Also, I admit: I lack the mental and physical stamina for a sustained adventure.
No: I shall face London. I shall prevail against my aunt, who I am certain will be clutching a dozen telegrams from Boston by the time I arrive on her front door. My grandparents will have received my letter by now (I paid an acquaintance to post it the day after I left, for fear that they would find some way of discovering which ship I boarded, and force it back to New York!) and my aunt—my mother’s sister—would have been the first to hear from them, with (I have no doubt) a series of escalating demands that she instantly place me back on the first ship heading west again. Which no doubt she would delight in doing, were she capable.
Even considering my condition, there will be small chance of digging me out of England, once I’m there.
Last night at dinner the Purser (the thought occurs—perhaps I have not mentioned in this Journal that I am travelling under a false name?) walked slowly through the dining room, gazing intently at every passenger under the age (the apparent age) of twenty. I had been practicing the skill of manoeuvring around the ship without my spectacles, so as to avoid that giveaway, and my hair gathered beneath its very grown-up hat is a far cry from the description of blonde plaits that he no doubt was given. (There is not much I can do about my eye colour, but blue is not exactly rare here. And clearly, no one has yet discovered my theft of my cousin’s passport, thus there has been no enquiry about an “Emily DuPont” on the passenger list. I did not even need to tell the man examining my papers that no, I was not one of The DuPonts, because clearly my Emporium coat and pinching shoes had told him that already. Although, why oh why are my shoes shrinking?)
So, with the perfect freedom of anonymity and adulthood, I walk the corridors, I sit in the first-class salon making shallow conversation with other ladies, I dutifully blush at the jovial remarks of the men. Admittedly, I am not good at the techniques of flirtation that one might expect of a woman of twenty-two, but in a flash of inspiration, on my second evening I dropped my eyes to my soup plate and murmured a vague sentence about the tragic loss of a junior officer with whom I had an unofficial understanding. As a result, my fellows now sympathise with my lack of interest in the opposite sex, while at the same time looking with approval on any pleasure or attempt at social intercourse that I may venture.
I suppose I should also be troubled by this previously unsuspected knack for confidence trickery—but I believe I have been sufficiently troubled in recent weeks, and I will no doubt be facing an entire barrage of other troubles once we make landfall, from a wartime countryside to an irascible aunt.
Just for these days of crossing, I shall gaze out across the white-capped expanse of salt, and feel at rest.
12 January 1915
My determination to demonstrate maturity is tried hourly. My aunt has an incredible talent for getting under my guard, or perhaps it’s more a matter of finding a sensitive spot with her prodding finger.
If only she did not resemble Mother…
I gather my patience to me and keep repeating my intentions—firmly, with a commitment to reason, and without screaming at her. (Which is what I want to do, and what I am doing internally. My eyeballs feel as if they are bulging in their sockets, sometimes, with the effort of concealing my fury.)
The best approach seems to be one of icy resolve. No, I repeat to her: No, we shall not open the London house, since I do not intend to stay in London. No, I will not hire servants, for I will be moving to the house in Sussex, and in any event, servants are thin on the ground. Yes, I understand it is inconvenient to all. No, I am not asking you to move to Sussex with me, I am fifteen years old and can manage with the assistance of local help—the same local help that has cared for my family over the years.
In truth, were it not for my aunt, I might consider staying in London. The war is so immediate here, the streets awash in uniformed men, and a sense of… purpose, I suppose, everywhere. It feels wrong for a fit (relatively fit) young person to turn her back on need. Surely there is some task that needs doing, even if less exciting than driving an ambulance on the Front?
Realistically, I know that will not happen. I am too young for anything more demanding than the preparation of bandages. Instead, I will find some kind of training that I might do. Of course, from the talk around me it sounds unlikely that the War will continue past the spring, but I keep calling to mind the grim look on Father’s face when he told me that the War would drag on. It is impossible to believe that the terrible carnage across the Channel will not burn itself out before a second summer begins, and yet…
In case he was right, I will prepare for service, whatever and whenever that may be. And if he was wrong—well, so much the better: who would wish to prolong War? In any event, no skill is wasted, ultimately.
So: to Sussex I shall go, eventually, with or (preferably!) without my aunt. I shall continue my education, I shall devote myself to skills ordinary and arcane, I shall be patient and mature. And I shall prevail.
To Sussex!
19 January
My aunt is a perfect virtuoso of the arts of delay. Under our roof the immoveable object has been meeting the irresistible force…and it has moved.
The delays of bank signatures and explanations, and the troubles of wartime shortages, and the foul weather, and the increased risk of German invasion on the South Coast: and more and more.
However, I believe my aunt has finally accepted defeat. The legal gentlemen have agreed that, young as I may be, I am nonetheless the legal owner of the house she lives in, the coal that fills her fireplace, and the wine in the cellar that she pours into her glass each evening. When my aunt had left us—I would say that she flounced off, but that would be lowering myself to her level—Mama’s legal gentleman permitted me a brief look at the record books. He does seem a superior sort of individual, one of the few men I have met who did not seem about to pat me on the head. (Most irritating, to be patted upon the head.)
