Sarah Morris Remembers

by D. E. Stevenson

  “I believe there’s a cellar but we don’t bother about air-raids; we go to bed except when we’re on duty at St. Rule’s. Anyhow there haven’t been many lately. I expect the Germans are too busy——”

  “You’ll have to go down to the cellar every night. These new secret weapons are going to be nasty . . . flying bombs, you know. It will be all right once we get to the rocket-sites but, until we can get there and destroy them, London is going to have a bad time.”

  I passed him ajar of marmalade which I had made with some sugar saved from our rations. “Is that a secret too?” I asked.

  “Everything is secret,” he replied thoughtfully. “I mean it all hangs together. Better not say anything about anything for a few days. Of course once we get going you can say what you like. This marmalade is jolly good.”

  “Have some more,” I suggested.

  He finished the jar, piling it on to his toast in large spoonfuls. He had another cup of coffee and I emptied the sugar bowl into his cup; I knew he had a sweet tooth. Then he sat back and smiled at me.

  “You look better,” I said.

  “I feel a whole lot better,” he replied. “It isn’t only the good meal and the Craignethan eggs; it’s talking to you, Sarah. I’ll have a bath and go to bed but you must waken me at three.”

  “Yes, I will, but what am I to say to Father and Willy?”

  “Tell them nothing. You see, sometimes people give away bits of information without meaning to. For instance, Father might mention to someone that I’d been here but I’d had to dash back to Portsmouth in the afternoon. At the moment everything is terribly secret,” said Lewis earnestly. “Hitler has spies everywhere and he’d give his ears to know just when and where we intend to make our landings. You realise that, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “Yes, of course. Do you want to see Father? Because, if so, you had better see him now. He has to go to St. Rule’s this afternoon.”

  Lewis hesitated . . . and then said, “Better not; it would be difficult to say good-bye to him without letting the cat out of the bag.”

  I thought Lewis was wrong – and said so – but Lewis thought he knew best. “I’ll write to him as soon as I can,” he promised.

  I turned on the bath and put two hot-water bottles in the bed. Then I waited until he was in bed and drew the curtains.

  “Three o’clock, Sarah,” he said with a huge yawn. “Not a moment later . . . promise faithfully?”

  “Yes, three o’clock,” I replied.

  He was asleep in a moment.

  *

  When I went back to the kitchen father and Willy were there in their dressing-gowns, looking at the remains of the feast.

  “Have you been entertaining the King or only Mr. Churchill?” asked Willy, pointing to the pile of egg-shells, the empty marmalade jar and butter dish and sugar basin.

  “Lewis is here.”

  “Lewis? He seems to have scoffed all our rations.”

  “Yes, he was hungry.”

  “Well, I’m blowed; don’t they give him anything to eat in the Army?”

  “He was hungry,” I repeated.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said father. “If Lewis was hungry——”

  “There’s plenty to eat,” I told them. “You can have boiled eggs and bread and coffee and milk.”

  “Where is Lewis?” asked Willy, sitting down and helping himself to a slice of bread.

  “In bed in the spare room. He was tired.”

  “Yes, I gathered that much. I mean where has he come from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is Lewis going to France?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I believe he is . . . and you do know. That’s why you fed him like a fighting cock.”

  “I fed him because he was hungry and tired.” That was true, anyhow.

  “What has he been doing to get so hungry and tired?”

  “Sarah has told you that she doesn’t know,” said father. “It was quite right to give Lewis a good meal and it will do us no harm to eat our bread without butter for once in a way.”

  “And there isn’t any sugar,” Willy pointed out.

  “No, it’s finished,” I said.

  “Is Lewis going to stay here long?” asked Willy. “Because, if so——”

  “I don’t know,” I said. Then I gave them their eggs and went away and left them to finish their breakfast.

  *

  Willy went to lunch with the Romfords, as he often did on a Sunday so father and I had lunch by ourselves, then he got ready to go to St. Rule’s shelter.

