Spring Magic

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Yes, of course,” repeated Frances.

  He waved to her and ran downstairs, his thick boots clattering on the stone staircase.

  For the first time Frances realised what an immense gulf lay between her outlook and the outlook of a man like Major Crabbe. War, invasion, the attempt of an enemy to land upon the beach at Cairn were viewed by him in a matter-of-fact way. He saw the possibilities and accepted them and placed them in his mind. He was prepared, morally and physically prepared, for these incredible things to happen—“that’s what we’re for,” he had said. Frances stood quite still for a few moments trying to prepare herself in the same way. She tried to imagine the thing happening—tried to imagine what she herself would do if the thing really happened—but she found it impossible. I hope I should be brave, she thought. I hope I shouldn’t do anything silly. I ought to have asked him what I was to do . . . in any case, I shall stay with Elise.

  Frances put on some more clothes and went across the landing to the Crabbes’ room. She knocked on the door and went in. Elise was lying in bed propped up with pillows. She looked even more fragile than usual, and there were dark-blue circles round her eyes, but she smiled at Frances in a friendly way.

  “So nice of you,” she said. “Ned was worried about leaving me alone—quite nonsense, of course, because I’m perfectly all right. I suppose Ned told you they were standing to,” she added.

  “Yes,” replied Frances.

  Elise sighed. “Poor darlings,” she said. “It’s so tiresome for them.”

  “Tiresome!” exclaimed Frances.

  “Yes, they’ve got all the bother without any of the excitement. Ned would like to be in Libya—or even Greece. I don’t mean he’s a fire-eater, but soldiering is his profession, so, naturally, he would like to take an active part in the war. I shouldn’t like it at all, but I wouldn’t stand in his way. It wouldn’t be right. If you marry a soldier you’ve got to marry his profession.”

  “You don’t talk about the war much,” Frances said.

  “Don’t we?” asked Elise. “No, I suppose we don’t really. They discuss it in mess, and sometimes Ned tells me things. I don’t talk about it to other people very much, because there’s always a chance that I might say something that I ought not to say . . . It’s better to get into the habit of saying nothing.”

  “So that’s why—”Frances began.

  “Only partly,” said Elise, smiling. “There are all sorts of reasons, I think. The war isn’t a new idea to us. Civilians have been saying for years that another war was impossible, but soldiers and sailors didn’t share their views. Now that the war has come with all its horrors it’s no use talking about it, is it?”

  “No,” agreed Frances.

  They were silent for a few moments, and Frances heard the sound of an approaching plane. Its engine was making that queer, intermittent, booming noise which Frances had heard so often when she lived in Wintringham Square: “Ba-room, ba-room, ba-room.”

  “That’s a Jerry,” said Elise. “I wonder where it is going.”

  It was odd hearing the noise of the enemy plane in the stillness of Cairn—odd and a trifle alarming. In London the guns had roared and barked and spluttered whenever the enemy planes had approached, but there were no guns here . . . no anti-aircraft defences whatever. If the pilot took it into his head to obliterate Cairn from the face of the earth there was nothing to prevent him from doing so. Of course Cairn was not a military objective—it was not worth obliterating—but still . . .

  “I hope the blackout is complete,” said Elise with a light laugh.

  She had hardly spoken when there was a roar like thunder and the whole house shook to its foundations. The windows rattled in their frames but did not break.

  “Heavens, that was a near thing!” exclaimed Frances in some alarm.

  “Not very near,” replied Elise, “but perhaps you should go downstairs. Mr. MacNair’s cellar would be a good place, I should think.”

  “Would you like to go down?” asked Frances, looking at her anxiously.

  She shook her head. “I’m better where I am—my heart is still a bit funny—but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go.”

  “I’ll stay with you—”

  “No, I’d much rather—”

  “Honestly, I hate cellars—”

  They were arguing somewhat heatedly when Mrs. MacNair knocked on the door and peeped in.

  “It was a bomb,” she said.

  “We thought it might be,” replied Elise with gentle sarcasm.

