Sarah Morris Remembers

by D. E. Stevenson

  Meanwhile father and Willy and I each had our own work to do – usually at different hours. We came and went; it was not often that we were all at home together. Occasionally, when Willy had a free Saturday, he and I went for an expedition to Kew or Hampton Court or, if it were wet, to a picture house. There was a strange sort of monotony in our lives. The raids continued and the shelter was full nearly every night but the bombs didn’t fall on us.

  Lewis was still in England. Much to his disgust he had been seconded from his battalion and was in a hutted camp helping to train crews for armoured cars. We saw him now and then when he happened to be in London and had a few hours to spare. Lottie was still at Riverside with the Meldrums; she never wrote but I rang her up occasionally and had a chat with her.

  I had told father that Mr. Duncan was “interested” in me. We both spent our days running about the huge store and interviewing people in different departments so we didn’t meet very often, but when we did happen to meet he always stopped and spoke to me. One day when I was having lunch by myself in the downstairs restaurant, which was the cheapest place for meals, he came and asked if he might sit at my table. It was impossible to refuse so I accepted the inevitable with a good grace.

  I knew he never lunched in the downstairs restaurant; the head-waiter knew it too. He arrived breathless with haste and excitement and suggested that Mr. Duncan might prefer to move to a more secluded table.

  “All right, Benson,” said Mr. Duncan. “Miss Morris is lunching with me to-day so we’ll both move.” He added, “I just wanted to see what sort of a meal you’re serving in this place.”

  Several waiters were summoned and we were moved to the “secluded table.”

  “This is delightful,” said Mr. Duncan. “We shall have time for a chat. I never see you except when we’re both running to someone’s rescue but I hear about you, of course. You seem to be popular with everyone.”

  “Nearly everyone is very nice to me.”

  “Nearly everyone?”

  “Yes, one or two people aren’t so pleasant. They think I have an easy time.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Yes, perhaps.”

  “Who are the idiots?”

  I smiled and replied, “That would be telling.”

  We talked “shop” for a little. It was interesting to hear about some of his plans – he was always thinking of plans for making Barrington’s bigger and better. I never knew anyone so full of enthusiasm for his work as Duncan Barrington, and he had the power of kindling a flame of enthusiasm in the bosoms of his employees.

  We had an excellent lunch. It was a good deal better than the usual meal which was served in the downstairs restaurant; I wondered how this had been achieved but I made no comment.

  When we had finished and were having coffee (which also was a good deal better than usual), Mr. Duncan changed the subject.

  “I see you’re wearing a ring,” he said.

  “Yes, I’m engaged to be married.”

  “It’s a signet ring.”

  “Yes. He wanted to give me a diamond engagement ring but I said I’d rather have this.”

  “I suppose when you’re married you’ll desert us?”

  I hesitated and then replied, “I don’t see much chance of our being married until after the war.”

  “He’s in the Forces, I suppose? Is he in this country?”

  “No, he’s abroad at present.”

  Mr. Duncan waited for a few moments; I knew he was hoping for more information but I was silent.

  At last he said, “Are you quite comfortable in your new quarters, Miss Morris?”

  “Very comfortable . . . and it’s lovely having my brother to live with us.”

  “I liked your brother,” declared Mr. Duncan. “I’m sure he’s good at his job, but I had a feeling that he wasn’t very satisfied with the work he was doing. Am I right?”

  This was a safe subject, and I enjoyed talking about Willy, so I told Mr. Duncan all about him: how he had been in Romford’s Engineering Works but had been moved to his present uncongenial employment when the new factory was opened. “He’s wasted there,” I said. “He’s doing work that could be done by an unskilled man.”

  “That’s bad. Why doesn’t he write to Sir Edgar Romford? They might take him back. Romford’s are making precision instruments for aeroplanes, so they could get him back quite easily.”

  “Did you say Sir Edgar Romford?”

  “Mr. Romford has been given a k.b.e. I saw it in the Honours List.”

