by John Masters
Outside the wind tugged at the bare branches, but it was not raining. The windows were open and he could hear, with the Beethoven, and the musical comedy, the jangling of the church bells. Tomorrow Mr Kirby would organise some great feat of change ringing to celebrate … five thousand changes of Kent Doubles, his favourite, perhaps, but for now the bell ringers were just pulling wildly, so that the bells jangled and tumbled and thumped and tolled and tinkled in mad abandon.
He reached the end of the movement and realised that someone had closed the green baize door to the servants’ hall, for he could not hear the gramophone now. And Garrod was waiting in the door of the library, presenting a silver tray, with a telegram on it; and there was the telegraph boy bicycling away down the drive. He put down the violin and picked up the telegram as Garrod slipped out of the room.
Walter killed in action November 7 don’t cable write please please
–Isabel
Oh, God, now she had lost her only son, her only child. She wanted him to write … of what? To tell her that he loved her? She knew that. That he was sad for her? She knew that. That he wished they could be together? God, she must know that. But he would say it all, so that she would have something concrete of his love to hold to, if only the paper of his letter.
Why don’t you smite Margaret dead, God, you swine? As she had smitten so many others in her passion for Ireland? ‘Kill her! Kill her!’: he was saying it aloud.
The factory whistle mounted above the boiler-room was screeching full blast. It must be the same down in Hedlington, but up here on the Down, several miles out, one could hear nothing. Pratt, the works foreman, came into Richard Rowland’s office and said, ‘We won’t get any more work out of ’em today, Mr Richard. Better give ’em the day off.’
Richard hesitated. It was a bad thing to shut down an aircraft factory so suddenly, as several things had to be done before the workers could leave. You couldn’t leave a wing half-doped, for instance. But he said, ‘All right. We don’t have an armistice every day.’
‘Thank ’eaven!’ Pratt said. ‘That would mean we ’ad a war every other day.’ He went out, tipping his bowler hat to the back of his head as he went.
The telephone on the desk rang. It was Overfeld from Jupiter Motor Company – ‘I’ve sent them all home for the day, boss. No use keeping them here. Full day’s wages, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Richard said, though a part of him thought obstinately, why ‘of course’? The loss of this half-day’s work would reduce his income, not much but some … Well, it couldn’t be helped. That was the way workmen were, and he had difficulties enough with Bert Gorse’s machinations and the unreasonable demands he spawned in the factories.
‘I’m going home,’ he told the secretary. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow. You go home, too, of course … all the clerical staff. Pass the word.’
‘Oh, thank you, sir! Isn’t it wonderful! It’s over! My brother will come back …’ She burst into tears. Richard patted her awkwardly on the shoulder as he went out, murmuring, ‘There, there.’
Outside he found his chauffeur, Kathleen Owings, a tall, plain girl, in her green uniform, complete with breeches, being recklessly hugged and kissed by a dozen men. A small aircraft was looping the loop over and over again high above the airfield, and a Buffalo heavy bomber was flying up the field at fifty feet, waggling its wings cumbrously from side to side like some drunken namesake, a buffalo with wings.
The men fell back and Kathleen took her place behind the wheel. One of the men wound the starting handle and they drove off. ‘Sorry, sir,’ Kathleen said over her shoulder, ‘we’re all so happy.’
‘Quite all right,’ Richard said. ‘It’s over at last.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The men’ll be coming back.’
‘Yes.’
He said no more, wondering if she was thinking of some particular man, a brother or cousin – a lover even … or about her job. Would he keep her, now that he could get a man again? Was it fair to sack her? But was it fair to keep her when ex-service men would need the job far more than she did; and could do better? No, that wasn’t right. She could do anything a good chauffeur could do, except the hardest physical things, like lifting up the front end of a car to put bricks under when there was no jack … but how many men could do that?
