Miss Ranskill Comes Home

by Barbara Euphan Todd

  Prosperity had meant food and the easy blazing of the beacon fire, a well-balanced fish-hook and the co-operation of wind and tide; adversity had been the snapping of a plank, the escape of a fish and squalling gusts that soaked the kindling. The mutual help had not only been expended on easing the daily struggle for existence, it had lent hope to the fight and eased and released the mind.

  The moment she had been left alone on the island, she had known herself inheritor, not only of the boat and the jack-knife and the Carpenter’s ragged clothing, but of his purpose also. The purpose was the restoring of a father to a son. She, to a certain extent, could do that restoring because, for four years, she had shared the mind of the father. She had power to raise the dead, and to foster that part of the Carpenter’s immortality that had been bestowed on the boy at the time of his begetting.

  Seems to me, Miss Ranskill, you never die properly, not if you’re a father. Soon as you hear the first squall of the baby, you thinks to yourself, I’ve finished with sleep for a bit. Later on when the boy’s running about you thinks, ‘And I’ve done with death too.’ It’s like watching yourself grow young.

  She had seen him grow young in the face of Colin and now, if she were allowed, she could add truth to the story held in the sea-shell.

  ‘I expect you will soon be able to take up some war-work,’ said Edith, dismissing the Carpenter’s son.

  ‘Yes, soon, I should think.’ Miss Ranskill’s words gave an impatient push to her dreams. ‘I’m fit enough now.’

  ‘By the way, Miss Hoskins asked me if I thought you’d be well enough to give a talk to the Women’s Institute. I said I’d ask.’

  ‘But what can I talk about – fish-drying or boat-building, or “How I Wore the Same Clothes for Four Years and Just Kept Decent”?’

  ‘You could touch on that, perhaps,’ said Edith, ‘not the boat-building though, except lightly. Miss Hoskins suggested “My Life on a Desert Island” would be a good subject. Do try, Nona: it would be good for you and most interesting to them.’

  Good for her? To parade the torments and hardships of the past four years on the platform of a village hall? Interesting for them to rub the bloom off the frail remembered happiness with questions?

  ‘It would be a change from all the cake-making and bottling,’ urged Edith. ‘And it would save all the bother and expense of arranging for a lecturer from a distance and providing transport.’

  When we get home, Miss Ranskill, we’ll have some tales to tell that’ll make ’em all sit up.

  ‘Very well,’ she agreed.

  She would make them sit up. She would harden her heart against hurt, as once she had been forced to harden her body, before her hands had learned resistance to blisters, and her feet to withstand the biting of shale. She would tell them things that would make them forget the kitchen sinks and the rationing, the shortage of milk and the shortage of fat. In doing this, she would shake her own mind free of clutter and homesickness; and stop nursing her dreams in the way that demented young women of fiction hug dead babies to their breasts instead of getting supper for the older children.

  II

  Below the platform and to the left of Miss Ranskill, one of the Institute members was hammering our Parry’s ‘Jerusalem’ on a piano that needed tuning: the others were singing Blake’s miraculous words and showing no hint of zest or humour.

  Bring me my bow of burning gold!

  Bring me my arrows of desire!

  wavered little Miss King, who could not even manage her knitting-needles, and who had said only that morning to Edith Ranskill that an extra two ounces on the fat ration would make all the difference.

  ‘Bring me my chariot of fire,’ shouted Miss Bridge, whose nervousness on a bicycle was a joy to all the village boys.

  Then all of them, including Miss Moffat (a most ardent persecutor of some little Jewish children, members of a Polish-Jew refugee family who lived in the cottage next door), the rather feebleminded Miss Lindsay, and Miss Staples, who would not let her evacuees play with toy soldiers, added:

  I will not cease from mental fight,

  Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,

  Till we have built Jerusalem,

  In England’s green and pleasant land.

  The last note quivered, the last chord was thumped but no rain of arrows descended on little Miss King, who would, doubtless, have used them as hatpins if they had. Miss Staples showed no sign of minding that her shout for a fiery chariot had not been answered, and Miss Moffat turned to whisper the latest Jewish iniquity to her neighbour.

