Lorimers at War

by Anne Melville

  Matthew had found the firm boldness of her features intriguing, marking her out from the other girls in the fuse-room. He offered her money to spend a few hours sitting for him in his studio, but her exhaustion when she came was such that she fell asleep while he was painting her. The canvas which he now pulled out of the rack depicted her in just that state – a young woman completely worn out by her work.

  She stared at it critically for a few moments; then sighed.

  ‘I should’ve stayed asleep a bit longer,’ she said. ‘I’ve fallen.’

  The phrase was unfamiliar to Matthew and she realized that he was puzzled. ‘A baby,’ she explained. ‘I’ll be having a baby, come June.’

  Inwardly Matthew groaned, but he did not allow any dismay to show on his face. ‘Is it mine?’ he asked. There was no denying that he had taken advantage of her in every sense, at a moment when she was only half awake; and there had been other meetings in the month which followed, before he left for France. But she had not been a virgin.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said: ‘The first time, it were with a lad from our village. More nor a year ago. I were going to marry him. He never came back from Ypres. That were the reason I took this munition work. To get my own back, so to speak. There were no one after him, till you.’

  ‘I’ll give you some money,’ said Matthew. ‘You can go home to your parents, I suppose.’

  ‘Not in this state, I can’t. I could go home as a wife. Or even as a widow, if it came to that. But I’ll not show my face there with a bastard. Me Dad would kill me. And me Mam’s dead.’

  ‘I can’t marry you, if that’s what you’re after,’ said Matthew. He chose the words carefully. They meant only that if he could not marry Alexa he was not prepared to marry anyone at all, but with luck they would suggest that he was married already. If necessary he would tell the full lie, but he still hoped that the matter could be settled without a quarrel.

  ‘But you live alone here.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean that I’m free.’

  ‘It means I could move in,’ she said. ‘You’d find it cheaper to support me and the child here than in lodgings. You could do with a bit of housekeeping, by the look of it. And a baby ought to have a father.’

  ‘You’re asking too much,’ said Matthew; and some of the spirit which had first attracted his attention flashed angrily into her eyes.

  ‘You asked enough, didn’t you? You expect me to walk out of here with a pound or two in my pocket and to feed your child on it for fourteen years or so, until he’s big enough to earn?’

  ‘Of course not. I’ll send you something every week. It won’t be a lot, though. I’m not much better off than you are.’

  Peggy laughed her disbelief. ‘It won’t do,’ she said. ‘If you can’t marry then I must do without the marriage, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t pretend. If I live here with you me Dad’ll think all’s right and proper. And if it turns out later that you’ve got a wife tucked away somewhere he’ll be sorry for me, perhaps, instead of spitting at me on the doorstep.’ The anger faded from her face and was replaced by a look of mischievous invitation. ‘The baby won’t be here for getting on six months,’ she pointed out. ‘We could have a bit of fun before that. And if I keep on working for a while longer, with no lodgings to pay, I can save enough for clothes to start him off. It wouldn’t be so bad, you know.’

  She stood on tip-toe to kiss him. Even while he returned her embrace, Matthew considered the proposal. He had been lucky so far, he supposed – because she was certainly not the only one of his models over the years who had been persuaded to stay for the night when a sitting was over. It had been a mistake, in retrospect, to expect that Peggy would behave like a professional, accepting any accident as the luck of the game; but since he had made the mistake he must pay for it. And although he had no very strong family feeling, Matthew recognized his responsibility to the unborn child. It could not be right that his son should be brought up in the kind of poverty to which Peggy would soon descend if she were left unsupported.

  There was not even any reason why he should not allow her the marriage certificate which would make her respectable in the eyes of her family. That was not a decision to be taken on impulse now, but it was something to be considered. Peggy was a decent enough girl, clean and hard-working. He might even find himself emerging at last from the squalor in which he had lived for the past twenty years. Certainly, as she reminded him, he could take pleasure in her company. The collapse of his hopes of marriage to Alexa had left him emotionally shattered and his experience of war in the past year – even as a spectator – made him profoundly pessimistic. His ambition to be a great artist one day had already faded and now he no longer expected to obtain any great satisfaction from life. There were no plans which would be endangered merely because he found himself encumbered with Peggy.

  And perhaps, he thought as he kissed her again with more enthusiasm, responding to her invitation, perhaps a permanent relationship of this kind, and the family life which the birth of a child would bring, might have one positive effect. Alexa’s marriage to Lord Glanville had not succeeded in stifling his obsession with her. But a new way of life and a woman of his own – surely now at last, if he really made the effort, he could force himself to forget Alexa.

  5

  The guests who enjoyed the hospitality of Blaize at the end of 1915 wore uniforms of hospital blue instead of the clothes appropriate to weekend house party guests. And they stayed longer. But the mistress of the house continued to regard herself as a hostess. The change from country house to hospital, originally planned to meet a temporary emergency, had by now taken on a permanent air. The old tithe barn which Alexa had earlier converted to a riverside theatre had been filled with hospital beds, and was used as a single long ward for soldiers who had survived operations in France or London but were still seriously ill. A scattering of ugly huts around it housed nurses and orderlies and could provide an isolation ward in case of infectious disease. As the men became convalescent, they moved up to the house. The orangery was a ward for wheelchair cases. The ballroom was divided into cubicles for men who were learning to walk on crutches. And the east wing was occupied by doctors and a dozen patients, mainly blind, who were unable to manage the stairs.

