“I don’t think we can,” declares Tim, looking at me in a beseeching manner. “I mean it would be better . . . you see I’m sure to go to sleep and it’s a bad example for the Jocks.”
“It will be all right, sir,” says George quickly, “He’s only going to give us ten minutes.”
Tony smiles. “It was like this,” he says. “Walker asked me how I liked his sermon and I told him I liked it immensely. It was an excellent sermon, well thought out and well expressed.”
“Was it, sir?” enquires George in surprise. “I never heard a word after the first quarter of an hour. I was thinking of the Jocks and wondering how long they would stand it.”
“You needn’t have worried,” Tony replies. “They were all asleep. You worry too much about the Jocks. You should have listened to the sermon. It was after the pattern of John Stuart Mill and exceedingly interesting and original. I told Walker that, and he was as pleased as Punch; he said ‘Then you didn’t think it too long?’ I replied that it wasn’t too long for me, and that if he wished to deliver his sermons to me he should continue exactly as he had begun. He’s a trifle slow at picking up the more delicate shades of meaning,” continues Tony thoughtfully, “and I realised I should have to make the point clearer. I repeated that if my salvation was his chief concern he should go on as he was doing, but, if he wanted to get at the Jocks, he must make it short and snappy.”
“What did he say?” enquires George eagerly.
“He smiled . . . he had got it, you see . . . and he said that he had noticed some of them had gone to sleep. ‘I think I shall have to abandon you to your fate,’ he said in his slow Scottish voice. He has quite a healthy sense of humour, has Walker. . . . Oh well, to make a long story short, I gave him a few hints. I told him I knew a good deal about soldiers and ten minutes was all they could stand without going to sleep. I told him to cut out philosophy altogether. I said ‘Take a Bible story—just a simple story out of the Bible and tell it in your own words. Use your imagination. Make it real to them. They’ll listen to you if you do that.’”
We are all gazing at Tony wide-eyed.
“Well, he asked for it,” says Tony, laughing. “If someone asks my advice they get it. I’m old enough to be his father—or very nearly.”
When we come out from lunch the Battalion is on parade, and we stand and watch it march off. Tim grabs my arm and says, “By Jove they’re marvellous . . . Couldn’t have believed it! Morley must have sweated them properly. Fine-looking fellows, aren’t they?”
The Battalion is an inspiring sight as it marches past in serried ranks. It is a sight which brings tears to my eyes and a lump in my throat. A Battalion of soldiers always affects me in this peculiar manner and it affects me more strongly than usual today for these men have given their bodies to be trained to fight. They are going to fight for freedom and justice; they are going to fight for their country; they are going to fight for me. Yes, it comes to that. They are going to fight—and perhaps die—for me and mine, and I can do nothing to show my gratitude. I cannot do anything at all for them. If I could supply them with “Comforts” it would be something, but they will not need warm garments in Egypt . . . but I realise that this thought is more than a trifle absurd and endeavour to smile at my foolishness.
We watch the Battalion march off and follow it to the little village church where the service is to take place. The road is lined with villagers and their children, and they wave to the men as they pass.
Tony has arranged for us to have seats in the gallery and Symes is waiting for us at the church door to show us where to go. I shake hands with Symes and wish him good fortune, for I may not see him again before he goes; Tim shakes hands with him too and thanks him for helping me and Symes murmurs that he liked it, and he didn’t do anything really, and he’d have done a lot more if he could.
The seats are in the front row of the gallery and we look down upon a sea of heads; black and brown and yellow and ginger, but all neatly cut—in fact they are almost shaven. Tim has noticed this too, he whispers, “Well barbered, aren’t they? None of your long-haired lounge lizards here . . . that’s Morley, of course. Morley was always keen on short hair.”
Tony himself is sitting in the front pew with some of his officers. He looks stern and withdrawn and I wonder what he is thinking . . . Tony has been a good friend to me, and I shall miss him very much when he goes away.
