“Yes,” agrees Tim, “and they’re pretty hefty fellows too, most of them. Strong, upstanding fellows, they are.”
“That’s so,” nods Cameron, “Tough’s no the wurrd for them . . . it’ll be a bad day for any Jerry that comes their gate. They’re wanting a bit o’ their ane back, and it’s tae be hoped they’ll get it.”
Just then the telephone bell rings and Cameron goes away to answer it. He returns almost immediately and says in a matter-of-fact voice, “It’s a purrple. I’ll need tae dowse the lichts.”
The lights in the station are oil lamps, so it takes him a little while to hobble round and “dowse” them.
Tim goes out to see if he can hear a plane, but there is nothing to be heard. It is very dark and very still, but every now and then a goods train chugs through the little station, clanking and rattling, or a passenger train goes flying past with a terrifying roar . . . The old man explains that the trains do not slow down for a “purrple” warning (which means that there are enemy planes in the vicinity) so my train will be here in another twenty minutes.
Tim asks whether he gets many warnings, and he replies, “Och aye, but they seldom come tae much . . . there wus ane nicht,” he continues, tapping out his pipe at the fire and smiling thoughtfully. “Maybe ye’ll mind the nicht the bombs fell at Donford? . . . Aye, I wus here, masel’ as usual, and I haird the bombs burrsting—a fine noise they made—sae I took ma lantern and away I went along the line. I wus feart the line micht be damaged, d’ye see. I’d no gane that far when I haird the engines o a plane . . . and it wusna’ ane o’ oor plane’s, fur it wus a deeferent soond a’together . . . and then I saw the Jerry coming towards me ower the trees. It wus braw moon-licht, d ye see. He wus that low doon he looked the size o’ a hoose. Weel, I dowsed ma lantern, and I crooched doon, for I wusna wantin him tae see me . . . on he came, diving low, and his engines just roaring . . . the noise fair lifted the bunnet aff yer heid . . .” He pauses, and is obviously reliving the terrifying experience . . . “Aye,” he says, “I thocht I wus for it that time, he came ower me and he wus that low . . . and he was that big. If I’d had a rifle I could ha’ got him as easy as easy. My, I wus wild! I wus wilder the next morning though, for when I got hame I foond he’d dropped ane o’ his bombs on the burrn at the back o ower hoose—it’s the burrn where I keep ma ducks, d ye see—and fower o’ ma best burrds wus deid. There wasna’ a mairk on them, but they wus deid nane the less . . .”
We are still sympathising with the old man when another train is heard. He rises and says, “That’s herr . . . and we’ll need to look nippy for she doesna’ wait ower lang.”
As we follow him out of the warm room on to the pitch-dark platform Tim hugs me suddenly and fiercely, “Oh Hester!” he exclaims. “I wish you weren’t going . . . or that I was coming. For God’s sake take care of yourself!”
My heart sinks into my shoes, and I decide that I can’t go. I can’t possibly leave Tim . . . not now . . . not if he feels like that. Try to explain this to Tim, but find that I cannot speak . . . am bundled into the train by Tim and Cameron and despatched to London willy-nilly.
TUESDAY 10TH DECEMBER
London surprises me, not because it is different from usual, but because it is so much the same. Richard meets me at the station and drives me through the familiar streets in his car. It is eleven o’clock in the morning; the sun is shining brightly in a cloudless sky and people are walking about doing their shopping.
“Empty, isn’t it?” remarks Richard.
I agree a trifle doubtfully; the traffic is certainly less than usual, but “empty” is not the word I should have chosen to describe the streets. To a country cousin like myself London seems thronged, and the noise and movement is bewildering. The route to Wintringham Square is well known to me, and I point out to Richard that he is making a detour. Richard replies that there is a time-bomb in the vicinity and Fulton Street is closed to traffic. Sometimes they remove the bombs and sometimes they cover them up and leave them to explode—it all depends.
I murmur “How awful!”
“Yes,” agrees Richard, “but as a matter of fact they don’t do a great deal of harm. They’re more of a nuisance really.” The old house looks exactly the same—except for the windows which, like those of its neighbours, are covered with close white netting. Richard and I were born and brought up in this house, and it retains my affection and respect. Although it is one of sixty houses, all exactly the same, number thirty-two has a certain character of its own and a very real dignity. Built in Victorian times—in days of peace and plenty—it has now found itself in the middle of a war and remains solid and unmoved by war alarms. I am still looking at the old house and musing over the past, when we draw up at the door and Mary runs out into the street to welcome me.
Mary is a nice creature and a very satisfactory sister-in-law. She is a sensible, practical-minded person, cheerful and amiable and extremely good-looking. She was quite beautiful as a young girl; it was her beauty that attracted Richard, and I have always thought it a very fortunate accident that she is exactly suited to Richard in temperament.
As I follow Mary upstairs an air raid siren sounds and I notice, to my surprise, that it is the “All Clear” signal. When I point this out to my hostess, she replies that nobody takes much notice of the siren now, and that for her part she never knows whether there is a warning in progress or not. This seems strange to me, but I make no comment upon it, for I have already decided that while I am in London I shall do as Londoners do. Mary apologises for giving me a room on the second floor, she wanted to give me the best spare room, but it is full of Richard’s kit.