  It was amazing how much Mr. Duncan knew. He was terribly busy but he found time to keep himself informed about everything that was going on.

  “Tell your brother to write to Sir Edgar,” said Mr. Duncan, nodding. “That’s the best way. Well, I suppose I’d better get a move on. We’re making alterations in the furniture department and I promised to be there about two o’clock. This has been a delightful little break, Miss Morris. We must do this again. Do you lunch here every day?”

  “No, very seldom,” I replied. This wasn’t strictly true (it suited me to lunch there) but I didn’t want to lunch with Mr. Duncan again. For one thing I was determined to keep our relationship on a business footing, and for another I had discovered that Barrington’s enjoyed gossip . . . the news that Miss Morris had been entertained to lunch by the boss would be a juicy subject of conversation for days.

  *

  All the way home I was thinking of the best way to put the matter to Willy, so that he would write at once to Sir Edgar Romford. However when I arrived at the flat Willy was busy with his gadget and after supper father wanted a game of piquet . . . so I could do nothing about it that night.

  The following morning we had breakfast earlier than usual, and father went along to the shelter to see about putting up some extra bunks, so Willy and I were left to finish our breakfast alone.

  “I saw Lewis yesterday,” said Willy. “He said he would come and see you as soon as he had a moment. He’s at a camp somewhere in Essex.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Oh, he writes to you, does he?”

  “Yes, now and then. Where did you meet him?”

  “I met him face to face in Regent Street. He was glowing with health and vigour. Lewis has always had the best of everything; he’s one of Fortune’s Darlings.”

  I didn’t reply. It was sad that Willy should feel like that.

  “You needn’t look so disapproving,” said Willy. “You know it’s true. Father and mother gave Lewis everything he wanted because he was ‘so handsome and clever,’ and Lottie could do as she liked because she had blue eyes and yellow curls. You and I were the ugly ducklings.”

  It wasn’t fair of Willy . . . but I knew he was overworked and miserable. “I didn’t know you felt bitter about it,” I said.

  “I can see you don’t believe me, Sarah, but if you look back you’ll realise that it’s true. I felt bitter about it at the time but I’m glad now; spoiling doesn’t prepare you for present-day life. If I’d been spoilt when young I couldn’t have survived the last two years: the long hours in the workshop, the grinding monotony of the work, the foul language and the friendlessness . . . and Mrs. Black’s cooking. Sometimes when I felt at the end of my tether I came to you for a little spoiling, didn’t I?” He grinned at me and helped himself to another cup of coffee.

  “Oh, Willy! But things are better now?”

  “Quite a lot better in the domestic line,” nodded Willy. “For one thing you haven’t got a drunken husband coming home in the early hours of the morning and raising hell. I’m glad you haven’t got a drunken husband, Sarah.”

  “So am I,” I said with an involuntary chuckle.

  “You see,” said Willy, rising and taking his pipe off the chimney-piece and filling it with his long clever fingers – which, alas, were so engrained with oil that no amount of scrubbing would clean them. “You see, Sarah, one of the hardest things I have to bear is the enmity of the other chaps in the workshop. They�
�ve had a down on me from the very beginning.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m different from themselves. For one thing I don’t like foul language and for another the foreman holds me up as a shining example of punctuality – and all the other virtues. It’s rather sickening for them, so they take it out on me when they can. That’s all; I didn’t mean to whimper about it.”

  “You never whimper!”

  “I seem to be whimpering a bit now, for some reason or other. All the same I’m glad I’ve had the misery and grind.”

  “You’re glad?”

  “I’ve stuck it out,” he explained. “Sticking it out has been good for me; it has stiffened my backbone. I shall go on sticking it out (they’ve got me by the short hairs so there’s nothing else for it) but it won’t be so bad, because——”

  “Willy, listen: you could go back to Romford’s.”

