by John Masters
He could hardly hear what old Kirby was saying, for now the distinctive sound of guns on the move was filling the church – the jingle and clink of the harness, the rumble of the gun and limber wheels on the gravelled road. A horse neighed, then someone shouted a series of unintelligible orders, and the hoofbeats quickened to a gallop, the rumbling and clanking grew louder, faster.
I John take thee Stella to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish …
Florinda Gorse listened idly. She had heard the words many times, for all her life she had been in demand as a bridesmaid at the village people’s weddings. Not of the gentry, of course … especially not now that everyone knew she was living with the old Marquess of Jarrow, as his mistress. But if Jarrow wasn’t having her on, and if the booze didn’t kill him first, she’d soon hear those words spoken about her … probably not in a church, though. The Marquess wasn’t much of a churchgoer, and she imagined that their marriage would be in a registry office, if it came off at all. She wouldn’t mind. There was a nice man inside that shrivelled and soden little shell, somewhere … or had been; but the brandy and whisky had long ago all but drowned him … Miss Stella had won a fine man, she could tell. Keeping the man and the marriage would be up to her; and Florinda doubted her strength of will. Oh, she had the good intentions, and the training, all right … but they weren’t much use when your husband had become boring, or neglectful, and another nice man was looking deep into your eyes, or when the bottle in the cupboard seemed to be offering help … excitement. That was what Miss Stella wanted most, that was the danger. She looked nice in her light brown wool dress. She would have looked better still in her V.A.D. uniform, but she’d left them a fortnight ago, in readiness for her marriage. So what did she think she was going to do all day, with the husband at the Aircraft Company till all hours? She’d have done well to stay in the V.A.D. A woman needed something to keep her hands, and mind, busy these times … until she had a baby, of course.
I, Stella take thee, John, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse …
Laurence Cate, home for the weekend from Charterhouse on special exeat for the wedding of his sister, wondered why his Aunt Alice was called Dormouse by her brothers, his Uncles Richard, John, Quentin, and Tom … by her sister, his mother, too. Perhaps she – Aunt Alice – had been very quiet and shy when she was a little girl. She wasn’t now. She’d been asking him whether he’d seen any rare birds since Christmas … she was nice to talk to … always seemed to be interested in what you were doing, or wanted to do … Mummy wasn’t, often. He thought she loved him, but wasn’t sure. She loved Ireland more; or Ireland mattered more, or something. He imagined his mother hiding in a bog – Ireland was full of bogs – listening to strange Irish birds singing … and the war went on, and on, and on, and now here they were, all round the church, rifles popping off blanks, and an aeroplane snarling round and round above, and he’d turned seventeen last November. He shivered and closed his eyes and tried to close his ears, but could not.
… for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.
Fiona Rowland, the bride’s aunt by marriage, hardly heard the long-familiar words, or the warlike sounds of the soldiers outside. Did Archie Campbell, her lover, secretly fear her so much, then, that he could vanish without a word, knowing that she was at last leaving her husband and children and coming to him … leaving her to find out from the landlady that he had gone, the studio locked up? It had been like a blow in the face – first the fact of the locked door, then the shame of the humble inquiries, the disdainful old harridan – ‘No, Mr Campbell left no address’; but of course the woman knew, really, for she must be forwarding letters, receiving the rent. In one sense Fiona knew where Archie had gone: he had joined up – she was certain of that. But in what regiment, or corps? Why no word, and six weeks passed? The slow appreciation of what stood behind his actions was even worse than what the immediate impact had been: that he would rather face death in the trenches than accept her love, and have her live with him, with or without marriage … She had been on the point of demanding from Quentin that he divorce her; she had told her son and daughter, Guy and Virginia, what she was going to do; and then … she had come back from London, her heart a cold stone … till death us do part… She had prayed for death to cut the bonds that held her to Quentin; but Fate had laughed in her face. Quentin was somewhere in France, still alive; and he had been at the front since August 1914 – nearly a year and a half!
She thought, this is ridiculous: here is young Stella embarking on a new life while all I can seem to do is mope and moan. The first thing to do was find Archie. As he was a Campbell, he would have wanted to join the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders: Campbells were often not welcome in other regiments, whose clan sympathies had decidedly been with the Macdonalds in the affair at Glencoe. The Argylls’ depot was in Stirling Castle. She’d ring the adjutant this very night, and find out. And if he jibbed at giving her what she wanted to know, she’d remind him that she was a McLeod of Skye … but what if Archie had enlisted under an assumed name? She groaned involuntarily, but it was loud enough to make her daughter Virginia, lumpy with puppy fat in her Woman’s Legion uniform, look round at her – accusingly?
With this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.
‘Amen,’ Probyn Gorse said loudly. Now ‘twas done, and Miss Stella wed. About time, too. Next, squire ought to think of himself. A man needed a woman, for one thing and another, all his life. His Mrs was as good as dead. Probyn didn’t know what the law said about it, but as far as a man was concerned, who wanted and needed a woman, as squire did in that big Manor House, she was dead. Perhaps she really was. A good thing, too, as long as it was done in the open, and they found the body, and could say, ‘This was Margaret Cate’; then squire could marry another woman.