At Hill House his wife and daughter came running out, Sally shrieking, ‘We’ve got some rockets, daddy … fireworks! I’m lighting a bonfire … huge bonfire … come and see.’ Susan was in his arms, murmuring, ‘Thank God, at last, at last,’ and Sally tugging. The bonfire was struggling to get going, pouring out grey smoke. Where had they got the fireworks from? Left over from Guy Fawkes’ Day? Anyway they had them, and Joan, the old maid, and Mrs Baker the cook were there, giggling fit to burst their stays, while Summers had his arm round both of them, and boys from the village were running in to stand round Sally – she had a following of them, could twist them round her finger, not now by taking off her clothes … Roman candles flared, crackers jumped and spat all over the grass, Mrs Baker shrieked louder and Summers surreptitiously pinched her ample behind. A rocket fizzed into the sky and a boy yelled, ‘Send up another, Sally!’
The boy put a hungry arm round Sally’s waist, and she slapped him off. She struck another match and lit the rocket’s fuse. The rocket soared up … and another … the rocket sticks rained down. Mrs Baker shrieked, her face by now mottled with excitement. Summers became bolder, with no reproof or reprimand. More rockets rose, the bonfire burst into flame, and they all began to dance round it, shouting. Only Nanny stood aloof outside the circle, with Dicky.
The telephone bell rang inside. The front door was open and Nanny heard it, and called, ‘Mrs Rowland – telephone. Shall I answer it?’
‘No, I’ll go,’ Susan panted. The English were supposed to be so phlegmatic, she thought; but, given the right stimulus, they went hogwild.
She hurried into the house and picked up the receiver – ‘Mrs Richard Rowland here.’
‘Is this Tim Rowland’s mother to whom I am speaking?’ a man’s voice said severely.
‘It is,’ she said.
‘This is Mr Babcock, the headmaster of Greystone’s. I regret to tell you that I must expel Tim from the school, Mrs Rowland.’
‘Oh, good!’ she exclaimed. Now she’d get him back. Her heart sank quickly. Richard would find another school for Tim.
‘What? Did I hear aright?’ the headmaster’s voice was at first astonished; then again severe.
‘I meant, how awful … what has he done, Mr Babcock?’
‘He exploded a grenade in one of the boys’ WCs not an hour ago. The WC is destroyed, of course, and also the cubicle in which it was situated. The walls and ceiling are riddled with splinters. It is a miracle that half a dozen boys were not wounded or killed, Mrs Rowland. But it so happened that Tim was alone in the, ah, toilet area, when he did this – this monstrous thing.’
‘It is bad,’ she said, thinking, Tim knew he was alone. He’s a smart boy, not careless at all. Where on earth did he get a real military grenade?
The headmaster continued, ‘And only last week he emptied a tin of Eno’s Fruit Salts into the Matron’s chamber utensil. She hurt herself quite severely when she, ah, had occasion to, ah, use the utensil.’
Susan had a hard time suppressing her laughter: it was a funny image, especially as Matron was a very proper spinster.
The headmaster said, ‘If you would be good enough to come and fetch Tim as early as possible tomorrow, we will see that his clothes are packed, his laundry recovered, and his jams and marmalades returned from the dining hall to his tuckbox.’
‘Very well, Mr Babcock.’
‘I must make it quite clear that no part of his school fees for the term can be returned, as expulsion is clearly covered by section 43 of the school’s …’
‘I quite understand, Mr Babcock,’ she said, suddenly cold. ‘I will be there by eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Good day.’
; She hung up. Hooray! Tim the little rascal back … Sally will be pleased. The staff will be pleased. Mrs Baker will bake him a special cake. They all love him now that he’s a little gentleman, a real, wild, reckless, young gent.
‘Bannu will be very pleasant until March,’ Colonel Broadhurst-Smythe said, waving a long hand. ‘It used to be called Edwardesabad … great man, Edwardes, one of the founders of the Indian Empire. No one took liberties with Edwardes. Very different nowadays.’
Daphne Broadhurst-Smythe, Fred Stratton’s fiancée, poured another cup of tea. Outside in the garden the mali was watering the rows and rows of zinnias and the air was full of the distinctive smell of laid dust. The sun was sinking through the dust of the plains, giving it a golden glow that lent haloes to everyone in it – the old man shuffling past the open gate of the compound, the syce coming in on one of the colonel’s horses, walking it back from exercising it on the Maidan.
