By the Green of the Spring

by John Masters

The voice was a man’s, lisping slightly, ‘My dear Gorse … Mr Gorse … Private Gorse, would you prefer? … Allow me to congratulate you … a masterpiece of observation guided and informed by a vast human sympathy. And this …’ the little blue eyes were sharp; it was the Secretary of State for War and Air, The Right Honourable Winston Churchill – ‘this is your fiancée?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Fletcher said.

  ‘Well, all good fortune to you. Marry him soon, young lady. This man is a national treasure, which needs protecting.’ He nodded and walked away.

  ‘We must have time to …’ Betty began.

  ‘Excuse me … I’m Siegfried Sassoon. A poet myself, in my way – ’

  ‘Ah!’ Fletcher said. ‘If I were fierce and bald and short of breath, I’d live with scarlet majors at the Base, and speed glum heroes up the line to death …’

  Sassoon, tall, thin, and gentle-looking, flushed with pleasure – ‘It’s rather bad-tempered, like Blighters – but that’s how I felt. Poetry has to be about feeling, in the end, not facts … Do you know Isaac Rosenberg’s stuff?’

  ‘Yes. Is he here?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Killed in action last year … absolutely uneducated, but brilliant, brilliant … What sort of education have you had, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Fletcher said, grinning. ‘Just school till I was twelve …’

  Another man had come up. Sassoon stood back. The new arrival was small, with jutting grey eyebrows and thick pebble glasses. He thrust his hand out – ‘You are a great poet, sir. Thank you! I wish I had half of your’ – he waved a hand, pulling a word out of the air – ‘your grace. Never flag. Never compromise.’

  He walked away through the crowd. Mr Kajayan was at Fletcher’s side, crowing, ‘Do you know who that was? Rudyard Kipling!… and there’s Bridges, and Masefield … There’s Q … and Lord Curzon, Wilfred Bentley – he’s a Socialist MP …’

  ‘I know him,’ Fletcher said, unexpectedly. ‘Nearly put a bullet in him a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Admiral Jellicoe, Admiral Beatty, Augustus John, Thomas Hardy … first time anyone has persuaded him to come up from Dorchester … and Rosa Lewis, she hates writers … heaven knows what’s made her come, except that most of the people who’d stay at the Cavendish are here … You’re a success, young man. London is at your feet. What do you want to do with it?’

  Betty spoke up – ‘We’re going to get married, Mr Kajayan. As soon as possible.’

  Florinda Lady Jarrow crouched lower in the bucket seat of the big Sunbeam, an airman’s leather helmet and goggles hiding her auburn hair, her body wrapped in a short fleece-lined greatcoat, like a British warm, heavy gauntlets on her hands. The driver, beside her, was Billy Bidford, recently released from active service with the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. They were driving from London to Walstone, Kent, where the Lord Walstone had invited a party to celebrate the end of the shooting season. Billy had not done much shooting before the war, but since the armistice he had taken it up as a restful change from his main avocation of racing motor cars.

  Florinda shifted her weight in the narrow seat. This was built for men, with narrow hips, she thought disgustedly. They weren’t expecting girls to travel in her – bloody fools, a car like this wouldn’t look right without a girl in the passenger seat, unless it was actually racing.

  Billy said, shouting against the wind of their passage and the throb of the engine under the long bonnet – ‘I’m planning a special race, to publicise British cars. London to Constantinople.’

  ‘Constantinople!’ she cried. ‘Good God, Billy, that’s …’

  ‘Two thousand miles,’ he said. ‘Terrible roads … very few garages. It’ll be a real test for the cars. We’ll have it in June.’

  ‘That’ll be interesting,’ she said. ‘I spoke to Guy Rowland on the telephone yesterday. He’s planning to fly an aeroplane from London to Buenos Aires, in June.’

  ‘Is he, by Jove!’ Billy exclaimed lightly. ‘Well, we’ll see who wins the races … and gets the girl, eh?’

  She said nothing; but thought, I love Guy Rowland. He’s drifting, and drinking. Why the hell doesn’t he come to me, so that I can give him everything I have, and am?