He jumped, and swore under his breath. Good God A’mighty, they were firing off those danged guns right outside the churchyard, cracking the tombstones, jerking the dead out of their coffins. Miss Stella was looking round, her face alive, staring back, fidgeting … bang! … bang! … bang! – the 18-pounders barked.
Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.
Rose Rowland felt the tears fill her eyes. Stella was the first of her grandchildren to be married, as she had always expected. Girls married younger than boys, in their class, and though Naomi was older, Rose had never thought she would marry before Stella. Naomi wasn’t pretty and round-figured, like Stella. Naomi was tall and proud and brave; her heart and her future lay where few women had gone before … and few had wanted to, till these insane, sad days. She cried soundlessly, because she knew she would not see any great-grandchild. Her husband’s hand was on hers, patting in comfort; but Harry could not assuage her grief, though she loved him and he her.
Forasmuch as John de Lisle Merritt and Stella Cate have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a Ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.
And ‘Amen,’ the congregation intoned, heaving a long collective sigh, that could be felt in the bowels as well as heard in the ear.
They waited then, while the bridal party followed the rector to the vestry for the signing of the marriage register. Up in the organ loft Miss Morton sonorously embarked on her favourite composition, Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. The guns banged, the west window, which was of stained glass, shook and shivered, men shouted, horses’ hooves cl
attered, motor lorry engines roared, the aeroplane buzzed and whined. At last they came out of the vestry, Miss Morton slipped from Bach to Mendelssohn, and they started slowly down the aisle, the big bouquet of lilies in the crook of Stella’s left arm, her right in her husband’s. She’s walking fast, Probyn thought, she’s almost dragging him along … faster, faster … she doesn’t want to miss what’s going on outside. They passed and Probyn waited till a dozen or so of the gentry had gone by, following, then slipped in among them and out of the church.
The green was full of hundreds of soldiers with rifles and full packs, some leaning against house walls, some sitting in the gutter or on the grass. Eight guns were lined up in the field beyond the churchyard, clouds of whitish smoke jetting from the muzzles as they fired the blank ammunition. Five lorries ground up the street, and a car was coming fast from the opposite direction. Them dratted soldiers’ll have drunk all the beer in the Arms and the Goat & Compasses, too, Probyn thought – who asked them to come here? Even as he turned away, he heard a screech of brakes, and saw that the staff car had come too fast round the corner, and would not be able to avoid the lorries. As he watched, right outside the church gate, the car skidded sideways into the leading lorry and lurched over onto its side with a fearful crash and rending of metal. At once the engine caught fire. Everyone stood frozen, for everyone, soldiers and villagers and the wedding party, had had their minds on other things. Then, just as Probyn told his muscles to move, just as other men close by stirred toward action, a brown figure burst from the crowd at the gate, and ran forward. It was Stella, her bouquet hurled away, her wool dress held up. She was beside the car, dragging out one of the three uniformed men in it. Before she could get him free a dozen men were there helping, others covering the flaming engine with coats and blankets. In ten seconds all three occupants were rescued, scorched, bruised, bleeding, one unconscious, but all alive; in another minute the flames were out. Stella walked slowly back to her husband’s side. He was looking at her in awe, Probyn thought. Her dress was scarred and blackened where she had leaned into the car, her gloves red with blood, smudges of dirt on her face; but she was happy, radiant. Probyn shook his head, wondering, a little fearful. The young American didn’t know what he had caught.
Afterwards, at the reception in the manor, Ginger Keble-Palmer stood, glass of champagne cup in hand, stooped over a little, listening to Betty Merritt. She said, ‘Ginger, you’re a director of Hedlington Aircraft, aren’t you?’
He cracked the big knuckles of his free hand nervously. Betty Merrit was good-looking without being exactly beautiful to his eyes; and she was terrifyingly direct – almost as bad as Guy’s cousin Naomi, across the room there. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘your father was good enough to offer me a directorship.’
‘Instead of a higher rate of salary, I expect,’ Betty said. Ginger made to say something and she raised a hand – ‘What’s your chief problem?’
‘Problem?’ Ginger said. ‘In the factory, you mean? It isn’t built yet … We’ve got the use of one hangar up there, but it’s nowhere near big enough to take the bomber I’ve designed. We’re working as fast as we can, three shifts a day, to build the proper sheds, and use the hangar as a sort of temporary office … very draughty, it is, too. And lonely. I feel that I’m working in King’s Cross station, or something.’
‘So you work alone?’
‘Almost. I have one man to help me, who’s a competent draughtsman, but …’
‘But … what?’
Ginger looked round for help, and said, ‘I have to do all the calculations – stresses, thrust, everything – myself.’
‘Would you like an assistant designer? Don’t you need an assistant designer?’
‘Yes, we do, but …’
‘I have three years of advanced mathematics of every kind, and I want to specialize in aircraft design.’