As I said, I was only given a brief look at the books before he folded them away and had his assistant bring me cocoa and a slice of terribly sweet cake. At some point I shall have to return.
In the meantime, I direct the packing of my possessions, and arrange the purchase of books and a few things I will need (including another pair of shoes, I’m afraid.) I go to Sussex tomorrow, and my aunt, or the weather, or even the Kaiser himself cannot stop me.
26 January
It is difficult not to believe that the current state of the world was designed specifically to thwart the intentions of one Mary J. Russell. I fully realise how utterly absurd, and insensitive, and childish that statement is, but since late October, as my mind flailed around for an alternative to endless suffocating misery, the only thing I wished—the only thing that gave me any glimmer of light in a very dark tunnel—was the thought of listening to a kettle come to boil in my mother’s kitchen in Sussex. And now…
I know that innocent people have died. A small child was killed in her bed. I have no right to raise a voice in complaint at how the Kaiser has inconvenienced me.
But why could he not have waited, just a day?
Hours before I was to board the southbound train with my reluctant aunt in tow, bombs fell on English soil. At first, the belief was that these had been aeroplanes, although now the reports are of Zeppelins. Whether or not they were intending to hit London (as the Germans have been threatening) and were blown by strong winds up into Norfolk, or whether they chose a lesser target for a trial run—even if, as many say, they were attempting to destroy Sandringham, from which the King returned only yesterday—is of course the topic of huge debate. But however it happened, England has now joined with her European sisters in feeling the blow of explosives, and English civilians have now died along with those of France, Belgium, and the rest. In the wee hours of the morning, bombs and incendiary devices rained down on Yarmouth and King’s Lynn.
My aunt is convinced—ridiculously—that the Kaiser’s next goal will be th
e South Coast: Zeppelins working their way across empty farmland from Dover to Portsmouth, with no greater target for their incendiaries than farm houses and grazing sheep? I have told her that in fact, London is sure to receive its share sooner or later, and we shall be much safer buried down in the country. She, no country person, is not convinced. She dithers.
So, I have sent a wire to Mr Mason, my mother’s farm manager, telling him in no uncertain terms that he may expect me to arrive in Eastbourne as close to midday tomorrow as the erratic schedule of the trains permits. (Whenever there is a particularly harsh battle in northern France, trains are diverted to the coast, to receive the surviving wounded and transport them to hospitals. I am not alone, in being inconvenienced by War.) My telegram to Mr Mason did not say specifically that my aunt would be with me. In truth, she will not. Still, I fear that she will follow on my heels before long. Certainly once the Zeppelins come into view over London town.
And if tomorrow morning Victoria Station is the recipient of a dropped bomb while one Mary Russell waits for her train—well, that at least shall settle the matter of her future.
2 February
Thursday will mark the six month point of this War that was to be over by Christmas. In California, the fighting in Europe is but a distant rumour, while here in Sussex—
But I get ahead of myself.
On Wednesday morning, I left the house in London without being noticed (which required that I make a small diversion in the garden at back, but I am sure nothing serious was burnt) and travelled to Victoria Station.
There I bought a ticket for Eastbourne (since there were times even before the disruption caused by War when trains would neglect to stop at the station closer to my home) and was told that the delay would probably not be more than a couple of hours. I settled into the waiting area with my book, and indeed, it was not much more than two hours. As it did not take us much more than twice the normal time to reach the town.
Mr Mason was patiently waiting, as I knew he would be. Had the Kaiser’s troops crossed the Channel and invaded the coast—had Zeppelins flattened everything from the Pier to Town Hall—Patrick Mason would have contrived to find and claim me.
Not that he was pleased to see me, exactly. He took my valise with as ill grace as he could manage, indicating just what he thought of my decision to come to the coast, and unaccompanied at that. It took me most of the trip home before I could distract him from disapproval, by earnest enquiries into the farm, and the horses, and the life of the village as a whole.
I will admit, I nearly broke down when I walked into the kitchen. Mrs Mark, the neighbouring lady whom Mother depended on both while we were in residence and when we were away, had lit the fires and filled the pantry (as well she could considering the shortages). I stood there in the warmth and the fragrance of her new-baked bread, and when she came over to give me a hug, it was all I could do to keep from bursting into tears.
Mrs Mark tutted and fussed and made haste to supply me with tea and food, which returned the world to some stability, since I had neither eaten nor drunk since morning. She showed me three times where everything was, exclaimed four times at how grown up I was, and scolded me for my thinness five times. On the sixth recitation of how good it was to see me, I gently ushered her towards the door and told her (for the fourth time) that I would see her tomorrow, and that no, there was no need to send someone over to stay in the house until my aunt arrived.
Then I went through much the same ritual with Mr Mason—who says I am to call him Patrick: I think I remind him of Mother—before finally, the door shut behind my visitors, and I was alone in the house.
In my house.
