by Lizzie Page
What my father did not say was: Thank goodness, one of the children takes after me. Pity it wasn’t the boy but you make do with what you get. But it was evident to me, and probably to my mother, that he was thinking this.
I basked in it. I demolished all the food in front of me, like a champion.
My mother fought back by not saying a word. Her bowed head sank lower, her parting down the middle so firm that it looked like a white thread of cotton. I was wondering if she would save her face from going into her soup, when finally, she rose from her chair with great dignity and walked out the room hissing, ‘Mairi is not going anywhere.’
‘Oh yes, she is,’ said my father, and that, as they say, was that.
2
My mother refused me a single suitcase. I called her petty and accused her of wanting me to be a coward – the worst thing a Chisholm could be – but she would not bend. We were similar in that way. I could have persuaded the housekeeper to tell me where they were kept and taken one – but my mother would have been furious. She did not want to be complicit in my going and as a kindness to her I did not make her so.
In the end, I wrapped my supplies in a bedsheet and tied it to myself like I had seen native women do with their babies in Uilleam’s secret copies of the National Geographic. My mother also refused to give me any money, but I had some savings – from winning races funnily enough – and Dr Munro had explained that I would receive a small service stipend. That would do me. I’d never been a big spender.
The only trouble I had packing was deciding which books to take. I had two Bibles: one well-thumbed edition passed down from my grandfather, and another, more ornate, that I had won at school for an essay on forgiveness. Although I feared it might get ruined, I decided to take the school one. The other could await my return by my bedside like the faithful friend it was. In addition, I took another old favourite, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I rather felt like Alice, following the white rabbit (or Dr Munro!) on a curious adventure.
* * *
The morning I departed, my mother refused to come out of her bedroom or say a word to me. Even my father was nowhere to be found but that was normal – well, normal for him. Once away, I resolved, I would write to let my mother know I had forgiven her. And that I was managing very well without her silly suitcase, thank you.
* * *
Later that day, I pushed Douglas up the gravelly front of the West Cliffe Hotel in Harwich on the east coast of England and found a shed in which to park him. Groups of people were milling around, some in civilian clothes, many, or maybe even most, in uniform. It seemed we weren’t the only ones using the West Cliffe as a last stop before heading to the continent. Everyone seemed caught up with one another. Everyone appeared to be in the middle of some fascinating conversation.
I was hot and trembling. It had been a wonderful ride and I had enjoyed two picnics in the sunshine en route. Douglas was in peak condition. Both times I stopped, passers-by had come over to compliment him. Here though, no one gave me so much as a second glance.
A solidly built soldier was embracing a blond woman wearing a long red dress right in front of me. He kissed her fiercely and his hands travelled up her scarlet hem. A friend had once shown me blurry photographs she had found in her father’s room of a naked woman with her lover, but I hadn’t seen this behaviour in real life before. Throughout my journey to the coast I had felt grown-up, but seeing this reminded me that, in some areas, I was still inexperienced.
You can still turn back, I told myself. But I couldn’t – if only because I wouldn’t be able to stand the glee on my mother’s face and the disappointment on my father’s if I returned home.
Walking quickly past the fornicators, I haughtily said, ‘Excuse me,’ and the man replied, ‘Excused!’ The woman he was pawing laughed loudly.
In the large, dimly lit foyer of the hotel, staff at a mahogany reception desk were dealing with queues of animated people. On the wall behind them, there were rows of keys that they plucked at every few minutes before moving on to someone else. I stood nearby for some time, the staff skilfully ignoring me. I didn’t know what I should do. Somehow, I felt bemused that I was there: that I had agreed to this.
Dr Munro eventually found me, thank goodness, as I was still tempted to turn homeward. He rubbed his hands when he saw me. The way he said, ‘Well, well… here you are!’ made me think he had doubted that I would turn up.
He was flanked by a couple, who he introduced as Helen and Arthur. ‘From America,’ Dr Munro explained.
As we shook hands, I found myself saying, ‘I’m from Dorset, and Scotland, and from all over the place really!’
Dr Munro patted my shoulder and said, ‘You must need a drink after all the goings-on…’
I nodded in agreement, although I wasn’t sure which goings-on he meant.
Helen was stern-faced with tiny round glasses, and Arthur was too but the severe look suited him better. Two blinking owls, they were one of those couples who had grown to look like each other, like my late grandfather and Betty his pug. But while Helen’s hair was wispy and tied away in a messy bun, Arthur’s was thick and slightly too luxurious. They looked exhausted, especially Helen, and I thought –rather unfairly – we haven’t even begun.
Straight away, Arthur told me he worked for the New York Times. I didn’t know about that kind of thing so I asked what it was. He didn’t titter but I could tell he thought my question was ignorant. I was ignorant.
‘It’s the largest newspaper in America,’ he said. ‘And probably in the world.’
‘I see,’ I said, vowing not to ask him anything of substance again. ‘What do you do, Helen?’
‘Me?’ Helen seemed surprised to be spoken to. She pushed her glasses up her nose dreamily. ‘I’ll do anything.’
