Evie's War

by Mackenzie, Anna

  27 June

  I have had two visitors today: first Father, who says I am to come home very soon (Hurrah!), and later Mr Wheatley, who is due to sail in a few days and said he wished to know how his young patient was faring before he set off. He is apparently Matron’s cousin, though they look not at all alike. From him I have learned that this is a private establishment catering solely for women, this ward accommodating long-term patients and the least worrying cases (I am glad I am not a Worrying Case!). Also that it is not close to Westminster Abbey or St Paul’s Cathedral or anywhere at all that I might care to see. Observing my disappointment, he assured me that London would remain ‘indefinitely available for my later viewing’, and described my curiosity as ‘very encouraging’. When I proposed he write a note to Mother to that effect, he let out a great booming laugh. He could not advise on the whereabouts of the Fairfields, but suggested I might have Father approach the Shipping Company for a forwarding address, which suggestion I shall certainly take up.

  28 June

  Sister Thoms, who is on nights, was crying last night. There is a cubicle for nurses at the end of the ward, quite close to my bed, so I couldn’t help overhearing, and went along to see if she was all right and whether I could get her anything, to which she gave a funny, sharp little laugh and chivvied me back to bed. Sister Mabin told me this morning that Night Sister had said I was a queer little thing and very foreign. I don’t understand why she should think that, as New Zealand is part of the Empire and we are British just as she is! And if I am unlike the other patients it is only that I am more curious.

  Later

  Much excitement! It is confirmed that I shall be going home tomorrow (despite not knowing where ‘home’ is). I walked up and down the ward in celebration, my legs feeling like jelly by the end of my second lap. To think that all the promenading on the Remuera has gone to waste!

  Monday 29 June, Deans Park

  What a rush of impressions and activity and, over all, a kind of sweeping lethargy. Father collected me in a motor taxicab, which he had wait while he came in to fetch me, then when we arrived at the Station the train was not due for quarter of an hour, so Father had the driver wait so that I shouldn’t be out in the cold. It is nice to be made such a fuss over, but I shall be pleased when it is no longer required. Am I too contrary for words?

  Uncle Aubrey met our train and appears on first inspection to be very solid and dependable. He has an enormous moustache that droops to his chin, making his face look unnaturally long and a little sad, but the effect of overall seriousness is quite dispersed when he smiles. Alongside his brother-in-law Father appears quite old, though I have never thought of him as such. My uncle settled me into his motor carriage with much solicitude then we were out in the countryside, and oh, it is so pretty! The farmland is lush and largely flat, with swathes of wildflowers bedecking the verges and hedgerows blossoming between the fields. I quite expected to see Mrs Tiggy-winkle scurrying along, or Old Brown winking from a tree bole!

  Reality intruded upon our arrival at Deans Park. Mother and Edmund were waiting on the steps, my uncle having tooted news of our arrival from the gates. Mother surprised me by embracing me fiercely before leading me around to the garden, where tea was set out, to meet Aunt Marjorie. Mother looks tired and a little bedraggled beside her younger sister. Aunt Marjorie is, quite possibly, incapable of looking bedraggled. She is slender and refined, and has that very English way of talking, as if she is looking at something rather more interesting just beyond your left shoulder. Of my aunt and uncle I believe I prefer my uncle, though he is not a blood relation.

  30 June

  I was too tired to finish yesterday. Aunt Marjorie has asked my cousins Millicent, Eugenie and Monty to refrain from disturbing me until I am well, but if they are paying any attention to that stricture it is not at all apparent. Millicent is twelve and shows a tendency to bookishness of which I approve. She has inherited her mother’s fair hair but her features are more her father’s. Eugenie is two years younger, plain as her sister is pretty, and given to running pell-mell everywhere and slamming doors, to her mother’s obvious chagrin. Monty is clearly the favourite and, I rather fear, knows it. Aunt Marjorie gazes at him adoringly, as if he is something quite other than a rumpled and rather rude little boy, fond of poking out his tongue. I replied in kind during lunch, which startled him. This afternoon I overheard my aunt telling Mother that Monty was ‘a treasure, sure to do Great Things in the world’, which seems a large expectation for a boy not yet six. I wonder if his sisters don’t resent their mother lavishing such adoration upon her youngest child. Once I am well I shall take both girls under my wing. Edmund, of course, has no time for our cousins.

  Deans Park is an impressive residence, three storeys plus attics, with a smaller wing at the rear. There are beautiful tall windows and ornate ceilings throughout. Aunt Marjorie says my uncle has several farms as well as ‘interests in London’, whatever that might mean. Father (but not Edmund) is to accompany him on his next trip to the city.

  2 July

  Mother is still unwell, not with the fever I suffered but with a more vague exhaustion. I do hope she recovers soon, as I should hate our European Tour to be cancelled or even postponed. Uncle Aubrey announced at dinner that he felt it a bad time to go to Europe, which was rather crushing. I have been so looking forward to it, especially the Louvre in Paris and the castles of the Rhine and the Opera House in Vienna — oh, I shall be devastated if, having come all this way, we are obliged to delay! And all because of some political argument in Serbia — which is a country we were not in any case planning to visit. I do hope Father doesn’t pay any attention to Uncle Aubrey’s warnings.