  “It fell on the shore,” continued Mrs. MacNair. “The dining-room windows are covered with sand, Alec says it was a Jerry and he’s on his way to Ireland.”

  “Poor Ireland!” said Elise with a sigh.

  “There’s another—” Frances said.

  They listened and heard the same queer booming in the distance . . . “Ba-room, ba-room, ba-room”.

  “In the name of fortune!” exclaimed Mrs. MacNair in some alarm.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” said Elise. “You had better tell Alec to go round and make sure that there aren’t any lights showing. They won’t drop bombs unless they see a light—”

  “I’ll tell him,” nodded Mrs. MacNair, and with that she disappeared.

  The plane approached, roared over their heads, and sped away.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to go downstairs, Frances?” asked Elise.

  “Quite sure,” replied Frances. “I’ll sit here and read. I’ve brought my book with me . . . you can go to sleep.”

  “I’d rather talk,” said Elise. Her eyes were very bright and she did not look like sleep.

  “I’m sure you ought to rest,” declared Frances.

  Elise smiled. “I can talk and rest,” she said. “It doesn’t tire me to talk.”

  They were silent for a few moments and then Elise said: “Isn’t it funny that if you decide you’re going to talk it’s almost impossible to find anything to talk about?”

  “Yes,” said Frances, “but you must have lots to talk about. You’ve travelled so much and met so many interesting people, haven’t you?”

  “You want me to tell you the story of my life!” said Elise, laughing.

  “It would be very interesting.”

  “It would take too long. It would fill a book. As a matter of fact, I’ve sometimes thought it would be fun to write a book. I know it’s the sort of thing people often say—silly people, I mean—but I believe I could do it.”

  “Why don’t you?” asked Frances.

  “Too many distractions,” replied Elise. “Too much talking and moving about, too much worrying about Ned. It makes me so unsettled, you see. I’m either parting from Ned or planning to meet him, or meeting him and being with him for a little and wondering how long it will be before he’s dragged away and sent somewhere else and whether I shall be able to go with him . . . all so unsettled,” said Elise, waving her hands vaguely. “All such a strain—an emotional strain—and that’s why we’re all keyed up to concert pitch. It would take an Ibsen to write about us.”

  Frances was beginning to understand what Elise meant. She had always admired Elise but had liked her least of all her new friends; to-night Elise was quite different, for she had laid aside her slightly cynical manner and was talking with absolute frankness.

  “I knew what Army life was before I married Ned,” continued Elise in a dreamy sort of voice. “My parents were Army people, so we were dragged all over the world or else dumped on relations who didn’t want us. I had always said I wouldn’t marry any one in the Service, but—well, I couldn’t refuse Ned. We met in India and we were married there. Ned had had exactly the same sort of upbringing as I, and he was just as bitter about it. We decided that we wouldn’t have children until we could settle down and give them a home. It wasn’t because we didn’t want children—we both wanted them—but we knew what it entailed. We should either have to be parted, and I should have to stay at home and look after the
children, or else we should have to leave them to be looked after by other people, to be spoilt or neglected. I told Ned I wanted to go with him wherever he went and I stuck to it through thick and thin. I was the only wife in Jullundur one hot weather. Ned did all he could to persuade me to go to the hills, and he got the doctor to back him up, but I refused to go. I pretended that I liked the heat. The heat was terrific—you couldn’t imagine what it was like—I used to lie on my charpoy all day with nothing on but a kimono. It was too hot to read. I just lay there and watched the clock and waited for the hours to pass. Sometimes I lay for half an hour trying to make up my mind to turn over on my other side . . . but men have to stick it . . . why should women be pampered and privileged? It was cooler when the sun went down. I used to get up and have a bath and put on a pretty frock. Then in the evening every one used to come and see us. They just dropped in and lay about on long chairs and drank iced pegs. There wasn’t much talk—it was too hot—but I used to sing and play the banjo and they seemed to like it. I can’t sing at all,” declared Elise with a smile. “I’ve got a miserable husky little voice, but that didn’t seem to matter. They always asked me to sing. I suppose it was a change for them.” She hesitated and then added: “I was the only woman in the station, you see.”

