‘And in times of war,’ said Anstace, coming between them and linking an arm into each of theirs, ‘all manner of things is distorted. There are lots of insanities we shall have to get used to.’
Geoffrey heaved himself to his full height and, taking his cue from Anstace, crooked his arm for Delia to take. Walking four-abreast, they at least presented the appearance of unity. After twenty yards or so, the narrowness of the pavement made this difficult to maintain. Geoffrey disengaged himself from Anstace. He fell back a little so that he and Delia followed the other couple.
He did not say anything to Delia and she felt no need to converse. She had been more upset than she cared to admit by the scuffle earlier and the outburst of raw emotion from the two men she knew best. Now, however, she was rather enjoying the experience of walking arm in arm with Geoffrey. She was aware of him looking at her from time to time but she was careful not to respond. Some instinct told her to refrain from any behaviour which might imply a more intimate interpretation to what, of course, was a mere social convention of walking along on a gentleman’s arm.
When the four of them parted — the men were due at a college engagement—a placid veneer was in place.
Anstace and Delia spent the rest of the morning engaged in carrying out the various commissions Anstace’s aunt had asked of them before they caught the train back to Saffron Walden.
Saturday, 26 September 1914
It was two days later that Geoffrey telephoned Delia and asked if she could meet him at the little teashop on the high street in Saffron Walden. It was impossible for Anstace and her aunt not to be aware that there had been this call (‘For Miss Simmonds from a Mr. Cordingley,’ the maid had announced, with no attempt at confidentiality) but Delia found herself wishing that she had been able to keep the invitation a secret. She wondered if she had imagined the hint of prurient innuendo in the maid’s voice. The fact that she would be meeting Geoffrey Cordingley for tea was not the issue, it was that any discussion, with Anstace or her aunt, about his motives for inviting her would be disagreeably intrusive. It came as a surprise to her to realise that she did not even trust herself to ponder this matter rationally. Speculation slid too readily into romantic fantasy.
She was glad of the walk to the tearooms. It was good to be outside and walking at a decent pace. The exercise was liberating but it also quickened her imagination. She allowed herself to indulge it.
I know such things are not at all commonplace, why should I not be linked romantically to Geoffrey Cordingley Esquire of Mount Benjamin, in the county of Kent? Hubert considers himself Geoffrey’s social equal. Why shouldn’t I? I am probably better educated than those cousins of Geoffrey’s we met at Whitsun. I am certainly prettier than Miss Jenkins. There is not such a difference in our ages; in fact, the gap is entirely suitable. But I am the daughter of a village schoolmaster. We have just the one maid-of-all-work and I could never pretend to be ignorant of the most menial of household chores. Hasn’t Hubert said that Geoffrey’s uncle was an earl? His mother is titled. I have to be mad to even dream about a connection. But people are already talking about the great social changes that will follow, once the war’s over. Socialism and women’s suffrage are not going to disappear, whatever happens. I know enough history to know that a cessation of hostilities, whatever the outcome of the conflict, always brings social unrest. How could it not? And if social unrest admits the freedom to skip up a rung or two on the social ladder, would that be so unlikely?
Delia slowed her pace and adjusted her bearing. She told herself she was not just a silly girl, fresh out of school. Her adult life had started. Just as the nation had recently come of age rather abruptly, so, she felt, had she. The day-to-day significance of domestic events in the schoolhouse was no longer of such moment to her.
When I stayed with Anstace, there were never any chores to be done. I had no responsibilities other than to decide how to fill the day and be good company. Why shouldn’t this be my future? Is it inevitable that she would have to earn a living? Even Father is ambivalent about the best next step to take. The declaration of war has blurred even his perspective. However important these questions are, they do not have to be answered immediately. And if it is possible to slow down and mark time at a different rate, why could Geoffrey not keep me company meanwhile?
She turned the corner to the teashop with more deliberate poise and fluidity of movement than she had when she set forth.