  3 July

  My cousins and I walked to the village of Littlebury this morning. The excursion left me rather tired, though I was at pains not to show it (Mother having promised that if I could manage the walk she will count me recovered and allow me to accompany my aunt and uncle to Saffron Walden on Tuesday, which is market day). Littlebury is very pretty with neat, whitewashed cottages topped with thatch, those on one side of the road having pocket handkerchief-sized front gardens while on the other they open directly onto the street. Millicent and Eugenie think the village rather dull and were much amused by my reaction, which was to admire everything to excess. It is all very established in a way that New Zealand is not, with so much history that I feel as if I tread upon it at each step. According to White’s Directory, which I found in Uncle Aubrey’s library, a Roman Road called Green Street once crossed the parish at Littlebury Green (then called ‘Streetly Green’!). All of which reminds me of the talks I had with Mr Lindsay in Tenerife, and makes me wonder how he is progressing in Oxford. It is a shame I hadn’t the chance to say good-bye.

  4 July

  We walked today to the old mill, the lane running between stone walls taller than my head and boasting a very grand gateway beyond which stood a stately avenues of trees. I wonder whether I shall discover what lies at their end? The walk tired me more than I cared to admit so I spent the afternoon in the library. Uncle Aubrey seemed startled when he discovered me there but, once over his surprise, we had an agreeable chat about history.

  Sunday 5 July

  Having learnt that Littlebury’s Holy Trinity Church stands on the site of an ancient Roman encampment I was most eager to see it. It is rather a plain building of Norman design with a squat square tower, however the exterior is misleading, for inside it has soaring stone arches and a beautiful font. Of the Romans, however, there is no sign at all.

  The sermon was pleasingly delivered, though I trust God will forgive me for being more absorbed by His architecture than His message. I have promised Him that next Sunday I shall pay better attention.

  6 July

  Just as I was absorbed by the architecture, so it seems the locals were absorbed by the ‘foreigners’ in their midst. It seems we are to be inspected by the local gentry: Aunt Marjorie has received a number of invitations for Mother
and myself, and a similar number that include Edmund. I do hope we are not found wanting!

  Later

  A letter has come from Lettie! I am surprised Mother did not think to tell me she had given the Fairfields my address — I gather Lettie requested it, rather than it being Mother’s initiative. Her letter makes me feel I have rediscovered a friend lost for years. She says nothing at all of Oxford, mainly asking after my health and describing the journey from London to Yorkshire. Her address is Crossgates, which is not nearly so amusing as Kettlesing, where she went to visit an elderly relation. English placenames make their New Zealand counterparts seem awfully plain! Except for our native Maori ones, which are unique and serve to remind us of what went before.

  8 July

  Saffron Walden is the most perfect town, bustling and pretty, with every kind of architecture from the last six hundred years, including a beautiful Church, St Mary’s, and a perfectly sweet market square, which was yesterday crowded with stalls and farmers and people of every kind. Oh, I doubt I shall ever want to leave England! It is all I hoped for and more.

  Tomorrow we are invited by the Hurleys for high tea and to Mrs Morecombe’s for a tour of the garden, and the following day to Mrs Winstanley’s — Edmund is to come too, on that occasion, which Aunt Marjorie says is on account of their rather lumpen and unmarriageable daughter. I would be as happy to return to Saffron Walden and wander aimlessly that I might soak everything in, but Mother flapped her hand at the notion while Aunt Marjorie said vaguely, ‘Perhaps another time, Dear.’ So I know I shall have no success with that plan for the present.

  10 July

  We are quite a curiosity it seems, ‘Colonials’ — which can variously mean ‘charmingly different’ or ‘quaint’ or ‘somewhat outlandish altogether’ — to be studied and patronised as though we are come from some entirely different world, even though Father was born in England. I had difficulty restraining my temper when Miss Winstanley asked whether in New Zealand we lived in real houses or had grass and mud huts, from whence she went on to talk about her desire to do good works among the Heathen. ‘I have read that the natives of New Zealand boil up missionaries to eat,’ she said, and leant forward with her hands clasped at her breast to enquire whether we had ever tasted human flesh.

  I was so aggravated by this foolishness that I felt inspired to tell her that, being considered a delicacy, we eat it only on Sundays. Unfortunately Miss Winstanley’s reaction was somewhat immoderate and her mother’s attention was engaged. Edmund was dispatched to walk Miss Winstanley around the garden — for which he does not thank me — while I was obliged to explain what had caused her agitation. Neither Mother nor Aunt Marjorie could see any humour in the exchange, and I am in disgrace. Which at least may spare us further invitations from the Winstanleys.

  11 July

  Uncle Aubrey thinks my comment amusing, though he says it may have been wiser to leave out the reference to Sundays.

  Sunday 12 July

  At Church I found myself an Object of Interest. Aunt Marjorie says I have certainly managed to pique local attention, and that I must endeavour to control my ‘more outlandish tendencies’. I am resolved hereafter to ‘show myself in a good light, lest our name be permanently tarnished’ — and shall henceforth assume that the English lack all sense of irony.

