War Girls

by Adele Geras

  I tried to imagine it. All those dead boys were depressing enough. The thought of being expected to find a boyfriend among the few who came back was hideous.

  ‘Your poor brother,’ I said instead, not wishing to sound heartless.

  ‘Yes, it was rather dreadful,’ Miss Frobisher said briskly. ‘We lost two cousins and an uncle, and my sister Sylvia lost a boy she was awfully keen on. That was hard. Still, you get on with life, don’t you? If anything, it was something of a party, those years after the War. All those young girls, desperate to put the War behind them; and the young men not quite able to believe they’d survived. I had my coming-out ball after the war, and you never saw so many people trying so hard to enjoy themselves. Poor ducks,’ she added, somewhat as an afterthought.

  A coming-out ball, I knew, was a sort of party wealthy girls had thrown for them to announce that they were old enough to marry.

  ‘Did they still expect you to find a husband?’ I asked.

  Miss Frobisher said, ‘Ha! Well, of course they did! What else would someone like me do? You must understand,’ she added, very seriously, ‘that my sister and I had never been expected to do anything except get married and run a house. The fact that we were now unlikely to find a husband was simply our misfortune and our parents’. But it was decided that we would have our seasons in London, and if and when we failed, we would stay at home and keep house for our ageing parents.’

  ‘How old were you?’ I asked.

  Miss Frobisher considered the question.

  ‘I was eighteen,’ she said. ‘Sylvia – she was the pretty one – she was twenty. Sylvia was really very lovely. We all thought she might well manage to find a husband. My brother Ralph was twenty-two. He was the sensible one.’

  ‘And which one were you?’

  Miss Frobisher gave a surprisingly wicked smile.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I was trouble.’

  Miss Frobisher being ‘trouble’ comforted me. Someone who was trouble, I felt, would surely find a way to avoid a future ‘keeping house’, whatever that meant.

  ‘Was it dreadful?’ I said. ‘The coming-out ball?’ It certainly sounded dreadful, the idea of dressing up and standing there, while boys wandered past and judged you … I shuddered.

  ‘Not so very dreadful,’ Miss Frobisher said. ‘That ball was mostly family, and elderly neighbours we’d known for years, and a few of Ralph’s friends from university to make up the numbers of men. And everyone was very nice to you, of course. Like a birthday party. No, we didn’t really understand what had happened until we came to London. I remember one dance in particular, the first of the season. It was held in a hotel in St James’s and, of course, Sylvia and I were particularly excited, because as far as we were concerned, this was the beginning of our new lives as young adults.

  ‘We arrived late at the dance and did what one always does at these things, which is to look for people we knew; girls from school and family friends. We were so used to a world that was mostly female that at first I don’t think we noticed that there were only women around us. At my coming-out ball, all of the women had stood together, and so had the men.

  ‘I looked hopefully through the crowd to the room where the dancing was to be. I could hear music. Perhaps the boys were already dancing?

  ‘Mother was talking to Aunt Vanessa. I caught Sylvia’s eye and whispered, “Shall we go and dance?”

  ‘She nodded. She too had been looking at the room with a slight frown. She began to push her way through the crowd. I followed with my cousin Lizzie, craning our necks to take in every detail.

  ‘You must understand that this was not a terribly sophisticated affair. A party composed almost entirely of teenagers and their parents will always be an awkward occasion, no matter how expensive the ball gowns might be. A few years later, I would attend some really elegant parties, and would immediately recognise the difference. But at the time, I was eighteen. I was torn between admiration for the glitter of the thing, and embarrassment that the guests were simply slightly older versions of the girls I had been to school with.

  ‘And then the slow realisation.

  ‘There were no boys.

  ‘The room was full of ball gowns; wonderful dresses in rose and turquoise and cream and buttercup silk. But no men. Was this dance for women only? But, no, it couldn’t be, because Ralph had said that he would try to come later, once the concert he was attending had finished. Perhaps we should warn him that there’d been some mistake?