The organ booms out and the men stand up and sing “Oh God Our Help in Ages Past.” It is magnificent to hear all these men singing; their deep-throated roar is enough to lift the roof. My eyes are stinging again—Oh Hester, what a fool you are!
The little padre has a round shining face. He does not look much older than Bryan, but he has a good resonant voice and his accent—thought it might grate upon ears accustomed to B.B.C. English—has a pleasant homely sound. There is a prayer and a metrical psalm and then comes the sermon, and it is at once obvious that Mr. Walker has taken his colonel’s advice to heart, for, instead of announcing a text, he takes out his watch, lays it beside him on the edge of the pulpit, and says that he is about to tell us a story and it will take ten minutes. The effect of this statement is electrical. The Jocks have prepared themselves for a lengthy nap by disposing their limbs as comfortably as their cramped quarters will allow, but now they sit up and cock their ears. Some of them nudge each other.
What a curious thing it is to look at these men! They are exactly like regular soldiers who have been in the army for years. They have the same habits, they have the same faults. A year ago—or less in some cases—these men were clerks, bakers, chauffeurs and a hundred other things, but they are soldiers now. They are cheery, irresponsible, vocal and sentimental; they grumble and swear; they laugh, they swagger a little—and why shouldn’t they swagger? Tony says they’re tough, and I can believe it.
While I have been thinking these things, Mr. Walker has plunged into the story of the flight of the Israelites from Pharaoh, and is declaring that it was the first known case of “mass evacuation.” They move out from the hovels where they have lived beneath the tyrant’s hand and set forth upon their long and hazardous journey into the unknown. Their leader, Moses, is pictured very vividly by Mr. Walker. He is a busy man, for all the organization rests upon his shoulders. The people stream eastwards, old and middle-aged people and young children, and Moses is everywhere up and down the line encouraging, directing, commanding. Pharaoh has said they may go, but they have not gone far before he changes his mind and sets out after them with all his army to bring them back. Mr. Walker describes the passage of the Red Sea and the destruction of Pharaoh’s hosts with considerable gusto. He has stuck to the story closely and, if he has embroidered it a little, he has merely embroidered it with details which his fancy has suggested. Thus far he has spoken from notes, but the notes are finished now and the story is finished too . . . but the story has excited him, it has gripped his imagination—as indeed it has gripped mine—and the ending does not satisfy him. The waves have rolled over Pharaoh’s head, but drowning is too easy a death for such a monster . . .
“. . . and the wotters rrolled over them and they were all drrowned,” declares Mr. Walker (rolling his R’s more fiercely than ever the waters of the Red Sea could have rolled). He hesitates here for a moment and then continues, “but Pharaoh himself came up to the surrface and he cried out, in a loud voice ‘Moses, save me!’ . . . and Moses answered neverr a wurrd. Then Pharaoh got a mouthful of wotter and down he went, but he came up again, and again he cried out louder than beforre, ‘Moses, save me!’ . . . and Moses answered neverr a wurrd. Then Pharaoh went down down to the verry bottom of the Red Sea, to the verry bottom of it, but he strruggled up to the surrface of the wotter, and he cried in the loudest voice he could, ‘Moses, Moses, save me!’ . . . and Moses answered, ‘I haird you the furrst time.’”
We stand up to sing—and there is no need for anyone to be nudged awake—and we sing the metrical version of the hundred and twenty-fourth psalm.<
br />
Now Israel may say and that truly
If that the Lord had not our cause maintained . . .
When cruel men against us furiously
Rose up in wrath to make of us their prey,
Then certainly they had devoured us all. . . .
Ev’n as a bird out of the fowler’s snare
Escapes away, so is our soul set free;
Broke are their nets and so escaped we.
Therefore our help is in the Lord’s great name
Who heav’n and earth by his great pow’r did frame.
The fine tune, the brave words, go rolling out together—everyone is surging as loudly as he can. Everyone is at one in this expression of gratitude for past favours and in hope for the continuance of help against the powers of evil.
