Peace Breaks Out

by Angela Thirkell

  “What a good thing it is that you went to Rushwater to-day, mamma,” said Agnes to Lady Emily. “Robert rang me up before supper from London and says he is coming down here to-morrow for a couple of nights. He didn’t say why, but I know he couldn’t get away unless he could, so I daresay it is peace breaking out. One will really feel quite strange without a war.”

  The news caused little interest. The Graham children had lived too long in a war to think of any other atmosphere. Not that it had meant much to them, for no bombs had fallen on Barsetshire, beyond one or two strays in open country, and food with a garden and cows had not been too difficult. Uncle David had been flying, it is true, and Martin had been in Italy and come back limping, but one’s uncles and cousins might do anything, and in fact, James, now at Eton, had been in as much danger as his uncle or cousin, while Robert and Henry and Edith had forgotten a time when there was not a blackout, and even Clarissa, the half grown up, did not have any very distinct feelings about peace.

  Only two members of the party were a little silent. Lady Emily was thinking of another war, a mere skirmish compared with this war, in which her eldest son, Martin’s father, had been killed at Arras. Miss Merriman was thinking of her former employers, the old Earl and Countess of Pomfret, whose only son and only child, Lord Mellings, had been killed on the NorthWest Frontier, so long ago, leaving his parents proudly desolate.

  “One doesn’t know what to think about war,” said Miss Merriman, who but rarely enunciated a general opinion, confining herself to being a pleasant, helpful and attentive friend and secretary to Lady Emily.

  “There is only one thing to think about them, Merry,” said David. “They will always happen. And each war will be worse than the last and each peace more horrible than the one before. Can I have the merrythought if no one wants it, and I’ll pull it with Clarissa to see which of us will be married first.”

  At Rushwater the advance tidings of peace percolated by way of Mr. Macpherson, the agent, who always had Sunday supper with Martin and Emmy. It had come to him through the Secretary of the Barsetshire Stock-Breeders’ Society, who had heard through the railway that trains might be late during the week and that if any cows wished to travel by rail on that day it must be at their own risk.

  “It would happen,” said Mr. Macpherson, “Just as the Barsetshire W.A.E.C. had got well into its stride. Now we’ll have to switch the cows back to peace and they won’t like it after five years of war. I’m too old for this sort of thing.”

  “And what’s more,” said Emmy, “I’ll bet you anything that they’ll cut out Double Summer Time and Ordinary Summer Time too, and what’ll happen to the milk I don’t know.”

  This horrible thought produced complete silence.

  “One thing at a time,” said Martin after a pause. “How is Rushwater Romany’s leg?”

  Emmy reported that it was going to heal nicely and asked Martin if she could have Sylvia Halliday to stay some time because she was keen on bulls. Martin said he would like it very much.

  “I like Anne too,” said Emmy, her mouth rather full of cold boiled fowl and baked potatoes, “but she wouldn’t be much use with cattle; she’s too booky.”

  Martin agreed. He had liked the little Fielding girl, with her large soft eyes and her good manners, but the golden Sylvia had roused a stronger feeling in him. He was too generous to envy his uncle David, but he knew from old experience that if David wished to please Sylvia there would be no chance for anyone else. Still it would be nice to have her at Rushwater and if she got long leave or was demobilised, there might be some sense in peace.

  At Southbridge School Mr. Birkett the Headmaster had heard rumours from one or two very highly-placed parents and was wondering what fresh burdens a world at so-called peace would bring, delivering himself to this effect to Everard Carter and Robin Dale who were supping with him.

  “I suppose you’ll be sacking some of your temporaries when you get your permanents back, sir,” said Robin.

  “The permanents have a first claim, of course,” said Mr. Birkett, “but you needn’t worry. Philip Winter won’t come back. He is going to start a prep. school with his wife at Beliers, so you had better stick to your classics here. They are doing quite nicely.”