‘You cross the river at Mari Indus, and change to the narrow gauge, and the Heatstroke Express, ha ha! It takes about seven hours to Bannu … 138 miles, I remember that well. Had to take a hundred hairies up there once … three of them died … heatstroke.’
‘Will it really be so bad now?’ Fred asked nervously.
‘Good heavens, no,’ the colonel said. ‘You’ll find December and January cold as charity up the Tochi Valley … Dardoni, Miranshah, those places.’
Moving the battalion by an Indian troop train would be quite an experience, Fred thought. And then – the North-West Frontier, and the ‘tribes’ they talked about so often …
If you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains
And the women come out to cut up what remains
Just roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
And go to your God like a soldier.
They’d recited that gleefully to him … Bloody cock! None of them knew a thing more about the North-West Frontier than he did.
‘With any luck you’ll see some real action,’ the colonel said, putting down his teacup and warming to his subject – ‘Great men, the Pathans! An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, that’s their motto … and can take your eye out at a thousand yards with a good rifle … but they still mostly have jezails … Dashed sporting chaps … all keep falcons … But,’ he lowered his voice, ‘can’t trust them with a young lad.’
‘Father!’ Daphne’s voice was a rasp.
‘Sorry, m’dear. Well, can’t talk about that in front of young ladies … unmarried young ladies … ha, but that’ll change in two days’ time, won’t it? … Tell you what, Fred, the Pathans are the fellows we ought to be defending, not the fat Hindus in the bazaars. Can’t stand ’em … bow and scrape, and jew you out of every penny you have, if you give ’em half a chance.’
Fred looked at Daphne, smiling. The day after tomorrow they would be married in the garrison church. Then they’d have a week’s honeymoon, in Delhi … then – she’d come back to living with her father until the battalion returned from the Frontier. Then … well, that wouldn’t be until November 1919, though surely he’d get some leave during the year. Time enough to think about what next.
Daphne said dreamily, ‘When you get privilege leave, let’s go to Bombay … there are some wonderful shops in Bombay.’
‘Good idea,’ Fred said. He’d better start really saving up, he thought; no more late nights with champagne in the mess. The Frontier would be just the ticket for that.
He got up to take his leave, and stopped, thunderstruck. By God! There was an armistice in France. The telegraph message had come through just before he set out for tea; but then he had forgotten. How could he forget a thing like that? The 1st Battalion, out of battle, at last! This 8th Battalion, Territorials, all its plans and schedules liable to be changed. But, coming here through cantonments and the edge of the bazaar he had forgotten – it had slipped away. The masses of Indians were shuffling about their business; no bells were ringing; no one singing. The English men and women he saw were doing the same things they’d been doing yesterday, and every day since he came out. He said, ‘We ought to celebrate, sir, Daphne! It’s Armistice Day! The war’s over!’
‘I believe it is,’ the colonel said.
The revellers in Hedlington never seemed to tire. The celebration had no particular centre, but just was, everywhere – by the station, in front of the Town Hall, up the hill by Minden Barracks, outside – and inside – the gaol, even along the mean banks of the Scarrow in North Hedlington, where most of the town’s industry was concentrated.
At the corner of a warehouse by the river Violet Gorse was waving a half-empty bottle of gin in the air, and yelling, as she had been for some hours, her voice now no more than a croak. Her dress was torn, as always, her cotton stockings full of holes, and her shoes down at heel. She had been wearing lipstick, but now it was smeared all over her prematurely ageing face. Her hair was falling down under the battered black straw hat perched on top. Two soldiers approached, reeling from side to side, arm in arm, singing ‘We don’t want to join the Army, we don’t want to go to war … ’Ere, wot’s this?’ One reached out, grabbed the bottle from her hand, and took a swig, passing it on to his friend. ‘Give us a kiss,’ the first soldier cried thickly and Violet fell into his arms, mouth wide. She glued her lips to his and stuck her tongue deep into his mouth. The soldier slid his hand down to her crotch and felt her slit through the thin material of the dress. ‘’Ere,’ he grunted. ‘Let’s ’ave a bit of cunt … We won, we won!’
‘Two bob,’ Violet said, pulling back and holding out her hand. ‘Or ’arf a crown’ll do.’