  Dr Charles Deerfield (né Hirschfeld) surveyed the calling card with apprehension. Mr John de Lisle Merritt, it read; and in the lower left corner, The Cottage, Beighton, Kent; in another corner, a telephone number … John Merritt, Stella’s husband. They had not met. Years ago, in Hedlington, he had invited both Merritts to lunch, but John had not been able to come, due to an emergency at the factory – and after that, Stella had not wanted John to come. But now … had he found out? Was he coming with a revolver in his pocket? The war had made violence, and killing, so commonplace, so much accepted, that it was possible. But why send in a card? Why not shoot him in the street? Perhaps Merritt didn’t even know about his relations with Stella. They always said husbands were the last to know.

  He said to his nurse, ‘Show him in, please, Mrs Greene.’

  As John came in Deerfield stood up behind his desk, his heart palpitating. The young man was big, stern, severe-looking, his hair still military short, his jaw set, the grey eyes fixed on his own.

  ‘Dr Deerfield?’ John said.

  ‘I’m Dr Deerfield.’

  ‘You lived and practised in Hedlington?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You once asked Stella and me to lunch with you, but I couldn’t come.’ Deerfield nodded, unable to speak. John continued – ‘I asked my uncle, who is Secretary of the American Embassy, to find me a good alienist. He made enquiries and recommended you, and two others. But you have at least met Stella, so I decided to come to you.’

  Deerfield breathed a touch more easily. The way the conversation was going, it seemed probable that he did not know. His trembling began to subside.

  John said, ‘My wife has become a heroin addict, doctor. I need help … she needs help, to break her of her addiction, so that she can lead a normal life.’

  ‘Ah!’ the doctor sighed. He sat down slowly behind his desk, his knees shaking anew with the relief. He surveyed the young man opposite. Put him on the sofa, to talk? That would make him seem like a patient whereas, of course, Stella should be. A momentary remembrance of her body, sprawled back in his Hedlington office, skirts up, knickers off, thighs widespread, made him shiver; he regained control of himself. Those days were over; he had other women here in London, but he had made sure that none of them were his patients. That game was not worth the candle.

  He said, ‘I think you had better lie down on the couch there, Mr Merritt. It’s more comfortable, and it gives you a sense, which you must have, that there’s no hurry. Start from the beginning. Tell me what has happened … to Stella … when it happened … what you have observed of her actions … of her thoughts …’ He took position at the end of the couch, notebook in hand; but he did not have to make many notes. He knew all this, up to the end of 1917, at least.

  He listened, trying to keep his face calm, even though he knew that John could not see it. This was a terrible tale, of desperation, despair, prostitution, a dead baby, then an illegitimate baby … and now, regulated despair, under treatment to control her addiction rather than do away with it. He could say it was all his fault. But he would not. It was Stella’s nature … if it had not been he, it would have been another; if it had not been heroin, it would have been something else – brandy – men – gambling. She was destined to come to this point, as Christ to come to Gethsemane; but none could say whether Stella would or could be resurrected.

  An hour later, he slowly closed the notebook and said, ‘Sit up, Mr Merritt. Take the chair there, opposite … Heroin is addictive both physically and psychologically. That is to say that the body comes to need it physically, and the psyche needs the states of mind it creates. Stella – Mrs Merritt – apparently is so addicted, in both ways. The addiction could again be removed in a hospital in a fairly short time, as it was when sh
e was found, but she would again return to heroin as soon as released. She has to be made to want to be cured. And the first step is to rescue her from her past – her whole past, everything that has made her … Take her to America, Mr Merritt. Face her with a challenge. I came to know her a little, before she fell into this, this sad situation … and I think that is the key word – challenge. Once she decides that she must fight and overcome the challenge, the cure will not take long.’

  ‘I understand,’ John said in a low voice. ‘Everyone who knows about it has said much the same thing … But how did she get addicted?’

  Deerfield said, ‘That does not matter now, only why? Was it boredom? Lack of challenge, lack of danger? I don’t know … I would not tell her you have sought my advice, if I were you. The decision to move must seem to have come solely from you.’

  Arthur Gavilan leaned back in the swivel chair in the large drawing-room that was his ‘office’. The chair, built as a standard fixture for some board director’s office, had been rebuilt and re-upholstered in Louis XV style; which ought to have looked dreadful, but did not. The rest of the room bore similar marks of Gavilan’s impish eye and bold decisions. A gramophone on a large walnut table, with a stack of records beside it, managed to look both modern and eighteenth century. The curtains, long and damask and gold-embroidered, framed an urban view down Maddox Street and yet seemed as cosy as French provincial.