  After which they joined Mrs. Birkett and Mrs. Carter who were discussing the possibility of a peace bonfire with such bits of blackout as were too worn to be used for anything else and the advisability of putting yet more ground under vegetables and fowls in view of the probable horrors of peace. Then the Carters and Robin went back to Mr. Carter’s house and Robin went up to his room to work. Thoughts of Anne passed through his mind; pleasant thoughts. She had looked very happy at Rushmore and all the Leslies obviously liked her. Even his two dull pupils had said she was nice. The word nice seemed to ring a bell far away in his mind. Yes. Anne had visited the church with David and had said he was very nice. Well, so he was, and why shouldn’t Anne think so. But suddenly he felt that for the first time since Miss Bunting’s death there was a gap between Anne and himself, a gap into which Miss Bunting’s favourite pupil might step. Not that he was in love with Anne; oh no, not at all. She was too young. But he had become used to being her first friend. Mr. Carton’s edition of Fluvius Minucius, which he was studying with much interest, no longer held him.

  “BLAST the peace!” said Robin, most unjustly and applied himself to Mr. Carton’s book. But he could not concentrate, gave it up and went to bed where he lay awake far longer than he liked.

  CHAPTER 5

  ON the following Tuesday a day of national rejoicing burst by very slow degrees and barely recognised as such upon an exhausted, cross and uninterested world. Not much notice was taken in the country as everyone was busy, few young people were about and there was the usual dearth of beer. In Barchester some of the shops shut early and a number of people, actuated by the peculiar passion nourished by the war for being squashed with numbers of one’s fellow citizens into small spaces, went up to London by the early afternoon train taking a great deal of food and what they called the kiddies. They then took an hour and a half to go by Tube to Piccadilly, eating with some difficulty owing to the crowd as they went, fought their way to Buckingham Palace where they ate a little more under even more severe difficulties, fought their way back to Piccadilly, sat eating in the Tube for two hours, and having missed the late train to Barchester sat on the platform and finished the food, which the kiddies worn out by national rejoicings were too tired and sick to touch, and finally got the slow 12.35, arriving at Barchester about 7 a.m., having had a lovely time.

  But at Hatch End, where most of the cottages had an Alf or a Sid in the Far East, life went on much as usual. Sir Robert Graham came down for two nights, stamped firmly on his mother-in-law’s wish to have Mr. Scatcherd to lunch, was pleased to see his wife and family, did some estate business and went back to London. Lady Graham, considering the disturbed state of the world, decided to postpone her Bring and Buy Sale till later, thus leaving the field free for the Sale of Work at the Palace.

  The annual Sale of Work (in aid of what no one ever exactly knew) was considered by the anti-Palace faction to be the Bishop’s wife’s masterpiece. Years ago one of her predecessors, the wife of Bishop Proudie, had after some consideration chosen a conversazione as the cheapest and most showy way of entertaining Barchester Society. The wife of the present Bishop, considering the question of a yearly entertainment, had hit upon the excellent scheme of having a Sale of Work and charging a shilling for admission which included tea. The hope which springs eternal in the human breast of getting more than its money’s worth attracted numbers of people who came chiefly to eat, and then finding they could have got more to eat at home without waiting so long for it, worked off their feelings by buying doyleys, raffia goods, crocheted napkin rings and other valuable products of civilisation. The Palace in a cathedral town where there is a Bishop is always the Palace, and the aristocracy of Barsetshire made a point of attending the Sale of Work as a ci
vility to the office of Bishop, not to the man and certainly not to his wife, and so it came about that Lady Fielding, who was on no more than bowing terms with the Bishop’s wife, was a regular attendant at the Sale of Work and of late years had taken her daughter Anne.

  Anne, who had in spite of her fears got back to her parents’ house with no difficulty at all, looked all the better for the change, or so her parents thought, and gave them very amusing descriptions of Lady Emily and Mr. Scatcherd, also lively accounts of the church and Miss Bunting’s monument adding, with a hardly perceptible hesitation, how nice David Leslie was. Whether either of her parents noticed her hesitation, we cannot say. We rather think not.

