At the same time, but on a very different Sunday, in 1915, Brandon had reached his destination. After a ten minute walk from the railway station in the small town in Bedfordshire, and three stops to ask passersby for directions, he had found the address in Peggy Gordon’s letter. It was a large house, two stories, with a window on each side of the door, above and below, and a gravel driveway. Brandon hesitantly knocked at the door, which was opened by an elderly maid, whose grey hair flew out from under her cap. “Oh,” she said in surprise, looking him up and down.
“Er, good afternoon. I’m here to see Miss Gordon?”
“May I tell her who’s calling?”
“My name’s George Clark.” He handed her one of the visiting cards he had had printed in a shop on Balesworth High Street. This seemed to impress her.
“Very good, sir. Please come in, and I’ll let Mrs. Hughes know you’re here.”
“Hey, um… Mrs. Hughes? I’m sorry, it’s Miss Gordon I’m here to see.”
“Yes, sir. This is her house, and Miss Gordon’s her guest.”
“Oh, okay,” said Brandon, uneasily.
He waited awkwardly in the hall of the house, until the maid returned to inform him that Mrs. Hughes would receive him in the drawing room.
Brandon hadn’t counted on this. He suddenly felt an attack of nerves, as he followed the maid through to the living room.
An old lady, wearing elaborately-arranged hair and a long dark green dress, sat stiffly on the sofa. She looked Brandon up and down as he entered the room. “Master Clark, is it? I’m Mrs. Hughes. Please state your business,” she said, without inviting him to sit down.
“I’m an apprentice to Mr. Gordon, a dentist in Balesworth, ma’am.”
The woman’s eyes crinkled, and he thought she would smile, but she seemed to catch herself.
“No, Master Clark, I did not ask your profession. What I meant was, what is your business here?”
Brandon was speechless.
She finally said with the barest trace of a smile, “Cat got your tongue, Master Clark?”
Now he was even more confused. But he suddenly felt courageous, or possibly desperate.
“Ma’am, I’m just here to see Miss Gordon. I can come back if she’s out, or something, but I took a train from Balesworth and it cost me a ton of money, so I’d like to see her today if I can. I’m a friend of hers.”
“I’m afraid that Miss Gordon has not mentioned that you would be calling.”
“Well,” said Brandon, “It’s kind of a surprise, my being here.”
Mrs. Hughes looked at him with piercing blue eyes. She said, slowly, “You say you are a friend of Miss Gordon’s?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Brandon thought he had made that clear, but adults always seemed to take forever to hear answers, even when you do give them.
“Forgive my asking, but are you a relation to her?”
“Nooo…” said Brandon, wondering where this was leading.
Suddenly, he heard a woman’s laughter from behind him, and he whirled around, expecting to see Peggy.
Instead, standing in the doorway was a tall woman of about thirty, with bobbed brown hair. She was wearing a white nurse’s dress that ended at mid-calf, with a broad white belt around the middle, and a red cross on the breast.
“I’m sorry,” the younger woman said to Brandon with a smile. “My mother assumes that all colored people must be related to one another.”
“Really, Elizabeth!” Mrs. Hughes looked very annoyed with her daughter.
“Well, honestly, it’s true, Mother. Poor young Master Clark must be wondering what on earth he’s walked into.”
She offered a hand to Brandon to shake. “I’m Mrs. Devenish. Miss Gordon is one of my patients, and she is staying here as our guest until she can be admitted.”
“Patient?” asked Brandon, with alarm. “Is she okay?”
“Well, of course she is,” said Mrs. Devenish. “It’s perfectly natural, you know.”
Mrs. Hughes interrupted with a cough. “Elizabeth, please. Pas devant le garcon.”
“Mother…” said Mrs. Devenish in a warning voice. Brandon was confused. That was French, he was sure of it, but what did the old lady say?
“Mother, why don’t I make some tea, and then Master Clark and I can leave you in peace? We can sit out in the garden while we wait for Miss Gordon.” She turned to Brandon. “She’s taking a walk to the park with my daughter, and I’m afraid they may be some time. It’s a lovely day today, and, you know, I could use some fresh air myself before I return to work this evening.”