  “My dear girl, there’s not a hope! I’ve told you——”

  “Listen!” I said loudly. “Romford’s Works have gone over to munitions; they’re making precision instruments for aeroplanes and Mr. Romford has got a k.b.e.”

  “What!”

  “It’s true.”

  “Precision instruments?”

  “Yes.”

  “And may I ask how Miss Morris happens to know all that?”

  “Miss Morris heard ‘all that’ from Mr. Duncan Barrington.”

  “That man again?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else did Mr. Duncan Barrington say to Miss Morris?”

  “He said Mr. William Morris should write to Sir Edgar Romford.”

  “Did he, now? He seems to take a lot of interest in the Morris family.”

  “His interests are very wide.”

  Willy stood and looked at me for a moment or two but I didn’t say another word. I knew Willy too well: he hated to be ordered about and told what he ought to do.

  “Lordy, look at the clock!” exclaimed Willy. “I’d better be off!”

  He went off like a rocket; I heard the front door bang and his feet clattering down the stone stairs.

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  My work at Barrington’s had become more arduous but my domestic arrangements were easier for I was able to enlist the services of a woman who lived in the flat below us. She helped me in the mornings and she was willing to come for an hour in the evenings if I wanted her. It was a comfort to come home and find supper prepared instead of having to set to and prepare it myself after a strenuous day’s work. Mrs. Raggett was a quiet mouse-like little woman – I never got to know her well – but she was very useful to me.

  All this was good. The only disadvantage in our new flat was its distance from St. Rule’s: instead of five minutes’ walk it took twenty minutes in the bus to get from door to door which was less convenient for father. For me it meant that I didn’t see Pam Hetherington so often. However we met when we could in the evenings and I still went to the shelter two nights a week. Even when there wasn’t an air-raid the shelter was used by people who liked company for themselves and safety for their children. We were obliged to make a small charge for refreshments, otherwise we couldn’t have carried on, but they didn’t seem to mind. Sometimes I dropped in on my way home from Barrington’s and helped Pam to make sandwiches; she was usually there at half-past six and we sat at a table together and chatted as we worked.

  One Thursday I was earlier than usual.

  “Mrs. Hetherington isn’t coming,” said Mr. Martin. “I’ve got two other ladies on the job . . . by the way you can talk French, can’t you, Miss Morris? There’s a man here – rather a queer sort of customer. He was hanging about outside the church so I brought him in out of the rain. I don’t know what he wants.”

  The man was dressed in rough clothes with a muffler round his neck; he looked sullen but his face brightened at the sound of his own language and he asked if I were “Madame Heddington.”

  “No, but I am her friend. Do you want to see her?”

  “The letter is for the wife of the curé of St. Rule’s. I was told to give it into her hand but already I am late.” He was searching in his pocket as he spoke and after producing a rolled-up coil of twine, several nuts and screws and a pocket-knife, he found a very dirty crumpled envelope and showed it to me. It was addressed: Mrs. Hetherington, Wife of the Rev. Paul Hetherington, Vicar of St. Rule’s Parish Church, London, S.E.

  “I have come to the right place?” he asked, looking at me warily.

  “Yes, but Mrs. Hetherington is not coming to-night.”

  “Then I must return another day,” said the man crossly. “It is a nuisance but he said I must give it into her hand.”

  “Who gave you the letter?”

  “They call him Gene.”

  “Can you take an answer to Gene?”

  “No, I am not going back.”

  “Where is Gene?”

  He answered rudely, “How do I know? I agreed to bring the letter – not to answer questions. I am in a hurry.” Then he crammed the envelope into his pocket and turned away.

  He was so careless that I was afraid he would lose the letter – or perhaps not bother to come back – and I was beginning to think that it might be important. “Wait!” I exclaimed, seizing his arm. “Mrs. Hetherington is my friend, why not give the letter to me?”

  He shook his head. “No, that is no good.”

  “I can give it to her.”

  “Gene said she would reward me with English money if I gave it to her safely.”