‘’Ere, the women’s giving it free today,’ the second soldier said aggressively.
Violet looked at them keenly. She wasn’t drunk, at all. They were she saw, but not enough to do anything silly; and they wouldn’t get whisky cock. ‘C’mon,’ she wheedled. ‘Right ’ere … on my back, backscuttle, between the pillars, anything you want …’
The first soldier fumbled in his pocket, while the other said, ‘What about me? I’m stiff as a pole.’
Violet said, ‘My sister … just round the corner … c’mon!’ She took a few steps, the men following. Behind the warehouse her sister Betty waited, a ludicrous imitation of Violet in dress and manner, and Violet herself as ludicrous, and tragic, an imitation of the adult whores of the town; Violet was fourteen and Betty twelve.
‘’And over,’ Violet said, ‘four bob … Show it to ’em, Bet.’ Betty lifted the hem of her dress in a slow, would-be lascivious movement, revealing the long slit of her vulva. ‘Christ!’ the second soldier gasped. ‘It’s bald! How old are you?’
‘Old enough,’ Betty said, holding open the lips of her vulva with two fingers of one hand. The men began to undo their fly buttons with feverish fingers.
Three hundred yards away the girls’ mother, Mary Gorse, stood outside the door of a public house, a two-year-old girl wrapped in shawls beside her. A hand-lettered cardboard sign hung round Mary’s neck – Husband wounded prisoner Work wanted Help please. Mary stood against the wall, looking straight to her front, not facing the men and women as they went in and out. No one spoke to her, or gave her anything when they went in; several did as they came out. She had ten shillings and a few pennies in her purse by now. It wouldn’t be the same tomorrow, but today was Armistice Day, and the people were out of their minds.
A man stopped beside her and said roughly, ‘What kind of work do you want? What can you do?’
She turned towards him – ‘Sew … mend … darn … knit … laundry … cook … wash dishes, scullery work … clean house.’
‘Keep ’ouse?’
‘Until my husband comes home,’ she said, ‘I could. I have four children.’
‘I don’t want no children in the house, even if there was room for them. But you could come … no pay, meals, maybe two bob a week pocket money … but housekeep, do anything I want you to do.’
She met his eye fully, and said, ‘That wouldn’t be right, s
ir.’
The man spat on the pavement and went into the pub. Mary waited. She only had three of her own children in the house now, since God had taken Jane with the influenza; but little Henrietta here was her Violet’s, and must be looked after, just the same as the others. ‘Here,’ a voice said; a small coin was thrust into her hand – a threepenny bit. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said.
Another 300 yards on the youngest of Mary Gorse’s own children, Rupert, eight years of age, was hurrying along the row of tinned goods in the Hedlington HUSL shop, quickly filling the pockets of his ragged jacket and trousers with tins of food. As he slipped towards the door a hand shot out from behind a stack of condensed milk tins that reached nearly to the ceiling and grabbed him by the ear – ‘Got you, you little bastard!’ It was a woman with a long hard face, beady dark eyes, and a strong arm. She twisted his ear savagely. ‘Empty your pockets!’
‘I ain’t done nothing,’ he whined. She was hurting him, but he made it sound as though he was dying. The woman twisted harder. Fucking Christ, she was a hard ’un. His pockets were nearly empty, still no chance yet. She was dragging him towards the cash desk, shouting, ‘May, call the police!’
She was pulling, he was dragging back … why not go t’other way? He suddenly drove his head forward against her, butting her in the side, and at the same time lashed out at her shins with his booted foot. She screeched in pain and he broke free, running for the door, snatching up a can here, another there, as he went. He was out, tearing down High Street … sharp left, slow down, look innocent, a kid playing … ‘Hooray, hooray!’ he yelled. ‘We’ve won, it’s over!’ There were some sailors, had a bit too much. They’d give him a tanner or two, and if he showed them where Vi and Bet were on the pross, more. Sailors always had soft hearts, and stiff pricks … how long would it be afore he got one of them himself, properly? He danced up to the sailors in an energetic hornpipe, shouting in his high, clear treble, ‘We won! It’s over … Let’s have a tanner so’s I can buy a packet of tiger nuts, mates … you want girls …?’