  Miss Hoskins, the President, rose and addressed the Meeting, but Miss Ranskill did not hear a word she said because she was busy making little parodies of her own forthcoming speech:

  ‘It makes me feel very proud to see that so many of my busy co-workers have found time to spare to listen to the few dress-hints that our President thinks I may be able to give you.’ (Pause for applause.) ‘I am sure every one of you knows much more about this difficult problem of clothing in war-time than I do.’ (Pause for denial.) ‘The only excuse I have for being here is that for four years and more I have had to make do with a very insufficient wardrobe, only one suit, one pair of stockings, one pair of shoes, and one set of underclothes. There are no gentlemen present, are there?’ (Pause for laughter.) ‘You can guess, when I tell you that my one needle was made from a pierced fish-bone, my darning thread was hair, filched from my own head, and my patches were cut from the skins of wild birds, that I had to use considerable ingenuity at my little private make-and-mend classes.’ (Pause for incredulity.)

  ‘Yes, somehow or other, I contrived to ring the changes in my wardrobe, although I am afraid I never achieved smartness. I know you will all agree with me that variety of clothing is not a luxury but a necessity, if we women are to keep up our morale in these terrible war days. I admit, and I am ashamed to admit, that while I was on my island I did not realise there was a war.’ (Pause for sensation.) ‘So this dress problem is even more important to you than it was to me. Still we are all women together, aren’t we? My problems then are our problems now, so that is why I am going to tell you how I managed. Well, I seldom wore more than two garments at once. It is marvellous how you can ring the changes with two garments. On Sunday the suit, on Monday the jacket and knickers, on Tuesday the skirt and vest, on Wednesday (if it happened to be warm and sunny) the brassière and knickers, on Thursday (another sunny day) the slip, on Friday (cooler, perhaps) the jacket and slip. On Saturday (becoming just a little more formal) the jumper and skirt. Really, that little dress scheme worked admirably. If any of you feel doubtful, I beg you to give it a trial. I see no reason why we should not all start together on the same day. I did not happen to have a hat, but there is no reason why we should not all wear our prettiest hats with the new war-time ensembles I have suggested to you.’

  Miss Penrose had nearly finished reading the Minutes by now, and Miss Ranskill was giving another imaginary talk on Desert Island Recipes:

  ‘When you have caught your fish (personally I had no net, but I contrived an excellent substitute for one out of my vest. By the way, if any of you ladies wish to go fishing in your vests, I must remind you that it really is important to stitch up the neck and the armholes before beginning, unless, of course, you are only fishing for sport) when, as I say, you have caught your fish, the next thing is – Oh! no, no, no, not to cook it – to clean it. Take a jack-knife or piece of sharp shell –’

  Miss Ranskill, interrupted by the sound of her own name, glanced at the President, who was smiling down at her.

  ‘And now I will call upon the lady, who knows more about Desert Islands than anyone in this village, to give us the promised account of her experiences. Miss Ranskill!’

  The President sat down and the travelled speaker stood up. There followed the usual shuffling, throat-clearing, chair-scraping and coughing. Somebody said ‘Hush!’ But there was no need.

  Miss Ranskill stared at the faces before her
, at Edith’s, plaintive and tense, at Mrs Phillips’, hostile and disapproving, at Miss Moffat’s, like a sea-gull, at Miss Bridge’s like another sea-gull, at Miss Lindsay (surely she was more like a sea-gull than either of the others!) Miss King was more like a seagull than any bird could be.

  ‘It – it was quite a small island.’

  Miss Ranskill’s voice sounded so loud in her own ears that it startled her. It should have been loud enough to scare any sea-gulls.

  ‘It was really quite small. It was not much bigger than – well, smaller, of course, than the Isle of Wight, but not so big as – as –’

  As what? She didn’t know. She only knew that she couldn’t tell them anything, wouldn’t tell them anything, couldn’t remember –

  Still they sat on in their long straight rows. They were sorry for her, but she mistook their sympathy for inquisitiveness, their tenseness for malevolence. Why couldn’t they have the decency to go away?

