Sarah Morris Remembers

by D. E. Stevenson

  “What has happened?”

  “I’m going to have a child.”

  “Oh, Lottie! That’s lovely!”

  “It isn’t!” she cried. “It isn’t ‘lovely,’ it’s horrible. I’m frightened and miserable, it’s making me ill and – and ugly. I’m ugly now – and it’s getting worse! I won’t go through with it – I won’t have a child, it’s revolting!”

  “Lottie, be quiet! You mustn’t talk like that.”

  “I hate Clive,” she repeated frantically. “I told him I didn’t want children and he said it would be all right. It’s his mother’s fault! He goes to lunch with her in town and they talk about me – I know they do! She hates me because she’s had to leave Brailsford. She’s told him he ought to have a son and heir.”

  “Well, of course! It’s quite natural that he should want——”

  “At first I couldn’t believe it!” she interrupted in a hurrying, breathless voice. “It was too bad to be true – it couldn’t be happening to me! But I’ve just been to see Sir Wilmot Slayne – that’s why I came up to town – and he – he said it was true. He was horrid to me, Sarah!”

  “Horrid?”

  “Yes, dreadfully unkind. I told him I was frightfully delicate. I told him it would kill me to have a child; I told him he must do something about it.”

  “Do something?” I exclaimed. “Lottie, you’re crazy! No doctor would dream of such a thing; it’s against the law!”

  “I don’t care! He must do something! It would kill me! I’m terribly delicate; I’ve always been delicate, haven’t I?”

  I was speechless.

  “Sarah, why don’t you answer?”

  I moistened my lips and said, “It isn’t true.”

  “It is true! I’ve always been frightfully delicate ever since I was a child. You know that, Sarah. I want you to help me. You’re my sister – you must help me!”

  “Help you? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Listen, Sarah,” she said urgently. “I want you to ring up that horrid man. You must tell him that you’re my sister and I’ve always been very delicate. He’d have to do something if you told him. He’d have to listen to you!”

  “No.” I said it very softly.

  “But I’ve always been terribly delicate!”

  “No.”

  “Yes, I have!”

  “No, Lottie.”

  She flung herself about in the chair and sobbed hysterically. “Why are you so beastly to me? I thought you’d be kind! You want me to die! That’s what it is! I wish mother was here! Mother understood me! Mother knew I was delicate – she used to call me her little fairy – and Mrs. Meldrum says I’m terribly highly strung! I told him all that but he wouldn’t – wouldn’t believe me.”

  “You’d like some coffee,” I said. “I’ll go and fetch it. A cup of coffee will do you good.”

  “No, wait!” cried Lottie, seizing my hand. “You must ring up that man. You must, Sarah! He wouldn’t believe me; he laughed – yes, laughed – and said I was a strong healthy young woman and it would do me good to have a child! When I told him I’d go to someone else he said, ‘Yes, go to someone else, Lady Hudson’ and opened the door . . . but he’d have to listen to you, Sarah. You must ring him up and tell him——”

  “No, Lottie.”

  “All right, I’ll go to someone else!” she cried wildly. “There are people you can go to – I know there are! If you won’t help me I’ll ask Madeline. There was a girl in the Wrens – Madeline told me about her. She knows a woman who . . .”

  I couldn’t bear it a moment longer. I left her talking and went to get the coffee and the milk; the coffee had got cold and it took me a minute or two to heat it up. When I went back to the sitting-room, with the two jugs in my hands, she was gone.

  *

  When father came home that evening I told him that Lottie was going to have a child.

  “Ha, ha!” he exclaimed. “So the little monkey is going to make me a grandfather; that’s good news, isn’t it? How do you like the idea of being ‘Aunt Sally’?”

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” I said . . . and added, “You’re awfully wet, Father. You had better give me your coat and I’ll hang it up on the pulley in the kitchen. Why didn’t you take your umbrella?