Mrs. Hughes looked slightly shocked, and said to her daughter, in a voice laden with concern, “Elizabeth, is that really wise?”
“My mother,” said Mrs. Devenish, looking at Mrs. Hughes, but speaking to Brandon, “is rather old fashioned, and thinks that tongues will wag if an attractive widow like me is seen in the exclusive company of a handsome young chap like you.” She gave him a wink. Brandon was so mortified, he didn’t know where to look, but he also took an instant liking to young Mrs. Devenish.
Mrs. Devenish turned back to her mother. “Honestly, Mother, this lad is young enough to be my son. Aren’t you, George?”
Brandon laughed. “Yep, I’m twelve. But please don’t tell Miss Gordon. Her dad thinks I’m old enough to be an apprentice.”
“I’ll bet he doesn’t, actually,” Mrs. Devenish said with an impish smile. “You don’t look anything like fourteen to me. He must just have been desperate for the help. Come on, George, let’s go and make tea. We’ll leave you in peace, Mother.”
Mrs. Hughes gave an exasperated sigh, and shook her head in despair.
The maid tried to argue with Mrs. Devenish that she ought to be making the tea, but the younger woman dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “I am quite capable of boiling water, Flora. For heaven’s sake, stop fussing.”
Brandon stood by while she filled the kettle, and set it on the huge, blackleaded kitchen range in the fireplace. “Aren’t you going to give me a hand, George?” she scolded in jest. “Come on, there’s the teapot and the tea caddy. Put in one spoonful for each of us, and one for the pot.” Brandon happily did as he was told.
“A man who can make tea! Well, that’s one for the books,” she joked.
“Oh, hey, give me a break” said Brandon, mildly offended. “I help my mom make sweet tea all the time.”
“Sweet tea? What on earth do you mean?” asked Mrs. Devenish.
“We mix hot tea with a whole heap of sugar, then we pour cold water and ice into it. It’s great on a hot day.”
“Ice? Good gracious, where does your mother find ice?”
“Oh, we’ve got an icemaker at home...” he said, his voice suddenly trailing off as he saw her face.
“George, now I know you’re just pulling my leg. An ice-maker indeed.”
“No, really,” he protested. “Look, I’ll give you the recipe, in case you want to try it sometime.”
“Where on earth would I get ice? Unless I snap off some icicles from the front of the house in January.”
“Hey, that would work,” said Brandon.
“Well, perhaps, but, George, who would want a drink with ice in it, especially in January? My teeth are freezing just thinking about it.”
Someone rang at the front door, and Flora answered it. Suddenly, Mrs. Devenish’s head jerked up, as she heard the voice of whoever had just arrived.
“Oh, Good God,” she exhaled with a frown. “Surely not…”
She hurriedly grabbed the tea tray. “Come on, George, let’s go outside,” she said, hustling him into the garden. Whoever it was who had turned up, Brandon reckoned, it most likely wasn’t Miss Gordon, and it certainly wasn’t a welcome visitor.
A few minutes later, as Brandon and Mrs. Devenish sat at the garden table sipping tea, Flora appeared at the kitchen door. “Begging your pardon, Miss Elizabeth? Your mother asked me to let you know that Mrs. Lewis has called to see you, and would you please
come into the drawing room?”
Mrs. Devenish looked unimpressed. “Kindly remind my mother, Flora, that I already have a guest, and that I’m entertaining him in the garden.” She gave a rather naughty smile, Brandon thought. “But if Mrs. Lewis would care to come here, I will receive her.”
As Mrs. Devenish leaned forward to sip her tea, Brandon was sure he heard her mutter something to herself. It sounded like “What a bloody nuisance.” Surely he was mistaken?
“Very good, Miss Elizabeth,” said Flora in long-suffering tones that clearly said she didn’t think it was very good at all.