  ‘It was, it was –’ (a phrase from her first geography book shot into her numbed mind) ‘it was a piece of land entirely surrounded by water.’

  They shouldn’t hear anything about the Carpenter, or anything about feelings at all. She was here to talk about the island. Very well, then, she would talk about the island. Where had she got to?

  ‘It was a piece of land entirely surrounded by water.’

  Miss King gave a little titter, the titter of one determined to appreciate jokes, even if she didn’t quite understand them.

  ‘There was a beach all round it. There – there was a stream of fresh water – We – I drank from it. It was nice clear water.’

  The picture of the island was clearing in her brain. She saw the pretty stream, the shelf where the Carpenter had set the drinking shell as a surprise, the gleam of the sun on rock, the glint of water, and the perpetual gulls, watching sardonically, waiting for the slip that could turn man or woman into carrion.

  She was being watched again now. She was also watching herself.

  We’ll have to watch ourselves when we get home, Miss Ranskill. We’ll have to watch our table-manners and watch out what we say or they’ll not believe half of it.

  She continued:

  ‘We lived mostly on fish and there was a sort of seaweed that was quite good to eat. We – I –’

  Once more Miss King giggled encouragingly, and Miss Ranskill looked down at the rows of faces. She couldn’t distinguish one from another. They were all exactly the same: they were all gull-like and watching.

  ‘The island was – the island was – I can’t go on.’ Her voice rose. ‘There are too many of you. There isn’t anything to say.’

  Someone began to clap politely. Others followed the example. The clapping was subdued because they were sorry and embarrassed. To Miss Ranskill it sounded like the mocking of wings. The birds would rise soon, scatter and come wheeling round her head. She put up her hands to guard her face. There was something else she must say, but what was it?

  ‘Nothing but a pack of cards!’ she remarked quite loudly and clearly.

  Now she was sitting in her chair again and the President was holding a glass of water to her lips. Voices were whirling round her. ‘It’s the heat of the room.’ … ‘It’s the reaction.’ … ‘Perfectly natural after all those dreadful experiences.’ … ‘I always think just two aspirin and then a glass of very hot milk.’ … ‘When my sister had her nervous breakdown.’ … ‘Of course, it is very hot in this room.’

  ‘I feel so ashamed.’

  Miss Ranskill looked appealingly at the President.

  ‘Not at all. Why, I could tell you of one quite well-known broadcaster who always breaks down if he has to speak in a public meeting.’

  But she wasn’t a broadcaster.

  So she had broken down, had she? She had hoped the speech had not been quite so bad as that. She had thought a lot about the island, but evidently she had not expressed the thoughts even coherently.

  ‘A good night’s rest and then a good day’s gardening,’ recommended Mrs Phillips savagely, ‘I’ve always heard that work is the best cure for nerves, so I suppose that’s why I’ve never suffered from them.’

  ‘You had better come home now, my dear,’ said Edith gently, much, much too gently. The tenderness in her sister’s voice made Miss Ranskill afraid.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ said the President. ‘We shall look forward to a talk from you another day when you are feeling stronger.’

  Kind little Miss King (too, too kind Miss King) came forward and spoke in a chirruping voice.

  ‘I was enjoying the talk immensely. I only wish it had been longer. The island sounded most interesting. Now don’t forget – two aspirin and a glass of very hot milk.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I

  Summer in England had softened to harvest time. The downs were a shimmer of gold and blue. Men and boys, women and children laboured in the blazing sunshine to harvest the best crops of any war and Miss Ranskill, recovered now, worked with them; her ankles ragged by stubble and her forearms sore from the rubbing of stooks. Summer, a most glorious summer, was passing and she, like all the other women in the village, had scarcely had time to notice it. In some couple of dozen cottages middle-aged ladies, without domestic help, had somehow or other done all their own housework as well as keeping their gardens gay and profitable. The deck-chairs in summer-houses were bound by cobwebs, for there was no time to sit in them. It had become a sin to idle, and the fear of that sin was rife in the land. Yet never before, in all the long histories of villages, had houses been better kept, furniture more beautifully polished or cooking more exquisitely done.