  “It was perfectly dry when I left home,” said father, taking off his coat and handing it to me.”

  “You’ll find a pair of socks and your slippers beside the sitting-room fire.”

  “Oh, thank you, Sarah! Grandfathers have got to be cosseted, haven’t they? What’s for supper?”

  “I’m afraid it’s just cauliflower au gratin.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with cauliflower au gratin?” said father cheerfully.

  There was nothing wrong with it, of course, except that we had it too often. Food was difficult and becoming more so every week. Sometimes it was impossible to get even the scanty rations to which we were entitled without standing in a queue for hours. Fortunately my two men were easy to feed: father had never bothered about food and Willy had been fed so badly when he was boarding with Mrs. Black that he enjoyed every dish I put before him. All the same, I don’t know how I could have managed without an occasional parcel from Craignethan.

  There was more chaff when Willy came in:

  “Hallo, Uncle William!” said father.

  “Oh, I’m to be Uncle William, am I? I’ve been wondering when that world-shaking event was going to take place. When are we to expect the heir of Brailsford Manor to make his appearance on the scene?”

  They were both looking at me and waiting for an answer. “You’ll need tae ask Jock,” I said lightly . . . and went to fetch the supper tray.

  I could hear Willy explaining the joke to father; they were both laughing when I returned.

  The war news was good that evening and Willy had brought a paper so the topic of Lottie’s baby was shelved while they discussed the advances made by the Russians.

  “The German troops in South Russia are being hard pressed,” declared Willy. “If Hitler wants to save them from annihilation he’ll have to transfer some fresh divisions from another front.”

  “We’ll get out the map after supper,” suggested father.

  When we had finished our meal I cleared the table and went to wash up the dishes. Usually Willy came and helped me, but to-night I didn’t expect him; the two were so intent upon the strategies of war that they had scarcely noticed what I was doing.

  I was wrong, however, for after a few minutes Willy followed me and taking a cloth off the pulley began his usual task.

  “What’s up, Sarah?” he asked in a low voice. “I thought you’d have been as pleased as Punch about Lottie’s infant . . . and here you are, dripping tears into the sink.”

  “I’m not dripping tears into the sink!”

  “Well, you don’t seem wild with joy. How did you hear about it? Did her ladyship ring up and prattle about layettes?”

  “She was here this morning. She doesn’t want the child.”

  “Whew! So that’s the trouble? I might have guessed! Bad for the figure, of course.”

  “She says it will kill her.”

  “Not a bit of it! Our dear little fragile Lottie has always been as strong as a horse. You aren’t worrying about that, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, what the hell are you worrying about?”

  “I don’t know what she’s going to do.”

  “You don’t mean she’s thinking of . . .”

  “I don’t know,” I said desperately. “She talked so wildly – and I wasn’t any good to her. I was terribly upset – horrified at the things she said – and instead of – of trying to make her see sense I was beastly to her. It seemed so dreadful that she didn’t want a child – so unnatural and – and horrible. I was so – so disgusted that I couldn’t be kind. I’ve been thinking about it all day, worrying about it. If I’d been kind and gentle I might have got her to – to listen. She does listen to me
sometimes. If she goes and does something – frightful – it will be my fault – because I failed her.”

  Willy was standing with a plate in one hand and the cloth in the other. He said thoughtfully, “She won’t do anything frightful.”

  “She talked so wildly!”

  “I dare say she did – I can imagine the scene! – but it’s all talk with Lottie. She won’t ‘do anything frightful’ because it’s dangerous and she’s too jolly careful of herself.”

  “What am I to do?”

  “Do? You can’t do anything except stop worrying about the silly little fool. Lottie will produce the infant on the correct date without the slightest trouble – if I know anything about her.”

  “If you’d seen her, Willy!”