‘Really, Helen?’ Arthur laughed. ‘Must you show your hand so soon?’
I had no idea what they were talking about. Helen took pity on me and added, ‘I play piano. I love to read. I enjoy both poetry and plays.’
‘She also sews.’
‘Yes, Arthur,’ she said, as though this was a private joke between them. ‘I sew very well.’
I gazed at her, mystified. Had Dr Munro perhaps recruited me to the American Needlework Society by mistake?
She went on, ‘I have done first aid, don’t look worried, Mairi. But I dare say, my strengths may have more to do with morale.’
‘Oh! Do you envisage a problem with… morale?’
Arthur put his arm around Helen, and for a horrible moment I worried that they too were going to engage in the open-mouthed kissing I had seen outside.
‘Helen envisages a problem with everything, don’t you, darling?’
Fortunately, Dr Munro was smoothly making his way over to us, although when I saw the tray of drinks my heart dropped further. I was not practised in drinking alcohol – for some reason people always assumed us motorcyclists were as good at downing spirits as we were with revolving wheels.
‘Helen fears we’re going to serve as undertakers rather than drivers and nurses.’
‘It’s just what I read in your paper, darling—’
‘Absolute nonsense,’ Dr Munro said firmly as he passed around the sherry. ‘Cheers everybody. To Belgium.’
‘To Belgium…’
* * *
I was to share a room that night with another member of our party, a woman yet to arrive: Mrs Elsie Knocker. Her name called to mind a bosomy housemistress. I hoped she would not tell me off too much. At school, I could sometimes win over the matronly types but I hoped I wouldn’t have to here. I heard that she was thirty – a good deal older than me – and I hoped she would not see through my pretence of acting mature. Arthur had started calling me ‘young Mairi,’ which grated, but I didn’t know how to correct him without confirming it.
After our drinks and with tiny droplets still perched on his moustache – thank goodness we were not engaged! – Dr Munro handed me my room key. Clutching it tightly, I made my way throu
gh the maze of corridors across carpets the colour of baked apples. Loud laughter came from some of the rooms, silence from others. In one, someone was whistling a song I knew from school: ‘Give my Regards to Broadway’. It was strange to hear it here.
The hotel bedroom was small and sparse. Although I was initially disappointed, it felt appropriate. Luxury on my last night in England wouldn’t have been right. I needed to prepare for the austerity of the future, though in truth who knew what to expect? I used to eavesdrop when my father told Uilleam wartime anecdotes, but he had a parent’s way of making even the most interesting things sound boring, so I usually drifted off, preferring my own imaginings.
I put away my things neatly and tried to decide between the two single beds. I wanted to choose the worst one so I couldn’t be accused of selfishly snagging the best, but there was little between them.
After about an hour, I went down to dinner where I met another member of our party, the charming Lady Dorothy. Pink-cheeked and smiley, ‘Lady D’, as we quickly came to call her, was easy to talk to and so reassuring that – despite her incongruous hat with cherries on the top – after five minutes in her company I grew assured that everything was going to be utterly marvellous.
When I quietly turned down Dr Munro’s offer of whiskey, Lady D confided that she too was not a great drinker and thought it a pity liquor was so fashionable. She also couldn’t believe I was only eighteen, which I decided, coming from her, was a compliment. We didn’t talk about the war – a relief, for I kept forgetting whose side everybody was on or indeed where everything in Europe was on the map – but instead discussed our respective journeys to Harwich. She thought trains were ‘marvellous’ and added quietly that she had taken the opportunity to leave ‘Votes for Women’ leaflets on each of the seats.
‘You didn’t,’ I said, uncertain if this was a joke. I had never – to my knowledge – met anyone who would do anything like that before.
‘I most certainly did,’ she said, pleased with herself. ‘I may leave some here too!’
Fortunately, Dr Munro joined in, urging us to explore the gardens later. ‘The azalea japonica is exquisite!’
I nodded obediently and Lady D murmured, ‘Very good, Hector.’
I wondered if I too should call him Hector but decided against it. My mother would say I was being ‘presumptuous’, although I doubt she would have said the same about Lady D, suffragette or not.
I was eating bread and butter pudding – which, frankly, could have done with a good ten more minutes in the oven – when I noticed a woman in the doorway of the dining room waving – at us? I wasn’t quite sure. She weaved her way between the tables towards our group. She was wearing a brown leather coat buttoned all the way down over a forest-green skirt or dress, and was clearly hot off her bike. Nearer our table she removed her helmet, goggles and the coat. (It was a dress underneath, a gorgeous one.) I had never seen anyone so cavalier about disrobing in a restaurant. I decided she must be either very posh or not posh at all – those of us in the middle wouldn’t dream of making such an exhibition of ourselves.
The waiters with their knuckles of pork, the waitresses with their fish knives, even the soldiers who had been pawing at their wives’ hems watched her. She was taller than most – longer, rangier somehow – and not pretty as such, but definitely compelling. She had dark wavy hair, and eyes the colour of khaki. It gave me a thrill to see that we were wearing the same type of boot.