  Tom Rowland, sitting in a high-backed chair, also Louis XV, with his legs stretched out, crossed at the ankle, was studying a sheaf of patterns lent to him by Gavilan’s head cutter, Gertrude O’Keefe. He glanced up – ‘Arthur, look at this – your sketches showed you wanted this dress made of Lyons silk, and cut on the bias from the waist down. Gertrude’s got the cutting marked so that it would hang straight. I wonder why?’

  Gavilan lowered his book and glanced over – ‘H’m … Oh, yes, that one … she talked to me about it, and we agreed to change it. That material is too light to hang well on the cross – I wasn’t thinking. We’ll go and look at it in a moment, when I’ve finished this chapter.’ He looked at an ornate desk calendar beside him on the table – ‘Damn, we have a would-be client to see first – Mrs Cullman.’

  ‘Gwilyn Cullman?’

  Gavilan nodded, ‘He’s soap … she’s a niece of Lord Rameley … has aspirations of running a political salon to rival the Astors at Cliveden.’

  A young man in faultless morning coat and striped trousers stood in the doorway. ‘Mr G,’ he said, ‘Mrs Cullman’s here.’

  Gavilan glanced at the Buhl clock on the red-marbled mantelpiece, frowning. ‘She’s fifteen minutes early,’ he said.

  ‘I know. She says her dentist put forward her next appointment without warning, so she hoped …’

  Gavilan said, looking at Tom, ‘Shall we make her wait? Does she think her wretched dentist is more important to her than I am?’

  Tom said, ‘Well … The poor woman couldn’t help it, obviously. But she might have been wiser to ask Jeremy to give her another appointment.’

  Gavilan said, ‘Well, we can make her understand her place later, can’t we? If we want to dress her at all. Bring her in, Jeremy.’

  ‘Gertrude, too?’

  Gavilan nodded, and Tom composed his face into the look of polite indifference which Gavilan had demanded of him. Gertrude came in, a short square woman in her fifties, a large sketch pad and pencil in one hand – ‘Who is it, Mr G?’ she asked.

  ‘Mrs Cullman.’

  ‘Oi’ve seen her picture,’ Gertrude said, the Irish accent strong.

  Jeremy the secretary appeared at the door – ‘Mrs Cullman, sir.’

  She came in, making an entrance – five foot six, about thirty, piled blonde hair, expensively dressed, a fur swishing round her graceful neck, two diamonds on her fingers … a waft of expensive perfume, not too sweet, not too heavy for the time of day. Jeremy went out, closing the door silently behind him. The men rose, Gertrude standing behind them. Gavilan put his hand out – ‘I’m Arthur Gavilan … This is Commander Tom Rowland, my partner … What a pretty dress.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. It’s…’

  ‘Where did you get it? Harrod’s?’

  The woman started slightly, recovered herself, and waved a coquettish finger, ‘Ah, Mr Gavilan, it’s we ladies who are supposed to be catty. This is a Worth design.’

  Gavilan pursed his lips and said, ‘Dear me … Do sit down.’ He made to move forward, but she had sunk into a chair facing them before he reached it. She arranged her dress and fur and smiled confidently at him.

  ‘You would like me to dress you?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, please. I think you are so original … so daring. I don’t want to look like all the other women, in their Chanels, Fratellis, Worths … as you say, there is something Harrodish about them, isn’t there?’

  Gavilan said, ‘I only dress from head to toe. Inside and out. Day and night. Summer and winter.’

  ‘Can I wear my own sports clothes?’ the woman said anxiously. ‘I’m really rather good at golf and shooting, and … if I’m not absolutely comfortable, I …’

  Gavilan said coldly, ‘If you’re not absolutely comfortable, and absolutely confident, in my clothes at any time, we will both have failed. I can’t have it known that I dress you, and then you appear in Yorkshire in some dreadful outfit that was bequeathed to you by your great-aunt. It is perfectly possible to be both fashionable and practical.’

  ‘Oh of course. I understand. Certainly.’

  ‘It’ll cost you ten to fifteen thousand a year, depending on how many dresses you need.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mr Gavilan. Perfectly all right.’

  Gavilan nodded – ‘Stand up, then.’

  Hesitatingly, she rose, sweeping the fur round her neck. Staring at him, she realised that he wanted her to model herself and turned slowly, as she had seen a few live models do at modern fashion shows.