  “If I’d seen her I’d have given her a bit of my mind,” said Willy cheerfully. “I don’t know why you’re so upset. I don’t mind betting you tuppence that the infant will arrive safely. It will be isolated on the top floor of Brailsford Manor so that its screams won’t be heard. The nursery will be thoroughly hygienic, with bars in the windows, and a thoroughly competent nurse will be engaged to look after it and see that it causes no trouble to its parents.”

  “An unwanted child!”

  “Oh,” said Willy, looking at me. “Oh, I see! You’ve always been potty about children; you’d like one of your own.”

  “You see a lot, don’t you?”

  “That’s why you’re so upset – that’s why you were horrified – that’s why you couldn’t be kind.”

  “Yes, that’s why.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t cry,” said Willy crossly. “It’s upsetting me.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just – just because it makes me want Charles rather badly.”

  “He’ll come back, Sarah. He tried to get his father out of prison and got caught in the act.”

  “What! How do you know?”

  “Well, it’s obvious. I don’t pretend to be a seer or anything; I just look at the facts and draw the logical conclusion. He went to Vienna to try to get his father out of prison and when he found he couldn’t manage it legally he arranged an escape. It’s the sort of thing Charles would do. I can imagine him letting his father down out of the window at the end of a rope . . . or perhaps he gave a feast for the warders and doped their wine. Then all he had to do was to get the keys out of their pockets and open all the doors and lead his father out of the prison disguised as an old crone.”

  “You ought to write thrillers,” I told him.

  “But something went wrong,” said Willy thoughtfully. “I don’t know what went wrong . . . perhaps the warders weren’t sufficiently doped and recovered too soon and Charles was caught red-handed and clapped into prison with gyves on his wrists like Eugene Aram.”

  “You’re talking nonsense!”

  “I know, I wanted to cheer you up.”

  Oddly enough Willy’s nonsense had cheered me up. “What do you really think?” I asked.

  “I really think Charles may have fallen foul of the authorities and been imprisoned. Once we’ve settled Hitler’s hash Charles will come back.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes, honestly. Charles has always seemed to me . . . indestructible,” said Willy thoughtfully.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Mr. Hetherington and father took it in turn to celebrate Holy Communion at St. Rule’s. On the first Sunday in June it was Mr. Hetherington’s turn for the early services; I got up at six and went at seven o’clock. For the last few days there had been a queer sort of tension in the air; everyone knew that huge concentrations of troops and materials were being assembled all around the south coast; everyone knew that this could only mean one thing: we were preparing for the invasion of France. Last but not least, everyone knew that the less said about it the better.

  I had gone at seven o’clock because I had thought the church would be quiet at that hour . . . but it was full of people; there was scarcely a vacant scat, and the service was wonderfully sincere and moving; many of the women were in tears.

  When I got back to Bolingbroke Square and climbed the stairs to the flat I found Lewis sitting on his suitcase on the landing.

  “Hallo, Sarah!” he said. “I wondered what had happened to everyone. I’ve been ringing the bell for ten minutes.”

  “Oh, Lewis, I’m sorry! Father and Willy don’t hear the bell and I’ve been to church. Have you come to stay?”

  “I can’t stay long.”

  Now that I had time to look at him I was alarmed. He was pale and haggard, he looked years older. “Is something the matter?” I asked.

  “The weather, that’s all.”

  “The weather?”

  “Well, I suppose you know there’s something up . . . a very big something. Everyone knows, even Hitler, but he doesn’t know when or where. I just thought I’d like to see you, and I brought some of my clothes that I shan’t be wanting. You can keep them, can’t you?”

  “Are you going, Lewis?”

  He nodded.

  “You look awfully tired.”

  “I haven’t been in bed for three nights.”

  “You had better come in and have some breakfast; then you can go to bed and sleep.”

  “That sounds good . . . but you’ll have to waken me at three.”

  “At three this afternoon?”

  “Yes, but don’t tell anyone.”

  I opened the door and we went into the kitchen together. Lewis sat down on a wooden chair and leant his elbows on the table and watched me getting things ready. “Where are Father and Willy?” he asked.