I walked through all of the well-loved spaces of my past. Dining room, with its echoes of conversation. Sitting room, where we had read aloud and played cards. The hallway with its umbrella stand and empty hat-rack. I turned to the stairs, and climbed them to the bedrooms. Everything smelled clean, not at all like a house that had been closed for three years[5]. My childhood bed, looking very small, had been made up, with a doll that I had not played with since I was five on the pillow. However, there was also a small crystal vase on the table containing three hellebores: Mother had treasured her garden’s winter flowers, exclaiming with glee at any hellebores or forsythia that opened in time for our Christmas table. The bath down the hall had been laid with fresh towels and a bar of my mother’s favourite scented soap. My brother’s room was next, its shelves holding toys and books that he had outgrown long before he died. Then the next room…
It took me some minutes to turn the doorknob. When I stepped inside, although the air smelt the same as all of the other rooms, there was some angle of light through the curtains, some atomic trace of the two that had shared the bed, some imperceptible touch…
Dr Ginsberg would have pleased to see the long-delayed tears loosed at last. It took a quite absurd length of time to being them under control again. And I did so, in the end, by discovering a more tangible form of comfort.
We had all been in the habit of leaving behind certain items of clothing, here in Sussex, whether we were returning to London or to America: old, worn clothes suitable only to the most rural of lives. Even after three years, and three deaths, Mrs Mark had been no more willing to clear those garments away than she had my brother’s books or my childhood doll.
The wooden chest at the foot of my parents’ bed breathed out the remembered cedar smell when I raised its heavy lid. Inside lay two neatly folded stacks of country wear: Mother’s on the right, Father’s beside it. I could not imagine pulling on her clothing, not yet, but my hand reached out for a tweed jacket that was older than I. My thumb found the small mend in the hem from when he had neglected to put out his pipe before dropping it into his pocket. A very young Levi had noticed the smoke, and had been reduced to helpless laughter by Father’s antics.
I put the jacket on. To my astonishment, other than the breadth of its torso, it very nearly fit, being only slightly long at the wrist. I closed the cedar chest and went back downstairs, to let myself out into the garden.
The early winter evening was closing in. Everything was very still. My ears did not know what to do with silence, after so many weeks—months—without it. The convalescent hospital had never been truly quiet, and had been followed with the days of train, then Boston, and another train and then the rhythm of the ship’s engines throbbing in the bones, and of course London never slept, but here…
The only thing I could hear was a distant, rhythmic murmur that I thought was my pulse. However, listening more carefully, I realised it was external: the constant beat of waves against the chalk cliffs, five or six miles off. I could not remember noticing the noise before, but then, the recent days of gales and heavy storm was only now dying away. And in any event, how often had I, as a child, sat in the garden at night, listening to the stillness? Mother did. Now I knew why.
I lay that night in my childhood bed, feet pressed past its end, hearing the old familiar creaks of the house. I slept eventually. In the morning, before Mrs Mark or Mr Mason—Patrick—could come to check on me, I bundled into my father’s tweed jacket and then his greatcoat, which I found in the niche near the front door (even the moths couldn’t make much inroads into its harsh wool.) My plaits fit under a cap that had been given my brother by an uncle (who had misjudged the size of Levi’s head), a rough lunch occupied various pockets of the greatcoat, and I set off across the Downs in the direction of the Channel. Even if I lacked the strength to make it that far, one must always have a goal.
The air was cold but marvellously clear after the recent storms, an invigorating contrast to the stinking yellow London fogs. A few farmers were out, but at a distance, and I saw only two motorcars when I crossed the main road. For the most part, it was me, the sheep, and the wind teasing the gorse-bushes.
The white chalk headlands rise and fall in a series of precipitous cliffs. The tallest of them is Beachy Head, a popular final site for spurned lovers and the oth
erwise despairing. It took me a ridiculously long time to make it that far, stopping at increasing intervals to rest, the cold and my determination forcing me to my feet. It was after midday when at last I approached the cliffs, to peer cautiously over the precipitous edge at a narrow strip of dry shingle below. No sign of suicides today, fortunately—and if there had been, the incoming tide had already cleared them away.
I retreated from the edge—this is a cliff, after all, which means that bits are falling off all the time, particularly following a heavy beating from the waves—and pulled an apple and a wedge of cheese from my pocket, settling with them on a tussock. My father’s coat wrapped me like flexible armour. The Channel was calm, its waters blue, with a few boats off in the distance. So utterly deceptive.
I bit into the apple and wondered how many German U-boats were prowling beneath that innocent blue surface. From this distance, I would not see a periscope coming free of the water, swivelling about, locking onto that approaching steamer. Without a freak glance of sunlight, I could not know if a sailor beneath the surface were examining the great blazing white cliff, noticing a figure seated at its top…
I shuddered and got quickly to my feet, turning to walk the nearly invisible path worn by summer ramblers. If the Kaiser decided to launch an attack on England, where would his generals choose? His Zeppelin had flown over Norfolk, but a sea crossing of actual troops? If Germany took France, or at least its northern coast, then any attempt at England would begin here. Hastings, where the last invasion came to shore in the year 1066, was less than twenty miles away.
Would this summer find a return of peacetime rambling along the chalk cliffs? Or would the War be dragging through its second August? What if the Germans were here by August, the invasion well underway? Would a new generation of cliffside ramblers speak a language other than English?
Mary Russell's War Page 5