The curve of the road brought Wynne to the Market Place, a cobbled square where, in former days, the fishermen had sold their catches. They did not do that now, but put them in boxes and sent them by train to London … it was rather a pity, Wynne thought. The mist was very thick here between the tall narrow houses, and, if Wynne had not known the way so well, she might have paused, but her footsteps scarcely slackened as she cut across the square, leaving the High Street on her right, and turned down Harbour Street to the fishermen’s quarters. Wynne was going to see one of her Guides who had failed to turn up at the meeting last night. She was ill—so one of the other girls had declared, and on being asked what was the matter she had replied that it was “just one of Nellie’s sick turns.”
Fortunately Nellie was not too ill to see Miss Braithwaite and indeed she evinced the greatest pleasure and excitement when Miss Braithwaite appeared.
“There,” said Mrs. Gurney as she showed in the visitor. “It’s worth being ill, isn’t it, Nellie, to have Miss Braithwaite come and see you.”
It almost was. Not only was Miss Braithwaite welcome for her own sake, but also for the reason that Nellie would be able to boast of it to her friends. She could imagine herself talking about it in a casual sort of voice. “Oh yes,” she would say, “Miss Braithwaite came all the way to see me and brought me things.”
“I don’t think it’s ever worth being ill,” Wynne said, as she handed over the bag of oranges and the sheaf of illustrated papers she had brought and looked about for a vase in which to arrange the sweet peas.
“Oh Miss, how kind of you!” Nellie said. “Yes, there’s a vase on the mantelshelf … and water in the jug … Oh my, how lovely they are!”
Wynne took the vase and filled it and began to arrange the flowers. “I picked them myself,” she said. “I like sweet peas, don’t you—and I like them all different colours. They’re so nice to look at.”
“Oh, it was good of you to come.”
“Of course I had to come. I wanted to see you; besides it’s so boring lying in bed … you’ll soon be better, won’t you?”
“Oh Miss!” said Nellie, her eyes clouding with anxiety. “Oh Miss, I don’t know what’s going to happen—truly I don’t.”
“What’s the matter?” inquired Wynne.
“It’s Doctor,” declared Nellie in a smothered sort of voice. “Doctor says I did ought to have my ’pendix taken out … says that’s why I’m having sick turns and all.”
“I expect it is,” said Wynne, looking at her thoughtfully.
“Mother says it isn’t. Mother says I needn’t go to hospital if I don’t want to … Oh dear, it was such a to-do.”
“But why?” inquired Wynne. “If you’ve got to have it out you’ll just have to bear it.”
“Mother says I needn’t … Oh dear, I wish they’d let me alone,” wailed Nellie.
“Goodness!” exclaimed Wynne. “Goodness me—and you a Guide! Now listen to me,” she added, sitting down on the edge of Nellie’s bed and smiling at her in a friendly way. “Now listen to me. Having your appendix out isn’t anything at all.”
“It isn’t anything!” cried Nellie in horrified tones. “Why, whatever can you mean? Not anything to be taken away to hospital and be cut up with knives!”
“Of course it isn’t nice,” said Wynne, shaking her head gravely. “Of course it isn’t the sort of thing a person would choose to have done to them, but when a thing has got to be done we must just bear it.”
“Mother says it’s awful,” said Nellie, her eyes filling with tears of self-pity. “Mother says I’ll never be the same again.”
This was the sort of foolishness that always made Wynne angry. Her face hardened a little and her tone grew firm. “No,” she said. “No, you’ll never be the same again. You’ll never have any more sick attacks and you’ll never have that horrid pain. You’ll be sorry about that, won’t you?”
“No … I don’t know,” faltered Nellie, turning her head away. “Oh dear, I’d rather just be left alone. I don’t mind having a sick attack now and then.”
“Then you’re very silly indeed.”
Nellie looked up in alarm. (She knew that tone, for she had heard it once or twice before. If somebody was slacking, or not playing the game in the manner in which a good Guide should, Miss Braithwaite used that tone with excellent effect. “Oh well, of course,” she would say in exactly that tone. “Oh well, of course if that’s what you feel about it I don’t know why you belong to the Guides at all!”)
