Perry came to see us from time to time throughout that year, when he came to London on business, and for an afternoon or so the mood of the house would lift, as if he brought the comfort and fresh air of Ashford with him, along with bits of news (his father had found a young fox with a broken leg, his grandmother had at last given in to electricity for the sake of hearing the radio reports). I believe Violet and I both lived a sort of second life at Ashford in our minds, a life where it was always spring and the sun always shone over the walled garden of that lovely house. In this I envied Violet, for her second life could be fed with numerous memories of the real place -- mine could only be imaginary.
Everyone enjoyed Perry's visits. Mr. Beaufort welcomed him as another representative of the male gender, and monopolised a great deal of his time by cornering him in the stairwell to discuss the grave masculine topics of war, mayhem, and machinery. If Mrs. Beaufort waxed too eloquent at dinner on the subjects of dress or the importance of a balanced diet, Mr. Beaufort relieved his feelings by winking covertly at Perry and giving vent to a jocular chuckle which escaped nobody and annoyed everyone.
Mrs. Creeley was constantly at work to convince Perry to stay longer, and many were her methods, both open and secret, of achieving that end.
"I really think she'd stoop to anything to keep him," I laughed to Violet one evening. Perry had just left to return to Ashford, and Mrs. Creeley had vented her frustration and disappointment by another rampage. "I hope he parks his car out of the way. I wouldn't be surprised if she tried to disable it."
"There he's safe," said Violet, though she smiled at the picture my remark suggested. "Perry never drives. He always takes the train and walks from the station."
I thought then that I should have noticed that Perry did not drive, but I had never thought of it. Mrs. Creeley's house was a long walk from the train station, and Violet had mentioned before that the family at Ashford had a car (it was one of Mr. Bertram's pet projects) so I had put two and two together and mistakenly arrived at six.
It was not long after my talk with Violet that the subject of Perry came up between Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort. It was in the afternoon of a day in early March, and the three of us were in the sitting room. Violet and I had been keeping ourselves busy with Red Cross work and I was hemming a shirt for the cause -- not with ease, for I had only recently learned the trick of it, and my attention was almost entirely focused on keeping the stitches straight and not pricking my fingers. Perhaps because I sat so quietly in the corner and did not look up, or perhaps because it was just their habit, Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort spoke without reserve. At first I did not heed their conversation at all, for my mind was on other things, but after a time their talk, from its place as a babel on the edge of my consciousness, began to filter through and make itself interesting to me.
"Oh, I agree that he's a very pleasing young man," Mrs. Beaufort was saying, "and his company certainly provides some much-needed variety around here, but doesn't it seem like there must be something just a little...well...wrong?"
"I can see nothing, my dear, unless perhaps the shortness of his visits. It has been very pleasant to me to have the society of a young man -- makes me feel quite young again myself." I heard Mr. Beaufort squelch back into his chair with a contented chuckle and unfold the newspaper, and I looked up just in time to see Mrs. Beaufort send him a supremely annoyed look.
"Really Beaufort!" she said, "I married you thirty years ago for your rakish good looks, but sometimes I wonder if there was ever a brain to back them. No, what I meant was--"
I lost track of the conversation for a moment in trying to picture a young Mr. Beaufort with rakish good looks, but soon gave up and fell to listening again.
"--the only young man of his age we see who isn't in uniform and dashing off to fight somewhere. I would hate to accuse someone we all like so much of cowardice, but it all smells rather fishy to me. In a time like this when everyone has to do their part -- and we've all heard of these pro-Germans they say are all over the country--"
I pricked my finger. A drop of blood fell onto the clean white shirt I was hemming. I put my finger in my mouth and took the shirt away to the kitchen to try to remove the stain. It would not do to send an already bloodstained shirt out to some poor soldier who waited in the trenches for a clean one. I did not want to hear the rest of the conversation. That our friend was pro-German I refused to believe. I did not want to think of Perry as a coward, but what proof did I have that he was not, and truly, who could blame him if he was? I did not want to let Mrs. Beaufort's speculations effect my thoughts, yet subtly they did. We were all so very desperate about the war. It was in everybody's thoughts and on everybody's lips. Our boys were our heroes and we cheered and hoped and grieved for them. There was something shameful in leaving the fighting to others. It was the act of a coward, a shirker.
I shook myself and said that I would not think of it, that it was Mrs. Beaufort's idle chatter only and there was probably no truth in it. Violet came in and I showed her the bloodstain and we laughed at my sewing and my pricked fingers. I thought of asking her about Perry, but how to phrase it? I changed my mind. There was no kind or tactful way to say, "Is your cousin pro-German, or just a coward?" So I said nothing about it, and pushed the thought to the back of my mind, and things went on as before except for occasional moments when I felt it there, tickling at my consciousness as if it were the tiniest of splinters, invisible to common sight but persistently refusing to be pulled out.