Keble-Palmer drank copiously, coughed, and spluttered – ‘But …’
‘But I’m a woman, eh? What difference does that make? I can do it, Ginger. I really can. You’ll have to teach me the formulas, and give me some practical tips, but in a couple of weeks I’ll really be able to help. If you’re willing to accept me, I’ll speak to Johnny and my father.’
Ginger felt as if he had been sandbagged. She must be joking. But she wasn’t. To gain time he said, ‘I thought you were going to join the Women’s Land Army.’
‘Not really. Since we came over from America I’ve been waiting, looking for something that would suit me … excite me.’
Ginger drank again. It was mad. She was mad. But he did need an assistant, badly; and she had drive; and intelligence … and more mathematics than he himself had, having gone direct from Wellington to Handley Page. And she was Mr Merritt’s daughter. Why couldn’t she have been his son, and then it would all be easy? But why couldn’t a girl do the work, if she had the maths?
‘All right,’ he said.
She leaned forward quickly and kissed him on the cheek, ‘Thank you, Ginger. You won’t regret it. Now I’ll speak to my father.’
She moved easily through the crowded room, passing close to Stella and Johnny, who were densely surrounded. Both had champagne glasses in hand, Stella flushed, wearing a light tweed suit, tears of happiness and excitement gleaming in her eyes, Johnny standing straight beside her, one arm round her waist.
Betty found her father talking to his widowed sister, Isabel Kramer, and Mr Cate. They turned to face her as she came up, and her father raised a hand. ‘You have something of great import to tell me, Betty. I can see it in your face. Are you sure it shouldn’t wait till we are alone?’
‘We won’t have much time, will we, Daddy, as you’re sailing on Monday … Ginger – Mr Keble-Palmer – wants to hire me as assistant designer at Hedlington Aircraft.’
‘Wha-a-at?’ her father exclaimed.
Her aunt, who was petite and dark haired, with snapping blue eyes, said, ‘Are you sure you didn’t tell him he wanted to hire you, dear?’
‘Well, I suggested it, but he liked the idea. He needs an assistant, and there’s no one available with better qualifications … or any qualifications, really. The men who might be are at the war. And there’s no reason why a woman shouldn’t do it. Now, is there?’
Her father surveyed her with a measuring look in his eye. Mr Cate’s face was calm in repose, his eyes steady on her. At length her father said, ‘You really think you’ve found your mission in England?’ In an aside to his sister he said, ‘Betty’s been determined to stay in England, but has not – until this moment – had the least idea of what she was going to do.’
‘I do,’ Betty said, answering his question.
‘You always were a headstrong girl … good luck to you,’ Stephen Merritt said. ‘You can live with Johnny and Stella.’
‘Oh no, Stephen!’ Isabel cried. ‘The groom’s sister living with the honeymoon couple? It’s out of the question. She must have a little apartment in Hedlington.’
Stephen was frowning and Betty cut in: ‘Daddy, times are changing. Lots of girls live alone – they have to.’
‘I’ll help you find a suitable place,’ Aunt Isabel said.
Mr Cate broke his silence. ‘I will put you in touch with estate agents who might be able to help, Mrs Kramer.’
‘Thank you …’
Betty put her arms round her father’s neck and kissed him. ‘Thank you, Daddy … I’ll be starting work on Monday. And Ginger can fix my salary with Mr Rowland.’
She waved her hand, and drifted off, heading by a circuitous route towards the little group of Gorses near the tall windows. The electric lights glowed in Florinda’s auburn hair, and the softer wave of her brother’s curls. Old Probyn was wearing a yellow four-in-hand tie, and had newly dyed his sparse grey hair to a rich henna quite comparable to his granddaughter’s auburn. Willum, Probyn’s eldest, the father of Florinda and Fletcher, stood a little apart in worn serge hand-me-downs, beaming aimlessly. Probyn’s Woman stood upright and severe
at Probyn’s side.
They all turned to face her, just as her father’s group had done. Florinda smiled at her, Probyn’s face remained neutral, as did the Woman’s. Fletcher, the gorgeous Fletcher, examined her with his lips slightly curled, the eyes hooded under the heavy lids wandering down her dress, over her breasts, down to her feet, up again, pausing at her loins, up. He smiled at last: ‘Nice day, Miss Merritt – I don’t think.’
‘What else can we expect in February? I only pray it isn’t like this for the poor men in the trenches.’
‘It is,’ Fletcher said.
Probyn spoke up suddenly, ‘Who be that lady with squire and your dad?’
His Woman answered before Betty could speak, ‘Mrs Kramer. Mr Merritt’s sister. Widowed. Younger sister, by the look of her.’
‘She’s nine years younger than my father,’ Betty said. ‘She has a son about my age at Yale University. That’s in Connecticut.’
‘What’s she doing here?’ Probyn said.
Betty said, ‘Her late husband’s brother is Secretary of our Embassy in London. She’s been living with him – and his wife – for nearly six months. She likes England.’
Probyn grunted, and kept his eyes on her Aunt Isabel Kramer, as though suspicious that she might steal the silver ladle out of the huge silver champagne cup bowl.