  If a word in common could have been inscribed on every female heart in the village it would have been ‘bottling’. The spinsters became savage in their quest for bottles and jars, snap-closures and every variety of airtight cover. Never were women so determined and indomitable, in their lust to avoid waste, and in their haste to fill store-cupboards. They had an uphill fight too. At the time when sugar was scarcest because stewed fruit was eaten at every meal, a glut of plums followed a glut of soft fruits. No sooner were two-pound jars collected than two-pound snap-closures went off the market.

  ‘But, Edith,’ protested Miss Ranskill, ‘in peace-time we never had so much bottled fruit.’

  ‘In peace-time we could buy all the tinned fruit we wanted.’

  ‘But we scarcely ever did buy any.’

  ‘There was suet in peace-time.’ The remark seemed irrational to Miss Ranskill, who had been a desert island housewife, unaware of war or peace, and without suet or bottled fruit. She felt disloyal in her conviction that the old way of eating apples till apples came again (or very nearly) was quite as healthy and a great deal less complicated than this new turmoil.

  However, the Ministry of Food fed the prevailing passion by printing instructions for bottling in every newspaper nearly every day. The bookshops and bookstalls pandered too. Nearly all the literature on the bookstalls was devoted to new ways of growing food; and the other half to ways of cooking and preserving it.

  ‘I must,’ said Edith, ‘I must save two pounds of sugar somehow from now until the rose-hips are ripe.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Rose-hip syrup, of course, for the children.’

  ‘Whose children?’

  ‘My dear Nona, don’t be ridiculous, all the children, of course. Now that they can’t get oranges they must have rose – hip syrup and black-currant juice to make up for the vitamins they don’t get in orange juice.’

  ‘But I thought they did get orange juice through the children’s ration books.’

  For by now Miss Ranskill understood all about ration books and points and the ‘zoning of certain commodities’ as well as clothing coupons; and she thought that a most unnecessary fuss was made about the whole lot.

  ‘They don’t get nearly enough. It’s most important that we should do all we can for the children. They are the future generation; they are a sa
cred trust.’

  ‘We didn’t even have orange juice and we grew up all right. Don’t you remember Mother wouldn’t let us eat oranges within two hours of drinking milk because she said the juice would curdle it?’

  Edith Ranskill sighed.

  ‘Really, Nona, you are difficult. I suppose things were different then. Times change. Anyway, we’re told to collect rose-hips, and it is so important that the children should have the best of everything.’

  Miss Ranskill, aware that she was being difficult and now being so deliberately, hurled another dart.

  ‘You did tell me you’d tried not to have evacuees. And when you had to have them, you got rid of them as soon as possible.’

  ‘They were different: they were absolute savages – not even house – trained.’

  ‘The future generation all the same,’ quoted Miss Ranskill as she pushed another plum into her nearly-full jar, ‘and a sacred trust, Edith.’

  Her sister shook herself, remarked that she must collect sticks for the boiler because it was bath-night and strode out of ear-shot.

  Baths were another great mystery to Miss Ranskill. The boiler was lit only two or three times a week and a broad red line had been enamelled at a height of five inches all round the inside of the bath. It had been indicated to Miss Ranskill by Mrs Phillips that in the interest of national economy she must not fill the bath above that level and she had replied loyally that if it would be any help to the country she would give up baths altogether.

  Mrs Phillips had replied disapprovingly that two were allowed each week.

  One morning at breakfast she announced archly that someone, she wouldn’t say who, but certainly someone had taken a bath at least ten inches deep.

  ‘I did,’ said Miss Ranskill, ‘I had the last bath and there was lots of hot water that would have been cold by the morning, so I didn’t see the point of not using it.’