  Lady Fielding felt very grateful to Mrs. Halliday for having given Anne such a pleasant week-end and was wondering how she could best show her gratitude, for to ask people who lived some miles out of Barchester to dinner was under the present circumstances only a mockery, when Anne asked her mother if she might invite Sylvia Halliday to stay with them for the Palace Sale of Work. The plan seemed excellent to Lady Fielding. Anne wrote to Sylvia. Sylvia by great good luck was having a couple of days off, and all arrangements were made for her to come to Barchester on Tuesday week and stay till the following Thursday. Flown with excitement over her first social outburst, Anne then surprised herself and her parents by asking if they could have a little dinner party on the Wednesday.

  Sir Robert, whom his wife always consulted as a matter of form though without the faintest intention of changing her own plans, said Wednesday wasn’t a very good day for him as there was a meeting of the Conservative Club at 6 o’clock and he knew the Archdeacon from Plumstead would waste at least half an hour by dragging in Church politics.

  “Oh, but daddy,” said Anne, “if we have a party on Wednesday, everyone can talk about the Sale of Work and say how ghastly it was.”

  This point of view had not struck Sir Robert. Gratified at finding in his only child so healthy an attitude towards the Palace and all its works, he admitted that her plea was reasonable.

  “And you know, Robert,” said his wife, pressing home her advantage, “that you like malicious gossip about the Palace better than anything except gardening.”

  Sir Robert admitted the impeachment and went away to his office, leaving Lady Fielding and Anne to have a delightful and very grown-up conversation about the party and what guests to invite.

  “The first thing,” said Lady Fielding, “is to get the men equal to the women. With you and Sylvia we must start with a man for each of you. We might have Robin. And what about George Halliday?”

  “Wouldn’t it be rather dull for him, mummie,” said Anne. “I mean Sylvia being his sister.”

  Lady Fielding said he didn’t see much of his sister as they were both in the services.

  “Besides, he mightn’t be able to get leave,” said Anne. “He has only just had some.”

  “Of course we do owe Bishop Joram a meal,” said Lady Fielding, thinking of the good-natured Colonial ex-Bishop who now held a canonry in Barchester.

  “Isn’t he rather old?” said Anne.

  “About my age, I should think,” said Lady Fielding good-naturedly. “Your turn now Anne.”

  Anne, twisting her fingers in a way her old governess would have highly disapproved, began to speak, became very hoarse, choked, and finally said in a voice she did not recognise as her own, a voice which she hoped sounded grown-up and uninterested, “What about David Leslie, mummie?”

  At the same time she went very pink in the face, but Lady Fielding, seated at her writing table, her back half turned to her daughter, did not notice these phenomena.

  “David Leslie,” said Lady Fielding. “He might do if we can’t think of anyone better.”

  At these dreadful words Anne understood why girls leave home and how nice it would be to have a bachelor flat and a small cocktail bar and be dashing. She would have liked to plead for David, but suddenly a wave of shyness overcame her and though she opened her mouth, no words came out of it.

  “The trouble is,” Lady Fielding continued, quite unconscious of the havoc her last words had made in her daughter’s mind, “that one can’t rely on any of the younger men. They never know if they can keep an engagement or not, and now with this peace I expect it will be worst than ever. We really ought to ask some of the clergy. We have neglected them dreadfully this year and after all we do live in the Close. And I would like to ask Mrs. Brandon, but I don’t suppose she can manage the petrol. Oh dear!”

  And Lady Fielding, exhausted by the difficulties of social intercourse, laid down her pen and slewed her chair round towards her daughter, saying, “It’s your party, Anne. Do think of someone else.”

  This request from her all-knowing, efficient mother was most flattering to Anne, but she was still so paralysed by the name of David Leslie that she could only sit and gape.

  “There is Sir Edmund Pridham,” said Lady Fielding, “and old Canon Thorne and Dr. Ford; but we want someone younger for Sylvia.”

  “If Mrs. Brandon could come, mummie,” said Anne, bursting the bonds of her silence with a great effort, “then we could ask Bishop Joram for her and David for Sylvia. Then there’d be me and Robin and you and daddy, to make eight. You know Miss Bunting was David’s governess, mummie, and she said he was her favourite pupil.”

  “There is no one whose opinion I would sooner take than Miss Bunting’s,” said Lady Fielding. “I don’t think I ever knew her make a mistake. And what she would have said if she had heard you say ‘me and Robin,’ I don’t know. Let’s try David then.”