  As he was going out of the door he said, “I’m not going to ask how long Lewis is going to stay with us, Sarah.”

  I knew then that he had guessed. I said, “No, Father, please don’t ask me.”

  He hesitated for a few moments and then sighed. “Give him my love, Sarah – my dear love.” Then he went away.

  At three, when I went to waken Lewis, he was sleeping soundly. I hated wakening him, but I had to do it.

  He got up at once and dressed and had a cup of tea and a slice of plum cake – which grandmama had sent in the last parcel of food from Craignethan – and I told him what father had said.

  “Give him my love, Sarah, and ask him to pray for us.”

  “Yes, I will – but he prays all the time.”

  “Take care of yourselves.”

  “I suppose it would be silly for me to say that to you?”

  “It would be, rather,” he replied, smiling. “But all the same it’s nice to know that people are a little bit silly.”

  “I’ll be – thinking about you, Lewis.”

  “Don’t worry too much . . . and don’t forget that no news is good news.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “And don’t ever forget that whatever happens I’m glad and proud to be in it. Cry ‘God for Harry! England! and Saint George!’”

  “I won’t forget – ever.”

  “That’s right,” said Lewis. Then he gave me a big hug and went away.

  When he had gone I dried my tears and went along to the church at the corner of the street and stayed there for a long time, praying that all would go well for England and Saint George . . . and for Lewis.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The next few days were anxious ones for everyone in Britain. Nobody knew what was happening. It was only afterwards that we heard the invasion had been delayed owing to weather conditions. Then at last we heard that the huge fleet had crossed safely; the troops had landed and made their bridge-heads and had fought their way to their objectives. We listened to the news on the radio with breathless excitement.

  The Americans had encountered more opposition but their troops fought splendidly.

  On the following Monday Mr. Churchill and some of his staff and a party of American Generals crossed over to France and met General Montgomery and made a lightning tour of inspection. This news gave a tremendous boost to the morale of the whole country for, rightly or wrongly, we took it to mean that all was going well. It was amazing to see how the tension relaxed; people smiled as they went about their work and chatted cheerfully to perfect strangers in the streets and in the buses.

  A few days later father received a field postcard from Lewis to say he was well and “going strong.”

  I see in my diary that it was on the night of the 12th June that the “flying bombs” began to arrive in London. Lewis had warned me that they would be “nasty” but at first they did little damage. Afterwards when they began to come at all hours of the day and night they were noisy and destructive, but Londoners with their usual courage found a denigrating name for Hitler’s Secret Weapons.

  “We’ve got to bear them,” people said. “It won’t be long now. Once Monty gets to the launching sites there will be no more doodlebugs, meanwhile we’ve just got to bear them . . . and the news is good, isn’t it? Our boys are wonderful.”

  The news from Lewis was good too. He wrote quite often; sometimes his
letters were very short, at other times they were longer, but they were invariably cheerful:

  Somewhere in France,

  Sometime

  “Dear Sarah,

  Thank you a million for the socks; they’re just the thing for this sort of job. I’m delighted with them. I didn’t know you were a knitter! Do you think you could manage a pair of mittens? They would be awfully useful. The chocolate was very welcome too, but don’t send food because you need it for yourselves and the logistics of this affair are better managed than Medina Sidonia’s. We are issued with cartons which contain tip-top food which only has to be heated up to provide good solid nourishing meals . . . and whenever we stop, at any hour of the day or night, our chaps brew up char (which is another name for tea, in case you don’t know!). Do you remember that song about ‘Tea in the morning, tea in the evening, tea in the afternoon’? We used to shout it at the tops of our voices – and father put his fingers in his ears! What fun we had – and what a long time ago it seems! One evening when we had stopped and were having our usual brew-up I started singing the song to my chaps and I soon had them joining in the chorus. I couldn’t remember all the words so you might ask father to write them out – he’s sure to remember. My chaps love singing; you would laugh if you could hear us. I bet father would put his fingers in his ears! We were stuck for a bit after the landings but we’re going strong now and we aren’t going to get stuck again. My chaps are grand. We’re the modern cavalry, you know, which makes life very interesting – a bit too interesting at times. The French farmers and peasants aren’t awfully keen on being ‘liberated’; they don’t fall on our necks with cries of joy. You see they had settled down during the occupation and our arrival means more fighting and more destruction of barns and crops. You can’t blame the poor wretches when you see the mess that war makes of their land. Talking of ‘mess’ I see in the papers (which roll up with astonishing regularity) that the buzz bombs are making a mess of London – and I just hope you and father are taking proper care of yourselves. I can’t tell you anything interesting but I’m keeping a skeleton diary and I’ll show it to you one of these days.