We emerge into the chill pale November afternoon, and I am quite exhausted. During the short service I have run the gamut of emotions; I have struggled with tears; I have struggled with laughter; I have been lifted to the heights. I cling to Tim’s arm and we wait until the Battalion has formed and marched away for we want to say good-bye to Tony, and this is our last chance.
Presently Tony comes up to us and asks, with a sideways glance, how we enjoyed the service.
“It was magnificent,” replies Tim. “It was a splendid service . . . and the sermon was grand.”
“It was good, wasn’t it?” Tony agrees. “I told him to use his imagination, but I didn’t realise he had so much to use . . . he enjoyed drowning Hitler, didn’t he?”
We talk for a few moments in the cold bleak little church yard. The wind is sweeping round the corner of the church, and the bare trees are bending to its blast.
“Well . . . good-bye,” says Tony. “Write to me sometimes, Hester.”
“Yes,” I say huskily, “Yes, of course . . . Take care of yourself, Tony,” I add—could anyone have thought of a more foolish thing to say?
“Oh, rather,” says Tony. “I’ll be all right . . . see you again when we’ve drowned the dictators in the Red Sea . . .”
He salutes me gravely—and, somehow, the simple action which has become so commonplace assumes the dignity and importance of a sacred rite. I realise for the first time what a salute should be. I realise all that it means . . . (“We salute thee Caesar, we who are about to die.”) . . . and I wish that I could return his salute, but I am only a woman and women have no brave gestures such as this . . .
Tony holds the salute for a moment and then turns smartly and walks away . . . shall I ever see him again?
WEDNESDAY 27TH NOVEMBER
Great discussion at the “Comforts” this morning anent the Christmas Party which is to take place at the Barracks on the Saturday before Christmas Day. Mamie announces that she will do the decorations with the help of Stella, if Grace and I will undertake to buy the toys for the tree. Grace agrees to the arrangement with enthusiasm, and I agree reluctantly (I have done the job before and she has not). Mamie then goes on to say that Herbert is letting her have fifteen pounds for the party, but perhaps we ought not to spend it all. It seems a good deal, doesn’t it? We are told to practise the strictest economy, aren’t we? . . . but then, on the other hand, the children ought not to suffer because of the war, poor little things.
Stella says, “The toys must all be British made, of course.”
Grace says, “Oh, of course.”
I enquire how much money we may spend on the presents for the tree.
Mamie says, “Well, what about eight pounds?”
This is quite ridiculous, because there are at least eighty children to be provided with toys, and I am aware from past experience that no reasonably decent toys can be bought for less than an average expenditure of three shillings. I explain this in detail and, doing a hasty sum, I point out that I shall require twelve pounds at least.
Stella says, “Twelve pounds! You can’t spend that on toys. We shall need five pounds for the decorations.”
I point out that cheap toys are no use—it would be better to give them none at all—and add that the decorations can be done with flags, which can be obtained on loan from the Quarty, and with holly from our own gardens.
Stella objects to this. She says decorations properly done give the bare hall a festive appearance, and add to everyone’s enjoyment . . . “streamers of coloured paper and Chinese lanterns,” says Stella earnestly, “tinsel and candles for the tree . . .”
“That’s all very well,” I reply, “but children don’t really appreciate decorations. They would rather have decent toys. Don’t you agree, Mamie?”
Mamie has children of her own. “Yes,” she says reluctantly. “Yes . . . well . . . as a matter of fact I think they would . . .”
Stella pounces upon her at once, “Mamie!” she exclaims. “Mamie, you know we agreed that five pounds was the very least we could manage on.”
The wretched Mamie swithers helplessly, for she is one of those people who, like Reuben, are unstable as water . . . indeed she is like soapy water, for she slips through one’s fingers in a lather of words. “Oh well,” says Mamie. “Hester will just have to manage. We can’t give them cheap toys of course because, as Hester says, they just get broken. It’s a waste of money giving them cheap toys . . . but of course we want the decorations to be nice too, and you can’t do really good decorations for nothing . . . the children would rather have toys, I daresay, but . . . well . . . Hester must just manage somehow. It’s war-time, isn’t it?”