  So full of gratitude was Anne for this change in her mother’s mind that she quite forgot to resent her pin-prick about me and Robin, knowing also that her clever mother’s slight pedantry was only an outside bit of her and that mummy could always be trusted to help one and was on the whole quite the nicest mother one could have.

  All now hung on Mrs. Brandon. If she could come they would be eight; mummy could ask Bishop Joram and she could ask David.

  “Shall I ring up Mrs. Brandon for you, mummy?” she asked.

  Her mother said, “Yes, do.” Mrs. Brandon was rung up, the local garage was able to oblige with a car. One step was accomplished.

  “Now shall I ring up David?” said Anne, again overcome with self-consciousness as she spoke and hoping that it didn’t show.

  “I think I had better write,” said Lady Fielding. “I really hardly know him.”

  “But mummy,” said Anne, made desperate by a feeling that she could not explain, “I know him quite well now. And Lady Emily is going to come to tea, mummy, isn’t she? Oh, mummy, do let me ring up.”

  Perhaps, thought Lady Fielding, she was not moving enough with the times. Certainly all the young people rang each other up and made plans for their parents to supply rooms, fires, food and such drink as there was, and Anne must do as her generation did. Only Anne had been so long a delicate child and a not very robust girl that she had lived much more under her mother’s wing than most girls of her age, and Lady Fielding sometimes blamed herself for fussing too much over her daughter. Anne was nineteen now, or as near nineteen as made no odds. She was getting stronger every year and though Dr. Ford said the Government could not conscript her, she was quite equal to ordinary life and her daily rests were a thing of the past. Possibly she would in any case have outgrown her delicacy, but Lady Fielding had an almost superstitious feeling that the happy turn in Anne’s health was largely due to Miss Bunting, and that any kindness shown to a favourite pupil of Miss Bunting’s would be a kind of friendly sacrifice to the spirit of that wise and valiant old governess. So she said Yes, and Anne plunged at the telephone, while Lady Fielding went back to her writing-table.

  Had Lady Fielding not been such a busy woman, shouldering the affairs of half the women’s organisations in Barchester with patience and efficiency, she might have been surprised by the change in her daughter’s voice as she telephoned to Holdings. But the accounts of the Barchester Branch of
the Anti-Non-Interference Society were in a fine muddle owing to the treasurer having borrowed from the purse she kept her mother’s housekeeping money in, to repay the purse she kept her own money in, which owed something to the purse she used for the Society’s money, and only Lady Fielding could get them straight. She worked very hard for a quarter of an hour or so, hearing sub-consciously a good deal of conversation going on, but paying no attention to it. At last the month’s accounts were tidied (though exactly the same would happen again next month as no one had the heart to sack the treasurer, a worthy not-so-young woman in thrall to an exacting mother) and Lady Fielding took off her spectacles, looked at the clock, got up and came nearer to the fire.

  “Well?” she said to Anne.

  “Oh mummy,” said Anne, “Miss Merriman answered the telephone and she said David was away for a few days, so I explained it was your dinner party and very important, so she gave me his number in London and I got on to it and he was there, and says he will love to come. Oh, and I was to thank you very much.”

  “Splendid,” said Lady Fielding. “Now Robin and Bishop Joram and we shall be all right.”

  “Oh, and mummy,” said Anne, “David asked who was coming and I said who, and he said he would bring Sylvia, and I explained she was going to stay here. But it was very nice of him to ask, wasn’t it mummy?”

  “Very,” said Lady Fielding, absent-mindedly, for it had suddenly come over her that her shy Anne had been pursuing a man who was nearly twice her age from his sister’s house to his office or his club in town and taking it all as a matter of course. In any other girl one would have accepted it as a matter of course, but with Anne—. Then Lady Fielding told herself she was a fussy, out-of-date old woman and rang up the Colonial Bishop who was delighted to come. At lunch time Robin was rung up. The question of transport threatened to keep him away, but after lunch he rang up to say that a master who had just returned from the army had a lot of petrol and would lend him his car for the evening.