  Lots of love and again ‘thank you’ for the socks.

  Yours ever,

  Lewis

  “PS.: Don’t forget the mittens, will you?”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  One evening towards the end of August I returned home to find Willy waiting for me.

  “Great news!” he said.

  “I know! I heard it on Duncan’s wireless at one o’clock. Paris is liberated, Marseilles isolated; Montgomery says it’s a decisive victory!”

  “It’s the beginning of the end,” agreed Willy. “There’s still a long way to go but we’ve got them on the run all right. As a matter of fact there’s another piece of news for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s in The Times. Listen, Sarah: ‘The wife of Sir Clive Hudson, Baronet, of a daughter, Frederica Doris, both well.’ What do you think of that? I told you her ladyship would produce the infant without any bother,” added Willy, chuckling.

  “You’re always right, aren’t you?”

  “You owe me tuppence.”

  I took two pennies out of my purse and handed them over.

  “Frederica Doris,” said Willy thoughtfully. “Doris after mother of course, but why Frederica? Silly name!”

  “Wasn’t Sir Clive’s father called Frederick?”

  “I believe he was! He was the bloke who made the Hudson millions in the last war. He dealt in hides or something. Yes, you’ve got it! I bet they’re as sick as mud that the wretched infant isn’t a boy.”

  Father was late for supper that night; he had managed to get an evening paper and was so excited over the marvellous news about Paris and the thousands of German prisoners and the “complete enemy collapse in Northern France” that Willy forbore to mention his “family news.”

  “Listen to this!” exclaimed father as we sat down to supper. “Lewis Hastings says, ‘Victory is not a strong enough word.’ Pétain has left Vichy – nobody knows where he has gone – the Falaise pocket has been cleared of Germans. American troop movements are secret. Where are they, I wonder? What are they doing? I expect they’ve got an unpleasant surprise for Hitler up their sleeves! Get out the map, Willy, and let’s have a look!”

  I said firmly, “Do eat your fish before it gets cold.”

  It was not until supper was over and the map had been spread on the table and the war news had been thoroughly discussed that Willy produced The Times and pointed to the announcement in the births column.

  “Dear me!” exclaimed father. “That’s good, isn’t it? ‘Both well.’ I must write and congratulate Lottie. I’m glad she has called the child Doris.”

  We asked father about “Frederica” and he confirmed our guesses; it was Sir Frederick Hudson in whose memory the four big brass altar vases had been donated to St. Mary’s. How well I remembered those vases! I could see myself polishing them until they shone like new-minted gold! I could see myself arranging flowers in them! It was astonishing to think that Lottie’s child was to be called after the legendary Sir Frederick.

  Lottie’s child! I hadn’t heard from Lottie since that day in March when she had called to see me. Perhaps I should have done something about her but the fact was I had been so absorbed in the war news, and in the letters I had been getting from Lewis, that Lottie’s troubles had seemed unimportant. I had thought of her now and then and had hesitated beside the telephone, wondering if I should ring her up and find out what was happening . . . but what should I say? I didn’t know what to say to Lottie – and I was afraid of what she would say to me – so I had let the matter drift. But now all was well and there was no reason why I shouldn’t get in touch with her. The best way would be to buy something nice for Frederica Doris and write a congratulatory letter. Knowing Lottie I felt pretty certain that she had forgotten all about her unwillingness to have the baby and was basking happily in her husband’s smiles and the satisfaction of a difficult job successfully accomplished.