  I opened my bag and took out a pound note. He eyed it greedily.

  “Look,” I said. “This will save you the trouble of returning another day.”

  The transaction was completed in the twinkling of an eye; he ran up the steps and disappeared.

  “You got rid of him pretty quickly,” said Mr. Martin.

  “He was in a hurry,” I explained. “He brought a letter for Mrs. Hetherington. I had better take it across to the Vicarage in case it’s important.”

  “Not likely,” he replied. “It’s probably a begging letter; she gets dozens of them.”

  I ran across the road and rang the bell at the Vicarage. As I waited on the doorstep I began to wonder if I had been foolish and had wasted twenty good shillings, but when Pam opened the door and I gave her the letter I saw that the money had been well spent.

  “Gil . . .” she said in a hushed voice. “Gil’s writing! Sarah, where did you get it?”

  “From a Frenchman who came to the shelter. Oh, Pam, I’m terribly glad! I’ll go away and leave you to read it.”

  “No, stay! I’m frightened . . .”

  She was trembling and her eyes were full of tears, so I took her firmly by the arm and we went into the study together. “It’s all right,” I said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “A letter . . . from Gil!”

  “Yes, it’s lovely. Shall I open it for you?”

  She handed me the dirty crumpled envelope and I opened it with a paper-knife which was lying on the table. When I unfolded the thin sheet of paper I saw that the letter was written in shorthand.

  Pam looked at it in dismay. “Goodness!” she exclaimed. “I can’t read this.”

  “But I don’t understand! Why did he write it in shorthand unless he thought you could read it?”

  “I used to be able to read it,” she explained. “Years ago, when Gil was fifteen, he broke his leg so badly that he was laid up for several months. It was boring for him so I got a girl to come in every morning and teach him shorthand. We learnt it together – it was more fun for Gil – and we wrote each other silly letters, like a game, you know.”

  “You’ll remember,” I told her. “I’m sure you’ll remember. Just make a start and read out what you can; I’ll write it down as you go along. If you don’t know a word we’ll leave a space and fill it in afterwards – that’s the way.”

  “Well . . . perhaps,” she agreed, looking at the letter d
oubtfully. “Gil and I could always read each other’s squiggles. It begins ‘Dearest Mam’ – that’s what he calls me. He called me ‘Pam’ when he was little but Paul didn’t like it so we compromised.”

  “‘Mam’ is nice,” I said, seizing a block of scribbling paper. “Go on, Pam. What next?”

  The first part of the letter seemed to be an account of the accident but Pam was so worried and upset that all she could do was to make out a few words here and there.

  “Oh, dear, I can’t read this!” she exclaimed. “He says, ‘Sam was backing about’ . . . no, that can’t be right!”

  “Leave it,” I said. “Go on to the next bit.”

  It was very difficult but we persevered and when we were half-way through Pam began to remember and to read it more easily. I found a magnifying glass in the drawer of the desk which was a help.

  When at last we came to the end she looked up and said, “It’s a hopeless muddle, isn’t it? But he’s alive and well – nothing else matters.”

  “The beginning is a muddle,” I agreed. “We can go back to that later. The last part is fairly clear. Wait a moment and I’ll sort out my scribble so that you can read it for yourself.”

  When I had written it out the last part of the letter read as follows:

  “. . . so that you will . . . why I could not . . . before. I am afraid you must have been . . . I am O.K. now so you need not worry . . . I cannot come home . . . got a job . . . with our old friend Percy Blakeney . . . we export merchandise over the mountains . . . Spain . . . this letter . . . by that route . . . has promised to . . . and give it into your hand . . . I hope he will . . . safely . . . I am useful here . . . speak the lingo . . . get on well with . . . chaps . . . better not tell . . . I am alive. Safer for me . . . you must tell father . . . make him understand . . . top secret . . . very important . . . write again if possible . . . no time . . . Pierre and . . . just starting . . . lots of love from Gil.”