  ‘But then, out of the sea of colour, there was a boy, tall and thin in black and white. And another beside him. And now, as we moved towards the ballroom, there was a third; a boy of about my own age or younger, shockingly one-armed. I’d seen wounded soldiers before, of course. Sylvia and I had taken them gift baskets last Christmas. But to see one here, at what should have been a fairytale ball, was a sharp reminder of everything we’d lost.

  ‘It was a dreadful ball. We stood on the edges of the dance floor for a while, watching the few boys spinning manfully around the floor, hoping to be asked to dance. The room was hot and crowded and full of disappointment. A couple of girls were in tears. I didn’t cry, but I was frightened. If this was what the season was going to be like, how could I ever expect to find a husband?

  ‘When Ralph arrived at half past ten, Mother was mobbed by her friends, all looking for an introduction for their daughters. All the girls were desperate to dance with him, and so of course were we. What was the point of having a brother if he wasn’t prepared to take you on a chivalrous once-around-the-room?

  ‘As soon as we’d finished, other girls came forward, pressing for an introduction, girls who knew us, or Lizzie.

  ‘Ralph was as shaken by the whole thing as we were. Ralph was friendly and easy-going, and while he certainly wasn’t unattractive, he’d never been the object of so much attention before.

  ‘“It wasn’t me they wanted,” he said afterwards. “They didn’t even know me. I could have had four heads, and they’d still have wanted me.”

  ‘Some of the boys we knew loved all the attention they now attracted; Ralph hated it. He married a plain, timid little thing in the end. They were ridiculously happy, much to the irritation of all her friends.

  Sylvia and I were quiet during the car ride home, which was unusual for us. I was glad she didn’t want to talk. I wouldn’t have known what to say.

  ‘But for months afterwards, for that whole year, I carried this voice in my head: What if, what if, what if? What if I don’t find a husband? What if no one ever wants to marry me?’

  ‘I didn’t have any other options, you see, besides marriage.

  ‘Or I didn’t think I had.’

  ‘But did you really, honestly believe that?’ I said. ‘That no one would marry you? I mean, I could see you might worry about it. But surely you didn’t give up hope entirely?’

  ‘Sylvia didn’t,’ said Miss Frobisher. ‘She was always very determined. But the thing was, there were so many other determined girls, and so few boys left.

  ‘That first ball was the worst. But like all the other girls, we were beginning to realise that if we wanted to be married, we couldn’t afford to pick or choose. Many of my friends ended up with husbands who were ten or twenty years older than they were. Some married men who were wounded, inside or out. Most of their marriages were happy enough, as far as I could tell. It became very fashionable to say that the best of our generation had died, but if I’m honest, I never saw that. And, after all, what about us girls? We were still here!

  ‘Those two seasons after the War, when we were in London looking for husbands, were particularly hard for Sylvia. Boys liked her – they always had – but they could sense her desperation, and that always makes a man hesitate. The boys would spend all evening flirting with Sylvia. She’d come home wound up and nervous, and then we’d stay up half the night in our hot little bedroom in the London house, while she asked over and over, “But did he like me? Do you think he really did?” And th
en a month or two later the boy in question would announce his engagement to the Honourable Miss So-and-So, and Sylvia would weep as though her heart was breaking. Sylvia’s heart was broken an average of once a month. I tried to be sympathetic, but I confess that I couldn’t help but be jealous. I didn’t have the chance to get my heart broken. The only boys who ever deigned to dance with me were my cousins, or friends of Ralph, and then only out of politeness.’

  ‘Poor Sylvia,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

  Miss Frobisher smiled.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘It was a funny thing. Christmas 1920 we spent with my aunt and uncle in the Lake District. Beautiful country. The local tarns froze over and we went skating every day. One morning we were out on the ice and Sylvia met a man. We didn’t think too much of it at first, because she was always meeting men, but the next day we went skating again and there he was, and again the day after that. And then, a few weeks later, she came home bright-eyed and glowing, and announced that she was engaged to be married.

  ‘I was in the front room, writing to our cousin Lizzie in London. Sylvia came dancing in, her cheeks pink with the cold.