Geoffrey had arrived at the rather frowsy establishment before Delia. She saw him immediately, his long limbs folded awkwardly into a cane chair under the dusty fronds of a palm. As she approached, he unwound himself so he could hover behind her chair and guide it in for her as she sat. She had noticed before the way that, while on some occasions he could be as relaxed with her as if she were one of his chums, at other times he would allow himself to be entrapped by social courtesies, adopting the chivalric role to the point of affectation.
He started now on a string of minor compliments that were as hollow as they were conventional. It was tedious to have to respond to them. Delia sought to bring him to a more honest place.
‘Does your shoulder still hurt? Hubert said the officer on horseback took a particularly vicious swipe at you.’
‘Oh, that. That was nothing. But thank you for your concern. No, I have forgotten that. Assam or Darjeeling? And you are allowed cake although they do very good muffins here.’
‘I am afraid I don’t know anything about tea. At home, it simply comes from the caddy.
‘Allow me to enlighten you…’
Delia realized it was not going to be so easy to deflect him from his original tack. If this were some form of courtship, she was surprised he could countenance it. She tried to remain composed as he launched into a silly monologue on the peculiar qualities of different teas. She suspected it was well-rehearsed. It might even be a standard device of his to negotiate the formalities of stilted afternoon conversation.
‘… purists, of course, would never contemplate adulterating the blend with orange blossom or bergamot. In my opinion, infuse what you like so long as the taste is good.’
There was no reason why he had to play this part with her. Did he not realise that? He had, she believed, invited her to tea because they were friends. She did not deserve to be lectured in this way, subjected to his condescension. She might only have known him for a few months but she knew that he gave her most attention when she was most direct, adopting Hubert’s tone, speaking to him ‘man to man’ without any false restraint incurred by the differences in their social background, gender or experience of life.
‘I am not a bit interested. Even if I were, I would not want to hear any more.’
‘I do apologise.’
‘I don’t know what you are about. Are you trying to educate me? Simple daughter of a country schoolmaster is clearly in need of some refinement. Is that it? Whilst knowing nothing about fancy tea-leaves, I can only stay on a shelf somewhere above your small-holders and tenant farmers, but below the doctor, the rector, retired army officers and, of course, the landed gentry. Is this about class?’
‘Nothing was further from my mind, I can assure you. These social gradations about which you seem unduly sensitive mean nothing to me.’
‘Good. But that, of course, is because you are able to ignore them. You can pretend that you’re separated from your neighbours in the village by nothing more than a sloping lawn and a ha-ha, but really you might as well be living in a different world. Except you’re not like this with Hubert. It’s a horrible muddle. And I don’t see why you have invited me here if you’re just going to be beastly.’
He was looking at her intensely with a degree of suppressed anger which she had not registered before. She had not meant to be so offensive. She remembered the way he had rushed in to drag Mr. Petrie from the file of marching recruits and she felt that he was now almost at the same tipping point, quite unaccountably, where physical involvement would be all he was capable of. Yet
he kept himself in check and, as he got his words out, seemed to grow less taut.
‘Listen to me. I care nothing at all for any social conventions. I loathe the systems and structures … the protocols and … all this—’ He waved his arm above his head to indicate the whole environment and disturbed the palm. He lashed out petulantly at the frond as it waved over him, and continued, ‘I don’t know why I asked you here to this temple of … of … petty decorums. It was stupid. It’s pulled me in and it’s pulled you in. Here we are talking about social hierarchies and it’s exactly the same as when I talk to Hubert who can’t get away from talking about patriotism and national obligations. You’re both the same.’ He paused, laughing shortly at what he had just said. ‘Yes. You’re both the same; neither of you realises that what I am trying to do is save you from these corrupting forces. You think it matters who your friends are or who is on visiting terms with whom. Armies are mobilising all over Europe and Hubert thinks, along with millions of others, that we have to surrender every decency to some greater calling. Britannia crawls out from under some shroud where she has been dozing for half a century. She strikes a statuesque, full-breasted pose and English men swoon at her feet. Meanwhile civilization implodes. And the horrible irony is, of course, that decent men think they’re defending it when they are doing the opposite. How can dressing men in uniforms and compelling them to obey orders without question be anything other than degrading and dehumanizing? Hubert will fall into the trap. I’m in despair.’