  With thoughts similar to Arthur’s in Brinsley House, Alexa had been making plans to entertain her many guests for Christmas. In the office which had once been a smoking room she expounded them now to Margaret.

  ‘Each of the men will find two stockings on their beds on Christmas morning,’ she said. ‘Khaki ones, of course. All the women in the village have been knitting frantically to get enough finished. And Piers has been collecting little things to put inside. Tin trumpets, false noses, bags of sweets.’

  ‘You’re treating them like children,’ said Margaret, laughing.

  ‘They must feel like children, lying there helpless. If they didn’t, how would they ever be able to tolerate all the business of bedpans and being washed by nurses? But there’ll be adult things as well. Plenty of cigarettes, of course; and we’ve been offered two hundred copies of St Matthew’s Gospel in a pocket size. Anyway, we shall see to it that the stockings are filled. And I shall provide a Christmas meal. Everything will come from our own resources, the home farm with the help of one or two of the tenants, so you won’t need to go through all this ridiculous War Office requisition business. I’ve already been promised turkeys, sausages, bacon, beer, potatoes and sprouts; and the plum puddings were made here a month ago. Piers will look out some port wine to drink the King’s health.’

  ‘Are you leaving me anything to do at all?’ asked Margaret.

  ‘We need some crackers,’ said Alexa, consulting her list. ‘The children in the village school are making paper chains and streamers and painting nativity pictures to be hung up. We must make the wards look really cheerful. There’s plenty of holly and mistletoe in the grounds.’

  ‘Just stop for a moment,’ Margaret pleaded. ‘Who
’s going to put up all these decorations?’

  ‘The VADs could do that in their spare moments, surely,’ Alexa suggested.

  ‘You’ll need to check that with Matron. They aren’t allowed to have many spare moments, poor girls. Whatever you ask them to do will be extra to their nursing duties.’

  ‘They’ll want to do it, all the same,’ Alexa said confidently. ‘We’ll have carol-singing in the ballroom on Christmas Day, and I’ll form a little choir to sing in the Theatre Ward.’

  ‘The VADs again?’

  ‘Well, we ought to have a few women’s voices. I should think there’ll be plenty of volunteers. And on Boxing Day you’ve already agreed that we can put on an entertainment.’

  Alexa had made it her contribution to the war effort not only to sing to the troops herself, but to assemble a concert party which would provide a programme of varied entertainment. Naturally she had reserved the Christmas booking for her home ground.

  ‘Ah now, I have a point to raise on the subject of the entertainment,’ said Margaret. She searched her overcrowded desk for a letter and read it out with a solemn expression on her face. ‘“Dear Commandant Aunt, Mamma is going to give a concert at Christmas and there will be a lot of singing and playing the piano and making jokes but no dancing. I wish to offer my services as a dancer and I shall be very good. Yours faithfully with love and kisses, Frisca.” I take it she’s already approached you on the subject?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alexa. ‘I’ve never included dancing in the programme because so many of these men will never be able to dance again. And because often they can’t see the concert very well, if they aren’t able to sit up, but they can hear it. In any case, Frisca’s too young for this sort of thing.’

  ‘How old were you when you first sang in public?’ asked Margaret.

  ‘My mother was dying. I needed the money.’ But Alexa had not needed the reminder that she was only nine years old when she made her first public appearance – in a music hall, not an opera house, but to just as much applause as she was to attract later on. She was willing to be persuaded if Margaret felt strongly enough to press the point.

  ‘Some of these men have babies they’ve never seen,’ Margaret said. ‘A good many of them must have wondered whether their children would grow up without knowing what their fathers looked like. They’ve spent more than a year, most of them, living with death and with other men in a world which hardly seems to include children at all. I think the sight of Frisca might well make some of them cry. But if she’s prepared to face this rather special kind of audience, it can do nothing but good to remind them that they can hope to return to the sort of normal domestic life in which little girls smile and show off.’

  ‘Whatever you command shall be done,’ Alexa conceded. ‘And now I can see that you’d like to be left to your paperwork.’ She smiled at her sister as she went out, but before the door closed behind her she saw that Margaret was about to be interrupted again and stepped back into the office to give warning. ‘There’s someone else waiting to see you. One of the VADs. And by the look of her, you’re going to need a spare handkerchief.’

  6

  The young women who joined the Voluntary Aid Detachment as their contribution to the war effort were conscientious and willingly hard-working. But most of them were girls of good family, brought up in homes run entirely by servants, so that even the simplest chores had to be explained to them. It was easy for Matron and the charge-sisters to become impatient when, out of anxiety to please, the VADs spent longer on some routine duty than a professional nurse would have done. It was tempting, as well, to allocate all the most unpleasant tasks to them on the grounds that they were still only semi-skilled.

