Not So Quiet...

by Helen Zenna Smith

  CHAPTER IX

  THE ghostly procession at last fades and I sleep, and as I sleep I dream sweetly. I am in my soft low bed at home with its rose satin eiderdown and its fragrant-scented sheets. My head rests on downy pillows. My nightgown is soft and silken.

  I awaken gradually, gently. I half open my eyes and close them quickly again. Let the dream continue, the lovely, lovely dream. In a minute Commandant’s whistle will blow, and I shall be transformed into Smith, ambulance driver.

  Let the dream go on.

  “A fine morning, Miss Nellie, a real touch of spring in the air.”

  That was Sarah. I watch her place the dainty breakfast tray on the little bed-table where I can reach it without effort. She draws the curtains aside, the spring sun floods the room, shining on a china bowl of early daffodils and jonquils. Oh, peaceful, peaceful dream! In a minute she will vanish—fat, comfortable Sarah in her old-fashioned black frock and plain, enveloping apron. None of your flibberty-gibbert modern maids about Sarah. In a minute she will vanish as she has so often vanished.

  The little enamelled clock strikes nine.

  “Letters, Miss Nellie. Wake up.”

  She thrusts some letters into my hand. The contact rouses me. I am awake. I am not dreaming. I am at home. I am not dreaming. I bury my face thankfully in the soft pillow so that Sarah may not see the tears in my eyes. . . .

  It is three weeks since I came home, but every morning I imagine I am dreaming and weep when I am not.

  “Now then, Miss Nellie, I boiled that new-laid egg myself; eat it up like a good girl and get some flesh on your bones.”

  She goes out fussily, tactful Sarah, without noticing the tears.

  Since ever we moved to Wimbledon Common this room has been mine, yet never till now have I loved it and revelled in its luxurious comfort. The ghostly procession still parades for me, yet nightly it is growing less vivid—soon it may fade altogether. Slowly I am becoming normal. France is far away, a foreign land separated by a tract of water wider than the Atlantic, and I am no longer Smith, ambulance driver, but Miss Smith, of Wimbledon Common, although mother is becoming restive about my prolonged sick leave. Wimbledon Common does not encourage idleness in wartime.

  I open my first letter eagerly. It is from Trix, and Trix has not written since I have been home.

  “Glad you’ve left that dog’s hole of a convoy, Cis . . . too tired to write much of a letter . . . fed up, utterly . . . rotten time here . . . dirty dishes get you down after a while . . . wish I could get leave. . . . Is mother still flying the British flag from every pore? . . . Rotten letter this. . . .”

  What is wrong with Trix? Once she was the brightest thing on earth, now behind the most comic incident in the hospital routine I see a dreadful tiredness.

  “Sunny and I nipped into the town without leave with Pip and Squeak, two of the convalescents . . . we all got terribly blotto. Sunny was awfully funny, she’s a tophole sort; you’d like her awfully. . . .”

  Not if she takes Trix and gets her blotto I won’t.

  “I wish the war was over, Cis, and you and I were living peacefully again. . . . Sunday mornings I always think of our long gossips on your bed. . . .”

  The second letter, also marked On Active Service, from Etta Potato.

  Commandant has been promoted, had I heard? The new Commandant a bit of a madam, but sensible with it; fixed hours for sleep and French charwomen for the housework. . . . Why don’t I have another shot at the convoy? I’ll have to get another war job if I don’t go out to France—it’s done, isn’t it? . . . Can’t slack about when there’s a war on, can one? . . .

  A large expensive envelope the third, written in a round affected backhand in green ink—green hand-torn paper with green initials on the flap—B.F.