“Oh Miss!” exclaimed poor Nellie. “Oh dear … I suppose I’ll have to go through with it … oh dear, I don’t want them to cut me open with a knife.”
Wynne relented at once. “That’s right,” she said. “That’s much better, Nellie … and you won’t feel anything at all. You won’t know anything about it.”
“Chloroform!” said Nellie with a shudder.
“Yes, marvellous stuff,” declared Wynne. “It’s just like going to sleep, and then you wake up and it’s all over.”
Nellie stared at her with unbelieving eyes. “It’s easy to say. How do you know it’s like that?”
“Because I’ve had it myself, of course.”
“You’ve had it! You mean you’ve had your ’pendix out?”
Wynne nodded.
“Oh Miss—not really?”
Wynne nodded again. “Yes,” she said, “and it isn’t anything to worry about—honestly it isn’t.”
She held out her hand and Nellie took it and clung to it like a drowning man. “Oh Miss!” she said, “Oh Miss, I am glad you’ve had your ’pendix out. I’ll be like you, won’t I?”
“Yes,” said Wynne, patting her hand.
“I don’t mind—really I don’t—not nearly so much.”
“You’ll be good and brave, won’t you?”
Nellie nodded, “And I’ll think of you,” she said. “I’ll think of you when I go to the hospital … I’ll think of you all the time.”
“And I’ll be thinking of you,” said Wynne, nodding her head gravely.
So far so good, but there was a lot more to be done before Wynne could feel that the thing was settled. She interviewed Mrs. Gurney next and spoke to her pretty strongly about the folly of her ways.
“It’s very wicked indeed to frighten Nellie like that,” declared Miss Braithwaite with flashing eyes.
Mrs. Gurney, a small, ineffectual sort of woman with wispy hair, gazed at Miss Braithwaite in dismay. “Oh dear,” she said weakly. “Oh my, I don’t know what to do, I’m sure.”
“You must do exactly as the doctor says.”
“My husband died in hospital,” said Mrs. Gurney, wiping a bone-dry eye with the corner of a very dirty apron. “I don’t want Nellie to go to hospital, Miss.”
“That’s just silly,” said Wynne firmly. “Nellie will probably die if she doesn’t have her appendix out … and it will be all your fault.”
“Die!” exclaimed Mrs. Gurney.
“Yes,” said Wynne. “Your appendix goes bad and poisons you. The surgeon explained it to me. Do be sensible, Mrs. Gurney,” she added impatiently.
Mrs. Gurney agreed to be sensible—she was too browbeaten to do anything else. Wynne was aware, however, that the moment her back was turned, Mrs. Gurney might change her mind—she was that sort of person—and they would be back at the beginning again, so she pursued Doctor Headley all round Chellford and ran him to earth at a confinement case. Nothing was happening at the moment and Doctor Headley was only too pleased to come out on to the doorstep—as he was asked to do—and speak to Miss Braithwaite. He was a newcomer to Chellford and exceedingly young, and he decided instantly that this was the prettiest girl he had ever seen.
“Yes,” he said, smiling at her, “Yes, Miss Braithwaite?”
“It’s about Nellie Gurney,” said Wynne, somewhat breathlessly. “I’ve fixed it up and they’re going to be sensible.”
“Oh, good work!”
“Yes,” said Wynne. “Yes, they�
��ve agreed.”
Doctor Headley laughed. “There was an awful fuss this morning,” he told her. “I tried to persuade them for all I was worth … that Gurney woman is an absolute fool.”
“Yes,” agreed Wynne in heartfelt tones. “Yes, isn’t she? And, as a matter of fact you’d better get on with it before she has time to think about it and change her mind again.”
“I shall,” declared Doctor Headley firmly. “That girl ought to have had the operation weeks ago. I’ll get her off to hospital this afternoon. I’ll be thankful when I get her safely there.”