  “In bed and asleep. They won’t want their breakfast until later, so you and I can have ours together. I suppose I mustn’t ask questions?”

  “Better not.” He sighed and added, “Oh, I know you’re all right; you aren’t a gas-bag.”

  “Will you be able to let me know . . . how you get on?”

  “I’ll let you know when I can, but don’t worry; no news is good news, see?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll be all right. Everything has been planned to the last trouser button. It’s bound to be all right – if only we get the right weather. If we don’t get the right weather it’ll be all wrong. Gosh, I’m glad I haven’t got the responsibility of deciding!”

  “Can’t you wait for the right weather?”

  “No, at least . . . that’s one of the things you mustn’t ask.”

  “Am I allowed to ask what you’ve been doing?”

  “Acting chauffeur and dogsbody to a bloke in the commissariat department. I’ve been attached to him for temporary duties, that’s why I’ve had such a lot to do. The bloke finds me useful and wants to keep me – but he can’t do that. I must be with my own chaps when . . . well, when the whistle blows.”

  “The armoured cars?”

  “Yes. I’ve trained them and they’re a splendid lot of chaps. It would be frightful if I couldn’t go into action with them.”

  While I flew round, making coffee and toast and boiling eggs, Lewis went on talking. Perhaps he told me things he shouldn’t have mentioned but he knew I was safe and he had got to the stage of tiredness and tension when he had to unwind. He talked about “logistics,” which was a word I hadn’t heard before, and explained that it was the provisioning and maintenance of an expedition. In the old days armies were able to live off the country in which they were operating, but to-day every fighting man had to be fed and clothed and taken care of; every gun had to be provided with ammunition, every machine with petrol and spare parts – and mechanics to service those that were damaged – and everything had to be ferried across the Channel under the protection of air-cover and be available in the right place at the right moment.

  “It sounds impossible!” I exclaimed.

  “It’s going to be done. It’s the biggest thing that has ever been tackled in the history of the world. Some people call it the modern Armada; they’re talking through their hats! The Armada was child’s play compar
ed with this show. All the same if that man – what’s his name? – had paid proper attention to logistics he’d have conquered England.”

  “Medina Sidonia,” I said. There wasn’t much I didn’t know about the period. I added, “But it was the gales that destroyed the Armada.”

  “The weather finished it off,” admitted Lewis. “But if the fleet had been properly equipped before he left Spain Medina Sidonia could have landed his troops and made a bridge-head before the weather broke. Goodness, Sarah! Where did you get such enormous brown eggs?”

  “Craignethan eggs; grandmama sends them to me.”

  “Why do Craignethan hens lay huge eggs?”

  “Peaceful surroundings and lots of good food.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being a Craignethan hen.”

  “Wouldn’t you, Lewis?”

  “Yes, I would,” he declared, sitting up and pulling himself together. “I’m glad I’m me. I’m glad I’ve been chosen to play a part in the greatest adventure in history. Remember that, Sarah, whatever happens . . . and I mean whatever happens.”

  I sat down and began to eat my egg – but I hadn’t much appetite. “Lewis, do you remember when you were Henry V in the school play?”

  “I’ve been remembering it for the last three weeks, saying Harry’s speeches to myself whenever I had a moment to think:

  “‘On, on, you noblest English!

  Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! –

  Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,

  Have in these parts from morn till even fought . . .

  I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

  Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:

  Follow your spirit; and upon this charge

  Cry – God for Harry! England! and Saint George!’”

  We were silent for a few moments.

  “It’s great stuff, isn’t it?” said Lewis. “It’s a pity Shakespeare isn’t alive to-day . . . but his inspired words are alive. I wonder if Churchill will quote some of Harry’s speeches. He’s expected to-day at Portsmouth. Can I have some more butter, Sarah?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, passing him the dish.

  “Have you got a proper shelter in this building?” asked Lewis.