  “Where else have you been?” asked Frances.

  “Where haven’t I been?” replied Elise with her light laugh. “I was in Jerusalem for a bit—that was interesting. It was the time when there was rioting and most of the wives were packed home, but Ned had left off trying to get rid of me. . . . It was when we were in Jerusalem that Ned’s uncle died and left him some money, and Ned said he would retire as soon as he got his majority. We were very happy about it. We planned it all—we talked about it for hours, Ned and I. There was to be no following the drums for our children; they were not going to be carted about the country and dumped into lodgings and squeezed into furnished houses. Our children were not to be planted upon relations who didn’t want them. Our children were to have a settled home. We had done our bit—so we felt—we had earned our happiness. We would find a house; it need not be large but it must have a decent garden. There must be a proper nursery, furnished as nurseries should be, with a tall fire-guard and a basket-chair. (The basket-chair was Ned’s idea. It was to be the sort of chair that creaked when you sat in it.) There was to be a window with bars and a window-seat. There was to be linoleum on the floor. There would be a dog, of course, a spaniel with long ears and a silky coat . . . but the main thing was that it was to be a proper home with a father and a mother settled permanently in it. There was to be none of that strained atmosphere, that grasping at brief periods of happiness, that uncertainty about the future which had been our lot when we were children. . . . Ned and I would settle down and have our children in peace . . . that was what we said. Wasn’t it funny?”

  Frances could not speak. She shook her head.

  “Funny,” said Elise again in a thoughtful voice. “Awfully funny, really. We came home and Ned got his majority and Jennifer was born. She was born on the eve of the most frightful war the world has ever seen. It just shows how futile it is to plan things out, doesn’t it?”

  They were silent for a few moments and in the silence they heard the sound of another plane. It was farther away than the others had been but its engine was distinctly audible.

  “That’s three,” said Elise.

  “I think it’s four,” replied Frances. “I heard another a few minutes ago. Go on, Mrs. Crabbe.”

  “Go on?” echoed Elise in surprise. “Haven’t you heard enough? I’ve never told any one so much about myself before—not even Tommy—and, by the way, don’t you think you might call me Elise? I’ve been calling you Frances for several days, but perhaps you haven’t noticed.”

  “I’d like to call you Elise,” Frances said.

  “You must think I’m mad to tell you all this,” said Elise. She hesitated for a moment and then continued: “I wanted to tell you some of it because I saw your face the other night when they were all singing that song, but I didn’t mean to tell you quite so much. It’s very easy to tell you things.”

  “But why?” asked Frances in bewilderment. “I mean, why did you want to tell me—”

  “Because I hate that song.”

  “‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen’?” asked Frances.

  Elise nodded. “The midday sun isn’t funny,” she said. “It’s a great, glaring, blaring, brassy enemy. Nobody but a fool would go out in the midday sun if they could avoid it. The midday sun shrivels you up and sucks the marrow out of your very bones. It saps your energy so that after a little you find yourself talking in a whisper . . . there’s nothing funny about it.” She hesitated again and added: “Army life is fun sometimes. It’s fun going about and seeing the world, especially when you’re young; but it isn’t all fun. . . . I don’t want to brown you off completely, but it would be unfair to let you think it was all beer and skittles.”

  Frances was more bewildered than ever. The verb “to brown off” was not in her vocabulary. . . . She didn’t know what Elise meant by saying that it would be unfair to let her think that Army life was all beer and skittles . . . why would it be unfair? She gave up the problem with a sigh, and in the silence that followed she considered the problems of her friends. The Crabbes had tried to plan for the future and their plans had all gone wrong; the Listons had not planned anything but had just battled along, taking things as they came and wearing themselves out in their struggle to make ends meet. Tommy’s troubles were of a different nature but even more confusing.

  She said suddenly and impulsively: “Can’t any one do anything to help Tommy?”

