The lieutenant, who has recovered rapidly and is quite cheerful again, shakes his head and says, “My Comrade will nevaire learn English if all the peoples speak French to him. He is vairree lazy.”
Pinkie says she wants to learn Polish, so the lieutenant points out various objects in the room and tells us what they are called, and the captain joins in the game and tries to make us pronounce the words correctly. Our desperate efforts to copy the unfamiliar sounds and to get our tongues round the syllables causes great amusement to ourselves and our guests. At last Pinkie says it is hopeless, and she thinks her tongue must be quite a different shape. The lieutenant asks if he may see her tongue, and when she puts it out at him he laughs uproariously. Pinkie says “Well, is it a different shape or not?” and he replies that as far as he can tell it is exactly the same shape as a Polish tongue.
We are just finishing tea, and full justice has been done to the carefully prepared feast, when Betty appears. She has had her tea, of course, but is willing to try a piece of Pinkie’s cake, and anything else that is offered to her. I can see the captain looking at Betty somewhat sadly, and, after a few minutes, he explains that his little girl has fair hair and blue eyes and is just about the same age . . .
This statement is translated to Betty, who clasps her hands and says, “How lovely! Why didn’t you bring her with you? Does she like climbing trees?”
The lieutenant is somewhat amused at this and translates it into Polish for the benefit of his companion, and after a short conversation in that language he turns to Betty and says, “My comrade say his little girl like climbing trees vairree mooch and sometimes tear her dress, and she would like coming to play with you, but it cannot be till after the war is over. She is in Poland—see—and the bad Germans not let her come.”
Betty looks at him with wide eyes, “Oh!” she exclaims, “Oh, how dreadful! You tell him . . . tell him that my Daddy will go and fetch her and she can come and live with me.”
This invitation is translated and causes tremendous éclat. The captain rises and bows to Betty and makes a short speech in Polish, whereupon Betty—far from being embarrassed—announces that she will kiss him if he would like her to do so. The lieutenant translates again, and the offer is accepted. Betty kisses the captain fondly and he puts his arm around her waist and draws her on to his knee, where she nestles down comfortably and with obvious satisfaction. The little scene gives me a lump in my throat and, as everyone else seems to be likewise affected, there is a long pause in the conversation. It is broken by the arrival of Tim, who has returned from the Barracks earlier than usual on purpose to meet our guests. He, of course, has no knowledge of what has occurred and his cheerful natural manner puts an end to the strain. Tim’s French is even more sketchy than mine, but he is willing to do his best, and by dint of signs and gesticulations he manages to carry on a somewhat halting conversation with the captain.
Pinkie now asks if they may have the wireless, and, as the B.B.C. is supplying dance music and the hall has a parquet floor, there is only one thing to be done. We roll up the rugs and the young lieutenant slips his arm round Pinkie’s waist and off they go. There is no need to worry about them any more, for they will be happy as long as the music lasts, so I return to the drawing room in time to hear Tim making laborious enquiries about the gunfire which has been loud and constant for the last two days.
“Est-ce que c’est vous qui—er tirez sur le—le . . . what’s ‘hill,’ Hester?” says Tim.
I murmur, “Colline,” and Tim says, “Oh yes, of course—colline.”
The captain who—quite miraculously—seems to understand, admits that it is his unit which is making all the noise.
“Vous tuez moutons?” enquires Tim, laughing to make it perfectly clear that this is a joke. “Vous tuez beaucoup de moutons, eh?”
The captain laughs—it is a good joke—and holds up three fingers.
“Three!” exclaims Tim. “Lord, I suppose you’ve got to pay for them . . . vous payez la—le berger?”
The captain says that they pay for them—“mais naturellement”—and sometimes have a piece of mutton for their dinner. He adds that they are practising with new guns which have just come over from America. This is a bit beyond Tim, so I translate the information, feeling extremely proud of myself for being able to do so.