Chapter 11
The winter had seemed to pass slowly, but spring came at last, and all of London put on a brighter face for fair weather and a fresh start. Spring also brought new tasks to occupy our minds and bodies. Half of the garden was dug up and planted to potatoes and we all got a certain amount of satisfaction out of "doing our bit". Things were going badly on the mainland. Germany invaded Norway and Denmark and to us, sitting at home in London, there seemed to be nothing to stop them. We knew our soldiers were out there, fighting and working for Europe, for England, and for us, but we could not see them and their efforts and the enemy continued to move forward. Yet, in the spring, when the sun broke through the rain clouds occasionally and lit London's grey streets to silver, none of us could find it in our hearts to be too downcast. We kept our hands in the dirt, our minds on hemming shirts and digging potatoes, and felt that in that way we stood behind our boys.
The United States remained neutral, and we ground our teeth companionably over the faithlessness of allies, forgetting that three out of five of us would have called ourselves American, had we thought. Once, in early April, Mr. Beaufort ventured to suggest that catching a boat for home was still an option and didn't seem too dangerous at present, but silence was the only answer he received except for a pleading look from his wife which seemed to contain all her panic of months before as well as a little extra. No more mention was made of going home after that, and I, in spite of my Grandmother's advice to push for a journey should I see any opportunity, remained silent. To me it seemed that our lives had become involved in some disastrous chess game which was taking place in Europe, and until the game was played out we were nothing but pawns ruled by a few corrupt and scheming minds.
In May we heard that Chamberlain had resigned as Prime Minister and would be replaced by Churchill. Many people had been disappointed in Chamberlain for his reluctance to react to the Nazi threat, and most felt that the change was for the better. Mrs. Creeley alone in the household remained sceptical, saying that change was usually for the worse, better a fool you know than a fool you don't, and so on. The other news which reached us the same day was disheartening. Germany had invaded Holland, Belgium and Luxembourg. It was a matter of days before the Dutch army surrendered, a few weeks and the Belgians gave in, and it seemed as if the world would be swallowed up -- that before the year ended we would all be sent to concentration camps and tattooed with numbers.
Strangely enough, as our fears continued to grow, so did our feelings of securi
ty and comfort. Even though they were only brought on by the vague familiarity we were gaining of our new home and its surroundings, at least we were (for the most part) no longer dogged by fear of getting lost or falling into strange company. I knew my way around the part of the city in which Mrs. Creeley had her house very well by that spring and summer, and had begun, in my spare time, to venture greater distances into the city, sometimes with Violet as a sort of guide, but more often alone, wandering about in an aimless sort of way. I often felt that it had less to do with me getting to know London, and more to do with London getting to know me. The city seemed to have its own essence, a personality which reached out to some and repelled others. Mr. Beaufort found it "a city just like other cities, but wetter" but to me it had a vibrant sort of beauty which was only enhanced by wetness and showed to best advantage in its rain-washed streets, the light of its lamps shining through the mist, and the moist luminous green of its parks.
Spring passed and summer came. Violet and I had been given the task of watering and caring for the potatoes. I surprised myself with the discovery that I enjoyed digging in the moist earth, caring for the plants, and especially, when it came time to harvest them, pulling up the mature plants and discovering how the potatoes had flourished. I often found myself wondering how it was that potatoes were discovered to be edible. Were they found out by some poor starving wretch thousands of years ago? I had a sort of mental image of the discoverer of potatoes, who looked a little like an emaciated Churchill, sitting on the ground in rags, an uprooted potato plant in one hand, looking quizzically at the lumpy things hanging from the slender roots as if weighing the advantages of death by poison versus death by starvation.
The Germans moved their attack to France that summer, and London turned into a large, seething mass of indignation. Britain stepped immediately into the role of defensive sibling. She and France had had their arguments of course, but no one else should claim to torment one without the other stepping in. Tristan and his comrades were moved to a base in the French countryside to assist in the defence. "Our base is huge," he wrote to Violet. "It's not just us and the French. There are Americans here too -- rough fellows mostly, just looking for excitement, but it encourages us to see that there are some who are willing to come help us, even if it is only the mutineers and black sheep."
I also received a letter concerning the attack. It came from Gloria, expressing her outrage at the American government.
"Do you know," she wrote, "that the French government actually appealed directly for assistance, but we were 'unable to oblige'? It makes me quite envy you, with your Red Cross work and your potato planting, though I never thought I should envy that. At least you're able to do something. Mrs. Whildon has tried to organise some sort of local group to assist the cause, and I joined because I really wanted to help. We've had two meetings. Anna, our 'group' is made up of five old biddies, their knitting, and their gossiping tongues. The only suggestion they had was that we should knit stockings to send to the poor children in Belgium. I'm sure the poor things need stockings, but I wish there was something more we could do. I was all ready to get up a charity concert or go marching to Washington in protest, but my grey-haired companions apparently thought my ideas required too much energy and wanted nothing to do with them. Besides, I dare say anything else would cut in on their gossiping time."