‘I don’t see why you should be. No one has to fight.’
He spat back at her.
‘Can you not see? Do you not see what’s coming? Stand up and look beyond your comfortable parochialism? Perhaps if you peer over the hedgerows in our delightful corner of Kent you will see hundreds of fine men marching away into Belgium and Hubert will be one of them.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Why? Why? Why wouldn’t he, when every other man seems impelled to put on a uniform? I am certain he’ll go. He’s talking a lot of nonsense about comradeship. Not what you might expect. None of that cant you’ll hear from the recruiting officers. He seems fully aware that the world’s fallen into the most damnable mess and that there will be hell to pay. But whilst a saner man—no, a smaller man—would pull away so as not to get embroiled, Hubert is determined to be in the thick of it. He’s not driven by duty. He waives aside all that “King and Country” claptrap. He is not even impelled by a thirst for glory, although I could understand it if he were stirred by some abstracted notion like that.’ Geoffrey stopped. Did he have to spell everything out to her? He worried that, if he put his fear into words, it would give it substance. Sometimes he felt exhausted by the need to be explicit; he yearned for companionship where words were unnecessary. But, if Delia were to have any chance of pulling Hubert back from the abyss he was preparing to leap into, she had to know enough. He looked up and held her eye.
‘I think he’s been seduced by sacrifice … by the idea of sacrifice. He hasn’t said so; not in so many words. But he’s all but confessed that he believes it would be ignoble not to face whatever monster it is which has reared up before us. He wants to be shoulder to shoulder with the weakest, the most frightened, the least fortified. God help us if this is an accurate description of our army!’ But a dry, cynic’s laugh caught in his throat and he heard his voice waver. ‘I can’t say anything to shift him. Do you see? In fact, the more passionately I argue against the futility, the waste of this self-destruction, the more determined he is take this course. Nothing I can say will shift him. This is why I had to talk to you. I had to tell you because I… I am useless … impotent. But you’re his sister. You might be able to.’
Geoffrey was in great distress. Delia’s earnest expression—he had at least won that from her—blurred. He turned away, blinking furiously to contain the tears. If he started to weep, he felt that he would be powerless to stop the cruellest part from spilling out too. He did not want to tell her that the more he loaded his love onto Hubert, the more splendid Hubert regarded his potential sacrifice. Geoffrey felt wretchedly trapped. Negate, annul, counter: there were plenty of words to describe his rebuttal of Hubert’s vision in an effort to save him from himself. But, because he was motivated by love for Hubert, all he seemed able to do, however cogent his arguments, was affirm, elevate, enthrone. Geoffrey cursed his propensity for adoration. Even when Hubert weighed himself down with this folly, he only appeared more magnificent.
Something of his internal agony communicated itself to Delia. She felt her own eyes begin to fill, in sympathy.
‘Are you sure?’ was all she could say, rather lamely. ‘I do think he might have said something to Mother.’
‘If he hasn’t it’s because he’s not sure he would be proof against your objections. Do you see? That’s what gives me hope.’
Delia looked perplexed and so he tried to explain.
‘I imagine your parents would object to him joining-up, wouldn’t they? From what you’ve said, I don’t see them as belligerent warmongers. They’ll see this war for what it is: a lot of posturing by aggressive governments. Your mother will not want him to subscribe to that. She’ll bombard him with all the counterarguments. And you too—you can throw your net wide; entangle him. Families can do that. There are ties and fetters which are almost impossible to ignore. Hubert would never invite that sort of assault. He’ll be planning to tell you only when it’s too late.’