  ‘“Arthur proposed!” she said.

  ‘“He did what?” I said.

  ‘I admit that this isn’t how one is supposed to respond when one’s sister announces her engagement, but Arthur wasn’t at all the sort of man I’d expected Sylvia to marry. He was a farmer’s son, you see. That’s how he’d escaped the War, working the land. A lot of the Lakeland men had stayed at home, farming or mining. Arthur Hepplewhite, his name was. But he seemed a nice chap. Quiet, respectful, with a thick north country accent, all short vowels and a long, hill-farmer’s “Ehhh” when he was pleased about something.

  ‘“Well!” said Sylvia. “You needn’t make that sort of face. They may not have much money, but they’re gentlemen farmers, you know.”

  ‘“You sound like Elizabeth Bennet,” I told her. “Telling Lady Catherine de Bourgh that she’s a gentleman’s daughter and Mr Darcy is a gentleman.”

  ‘Sylvia and Arthur were a bit like Elizabeth and Darcy. Except that we weren’t anywhere like as wealthy as Mr Darcy, and Arthur Hepplewhite’s family were poorer even than the Bennets. True, Arthur had gone to a third-rate imitation public school in Carlisle. But when War was declared he’d left school early to assist his father with the farm work, and since then his life was spent helping with the lambing and the shearing, and searching for lost sheep in the fog.

  ‘“He may be a gentleman,” I said. “But he’s not Father’s sort of gentleman. Can you imagine him at Ascot? Or in London for the season?”

  ‘Both Sylvia and I giggled, nervously. Arthur – with his flat cap and his hobnail boots – at Ascot!

  ‘“I mean it, Sylvia,” I said. “Do you think you could be happy as a farmer’s wife?”

  ‘“Yes,” said Sylvia. She spoke plainly and directly. “I love Arthur. He’s a good man, and I think we could make each other happy. And besides” – she sounded sad now – “it’s not as though I have much choice, do I?”

  ‘She got to her feet. “I need to talk to Father,” she said. “I know Arthur should ask for my hand himself, but I don’t want Father to be rude, and he will if I don’t explain things first.”

  ‘“Father will say no,” I said. Of course he would. I thought of the farmhouses we’d seen on the fells – low, whitewashed buildings, with walls two-foot-deep to keep out the cold. How, in heaven’s name, could Sylvia believe she would be happy living in a place like that?

  ‘“He won’t,” said Sylvia, but he did. He refused his consent outright. Mother wept, and so did I, but Sylvia stayed very calm, at least at first. We went to tell Arthur – who had been waiting patiently at the bottom of the garden.

  ‘Then she wept, and Arthur put his arms around her shoulders, patted her back and muttered, “Eh, lass,” and “I didn’t mean to make all this trouble, now.”

  ‘He seemed to be addressing this last to me.

  ‘“Oh no, of course you didn’t. No one believes that,” I said, like the well-brought-up young lady that I was, putting the servants at ease. He was a nice man, and handsome enough, if you liked that sort of thing.

  ‘Days passed, and Mother worried, and our uncle tried to reason with Sylvia, and our cousins whispered in corners, and so did the servants, and at last Sylvia saw that this wouldn’t do. She took Father away for a walk in the garden. They were away for hours, and when they came back, I saw that they’d both been crying. I think we young people forgot how hard the War had been for men like Father. He led half the men in our village into battle, and brought six back alive.

  ‘“What did you say?” I asked her later, when we were getting ready for bed.

  ‘“I told him that I’d tried doing things Mother’s way and it hadn’t worked,” she said calmly, pulling the pins from her hair, “and that I had no intention of dying an old maid. I told him that Arthur loved me, and I thought I probably loved him, and at any rate, we both thought we could make the other happy. Isn’t that the most important thing? I said that Arthur had been quite clear about what my life would be like and, no, it wasn’t exactly the future I’d planned for myself, but it was a damn sight better than living at home as the unmarried daughter and running the Sunday School.”