Tim says “By Jove, how interesting! Ask him what kind of guns they’ve got, and whether they are calibrating—ask him if they use visible targets—ask him—”
Unfortunately this defeats me altogether, but Tim refuses to be defeated. He kneels down on the floor and emptying a box of matches on to the carpet he proceeds to illustrate his meaning. The captain enters into the spirit of the game. He seizes a cushion—to represent the shoulder of the hill—and alters the position of the matches. Tim points to three matches arranged in a row and says gravely, “Boom, boom, boom.”
The captain nods excitedly and shows the trajectory of the shells with his finger . . . “Boom,” he says, making a large dent in the cushion where the imaginary shell has fallen.
“Howitzers, are they?” says Tim, “Now look here. Supposing your guns were down here—Vos canons sont id—”
I leave them playing quite happily and go upstairs to put Betty to bed. Pinkie and the lieutenant are still dancing in the hall, and Pinkie smiles at me as I look at them over the banisters. “My feet are cleverer than my tongue,” she says in a dreamy voice.
Her partner waves his hand to me as they pass and cries, “We have make a great discovery—yes—we dance in the same language!”
THURSDAY 5TH SEPTEMBER
Am busy doing my morning round of shopping when I meet Mamie Carter coming out of the grocer’s with a bursting shopping bag and a doleful face. “Oh Hester!” she exclaims, in what Grace so aptly describes as her bleating voice, “Oh Hester, poor little Jane wants a painting book, and I can’t get one anywhere!”
“Try Woolworth’s,” I suggest, for, having had occasion to visit Woolworth’s this morning to buy a piece of oil cloth for the kitchen cupboard, I remember that I saw a stack of painting books on the toy counter.
“Oh no!” cries Mamie. “I couldn’t go there. It’s always so crowded and I hate crowds. I never go inside the doors . . . It’s dreadful,” she continues drearily. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. I can’t get onions, Hester . . . and Sprig hasn’t any marmalade at all.”
“There’s a war on,” I reply briskly. “Quite a big war in its way. Perhaps you hadn’t heard.”
“You’re always joking,” Mamie complains; “you’re always making fun of everything. Perhaps you don’t like marmalade . . . Herbert always says breakfast isn’t breakfast without marmalade.”
I reply that I agree with Herbert—for once—but that there is no need to forego one’s favourite preserve because it cannot be purchased in the grocer’s shop. I have just bought three large grapefruit, and with these and one sweet orange and a few pounds of sugar (which I have saved up for the purpose) I intend to brew my own special brand of marmalade—a brand which is hard to beat.
Mamie listens to this with unrelieved gloom. “But we’ve got no sugar,” she moans. “We eat up all our sugar. I’m sure I don’t know where it all goes to, but we never have any left by the end of the week . . . it’s really dreadful . . . and Mr. Sprig can only let me have half a pound of cheese.”
Mamie deserves to have her head punched, and, unless I can escape from her soon, she is in danger of getting her deserts (It would be unfortunate not only for her, but also for me if I were goaded into punching Mamie’s head in the Donford High Street, for, even if the judge were to take a lenient view of my action, it would be exceedingly difficult to live down the disgrace), but Mamie is a difficult person from whom to escape. She dislikes her own company. She follows me into the butcher’s and listens to me ordering a gigot of mutton for our Sunday dinner; she pursues me into the baker’s and watches me choosing cakes; she accompanies me into Boots’ library and tries to
influence me in my choice of reading matter. This is the last straw-—or very nearly the last—for I feel sure that Mamie’s taste in literature is different from mine, and I point out that it is quite impossible for her to help me in my choice, and ask her as politely as I can to leave me to make my own selection.
“Oh, you must read this,” says Mamie, picking out a book entitled Her Prince At Last and trying to push it into my reluctant hand. “You ought to read it, Hester. It’s such a sweet story.”
“I don’t like sugar in stories nor in tea.”
“But you’d like this,” Mamie assures me. “It’s by Janetta Walters, so you can be certain that there’s nothing nasty in it. You don’t want one of those horrid modern books lying about when you’ve got a young girl in the house, do you?”