Geoffrey’s assessment of how Hubert might behave at home made Delia acutely aware that he had never met their parents. Throughout that summer, some tacit understanding had operated so that neither she nor Hubert nor Geoffrey had tried to become familiar with each other’s home. They had enjoyed the freedom of no-man’s-land, unconstrained by the customs or expectations of their respective classes. Why would they seek to cross those nicely drawn lines? Delia could only imagine the ghastly trepidation which would overwhelm her if she had to dine at Lady Margery’s table and she knew she would have twisted with embarrassment if Geoffrey had ever taken supper with her parents. She hated awkwardness; that was the sum of it. She recognized the paradox for this timidity was absolutely at odds with the social miscegenation of which she had been dreaming. Of all her acquaintances, only Anstace seemed capable of slipping in and out of these different social dimensions. But Anstace, Delia suspected, was not always sensitive to the subtle jibes and snubs which she noticed.
Why is it, Delia thought, that I always turn things back to how I feel? Geoffrey’s here, talking to me about something really important and I am straying. He wants my help. He wants me to rally my parents to dissuade Hubert from whatever he’s thinking of doing and I drift away. I suppose it’s because it’s pointless. Geoffrey doesn’t understand; Hubert has not consulted Father or Mother about anything important for years. Their pride in his academic achievements has long given him a licence, if only in his own eyes, to roam free of their restraint. They have no real influence any more.
Geoffrey was at a loss. Once he had alerted her to the danger Hubert was in, he had expected Delia to declare her support and plan, with him, a fresh campaign. But her engagement seemed to have stalled. She was looking at him expectantly as if she thought he had more to say. He tried to push his point home.
‘It is a desperate thing. Seeing Coxeter and Petrie marching off so blithely, half-drunk from some college dinner the night before, shows you how easily men slide. Upheaval can bring its own thrill and Hubert is excited by the idea of transformation. His hankering after a nobler, rarer way of living has led him astray. He’s in thrall to it. He thinks the monumental scale of this thing will lift him. From out of the crucible will emerge something finer, refined: that sort of thing. He doesn’t understand that this is actually a catastrophe and he will drown in it. They will all drown in it. How can they not? How can war be anything other than monstrously inhumane? We need to make him understand what he will be throwing away. The preciousness of it. He must see before it’s t
oo late.’ He sighed. What else could he say? That Hubert mistrusts everything I say? That Hubert thinks I just want to keep him safe to feed my own selfish passion?
Somehow tea and muffins had arrived (Delia could not remember them having ordered anything) with willow-pattern china and damask napkins (even though a little grey and roughly ironed). Geoffrey waved his hands over the table, whether to invite her to begin or to deprecate what had been laid before them, Delia could not tell.
‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘Look. It is delightful, of course. What could be more comfortable than the setting of a tea table in a quiet market town?’
‘Thank you,’ she replied, wholly missing the ring of sardonicism in his voice.
‘For what? For cubed sugar and dainty tongs for dropping it into your teacup? For butter patted into quaint moulds, or jams served with particularly shaped spoons? All over the country, people are making the same mistake: they’re thinking that civilization is the sum of these social pirouettes and arabesques.’
‘I don’t think that’s true. No one would go to war over tea and muffins. The Germans aren’t just going into Belgium and smashing the china. Hubert would not join the army just to stop that.’
‘He might if they were shelling his precious bluebell wood,’ replied Geoffrey.
‘He might. It’s natural enough to want to protect the places you have grown-up in and love. Wouldn’t you? You own most of the land after all.’
‘It provides an income. I can’t ignore its value,’ he snapped. ‘But if preserving these things, these trappings, prompted anyone I cared for to risk their life, I’d put the torch to them myself.’
He paused. How little I know her, he thought. Could she comprehend this declaration? Perhaps ‘trappings’, however humble, are how she assesses any quality of life. He went on.
‘You’re thinking he would join the war to defend his home, the things he holds dear, but you’re wrong. He has inspired himself with some delusional notion of self-sacrifice. He is happy to die if it be as a sacrifice. Nothing has value when compared to that.’
That They Might Lovely Be Page 19