  ‘After that there was no more fuss, and Sylvia and Arthur were married. They had six children, four boys and two girls, and all lived tumbled up together in a little white farmhouse on the fells. She’s a grandmother eleven times over now. I don’t think her life was always easy. But I think she was happy.’

  ‘But what about you?’ I said. ‘What happened to you?’ I hadn’t forgotten that Miss Frobisher was the sister who was ‘trouble’. I suspected that a girl who was trouble wouldn’t just stay at home and look after her parents. I was half expecting to hear that she’d run off and joined the circus, or stowed away on a pirate ship, or something equally fantastical.

  ‘Ah,’ said Miss Frobisher. She gave a small smile. ‘Well, what happened was that Mother fell ill. Halfway through the 1921 season. Bronchitis, which was a very serious thing in those days. She was sent back to the country, and it was agreed that Aunt Vanessa – who was in London chaperoning Lizzie – would take care of me as well.

  ‘Now, what Lizzie and I knew, but the adults in my life didn’t, was that Aunt Vanessa was a terrible chaperone. She hated late nights, and crowds, and dancing, and everything the season entailed. She would park herself in the corner of the ballroom and be asleep by half past eight. That was when Lizzie and I would escape.’

  ‘Escape?’ I leaned forwards. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Oh, all sorts of places,’ said Miss Frobisher. ‘We went to nightclubs. We persuaded our brothers and cousins to sneak us into grown-up parties. And then, after a while, we found ourselves getting invitations in our own right. I was twenty-one by then. I wasn’t a débutante any more. That season was the first time I truly understood that I was now an adult, and that if I didn’t do something fast, I was going to spend the rest of my life as my parents’ unmarried daughter.’

  ‘So what did you do?’ I said.

  ‘I got a job,’ said Miss Frobisher. ‘Writing a Society column for a London newspaper. Miss Sophisticate, I was called. It was an incredibly silly job. I went to parties, and then I wrote down who was there and what they were wearing, who’d designed their dress, and who had gotten engaged to whom.

  ‘The young man who had written the column before me was called James Monroe. He was engaged to a school friend of mine, and he told me about his column – in strictest confidence, of course. He was intending to give it up when he got married and entered his father-in-law’s business.

  ‘“Thing is,” he told me, topping up my glass. “Thing is, I don’t know how the paper is going to replace me. The sort of chap who gets invited to the sort of parties one needs to get invited to doesn’t generally want to be sitting up at midnight writing columns on Lady Viola’s hat trimming. If you get my drift
.”’

  ‘I did, and suggested myself immediately for the job. He was initially dubious – “What’ll you do when your ma comes back?” – but I waved my hand airily and told him I could “deal” with Mother.’

  ‘I held that job for the rest of the season. I loved it. I loved the secrecy – writing my copy on my uncle’s typewriter late at night while the rest of the house was sleeping. I loved the power – saying terrible things about the dress sense of girls who’d snubbed me at parties, laughing at the hairstyles of boys who hadn’t asked me to dance. I found some of my columns recently and was so ashamed. I was much too young to have been given a job like that really. I was a very young twenty-one.’

  ‘At the end of that season, I had quite a pile of money hidden in the bottom of a hat box. Mother and Father were leaving London, and both expected me to come back to the country with them. I’d never minded before, but before there had always been Ralph and Sylvia. Now Ralph and Sylvia were married, and there was only me left.

  ‘I knew, with a sinking feeling, that this was what the rest of my life was going to look like. And I knew that it wasn’t a life I wanted to live. I also knew that if I wanted to escape my parents’ house, I would need some way of earning a living.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I went and spoke to my paper’s editor and asked him for a full-time job,’ Miss Frobisher said. ‘He was a bit doubtful at first. He liked my column, but in those days there were very few opportunities for lady journalists. There were the Women’s Pages, which meant knitting and cookery and fashion, none of which I knew the first thing about. I had got all the fashion details for my column from Lizzie. You could also be an agony aunt, but they already had one of those. “What else can you write?” he asked me. So I told him I wanted to do investigative work. Undercover operations, that sort of thing. I’d always loved acting and dressing up.