  Margaret sympathized with both sides in the frequent disputes which arose. But she regarded herself mainly as the protector of the girls who were young, inexperienced and overworked, and who in most cases had never lived away from home before. Matron was well able to look after herself.

  For this reason she was careful not to show any sign of impatience as Nurse Jennifer Blakeney came in, although the weekly roll of patients required by the War Office still lay uncompleted on the desk.

  ‘Good morning, Nurse,’ she said. She kept her voice cheerful, although Jennifer’s unhappiness was plain enough. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Matron told me to report to you,’ said Jennifer, and was then apparently unable to go on.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She said I ought to consider with you whether I was suited to my work.’

  ‘That’s a fairly large matter to consider,’ Margaret said. ‘Sit down, Nurse. Have I had a chitty from Matron about you?’ She began to search through the papers on her desk to see whether there was some complaint that she had overlooked.

  ‘No, Dr Scott. It’s only just happened.’

  ‘What has just happened?’

  As carefully as though Matron herself were presenting the case for the prosecution, Jennifer recited a list of her offences, culminating in Sister’s discovery that she had poured out twenty mugs of tea, left them standing on a tray for half an hour, and had then poured the tea away and washed up the mugs.

  ‘So you’re not concentrating properly on your work,’ said Margaret. ‘But I’ve had good reports of you before. I take it that something has happened.’ She recognized the silence which followed as that of someone who knows that if she tries to speak she will burst into tears. Alexa’s quick summing-up of the situation had been correct. ‘Have you had some bad news?’ she enquired.

  It was not a question which required very much intuition on her part. There was hardly a family in England which had not by now been given cause for grief. Margaret herself, with her son and her nephew still unhurt, knew that she was luckier than most people.

  Jennifer nodded and the tears began to run down her cheeks. ‘My brother,’ she said.

  ‘Killed?’

  Jennifer nodded again, doing her best to stem the flow with much rubbing of her handkerchief.

  ‘I’m very sorry, my dear.’

  ‘But it’s not just that,’ said Jennifer. Now that the main fact was established, the words came tumbling out. ‘It was my father who wrote to tell me. He’s quite old. My mother died six years ago and now that Geoffrey’s dead – well, he’s upset, of course, as I am, but more than that.’ She looked up, red-eyed. ‘He wants me to go home.’

  ‘To give up your work, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. To look after him. Or just to live with him. He’s lonely. He didn’t mind too much while he could think that Geoffrey and I would both come back in the end, but now he’s frightened.’

  ‘You’re only a volunteer, of course,’ Margaret said carefully. ‘Not an enlisted soldier. You have the right to resign if you wish.’

  ‘But I don’t want – Dr Scott, I don’t know what I ought to do. I’ve done my training, I think I’m some use here – I know I’ve been careless this last week, but I could stop that. I’m sure it’s my duty to go on nursing, and yet there’s my duty to my father as well, and no one else can do that for me.’ The tears welled into her eyes again and she buried her head in her hands.

  Margaret allowed her a moment to bring herself under control. She was a slight girl, probably not more than twenty, with fair hair and a pale, pretty face spoiled only by anxious eyes. It was tempting to be purely sympathetic, and certainly the child needed comfort. But Margaret had spent many years acting as the supervisor and friend-in-need of young women who were training to be doctors, and knew that there were times when firmness was more helpful than kindness.

  ‘So you’re doing one of your duties badly because you can’t choose which of the two you ought to accept,’ she said as Jennifer’s sniffs came to an end at last. ‘I know how tempting it is for parents of my generation to believe that they have a right to their daughters’ company and I can see that your love for your father makes this a very difficult choice for you. It’s not for me to say what you should decide. There’s no right
or wrong about it. What is certain is that you must make a decision and when you’ve made it you must hold to it without regrets. Sometimes, I think, it’s better to be definite than to be right.’ She paused for a moment to consider. ‘Did you tell Matron about your brother’s death?’

  ‘No, Doctor.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with her. As far as this past week is concerned, I’m sure we can all forget about it and you’ll make sure that there’s no further cause for complaint. But with regard to the future – I’ll give you a week’s compassionate leave. A visit to your father will be a comfort to you both, and while you’re at home you will take your decision.’ She opened the leave book which Matron had brought for her approval that morning. All the VADs hoped that they might be allowed home for Christmas, but Jennifer’s case seemed stronger than most. ‘I’ll present you with another choice at once. If you think it will mean more to your father, I’ll change the rota so that you may have Christmas leave. Or else you may go home at once and come back before Christmas Eve.’

  It seemed that Jennifer had learned her lesson, for she made her choice without hesitation.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to spoil anyone else’s hopes for Christmas,’ she said. ‘I very much appreciate your offer of leave now, and I’d like to accept it.’

  Even after Jennifer had left, Margaret was not allowed long without interruption. But the arrival of the post was always welcome and she smiled to see a letter from her brother.

  Her smile was quick to fade. Ralph’s letter was long and rambling, incoherent almost to the point of incomprehensibility. But although he did not state in so many words that Lydia was dead, there could be no other possible interpretation of the grief and anger and loneliness which he had poured out on paper.