“Good,” said Wynne, who liked quick work. “Good. Well, I’ve got a lot of things to do—”
She turned and retreated down the steps.
“I say!” said Doctor Headley, pursuing her, “I say, how on earth did you manage it, Miss Braithwaite?”
“Oh, I just told them,” Wynne said.
There was tennis at the Audleys’ that afternoon and Wynne thought of Nellie quite often—as she had promised to do—and that night when she went to bed she thought of Nellie again and wondered how she was feeling, and Nellie’s name was mentioned in her prayers.
Wynne was going through a difficult time herself. She was “growing up” and was suffering from growing pains. Life was not all honey and jam. Sometimes she felt radiantly happy and sometimes she felt sad, and there seemed to be no sane reason for these divergent feelings. It was July now and nothing had been heard of Frank since the day he had left Roy and disappeared, but Wynne did not believe that he had vanished altogether from her life … he loved her, she knew. When people loved each other they belonged to each other—Frank belonged to her and she to him. Whatever happened there would always be Frank and so she could bear anything, even this strange and prolonged silence. Every day she expected a letter from Frank—or even better, he might suddenly come back—and every morning she got up wondering if she would hear from him today. At night, when she went to bed, she shut her eyes tightly and willed herself to sleep because Frank might come tomorrow.… She was not unhappy—except just sometimes—and she went about as usual and played tennis and enjoyed herself, but the world seemed a trifle unreal to her and Frank became more real. Frank was hers—they were bound up together—and someday he would come back.
Wynne had never bothered much about her personal appearance (she was one of those fortunate people who do not need to bother) but now, when she stood in front of her mirror brushing her hair or powdering her nose, she looked at herself with interest. Frank loved her, and she was dearer to herself because she was precious to Frank.
Her family—Sophie and Dane and Roy—were just as dear to Wynne as ever, but just at the moment they did not seem very real; for Frank coloured all her thoughts. She could have been happy on a desert island with Frank. With Frank’s arm round her she could face anything that might come … and queer things were coming. The world was not quite so secure and comfortable as it used to be. There were all sorts of strange things going on during that summer of 1939: Gas Courses, where they told you about the ghastly effects of phosgene and mustard gas and lewisite, and First Aid Courses, where they showed you how to bind up broken limbs. Wynne attended these courses—everyone did—and she made copious notes, but somehow or other it was impossible to believe that this knowledge would ever be needed, and she was pretty certain that nobody else believed it either. There was a good deal of laughter and fun at the bandaging lessons and the grim idea at the bottom of all these activities remained at the bottom undisturbed.
Dane had gone away some weeks ago and Wynne missed him—but not as much as usual. Roy’s ship was still in the vicinity and he came and went at irregular intervals. Migs had recovered from his wound and was at the Westshire Regimental Depot, helping to drill recruits. He came and went too, and was almost as irregular and unexpected in his comings and goings as Roy. It was a very unsettling sort of time, and the people who remained firmly fixed in Chellford found it difficult to make plans. If they arranged tennis it had to be arranged in a provisional manner. “I’ll come if Migs doesn’t turn up,” Nina would say, “or if Migs turns up and wants to play I’ll bring him … he might bring a friend of course, and in that case there’ll be three of us.”
This presented grave problems for a hostess with only one court and, too often, the tennis party fell through altogether or increased to unmanageable proportions.
Migs was finding life very complicated too. He found himself caught in a snare of his own making. He had always been fond of Wynne in a brotherly sort of way and had teased her and joked with her and ordered her about in a truly brotherly manner, but now he had fallen in love with Wynne and his dearest wish was to marry her. There was no reason why he should not marry her of course; the match was eminently suitable; but unfortunately Wynne still treated him like a big brother and accepted all his advances in a jocund spirit. Migs had tried his level best to alter the relations between himself and Wynne but without avail—Wynne was quite unconscious of his efforts.