The woman who soon entered the garden was small, thin, and had grey hair swept up under a grand purple hat decorated with long feathers.
“There you are, Elizabeth,” she announced as she made her way toward Brandon and Mrs. Devenish. “I haven’t heard from you in a very long time.”
“Yes, here I am,’ Mrs. Devenish sang sarcastically under her breath. More loudly, she said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lewis. What brings you here? Oh, let me introduce this young man. This is Master George Clark. George, this is Mrs. Lewis. She is a friend of my mother’s.”
“And a friend of yours, too, I hope, Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Lewis, taking a seat at the table. Mrs. Devenish didn’t say anything, and there was an awkward silence.
“So, nice day today, huh?” said Brandon, trying to lighten up the mood. He was ignored.
“Well now, Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Lewis, “I was passing on my way home to Balesworth from a meeting of our Board, and I thought I would pay you a call to see if I might enlist your help. As you know, the Women’s Suffrage Association has, in common with all like-minded societies, decided to suspend our political activities for the cause of votes for women for the duration of the war. Even Mrs. Pankhurst and the Women’s Social and Political Union have ceased their ridiculous campaign of wanton destruction of property…”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Devenish impatiently, “I think we’re all well aware of that.” Brandon wasn’t, but he kept quiet.
“No need to snap, Elizabeth,” Mrs. Lewis rebuked her with a glare. Mrs. Devenish seemed a little abashed, and she looked away to gaze into the distance.
“Now, as I was saying….We have decided that our energies should instead be expended on the war effort. Women are now taking the places of our brave men serving their country in France, serving capably in hundreds of positions of responsibility, as bus conductors, clerks, shop assistants, and in so many other walks of life. We show our patriotism thereby, while establishing the rightness of the cause of women’s equality.”
Mrs. Devenish stared at her. “Again, Mrs. Lewis, there is no cause to exhaust yourself with long speeches. I am well aware of that, too.”
Mrs. Lewis looked at her coldly. “Perhaps, Elizabeth, but why don’t you allow me to tell you why I am here?”
Brandon thought Mrs. Devenish was about to say “because life is too short,” but then decided against it.
Looking coolly at the older woman, Mrs. Devenish casually reached into the pocket of her nurse’s uniform, and pulled out cigarettes and matches. Brandon couldn’t help noticing that she was carefully watching Mrs. Lewis’ reaction. On cue, Mrs. Lewis looked stunned, as the younger woman lit a cigarette. Noting Mrs. Lewis’ shock with a satisfied expression, Mrs. Devenish exhaled a large cloud of smoke, shaking out her match and dropping it onto the lawn. With some effort, Mrs. Lewis recovered herself.
“I am here today, Elizabeth, because it seems that too many young women still need encouragement to put their efforts into the cause of victory over Germany. I would like you to work with me on a new campaign, to urge young women to commit themselves absolutely to working for victory.”
“No,” said Mrs. Devenish flatly, exhaling another cloud of cigarette smoke from the side of her mouth.
“I beg your pardon?” gasped Mrs. Lewis, recoiling as if she had been slapped.
“George,” said Mrs. Devenish to Brandon, “I’m sorry to have to ask this of you, but would you mind terribly making yourself scarce for a few minutes? There’s a very comfortable seat over there. I’ll join you shortly.”
From his vantage point across the lawn, Brandon tried to look like he wasn’t eavesdropping, while trying hard to catch every word. It soon became easy for him to listen in, as the conversation quickly grew very heated.
Mrs. Devenish, it seemed, was not at all interested in helping with the war effort. Brandon heard her say “pointless bloodbath,” and Mrs. Lewis, horrified, reply with “patriotic duty.”
Soon, both women were on their feet, and Mrs. Devenish was shouting at Mrs. Lewis so loudly that not only could Brandon hear every word, but, he reckoned, so could the entire street.
“May I remind you that I am no longer, if indeed I ever was, some flibbertigibbet to be ordered about by my mother, or by you. I am the widow of a soldier killed in battle, a nurse, and the mother of two daughters. And I am telling you that this war is shameful. I won’t take any part in any ridiculous scheme to assist the slaughter in France, and neither should you.”