This is true, of course, and it strikes home all the more forcibly because the last book I had from the library was an exceedingly nasty book—and because I found that Pinkie had read it before I had time to read it myself and discover that it was unsuitable for the young—but by this time I am so annoyed with Mamie that I refuse to recognise any sense in what she says; I reply, quite untruthfully, that I like nasty modern books, and, picking up one at random, I walk out of the library. Mamie has the strange effect of annoying me more quickly and completely than anyone else I know—save only the redoubtable Florence Mackay. I have been quite rude to Mamie now, but she does not seem to mind and she is still at my elbow when I emerge into Donford High Street. Our ways home lie in the same direction and unless I can get rid of her now I shall find myself walking home with her . . . and my patience is spent.
Donford High Street is usually full of acquaintances at this hour of the morning, but today as I gaze wildly up and down I can see no friendly face . . . and Mamie has started to bleat again. This time because it is impossible to procure sole for Herbert’s dinner, “. . . and he does love sole,” says Mamie, mournfully, as she struggles along at my side. “He likes it fried in deep fat and garnished with lemon . . . and I can’t get lemons, either.”
“What have you got in that bag?” I enquire.
“What have I got . . .”
“Yes, what have you got in that bag? It’s bursting with food, isn’t it?”
“Oh!” says Mamie, “Oh, I see what you mean. I suppose we ought to be very grateful that we aren’t short of food . . . but we were going to have Irish Stew. A stew isn’t really a stew without onions—that’s all I say.”
“Put in leeks!” I exclaim, and with that I turn and rush into Woolworth’s.
TUESDAY 10TH SEPTEMBER
Tim has always insisted that Bryan shall be free to come and go as he likes during the holidays, and for this reason he enjoys a good deal more liberty than most boys of his age. So far Bryan has not abused his privilege, but in the last three days we have scarcely seen him at all, except for meals, and at mealtimes he has worn a faraway expression as if his thoughts were elsewhere. He is off again now—I hear the front door bang—so I open the drawing-room window and call to him. He stops at once and comes over to the window. “Want a letter posted?” he enquires.
“No, thank you, I just wanted to know where you were going. You’ve been out a lot lately, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” agrees Bryan, “yes, I have. You don’t mind, do you?”
This makes it a little difficult, and I decide to beat about the bush. “You know why you’re allowed so much freedom,” I suggest.
“Oh yes,” replies Bryan cheerfully. “It’s because Dad was kept like a prisoner when he was my age, that’s why.”
This is not quite what I meant (though it is absolutely true, and provides a curious problem for the psychologist—will Bryan’s son be chained to the doorpost, or will he be a free man like his father?). “Yes,” I reply a trifle doubtfully, “yes, but you see—”
“I know,” interrupts Bryan. “I’ve got to use my privilege properly—and not abuse it. That’s what Dad said, but this is something rather special.”
“As long as it isn’t anything wrong—”
Bryan shakes his head, “It isn’t,” he declares, “I’m quite sure it isn’t. It’s been rather fun having it as a secret, but I meant to tell you soon. I meant to tell you today, really, because—well, as a matter of fact I want a bob.”
“You want a bob for the secret?” I enquire, hiding a smile.
Bryan nods gravely.
I find a shilling in my bag and hand it over and Bryan pockets it with expressions of gratitude. “I’ll tell you,” he says. “It’s a new friend I’ve got . . . well, he’s a Polish soldier really . . . not an officer, you know. I’ll tell you all about it,” says Bryan, climbing on to the window sill so that he can tell me about it more comfortably.
I sit down on the window seat and prepare to listen, for if there is one thing I enjoy more than another it is a heart-to-heart talk with my son. We do not indulge in them very frequently—indeed there seems to be little opportunity for such indulgence—Bryan’s holidays coincide with Betty’s and the house always seems full of people coming and going. I have often thought that “staggered holidays” would be an excellent arrangement for one would have much more good of one’s children if one had them singly.