  “DEAREST DARLING SMITHY,

  “Etta Potato told me you were home, and, as you gave your kit away, are not likely to go out again. My dear, how appalling about darling Tosh, but perhaps you have read the interview I gave the reporter who discovered I had been her inseparable friend in the dear old convoy; so I gave him all the details of our life and how brave dear Tosh was, and he took a flashlight picture of me in my new uniform, breeches and leggings and a gorgeous khaki tunic with officers’ pockets, terribly smart, dear, and underneath written, ‘A Beautiful War Worker’—the dreadful flatterer, although everyone says you could have told it was me anywhere. Tosh’s uncle, the darling old Earl, came to see me and took me to lunch at the Savoy, and he was terribly cut up about Tosh, and, I must confess, wasn’t frightfully patriotic about the war; said the W.O. would be satisfied when it had killed off its young women as well as butchering its young men. ‘Now,’ I said to him, ‘you know you’d go to-morrow if you were young enough,’ and what do you think he said? ‘No, I’m damned if I would if I could get out of it decently’—so like dear blunt Tosh in his manner, but a sweet thing underneath, I feel sure.

  “I’ve fallen into a perfectly adorable job, driving the dearest young Colonel about London, such a lamb of a man and unmarried too. Still doing my bit, as dear Tosh used to say. I’m a despatch rider, but although we work long hours I get dances and dinners innumerable, and I’ve thousands of adorable men friends. Perhaps I could work you in; now you’re back you’ll want to carry on with the good work, won’t you? One must do one’s bit; it’s done, isn’t it? Do let us meet and chat about the dear old convoy; I’m just aching to know the details of poor, dear Tosh’s sad death. It must have been too thrilling, though very, very tragic. How I love the memory of the convoy; such a wonderful privilege to have had the experience. I told the reporter that, but perhaps you read it.

  “With fondest love,

  “BERTINA FARMER

  (Or The B.F., as dear Tosh would call me).

  “P.S.—Rather sad about The Bug, too.”

  “The B.F.’s of the world are to be envied.” . . . Who said that? The Bug, of course, the night of The B.F.’s farewell party. “I envy her youth, beauty and money, but most of all I envy her genuine love of life’s little conventions. . . .”

  Etta Potato and The B.F.—both genuine lovers of life’s little conventions, both devotees of the “It’s Done” cult. “Of course you’ll go on doing your bit—it’s done, isn’t it?”

  “May I come in, darling?”

  Mother bustles in, handsome with her white hair and expensive morning dress. She is carrying a sheaf of papers—committee papers, she explains; she is so rushed she won’t have time for a morsel of lunch—two committee meetings, a sewing circle, then canteen work, and this afternoon a monster recruiting meeting. She glances nervously at me as she chatters. She has come to say something and lacks the courage.

  “A really monster meeting, darling,” she repeats; “and Mother wants her girl to do something special—Mother wants her girl to wear her uniform and make a little speech at the recruiting meeting.”

  I sit up, hard-eyed, the blood draining from my face.

  “No!”

  Why not? . . . It is three weeks since I came home and surely I am not going to moon about any longer . . . people are thinking it’s funny . . . perfectly absurd the way I refuse to go anywhere; it isn’t as though I was a wounded soldier. I was tired possibly when I came back, but after three weeks . . . surely a little speech at a recruiting meeting. After all, when a girl’s mother is working at top pressure, the least her daughter can do is to encourage her and help . . . why, I won’t even wear my badge of honour—my uniform.

  I laugh.

  Why am I laughing? Other girls on leave go out with their mothers in uniform and are proud to see their mothers are proud of them. . . . I won’t allow my mother to be proud of me. What’s the matter with me? Once I was a sweet girl, happy and interested in local things, now I’m bitter and snappy and sarcastic and with a tongue like an adder, yes, and not above swearing, either, actually swearing. Goodness knows where I picked up such language, certainly not at home. . . . When Roy Evans-Mawnington came home with his fr
actured arm he went everywhere with his mother in uniform to please her. . . . Why should I object to saying a few words at a recruiting meeting to show an example to the male and female slackers who are hanging back and refusing to obey the call of King and country?

  “I won’t do it, mother.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why should I encourage people to do what I have no intention of doing myself?”

  “You? You’re going back soon. . . .”

  “No. I’ve burnt my uniform and given my kit away. I have finished with the war for good.”

  There, it is out at last.

  Mother rises, the committee papers dropping on the floor, fluttering about her feet like large, dismayed butterflies.

  “You have what?” she gasps.

  “I have left the convoy. I am not on leave.”

  She glares at me, resentful, unbelieving. It is a bitter blow to her pride. For a whole minute she glares, then gathers up her papers slowly.

