where they were. Perhaps primroses for the table as they would be such a large party. The children did not meet often and were sure to have a lot to say to each other, and would not want to peer round flowers. Yes, a flat bowl of primroses would be best. For the drawing-room and sitting-room daffodils and pheasant-eye. If they were picked carefully, only taking one here and there, they would not spoil the effect in the garden. Those early tulips were not quite out, they made such gay splashes of colour; but there were still a few crocuses left, and those dear little scillas. Yes, the garden was looking charming; so fortunate for country gardens, as she remembered from experience, were a treat to Londoners. It was a pity her birthday was not later, the lilac would have been out, and Helen was so fond of it. But the prunus would have been over in that case, and there was something so lovable about a prunus, the first sight of its white flowers and you felt the nasty damp winter was over.
She took a deep breath. Not a rumble. Of course bronchitis was not a serious illness, and she probably made far more fuss than was necessary. But three attacks in one winter had been depressing. All the same, however many attacks she had, it was no good the Doctor thinking she would winter abroad. What would she do abroad, however warm? Much cosier in her own cottage, even if she was short of breath. She heard footsteps. That would be Pells going down. Quite likely she would have noticed the light under her door and would bring up her tea early. Such a considerate creature, full of little kindnesses.
Caroline moved. The eiderdown shifted. She pulled it into place. Such a pretty eiderdown, so sweet of Helen. But (though of course at sixty it was a very childish thing to feel) how much more fun it was to have your presents on the day itself. Helen had taken so much trouble, writing for a pattern to match the silk with, and then sending a post card to say which day Harrods were posting. It was a lovely eiderdown, but it was disappointing to know exactly what was in a parcel before you opened it. She looked at the light between the curtains. It was quite light now. It was going to be a lovely day. Ridiculous how the thought of her birthday and a lovely day still made her want to jump up and run downstairs. Her body was sixty years old. She ought to be feeling sixty. Pleasures, she had always heard, grew less as you got older. But they did not seem to with her. Here she was looking forward to her birthday party just like a child. Not that her birthdays had ever been very exciting whe
n she was a child. That was why she had always made such a lot of the children’s. Laurie and Jimmie had always been at school for theirs, but what parcels she had sent. Poor Jimmie’s were not so good by the end of the war, but Laurie always had lovely things in his. Dear Laurie. She looked across at his photograph. In front of it stood a vase of mixed spring flowers, the first of everything, even the blue primroses. Time, they said, healed anything. That was not her experience. She was a very lucky woman: this cottage, Brownie and Pells,and the children so good about coming down, and the grandchildren so sweet. But time did not cure the ache of missing people. Why should it?
How nice it would have been if the grandchildren could have come to-day. Dear Bill would be sure to have written for her birthday. How well he was doing at school. How pleased his grandfather would have been. How the boys’ bad reports had worried him. It would have been nice if Helen could have brought Ford. Bonita was a little young perhaps. Though really, although she would have loved to have had him, perhaps it was just as well Ford was not coming. Pells always got upset trying to feed Helen’s children. Strange to put children on a diet. She had never fed any of hers on anything special, and they were all very healthy. And what a lot of things they learnt, even baby Bonita. Of course Helen knew best, she had studied the subject, but it seemed strange that all children nowadays needed to express themselves. And Jane. Caroline sighed. Poor Jane. She never saw the child without longing to cuddle her. Such a lonely little creature. She was sure Betsy meant to be kind, but it was heart-breaking to see a child brought up like that.
Pells knocked at the door. Caroline looked up with a smile.
“Good morning, Pells. I wondered if you’d see my light. How kind of you. I’m just ready for a cup of tea.”
Pells put the tray down. She looked in disapproval at the curtains.
“What you want jumping in and out, and all the trouble we’ve had with your bronchitis.”
Caroline poured herself out a cup of tea. Dear Pells, sometimes she was just a tiny bit impertinent. Of course, she did not mean it, but it was a pity, such an excellent servant in other ways.
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