“Hester will feel much more at home in her own room,” says Richard firmly, “and she won’t be sleeping here anyhow, so what does it matter?”
I find this remark somewhat difficult to understand, but I assure my host and hostess that I would much rather have my old room, and, when they have gone and left me to settle in, I find my statement is even more true than I had thought. There is something very appealing about a room which one occupied as a child; it brings back one’s childhood more vividly than anything else I know.
Mary has not changed this room at all, for the house is large and they have no children. The furniture, the pictures, the carpet, are those I remember so well. I am supposed to be resting after my journey, but I do not want to rest, I want to renew my acquaintance with old friends. First I examine the light maple suite and I discover the dent in the wardrobe which was caused by my efforts to improve my service at tennis. The dent is not large and not noticeable to a casual observer, but I can feel it with my fingers . . . it will still be there when the girl who made it is dead and gone! The stain on the carpet seems to have vanished . . . but no, the carpet has been turned so the stain is in the other corner of the room. It was made when I upset a bottle of nail varnish and all my efforts to remove the mark were without success. The carpet was new in those days and now it is old, but the stain remains (it resembled the map of Australia and still does so) and it gives me a strong link with that other Hester who inhabited the room.
The long mirror reflects me again as it reflected me in my most intimate moments . . . as it reflected me ready for school in a navy blue coat and skirt and a black felt hat. I can see that schoolgirl now . . . she gives herself a cursory glance in the mirror, tugs at the front of her coat—which seems a trifle short for her—and runs downstairs. The girl grew up and the mirror saw her dressing for her first dance—it saw a thin girl with large frightened eyes arrayed in a white lacy frock; it saw her practising her curtsy for her presentation; it saw her in white satin and orange blossom. The dressing-table mirror is spotted with damp, and I am not sorry to see its degeneration, for it was never a kindly friend. It was like the friend who is in the habit of saying, “I feel it is my duty to tell you . . .” and it did its duty well. It was always candid about spots or blemishes or untidy hair. I glance into it as I pass to the window and find that its nature is n
ot ameliorated by the passing years . . . I have been travelling all night, but the mirror refuses to make any allowances for me!
The bars are still at the window, for this was our nursery—Richard’s and mine—before I was promoted to a bedroom of my own. The bars take me back even further, and I remember a terrible day when Richard wanted to see a Punch and Judy show which was giving a performance in the street below. He put his head between the bars and was trapped there, howling and kicking his legs wildly in the air. It was not until Father was fetched that anything could be done to release Richard—but Father did it easily. I can see him now taking Richard s head in his hands and turning it sideways and withdrawing it from between the bars . . . “There,” said Father, in his quiet voice, “you would have had no difficulty in doing it yourself if you hadn’t been frightened. Never lose your wits in an emergency, Richard, or you may lose your head, too.” Good advice! Does Richard remember it still?
The view from the window is very familiar, and by pressing my forehead against the pane I can see the trees in the square, their branches swaying with the wind. I can see over the roof tops to the spire which still dominates the surrounding houses. High in the air hang the barrage balloons—strange modern monsters.
During my inspection of the room I have discovered that my bed has not been made, it has no sheets nor blankets nor pillows, and I am surprised at the delinquency on the part of Mary’s staff. The housemaid appears with a can of hot water in her hand and in answer to a somewhat diffident enquiry on the subject she exclaims, “Oh, but you won’t be sleeping ’ere, ma’am! You’d never get a wink with all the planes and sirens and the guns. Mrs. Fanshaw gave orders for your bed to be made in the lib’ry . . . none of us sleep up ’ere.”
I endeavour to show no surprise at this information, but cannot stifle a slight feeling of alarm, for now it is indubitable that I have arrived at the theatre of war.
Mary and I spend the afternoon knitting and chatting and picking up the loose threads of our friendship. She is having a holiday from her canteen work on account of Richard’s leave, and I gather from what she says that she needed a holiday pretty badly, and that her post at the canteen is by no means a sinecure. Sometimes she is on duty all night and returns home to sleep in the day time. “But I like the work,” says Mary thoughtfully, “it’s useful work and I am the right person to do it.”
“He wants me to go to my people—they live near Taunton now—but I simply couldn’t go down there and vegetate. I should go mad. If I had children, of course,” says Mary, with rather a sad little smile, “if I had children it would be different. I should take them away to the safest place I could find and keep them there. It’s dreadful to see the little children in the tube stations!”
“Tell me about your work,” I urge her.
“It’s a mobile canteen,” she replies. “A sort of glorified coffee-stall; we go wherever the bombs have fallen and give the people hot meals.”
“Is it true that everyone is very brave?”
Mary smiles, “No, not everyone,” she replies. “Some people are very brave and some aren’t; but on the whole they’re wonderful. A woman came up to the canteen the other day with her face all cut with glass. She said, ‘Hitler has smashed my house, so now I’m going to make munitions to smash him!’—that’s the sort of spirit they show. Then there was another woman; she said, ‘We were so happy in our little house and now it’s gone!’ It had gone. It was one of a little row of houses and the others were untouched, but these people’s house had simply vanished—it was like a gap in a row of teeth.”