  “What will Mrs. Evans-Mawnington say?” she bursts forth at last. “What will she say to my daughter taking a cushy job in England?”

  How well up in war-slang is mother!

  I might as well get it over.

  Not even a cushy job, I tell her, not even a cushy job in England. I have finished; I am not having anything to do with the war in future. I hate war. I disapprove of the whole principle of licensed killing. I am about to tell her I am afraid, a rank coward, when she bursts into a torrent of words.

  “Are you mad? What will Aunt Helen say? She has just made you her heiress. She is one of our most ardent recruiters. She will never forgive you, never. And your father, chosen to respond to ‘Our War Girls’ at his club’s annual dinner next week because of you and Trix—what will he say?”

  What will Mrs. Evans-Mawnington say? What will Aunt Helen say? What will Father say? Not what do I say? “Butchered to make a Wimbledon Common holiday.” . . .

  No, I will not be flippant. Neither will I argue. I have finished. There is no argument.

  “I think it’s the most disgraceful thing I’ve ever encountered,” says Mother. “You, a young strong woman, determined to slack at home instead of doing your bit, shaming your mother before everybody, your own mother, who is working night and day until she is nearly dropping. Just think of how Mrs. Evans-Mawnington will crow over me now, and Roy with a wound-stripe. And any of these people at the recruiting meetings can stand up and say: ‘And what about your own family?’ That’s going to be nice for me, isn’t it? Surely you can at least get a cushy job in England if you won’t go back to France?”

  “Neither England nor France.”

  She tries a touch of pathos.

  “We were so proud, Daddy and I, of our two war girls. Every night we used to put your photographs on the dining-table and tears would come to our eyes. . . .”

  “Yes, while Trix and I were doing the dirty work you wept comfortably over your comfortable dinner-table.” . . . No, I will not say it aloud.

  “I don’t believe in war. I think it’s vile and wrong, mother. It’s a chemists’ war. There’s nothing decent in it. Men are being killed by men, miles away, they’ve never seen. . . .”

  “Wrong? How can it be wrong? The freedom of the world was threatened. . . .”

  What’s the use? The clap-trap of the recruiting platform. . . .

  “I am not arguing, mother. I just don’t believe in war.”

  She gives a cry.

  “Nellie, you’re not a pacifist!”

  “I’m a pacifist if they’re against war.”

  She sneers. “You’ll be saying next you’re a conscientious objector.” (She could not be more contemptuous if she had suggested “streetwalker.”)

  “I am if they are against war.”

  She throws up her hands in horror. “To think that I, your mother, should have to stand here and listen to such dreadful things—almost blasphemous things in the face of the splendid deeds our soldiers are doing in France. A pacifist indeed—an excuse for cowardice.”

  “I am a coward, mother.” I lean forward and catch her hand to try to make her understand. “Mother, you don’t know what it’s like out there driving those ambulances full of torn men—torn to bits with shrapnel—sometimes they die on the way. . . .”

  She pulls herself away. “At least they have died doing their duty,” she says.

  She goes out weeping.

  ·····

  Aunt Helen is the first to attack me. She refuses to credit anything so utterly absurd as the tale Mother has told her. Mother is rather like a mother in a Lyceum melodrama when her emotions are stirred, says Aunt Helen jovially.

  I say nothing.

  Firstly, Mother informs her I am opposed to war on principle? Well, quite right; we are all opposed to war on principle, but we must stand by our country just the same.

  I say nothing.

  As to my being afraid, Mother is a fool. She should have sent me to Aunt Hadow’s in Devon for a complete change of air; anyone can see my nerves are all on edge. Very well, I shall go at once; a few weeks will soon fix me up, get me strong and able to resume war service.

  It takes the best part of an hour to convince Aunt Helen there will be no resumption of war service. Then she hurls her last bomb!

  “Unless you return to France I alter my will to-morrow.”

  I smile.

  Furious, she rises. “Your conduct is outrageous, degrading.” She stalks out, white with anger at her failure. The human sacrifice has gone on strike, and Aunt is unaccustomed to human sacrifices going on strike.