“I’ll tell you,” says Bryan confidentially. “I was out on my bike, you see, and I saw him sitting on a seat by himself, with no girl or anything. He looked a bit down in the mouth, so I said ‘gin-dobray’ to him—it means good-day, you know—so then he waved to me and said a lot that I couldn’t understand. Well, then I got off my bike and came back. We could hardly talk at all, because he only knew a few words of English, but we tried to talk and we pointed to ourselves and said our names and laughed like anything. He’s grown-up, of course,” says Bryan naively, “but he doesn’t seem grown-up. I mean he doesn’t seem any older than me—if you know what I mean. He’s awfully jokey.”
“What do you do if you can’t talk to him?” I enquire a trifle anxiously.
“I’m teaching him English. You’d be surprised if you could see how he’s getting on. Perhaps you’ll laugh,” says Bryan, producing a red exercise book from his pocket and displaying it a trifle diffidently. “I mean perhaps you’ll laugh at the idea of me teaching somebody—but it’s really tremendous fun.”
I assure Bryan that I have no inclination to laugh and ask if I may see the book. He hands it over at once.
On the cover is written in large letters:
WOJCIECH KOWAL
“That’s his name,” says Bryan proudly. “It took me a little time to learn to say it properly, but I made him say it over and over again until I got the hang of it, because—well, because I thought it would make him feel more at home if I could say his name exactly right.”
“I expect it does. How do you say it?” I enquire.
“Voicheech,” says Bryan, pronouncing the last “ch” as in “loch” . . . “Voicheech Koval—that’s his name. Koval means blacksmith, but of course he isn’t a blacksmith any more than anyone here who is called Smith . . . now I’ll show you how I teach him.”
As I have had no experience of teaching languages I cannot judge the merits of Bryan’s system, but it seems original and amusing. The book is full of little drawings and beside each drawing is an English phrase.
“He draws the pictures,” says Bryan, eagerly explaining, “and I tell him what the things are called. It was the only way we could do it as far as I could see. I mean it wasn’t like a master teaching you French and saying, ‘the cow—la vache,’ because neither of us knew what the other called it.”
“Very difficult!” I murmur.
“Yes, but fun,” declares Bryan. “That’s his house in Poland, you see. It’s a little cottage on a farm and he lives there with his mother—at least he used to live there. That was the first thing he drew, and I taught him to say, ‘This is my house,’ then I went on and taught him to say ‘this is my arm’ and ‘this is my leg’—he can say all that beautifully now . . . here’s a plough,” says Bryan,
turning over the pages feverishly, “that’s a plough, you see, and that’s him ploughing . . . and that’s him milking the cows.”
The drawings are somewhat primitive, but quite unmistakable. They remind me a little of those very modern drawings which appear crude and childish to the uninitiated, but are supposed to be the height of sophistication.
“I must go now,” says Bryan, leaping down. “He’ll be waiting for me, you see . . . and thanks awfully much for the bob, I thought I’d give him a treat and take him to the circus . . . you don’t mind, do you?”
I enquire whether Bryan’s pupil is sufficiently advanced to enjoy the circus, but Bryan points out that the circus is an entertainment which can be enjoyed even by someone who is ignorant of the language . . . “he won’t understand the jokes,” says Bryan a trifle sadly, “and that’s a pity because he loves jokes . . . but he’ll be able to see the clowns tripping each other up and throwing things at each other, and he’ll be able to see the animals . . . he’s mad about horses . . .”
The circus, which visits Donford once a year for three hectic days, is not what one might call a very polished performance, but considering the fact that it spends its whole existence travelling from place to place, erecting the Big Top and taking it down again as often as three times in one week, it is a performance to be admired. Bryan dashes through his dinner and is off like a rocket to collect his new friend; Betty and Pinkie and I follow more slowly. We join the stream of townsfolk and soldiers which is wending its way towards the common where the circus is encamped—it is such a noble stream that I begin to wonder a trifle anxiously whether there will be sufficient accommodation for us all. Unfortunately Betty is not at her best. She was anxious to go with Bryan—instead of with Pinkie and me—and I was obliged to put my foot down firmly. She walks along between us brooding upon the injustice of fate, and it is not until we approach the tents and hear the band playing that her interest in life begins to revive.
Mrs. Tim Carries On Page 17