  She turned, quite gracefully, but without the exaggerated movements of a professional, to display the swing and cling of the garment.

  She faced him again – ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Take off your clothes. All of them.’

  ‘But …’ She was blushing pink now, the firm line of her jaw dissolving.

  ‘I cannot decide whether it’s worth dressing your body until I see it … My time is really quite valuable, Mrs Cullman, at least to me.’

  She undressed slowly, the colour coming and going in her face and neck. At last she stood naked before them, her face finally drained of colour. Gavilan began to speak, while Gertrude took notes and Mrs Cullman’s teeth chattered – ‘Bust too big for today … might come back into fashion in a few years … bony hips … right shoulder an inch lower than the left … knock-knees, a little more than most women … face triangular, hair thick – best feature … neck long, very good for five, six more years … Turn round … buttocks big, should be tighter … need exercise there … Stand on that machine, there, please …’ Gertrude went over as Mrs Cullman, still dead white, stood on the platform.

  ‘Five foot five and seven eighths,’ Gertrude said. ‘Eight stone one.’

  ‘She needs to take off four pounds,’ Gavilan said, ‘mostly in the buttocks. You may dress again, Mrs Cullman.’

  She struggled awkwardly back into her clothes. This was the worst part, Tom thought. Arthur was deliberately cruel.

  At last the woman was nearly dressed. Gavilan said, ‘You have some problems, Mrs Cullman, but no more than most women.’ She turned, reaching for her fur. The colour was coming back into her face. He said, ‘I’ll dress you, on the terms we discussed.’

  She cried, ‘Oh thank you, Mr Gavilan … thank you!… When can I come for my first fitting? I need half a dozen spring dresses desperately, and … and …’

  ‘Today week, 10 a.m. … punctually,’ Arthur said, unsmiling. He was on his feet, his crimson velvet suit glowing under the chandeliers. He took her hand and bent perfunctorily over it – ‘Good day.’ T
he door opened and Jeremy appeared. Mrs Cullman muttered, stammering, ‘Oh, thank you, thank you …’

  She backed out. Gavilan sank into a chair. Tom said, ‘Really, Arthur! That was one of the worst yet.’

  Gavilan said lazily, ‘Do you fear women, Tom … or do you hate them?’

  Tom said, ‘Fear, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, you’ll never be a great couturier unless you learn to hate them as well, or at least despise them … And what’s the best way of overcoming fear?’

  ‘Attack,’ Tom said. ‘Conquer it … Oh, I suppose you’re right. Heaven knows I’m here to learn, and you’ve had years of experience with them, while I … nothing. But …’ he shrugged, saying no more.

  Gavilan said, ‘When you strike out on your own, Tom, you’ll develop your own way of managing things … but believe me, with women, especially women of fashion, either they dominate you, or you dominate them. Be warned! … Now, tell me why Admiral Beatty, at Jutland, didn’t …’

  The Countess of Swanwick was sitting behind the desk in the back office of the Hoggins Universal Store in the Edgware Road, London W2. The manager of the store, a woman, was standing across the littered desk from her, a harried look on her long face, tendrils of her greying hair escaping from the hairpins that should have held them in place. Whenever she came here Lady Swanwick’s eye always caught a few hairpins gleaming on the linoleum of the floor – no carpets in managers’ offices, of course. Lord Walstone wouldn’t have that any more than he would have carpets on the floors of the stores themselves.

  Lady Swanwick said, ‘These accounts are simply not clear, Miss Bewsher.’

  ‘They’re not quite ready, Lady Swanwick,’ the other woman said.

  They never are, Flora Swanwick thought; all store managers had to send in weekly general accounts, monthly detailed statements, and an annual stock-taking record. The dates of the stock taking were arranged by area managers, and staggered so that all HUSL shops weren’t closed at the same time. That allowed some leeway for cheating, in that goods could theoretically be moved from store to store in time to be counted several times; but Milner, Lord Walstone’s private spy, was up to that trick, and any other that managers might think of. Lady Swanwick cordially despised Milner, but he earned his salary – whatever it was; there was no denying that. If she were suddenly to become head of the HUSL chain, she’d keep him; whereas, this poor woman … The trouble was that she had never held responsibility. She was the daughter of a provincial schoolmaster; she’d spent the war as accountant at a factory in the Midlands; but she wasn’t up to managing a store by herself. The previous area manager should have found that out months ago.