In my reply I tried to pacify her, saying that being in London was rather more frightening that exciting, and that digging potatoes was quite as prosaic as ever, yet I could not deny that I greatly preferred my position to hers. I could not explain, to her or to myself, why exactly this was, but I found that it was true. I, who had always loved quiet and peace, and avoided upheaval, could not find more than a hint of desire in myself to leave the threatened turf of England and return home to America and security.
More often, as I walked through the city, I would see the train platforms crowded with refugees fleeing to the countryside, mostly children. Sometimes I gave them a little money, but I could not afford much, for what little I had came from my grandmother, and was sent at regular intervals so that I would not be a burden on Mrs. Creeley.
One rainy day in late May, as I was in the hall preparing to go in quest of groceries, I found myself unexpectedly accosted by Mrs. Beaufort.
"Ah, you are going out, my dear -- in this wet, and all alone?"
Violet had a bad cold and was staying in, so I replied that yes, I was.
"You'd better let me go with you, poor thing. All this rain! And how will you carry all the things and your umbrella too?"
Call me suspicious for attributing any other motive to Mrs. Beaufort's words than kindly concern for my welfare, but I had gone out alone countless times, in and out of the rain, and she had never expressed such concern before. However, I didn't think it would be quite polite to refuse her offer, so I said she was welcome to come if she really wished to, but that we should be leaving soon if we were to be back in time for our usual dinner hour.
"Of course. I'll only be a moment."
A "moment" is, of course, a poorly defined space of time, but it is generally supposed to be of short duration. Mrs. Beaufort's moment exceeded half an hour, and, as I had already laced myself into my boots and did not dare set foot on Mrs. Creeley's pristine carpets, I had to resort to pacing back and forth in front of the door while I waited.
I heard her as she moved throughout the house, telling her husband where she was going, inquiring about sundry items of clothing, and even opening the door of Violet’s room to ask her where the second grocery basket was.
Finally she was ready, and we went out together into the pouring rain.
"At last," she gasped, when we had progressed several yards beyond the door. "I couldn't stand another moment in that house. Anna, I don't know how much more of this I can take. Sometimes I think that our hostess has no manners at all. I would hate to find fault with the locals in general, but surely we live with the worst of them all."
I could find no reply to give. It was true that Mrs. Creeley in a temper was a sight to behold. It was also true that she generally flew into a rage at least once a day. But she had not denied us a place when we had needed one most, and day after day I had seen, in the faces of the refugees, signs of trials and sufferings much greater than ours had ever been. It was the thing which often gave me patience to bear with Mrs. Creeley, and it was a thing which Mrs Beaufort, who had barely stirred a quarter of a mile from the house for the past three months, had not seen and could not understand until she did, if then.
She continued to vent her frustration for the rest of the walk. I said little, but little was required of me. She wanted only a listener. I felt oddly mature, as if our positions were reversed and I were the elder. I had never expected my chaperone to confide in me.
We purchased the groceries and turned for home. Almost without realising it I altered our course a fraction, and we passed by the train station.
I can attribute no particularly virtuous motive to my action. I was only tired of hearing her endless complaints and did the one thing I knew of which might possibly silence her. As to what other effect it would have, I confess I thought little enough about it.
The effect was much greater than I could have imagined. Mrs. Beaufort stopped in her tracks, staring at the women and children crowding the platform, then turned to me.
"Poor things!" she said, an angry flush spreading across her face. "Does nobody feed them?"
Before I knew what was happening she had rushed to the nearest huddled group and was handing out the groceries in her basket to the children in a frenzy, without stopping to consider whether raw beef would do much to benefit a child sleeping on an open train platform. Finally, at a loss for anything else to give them, she handed over her umbrella (which I'm sure was much more appreciated than the raw beef) and came scurrying back to the shelter of mine.
Our walk home was silent. When Mrs. Creeley complained about the absence of certain items from our basket Mrs
. Beaufort, with unusual meekness, claimed forgetfulness, and I did not contradict her, though it earned us both a severe lecture.
Chapter 12
A character such as Mrs. Beaufort's does not change overnight. Generally changes are small and easily overlooked, the virtues being nearly as abrasive as the vices and therefore somewhat difficult to distinguish.
In part Mrs. Beaufort was a changed woman after that day, but for the rest she was more herself than ever. The plight of refugee children is a thing which, when encountered face to face, will melt a far harder heart than Mrs. Beaufort's. She had not cared before simply because she had not seen. Now that she had seen, she cared very much -- in fact, in her own mind at least, she cared much more than anyone else did, and the only reason all the refugees were not fed and housed was that others did not feel their pain as she did.
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