“That’s just why we should make a special effort to have really good decorations,” says Stella firmly.
“Yes, of course,” agrees Mamie.
“But Mamie,” I object. “You said we were to think of the children first. I can’t possibly get decent toys for them unless I have the money to buy them with, can I?”
“No, of course not,” agrees Mamie.
“You can get quite good toys for two shillings each,” declares Stella, who has been doing sums on the blotting paper.
Grace has contributed nothing to the argument, but has continued to slave away at the parcels. She now looks up with a sweet smile and enquires whether it would not be better if she and I were to undertake the decorations—which we could easily manage with two pounds—and Mamie and Stella could buy the presents with the rest of the money.
There is a short but dismayed silence.
“Oh!” says Stella. “Oh, but I’m sure you could choose the presents better. Hester has done it before . . . so have I, of course, but . . . but I think you and Hester should do it. I daresay Mamie and I could manage the decorations on three pounds, really.”
As Grace and I walk home together I think about the argument and begin to chuckle.
“It was funny,” says Grace.
“We were haggling like a lot of women shoppers,” I declare.
Grace nods, “Thank Goodness she didn’t take me at my word. I hate doing decorations, don’t you?”
“Loathe it,” I reply with conviction.
“Holly!” says Grace with a shudder. “Nasty little spikes of holly sticking in one’s fingers for days! Dusty flags twining themselves round one’s neck, as one struggles to nail them up! Nails, Hester! D’you like nails?”
“No.”
“I can never get the things to go in straight, can you?”
“Never. They always bend their necks when I hit them.”
“I can never hit them,” declares Grace.
We walk on in silence for a few moments.
“It was Stella,” says Grace. “Stella wanted slap-up decorations, so that everyone would say, ‘Who did the decorations? It’s like fairyland!’—that woman makes me sick. . . . It will be fun choosing the presents, won’t it?”
I cannot agree with this, so I refrain from any rejoinder, but Grace insists upon one. “It will be fun, won’t it?” she repeats, squeezing my arm.
“It would be fun if one had unlimited money to spend,” I reply in sombre accents.
“It will be fun,” says Gra
ce with conviction. “You’ll let me choose the presents for the boys, won’t you? Because I know the sort of things Ian and Alec will like when they’re older. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, of course not.”
“And we’ll take Betty with us to help to choose the presents for the girls.”
“Betty!” I exclaim in amazement.
“Yes,” says Grace, warming to her plan. “Yes, we’ll go on Saturday afternoon—it’s a marvellous idea. She will know exactly what little girls would like—and it will be so good for her to help to choose presents for other children.”
“Will it?” I enquire in doubtful tones, for somehow or other I cannot visualise Betty performing this labour of love.
“Yes,” says Grace firmly. “It will bring out all the best in Betty. Of course we must take her.”
SATURDAY 30TH NOVEMBER
Grace calls for us at two o’clock, and we set out together to choose the presents for the tree. I have taken pains to explain the matter to Betty and, somewhat to my surprise, she seems to have grasped the idea. Grace explains it all over again as we walk down the long road to the town and I must admit that she explains it more fully than I have been able to do. The substance of Grace’s lecture is that it is more blessed to give than to receive, and Betty listens with astonishing meekness.
“Will I be giving them the things?” she asks at last.
“No,” says Grace. “But when you see how pleased the children are you will know that you have helped to choose the toys . . . and of course you are giving up your Saturday afternoon to choose them . . . and you can choose your own present, too.”
By this time we have reached Miller’s shop and we are escorted downstairs to the Toy Department by Mr. Miller himself. I have provided myself with a list of the children divided up into sexes and ages: Infants, girls from three to six years old, boys from three to six, girls from six to ten, boys from six to ten—and so on—and, beside each group, I have written the number of toys required and the amount which is to be spent upon them. I show the list to Grace and explain that I must start with the infants’ rattles and woolly balls, but she can do the boys, and I advise her to start at the bottom of the list and work up gradually, for I have found, to my cost, that any other method produces absolute chaos.
Mrs. Tim Carries On Page 24