It was all the more difficult because, ever since she was a small child, he had called her, “darling” and had kissed her in a brotherly sort of way. He had told her often that he, “loved her to distraction” and now that these cogent words had suddenly become true there was nothing left for him to say. One day when they were sitting in the Audleys’ garden watching a set of tennis, Migs made a special effort to pierce the invisible barrier between himself and Wynne; he began to talk about their friendship and to tell her that on his side this friendship was changing into something deeper. Emboldened by her silence, Migs became quite eloquent, and he assured her that he had loved her for months and that there was nobody like her in the world. When he had reached this point he looked at Wynne to see how she was reacting, and to find out why she had not responded in any way … and he saw by the faraway look in her eyes that she had not been listening to a word.
“Wynne!” he exclaimed with justifiable annoyance, “Wynne, what are you thinking about?”
“Nothing special,” replied Wynne untruthfully (for of course she had been thinking of Frank). “Nothing special, Migs. Why?”
“Why!” echoed Migs. “Because I was talking to you of course. I wish you’d listen.”
“I’m sorry, darling—was it important?” inquired Wynne with a friendly smile.
“Yes, it was,” he replied earnestly. “I wish you’d listen, Wynne. I was trying to ask you to marry me.”
Wynne threw back her head and laughed delightedly, “Migs darling!” she cried. “What a marvellous idea! Did you think of it all by yourself?”
The wretched Migs was about to try to explain that this was not one of his well-known jokes but a bona fide offer of matrimony when unfortunately the set of tennis finished and they were surrounded by tiresome people clamouring for tea. There were far too many people about the place, decided Migs, the place was simply infested with tiresome people. He rose and walked away, for he wanted solitude.
It was obvious, of course, that Wynne did not love him, for, if she had loved him, she would have responded differently; but Migs tried to convince himself that if only he could get her to take him seriously her feelings might change.
Chapter Two
“What’s the matter with Sophie?” Nina inquired—she and Wynne were both shopping in Chellford and they bumped into each other outside the post office.
“What?” inquired Wynne.
“What’s the matter with Sophie? She’s very piano these days.”
“Is she?” inquired Wynne in surprise.
“Yes, of course she is. What’s wrong with the sweet?”
“I don’t know,” said Wynne.
Nina shook her head gravely. “There’s something,” she declared. “There’s a worm in the bud … you better find out what it is. We can’t have Sophie losing her sparkle … I mean life wouldn’t be the same at all. Everyone loves Sophie, she’s a sort of institution … I mean I’d do anything for her.”
“So would I, of course
,” said Wynne hastily.
“But you haven’t,” Nina pointed out with the devastating frankness of her generation. “You haven’t done a thing. I mean you hadn’t even noticed that the poor darling lamb was a bit under the weather, had you?”
“She isn’t … it’s just …”
“She is. Migs and I noticed it ages ago.”
Wynne was taken aback at this attack. She was awakened out of her dreams and, having been awakened, she felt somewhat annoyed with Nina. It wasn’t Nina’s business to point out her duty to Sophie … and anyhow it was all nonsense, it was Nina’s imagination. But observing Sophie closely, Wynne was forced to the conclusion that it wasn’t all nonsense. Sophie was not so sparkling as usual … she was like champagne gone flat.
Something would have to be done about it—that was clear—but Wynne did not know what to do. It was no use asking Sophie what was the matter, as one would have done to a fellow creature of one’s own generation. (“Look here, old thing, what’s wrong?” one would have said in sympathetic tones and the matter would have been opened up satisfactorily.) Sophie was different. Sophie belonged to a generation which had to be treated with tact … “Curse tact!” said Wynne, to herself in disgust.
It was breakfast time and the meal had proceeded in silence. Sophie had been reading her letters with an absence of comment upon their contents which was absolutely unprecedented, and Wynne had been racking her brains for a tactful approach. The bacon had been overcooked—it was cooked practically to a cinder—but Sophie had made no remark upon this unfortunate circumstance. It’s Gladys, thought Wynne to herself (Gladys was the cook). It’s Gladys—that’s what’s the matter—and she heaved a sigh of relief for she had been picturing all sorts of dire calamities.
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