  Next comes Father—angry with me, but hating what Mother is making him do. I feel sorry for him. My allowance is to be stopped until I come to my senses. I don’t mind. I tell him if the worst comes to the worst I can always be a charwoman—I have had plenty of experience in the convoy. But I will not do any more war service.

  In the house Mother treats me as a pariah—but she is cunning. Elaborately she hides my shame from the outside world. If I were having one of the war-babies in which she is so interested she could not be more cunning. The doctor calls every second day. Bulletins of my health are carefully circulated. “Nellie is a trifle better,” or “The poor child has gone to pieces again.” I can rouse her to the last pitch of fury by facetiously inquiring how am I this morning—blooming or prostrate? And although as the weeks pass into months Mrs. Evans-Mawnington gets more and more suspicious, she can prove nothing.

  ·····

  Roy has come home on leave unexpectedly. I was not told he was dining with us. I met him by accident in the hall—a tall, grown-up Roy I hardly knew.

  “Nell!”

  He told me I’d grown awfully pretty. I hadn’t, but I liked him to say so. All through dinner we kept watching one another, he was so inconceivably changed—and I . . .

  “He’s got seven days,” Mrs. Evans-Mawnington kept saying, “but he’s dying to get back, bad boy.”

  I caught Roy’s eye understandingly and we both grinned.

  “Nellie’s got indefinite sick leave,” said Mother; “she hates it.”

  Roy and I grinned again.

  “I wish you’d do a theatre to-morrow, Nell,” said Roy.

  I accepted promptly, in spite of Mother’s warning glances. Mrs. Evans-Mawnington, too, was furious. She was determined to keep Roy away from me, and I was equally determined she should not, but Mother, seeing my face, swerved round to my side. A little gaiety, perhaps, would not harm me. So I am going.

  ·····

  Roy telephones to make sure I have not forgotten. Forgotten? When I have washed my hair and sewn buckles on my slippers and put fresh shoulder straps on my satin petticoat.

  Queer that I should be so thrilled at the prospect of going out with Roy, whom I have known all these years.

  Queer sitting in a pink-shaded restaurant alone with Roy.

  Queerer still catching my breath because he looks at me instead of choosing dinner, to the waiter’s irritation
.

  Queerer even to have him fussing—can I eat this, that, and the other? Am I well enough to have an ice? . . .

  “I’m not ill, Roy, not physically, anyhow. I’m war-sick. I’m fed up with the whole business, scared to death; Mother’s ashamed of me, bitterly, that’s why she’s telling people I’m ill.”

  He understands, as I knew he would. Of course Roy would be the only one to understand.

  “Aren’t the parents bloodthirsty? The way I’ve got to pretend I’m the little hero, Nell. I had a month in the trenches before I got that Blighty fracture, and I’d do anything on God’s earth rather than go back. The wires I pulled to get this base job, I can tell you. You understand? . . .”

  “I understand, Roy.”

  “In the home circle I hate being out of things, all that muck—Mother dying for me to get decorations, V.C.’s and things; sometimes I fancy she’d rather have them than me. The V.C.? When my stomach turns over with fright every time I hear a shot fired. It’s pretty bloody, Nell, when you’ve got men under you and you’ve got to be a shining example. Only for my sergeant, I’d have turned and run the first time; I swear it. ‘Steady on, sir,’ he said. ‘You’ll get the hang of it in ’arf a tick’—and I suppose I did. I wanted to thank him afterwards—but we never saw him again. Prisoner, or blown to hell—God only knows! I can tell you this, Nell, can’t I?”

  “You can tell me, Roy.”

  I tell him something of the convoy; how good to tell Roy, who understands! He holds my hand while I am talking. A silence falls between us. He taps a fork abstractedly.

  “Would it matter two damns to you if I was not shot to blazes, Nell?”

  The waiter comes back, takes an order, goes again.

  “Would it?”

  Would it? Roy one of my maimed procession—dear God, no.

  ·····

  The theatre is jolly—a revue, lights, music, fun, pretty girls, but to us it’s merely a background. We sit in the shadow of our box and whisper, Roy with his arm across the back of my chair, now and again caressing my ears, rubbing his hand up and down my short hair—“kid’s hair,” he calls it.