  14 July

  Lady Braybrooke and her niece, Miss Bartlett, called. I have begun to feel like a piece of livestock at market. Aunt Marjorie was perfectly charming and I perfectly circumspect. Miss Bartlett ended our interview with an invitation to accompany her two days hence to visit Bridge End Gardens in Saffron Walden. Mother was both reluctant to allow it, in case I should embarrass her further, and equally reluctant to risk offending so important a personage as Lady Braybrooke. In the end it was agreed I might go, if the weather is fine, and was thereafter subjected to copious intructions on my conversation and behaviour.

  16 July

  Miss Bartlett says she hopes and believes that she has found a kindred spirit. She talked a good deal more than I, and largely on topics about which I am not well informed. She is a campaigner for Women’s Rights — which fact I suspect is unknown to Aunt Marjorie — and describes herself as a great admirer of the New Zealand Parliament ‘for their laudable decision to grant women the vote’, adding that she found it shocking that Britain should ‘so lag behind our Colonies’. To her suggestion that I might speak to the next meeting of the Women’s Social and Political Union, I made haste to decline, saying that, rather, I would be delighted to come along and learn. She insisted I was too modest, but as I am not yet of an age to vote and had not till this afternoon heard of the WSPU, I do not think it so!

  Miss Bartlett grew pinkly enthused telling me about the organisation’s founder, Emmeline Pankhurst, and the great sacrifices women have made in their battle to receive recognition for their cause. I was rather horrified when she described the death of Emily Davison, who last year threw herself under the hooves of the King’s horse. I really cannot see how her death helped achieve equality for women, but Miss Bartlett is quite convinced that her ‘brave act of martyrdom’ has been in some way beneficial. Not for Miss Davison I thought, but did not say.

  Aside from her interest in politics I found Miss Bartlett refreshing. She is some few years older than me and has enjoyed a liberal education. She was impressed to hear of Lettie and said she must be encouraged to press her case for Oxford. ‘Women’s Rights have been too long forgotten, but the time is come for change. The whole world is changing and we must be sure to be part of it.’ Her zeal is quite catching; I suspect Mother would not approve.

  17 July

  Lettie writes to say that I should try not to be shocking. Which of course I do not! We are to dine with the Morecombes tomorrow and Mother has been severe in her admonitions of what I can and cannot say.

  18 July

  Just back from Catmere Hall, where I behaved meek and mild enough to impress even Mother, which I fancy proved a disappointment to some in the party. The men were much engaged in a discussion of the situation in Europe. I shall ask Miss Bartlett’s view at the first opportunity, as I do not doubt that she will be better informed than I.

  20 July

  In response to my enquiries I have learned that Aunt Marjorie and Uncle Aubrey met in Switzerland when she was on holiday with her parents, my grandparents. Shall I meet my future husband on our Tour, I wonder?

  22 July

  During my walk today I stopped to speak with Uncle Aubrey’s farm manager, Mr Tolley, who seemed amused by my interest in the operation of the estates. His replies were perfectly civil, however, and he ended by saying I had a quick brain for questions. I believe it was a compliment.

  23 July

  Father and Uncle Aubrey left for London. I confess I am envious.

  25 July

  Despite being summer it has rained non-stop for days, causing my two younger cousins to be at their most tiresome. My retreat to the library having failed, I was obliged to spend the afternoon occupying them with games. Thankless task.

  Sunday 26 July

  Father returned from his trip in a sombre mood. He says London is in a very grey state, though he wouldn’t say more. When I asked about our Tour of Europe he replied that it was ‘not currently possible to proceed’, and that we may instead visit Scotland and the Lake District, and perhaps call on the Fairfields in Yorkshire. In truth it is scant compensation for Paris and the Rhine.

  28 July

  Austria has declared War on Serbia. Perhaps it is as well that we are not planning to visit Vienna at present.

  29 July

  The Misses Morecombe have invited Edmund and me to make up a tennis party for this weekend.

  1 August

  It is jolly lucky that I was on the tennis team at School, as several of the group proved fearfully good. Edmund acquitted himself well on the court but less favourably in discussion, announcing that women ‘should be content to choose motherhood as a career, as it is
to this that they are best suited’. I believe he only said so to be controversial, as he has at least two friends whose sisters have careers in teaching and nursing, and I have never observed him to disapprove of them — quite the reverse. Miss Bartlett, who had raised the topic, refused to become riled, instead challenging him to a further game of tennis in which she did her best to beat him, and came close to doing so. I remained aloof from their debate. Miss Hurley and two of her friends are planning a visit to the maze at Saffron Walden next week and have invited me to join them.

  2 August

  Germany declared War on Russia yesterday. It seems odd that such things should be happening when we are enjoying the sunshine and playing tennis.

  Tuesday 4 August

  Britain has declared War on Germany, that country having declined to halt its aggression against our Allies in Europe. Father says New Zealand will stand behind Britain, and that our troops will soon be on the seas.