  “No,” replied Elise. “Nobody can do anything for any one. They only burn their fingers if they try.” She looked at her own long thin fingers as she spoke. “But I had to try,” she added softly.

  CHAPTER XVI

  The clock on the mantelpiece was pointing to twelve when Frances opened her eyes. She looked at it in amazement and then suddenly she remembered the events of the previous night. It had been nearly five before she had left Elise and gone to bed, so she had slept solidly for seven hours. She was still lying there, and trying to make up her mind to get up and have a bath, when the door opened very quietly and Annie’s face appeared round the corner. “Oh, you’re awake!” said Annie. “Mrs. Crabbe said I wasn’t to wake you, but I thought I’d just peep in and see if there was anything you were wanting . . . You should see the hole in the sand. Every soul in the place has been down to the shore looking at it. I was saying to Mrs. MacNair it’s a pity we couldn’t charge them thrippence and send it to the Spitfire Fund.”

  “Was there any damage done?” asked Frances, clasping her hands behind her head.

  “None at all,” replied Annie. “And nobody was hurt, either . . . it’s lucky, isn’t it? Alec says they dropped the bomb because of Fergus MacNair’s skylight—he didn’t black it out properly, the wee wretch. Alec’s been at him more than once about it but he wouldn’t heed. He just said the Germans would never come here.”

  “I hope he’ll do it now,” said Frances a trifle anxiously.

  Annie smiled. “It’s been done,” she said. “Old Mr. Fraser—he’s Donald Fraser’s brother—took a pot of paint and a pair of steps and down he went to the house when Fergus was out and painted the skylight all over and when Fergus went home the house was as dark as the grave. It was Ellen MacNair told me, and she said Fergus was furious but he daren’t say much, for every soul in the village is against him. It’s a grand joke,” declared Annie, laughing heartily.

  Frances smiled. It certainly was funny, but she could not help feeling that there might be trouble over it. “He hadn’t any right to do it,” she pointed out.

  “Right!” echoed Annie indignantly. “It wasn’t right for Fergus to let his skylight show. Alec says he was a danger to the community—that’s what Alec says—and the whole of Cairn is saying the same thing. What’s the use of other folk spending
good money on great ugly curtains if Fergus lets his skylight blaze like a beacon every night? He’ll not do it any more, that’s one good thing. We’ll be able to sleep in our beds without the fear of getting blown to pieces by a German bomb.”

  “How is Mrs. Crabbe?” asked Frances.

  “She says she’s better,” replied Annie, “but she’s not looking very grand and that’s the truth. She’s had her breakfast and she’s staying in bed. The Major rang up from the camp and I spoke to him myself.”

  “I hope you didn’t frighten him, Annie.”

  “Not me,” she replied. “I said we’d see to her. He’s coming over in the afternoon. Here’s two letters for you, Miss Field,” she added, taking them out of her apron pocket and handing them over.

  Frances looked at the letters with interest. One of them was from Dr. Digby and she opened that first. She had been hoping for a letter from the old doctor.

  MY DEAR FRANCES (wrote Dr. Digby),

  I am very pleased to hear you are enjoying yourself and meeting some interesting people. I am also pleased to hear that you have decided to take up useful work. You are too modest about your capabilities, for although you cannot drive a car nor use a typewriter, you have had experience in running a large house. I suggest that canteen-work might be suitable. A friend of mine who is the manager of a large munition plant is opening a canteen for his work-people, and is anxious to find a capable woman to take charge of it, to look after the staff and do the catering. I feel sure that you are the right person for the job and have written to tell him so. This does not bind you in any way, of course, but I hope you will consider it. The Jerries were over here last night and were inconsiderate enough to drop an H.E. bomb upon my small establishment. Nobody was hurt, but the house is in a bad way and what is left of it will have to come down. Fortunately I was able to get in touch with your uncle and he has agreed to rent me his house in Wintringham Square. (You will be amused to think of me living in No. 9.) It is too big for an old bachelor, but I am glad to have a roof over my head. I can shut up the top stories, of course. I inquired for Mrs. Wheeler and was glad to hear that she seems a good deal better.