Mrs. Lewis drew herself up. Brandon thought she looked quite formidable, even though her head barely reached Mrs. Devenish’s shoulder. “How dare you speak to me like this? I’m sorry for your loss, Elizabeth, and I am also sorry that you have reached this conclusion. I shall take your refusal as final. But know that I am very angry with you for your discourtesy toward me. You have given me great offense, and you may be sure that I will tell your mother of your conduct.”
“I can’t imagine why you would do any such thing,” said Mrs. Devenish furiously. “My conduct is my own affair. I’m a grown woman.”
“Is that so? In that case, you would do well to act as one,” said Mrs. Lewis. “All I see before me is the same spoilt, silly little girl who caused me so much trouble ten years ago. However, since you wish me to leave you be, I shall do so. I shall not trouble you from this day forward. Good day to you.” And with that, she swept away.
As soon as Mrs. Lewis had stormed into the house, Mrs. Devenish sank into her seat and put her head in her hands. Brandon came to join her. “She’s kind of a pill, isn’t she?” he said sympathetically.
Mrs. Devenish’s head snapped up and she gave him a withering look. “George, I will thank you to keep your opinion of my visitor to yourself.”
He shrank back from her, but he couldn’t help noticing, to his embarrassment and surprise, that she was crying.
To Brandon’s relief, Peggy Gordon chose that moment to enter the garden, accompanied by a little girl of about eight.
“Hello, Mrs. Devenish…. And George! What are you doing here?”
“Thought I’d come to visit,” said Brandon, shyly. He couldn’t help noticing how fat Peggy had become since he had last seen her, especially around the middle.
“You’re a colored boy,” announced the little girl.
Mrs. Devenish had discreetly recovered her composure, and she now spoke severely to her daughter. “Edwina, I think that’s obvious to everyone, but it’s extremely rude of you to mention it. George, this is my eldest child, Edwina. Edwina, this is Master George Clark.”
Brandon nodded to the little girl, who quickly lost interest in him, and rushed off to find her grandmother.
On a tray in the kitchen, Mrs. Devenish quickly placed clean cups, saucers, plates, teapot, and all the other paraphernalia of tea-making, as well as two slices of something she called seed cake. It was a dry-looking vanilla cake with tiny caraway seeds dotted throughout. She handed the tray to Brandon. “Why don’t you and Miss Gordon take tea outside? I should probably wake my other daughter from her nap before I leave for work.”
In the garden, Peggy poured out tea for Brandon.
“Thanks for coming, George. How’s my father?”
“Not too good,” Brandon admitted. “He doesn’t say much more to me than he has to. Do you think I offended him?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Peggy. “He’s just upset about
James, I expect. It’s broken his heart, what with James being the boy. And,” she paused, and swallowed hard, “with me gone.”
“Why did you leave? I mean, if you’re sick, like that lady said, shouldn’t you come home, so we can look after you?”
“Sick? What made you think I’m sick?” she asked in surprise.
“That lady said you were one of her patients,” said Brandon, furrowing his brow.
Peggy looked at him with something like pity. “You mean you haven’t already guessed what I’m doing here? You’re not that young, surely? ”
Brandon honestly didn’t have a clue. And then he looked across the table, and thought again how.. fat… she… was… Oh.
“You know now, I see,” she said. “Mrs. Devenish tells me that all over England, young women are having babies without husbands. They’re soldiers’ babies. I’m not alone, George. Well, actually, I am alone. That’s the problem. My baby will be an illegitimate child, and it will be colored. I can’t keep it, of course. It will probably be sent to an orphanage. I’ve already signed the papers. Just as well, really, I mean, I don’t feel much like a mother.”
“But...” Brandon was shocked. “But, why can’t you keep the baby?”
“Surely you must understand why? My parents are horrified. My mother cannot, she says, accept a colored grandchild.”
Don't Know Where, Don't Know When (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 1) Page 22