  “Sarah, wake up!” exclaimed Willy. “I’ve asked you three times when you’re getting your holiday. I’m getting ten days at Christmas and I thought it would be fun if we could go to Craignethan together. What about it?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I replied regretfully. “Christmas time is always terribly busy at Barrington’s. I hope to get ten days or a fortnight in January . . . but you can go to Craignethan, of course.”

  “Not much fun without you,” grumbled Willy.

  *

  I sent Lottie some little things for the baby, and wrote a friendly letter but I had no reply. At first I didn’t bother – Lottie was never a good correspondent – but after a while I began to feel anxious. Obviously Lottie was still angry with me. What could I do to heal the breach?

  Then, one evening, Lottie’s nurse rang up and spoke to me: Lady Hudson was very pleased with the little garments; she sent her love and would like to see me. Could I come to Brailsford Manor on Wednesday and spend the day? A car would be available to meet me at Larchester.

  I accepted the invitation. I wanted to see Lottie . . . and I knew Cécile wouldn’t mind if I took a day off.

  Brailsford Manor was a beautiful old house, beautifully furnished, but unlike Riverside the richness was restrained. The deep pile carpets, the curtains and the comfortable chairs and sofas did not leap at you and shout ‘Look at me! I’m expensive.’ Everything had been carefully chosen and was in good taste.

  I was conducted upstairs by a very old butler and found her ladyship lying in bed in a large and very beautiful room.

  “Oh, Sarah! How nice of you to come!” she exclaimed. “It was sweet of you to send the little frocks and things for Frederica. I ought to have written – but you understand, don’t you? I’ve been so dreadfully ill that I haven’t been able to write to anyone.”

  I kissed her and said, “It’s lovely to see you, Lottie.” I was delighted to find
that bygones were bygones.

  “You understand, don’t you?” repeated Lottie.

  “Yes, of course! Letters are a bother when you’re ill.”

  She didn’t look as if she had been “dreadfully ill.” She looked as charming as ever in a pink silk bedjacket, trimmed with swansdown, and a little pink cap on her shining flaxen curls. The eiderdown was pale pink and there was a large bowl of roses on a gate-legged table which stood in the middle of the room.

  “I had a dreadful time,” continued Lottie plaintively. “It was too frightful for words; I thought I was going to die. Clive was terribly anxious about me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But you must forget about it now. It’s all over and you’ve got a darling little daughter. I’d like to see her, Lottie.”

  “You’ll see her later. As a matter of fact nurse is going out this afternoon so I thought you wouldn’t mind coping with her. You like babies, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nurse isn’t going until after lunch and she’ll be back about six. You can stay till then, can’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  I thought she was going to tell me not to be stuffy, but she didn’t. She was too anxious for me to stay and look after her baby.

  “It is kind of you, Sarah,” she said with a sigh. “You see I’m still so weak. It gets on my nerves when she cries. She seems to cry a lot but nurse says there’s nothing the matter with her so I suppose it’s all right.”

  “Haven’t you asked the doctor?”

  “Oh, nurse is very experienced! She knows all about babies.”

  “Is the baby like you, Lottie?”

  “No, she’s an ugly little thing.”

  “She’s only two months old, so perhaps——”

  “I was pretty from the very first; Mother used to tell me that I was ‘just like a little doll’; I can remember her saying it.”

  “Lottie,” I said, “do you think you could let me have the money I lent you?” It was uncomfortable to have to ask, but I had made up my mind that I must.

  “Oh yes!” she exclaimed. “I’ve thought of it several times . . . and then I forgot. I’ll give you a cheque to-day. By the way, Sarah, do you ever hear from Lewis? He never writes to me; he didn’t even write when Frederica was born, which was rather beastly of him.”