“Poor souls!”
“Yes,” agrees Mary, “but there are worse things than losing your house—she had her husband safe. You know, Hester, I think we could learn a lot if we took it in the right way. One thing we could learn is to put first things first—to see life in proper proportion. Some of us love things—I mean possessions like furniture and houses—and some of us love people too much.”
“But we are told to love each other!” I exclaim.
“Yes, but not first,” says Mary thoughtfully.
I am turning the heel of my sock, so there is silence for a few minutes, and when we begin to talk again the conversation is in a lighter vein. I hear about Bryan’s visit to Wintringham Square, and Mary has some amusing tales to tell me of his sayings and doings while in the Metropolis. Mary is not only very fond of Bryan, but also very proud of him; she assures me that he is very clever—a fact which I have suspected at times, but which, unfortunately, is not borne out by his school reports.
“Oh, school reports!” cries Mary scornfully, “I don’t mean that sort of cleverness. Most of the greatest men in the world were dunces at school. Bryan’s kind of cleverness is much more important. He is clever with people—you should have seen how he managed Richard—Bryan has wit and humour and the knack of expressing himself. . . .”
The experience of listening to someone else waxing lyrical over the good qualities of my offspring is unprecedented, and I cannot help thinking that Mary is an exceedingly perspicacious woman, and that her conversation is intensely interesting . . . but fortunately I am able to smile at myself. . . .
At tea time Richard returns; he is worried over his business affairs, and declares in a gloomy manner that the office will go to pot while he is away. He has been trying to fix things up, but has not been able to complete the job and will be obliged to visit the City again tomorrow morning.
Spend the evening helping Richard to pack and suggesting various comforts which he may find useful in the tropics, and while we are so engaged the telephone bell rings and I discover that it is Tim.
“How are you?” enquires Tim’s voice. “What sort of journey did you have? There was a raid in the Midlands and I couldn’t sleep a wink for thinking about you.”
I assure Tim that I got on splendidly and that there is no need to worry about me and, while I do so, I cannot help smiling, for Tim is always so scornful when I worry about his safety, and now he is worrying about mine with far less cause.
“When are you going to Winch Hall?” he enquires. “You had better go on Thursday. I don’t like you being in London at all. I shall arrive at Winch Hall on Friday morning, but you had better go down on Thursday.”
This sudden change of plan is somewhat inconvenient, for I had intended to visit the hairdresser on Thursday afternoon. I review my arrangements hastily and try to make up my mind whether it is more important to have my hair done, or to fulfil my marriage vows. Tim, who is still at the other end of the line (and how strange it is to think of him standing in the hall at Winfield with his head a little on one side and the receiver glued to his ear) says, “Hester, you must go on Thursday . . . I suppose you had arranged to have your hair waved or something . . . but, if so, you must put it off,” and I am so flabbergasted by his prescience that I meekly agree to do so.
“That’s right,” says Tim. “That’s splendid . . . yes, we’re all right here. Pinkie has come back, and she’ll look after things while we are away . . . yes, she’s quite cheerful . . . yes, she seems very happy . . . yes, Betty is perfectly well . . .”
After some more conversation with my host and hostess I retire to my bed—which has suddenly and mysteriously appeared in the library—and go off to sleep at once.
WEDNESDAY 11TH DECEMBER
Am greeted at breakfast by anxious enquiries as to what sort of a night I have had, and reply that although I was wakened several times by sirens and gunfire and other “noises off” I managed to obtain a reasonable amount of sleep.
Richard says, “You’d soon get used to it. I never hear anything now, thank goodness,” and having thus expressed his gratitude to Providence he goes on to enquire what Mary and I propose to do with ourselves this morning and whether we can meet him at Weston’s for a slap-up lunch. Mary replies that this will suit us admirably, and explains to me that Weston’s is the last word—lovely food, a splendid band, and amusing people to see—and that is has taken the
place left vacant by various Italian Restaurants which have had to close their doors.
“Don’t be late,” says Richard as we bid him good-bye.
Mary and I have a prowl round the shops which are as fascinating as ever. I buy a doll’s bed for Betty—as I am aware that this is what she wants—and Mary buys a pair of wool-lined boots. As we pass through the millinery department I am tempted to buy a hat—Mary assures me that is not really extravagant, as a new hat is as good as a tonic, and this particular confection suits me admirably and makes me look about five years younger. I buy it and put it on, and my conscience tortures me for about half an hour.
As we leave the large store and walk through the streets Mary points out several places which have been bombed, but they have been cleared and partially rebuilt, and there is little damage to be seen. We pass a small tobacconist’s shop and stop to read a large notice in the window. It announces:
IN THE EVENT OF AIR RAIDS THESE PREMISES WILL REMAIN OPEN. IN THE EVENT OF A DIRECT HIT THESE PREMISES WILL CLOSE IMMEDIATELY.
I am so delighted with this that I decide to buy a cigarette lighter for Richard here (Mary says that he does not possess one and it will be a useful present to give him) so we go inside and spend some time selecting one which will please him.
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