‘This is Elsie Knocker. This is Mairi Chisholm. You will be sharing.’
The prodigal room-mate was nothing like a housemistress or indeed anyone I had met at school. She was impossibly glamorous, especially for a thirty-year-old!
She looked at me and said, ‘Please say you don’t snore.’ And with a shock I realised – more from her languid voice and her calm, self-confident expression than her actual looks – who she was.
‘Gypsy?’
‘Ye-es?’
‘Oh gosh, we’ve actually met before—’
‘Have we?’ she said. ‘I don’t…’
I blushed. It seemed unfair that she had made such an impression on me that day and I had left none on her. She couldn’t even recollect the first thing about me! Maybe, I thought leniently, it was because I looked so different now. I had a far more fashionable hairstyle than that day in the downpour. No more mud-splattered cheeks. I had tried to make an effort for the journey – maybe I had succeeded.
‘The motor track. Women’s stiff reliability trial? Dorset?’
Elsie narrowed her eyes. ‘Did I beat you?’
‘Only just.’
Elsie smiled. ‘Good.’
We had actually chatted that day, though. It wasn’t like we were complete strangers. Uilleam had been eager to meet the lady who handled her motorcycle like a dream and had the extraordinary looks.
‘They call her Gypsy,’ he said, awed.
‘I know,’ I told him. ‘Calm down, you look like Bessie when she’s discovered a bone.’
We found her in the tea tent. The canvas roof was sagging under the weight of the rain and from each corner a steady stream of water sluiced down. Elsie was sheltering next to a table, surveying the diminished spread. More unexpectedly, she was hand in hand with a small, earnest-faced boy. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, he barely came up to her belted waist.
‘Well done,’ I said.
‘Thank you.’
She eyed me kindly. I realised she probably thought I was a mere slip of a thing. People always did.
‘Do you race?’
‘Yes and… I was only five seconds behind you.’ Hadn’t she seen?
‘No prizes for coming second,’ she said, but her face was still friendly enough.
‘Well,’ I said uncertainly, ‘I got two shillings.’
She laughed so I did too. I liked her.
The boy tugged her hand and she knelt for him to whisper in her ear. Then she looked him in the eyes as though they were talking through issues of national importance. ‘One more, but it’s the last. Understand?’
He made his way joyfully over to the depleted cake stand.
‘Boys have such appetites.’
And then some other people came over wanting to take Elsie to be photographed. I expected her to refuse or at least to say ‘How dreary!’, but she grinned at me and raised her dark eyebrows at Uilleam: ‘Let me just do my hair.’
There were no photos for coming second.
As we walked away, Uilleam whispered that it was a pity she was married, and I teased him: ‘If she weren’t, do you think she would consider you?’ He just laughed. My handsome brother – he takes after our mother in looks – is the Chisholm clan’s only son. He did not lack confidence with ladies or in life, but surely he must have known even he wouldn’t stand a chance with a woman like Gypsy?
Coffees were served. Arthur and Helen whispered throughout. I believe they didn’t think much of us. I concentrated on my coffee. At home, I wasn’t allowed it – at least, I was never offered it. I decided that coffee would, in future, be ‘my drink’. After that we had wonderful mouth-burning mints, then I offered to take Elsie to our room. It was strange leading her down the corridors as though I were in charge. Elsie surveyed the room while I waited for her verdict. ‘It’s fine,’ she said, and I replied, ‘I thought so too!’ a little overenthusiastically.
Elsie didn’t express an opinion on the sleeping arrangements so I felt I hadn’t made a faux pas. She unpacked briskly, lit a cigarette, then stood staring out the window. Our room was at the back of the hotel overlooking the manicured lawn and presumably the Japanese azaleas. For a short moment, it was as though she had forgotten I was there. Then abruptly, she turned, shooting me her winner’s smile.
‘Smoke?’
I shivered. ‘I’m too young.’
‘Not too young to volunteer?’
‘My father always said I was the most pig-headed child.’
Elsie didn’t say anything but blew circles of smoke. I wished I hadn�
��t said the word ‘child’. It seemed to reverberate around the walls and bounce on the beds. I tried again. ‘I have a lot to offer the war effort.’
Elsie smiled to herself. ‘I’m sure you do…’
‘You were with a little boy; I remember, at Dorset?’
‘Kenneth? Yes.’
‘Charming.’ She wasn’t forthcoming on the details but I continued. ‘He’s your son?’
‘Of course.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Six.’
‘Aah,’ I said. What should I say to that? ‘That’s a lovely age.’
She smiled. Her cigarette was stained with lipstick.
I ploughed on. ‘Your husband didn’t mind you joining the effort then?’
I expected her to say ‘We’ll only be in Belgium for two or three months,’ which is what everyone (apart from Mother) had been saying, but instead she replied flatly, ‘I don’t have a husband.’
That took me by surprise. A young widow was a rarity. ‘Oh?’
‘We lost him. In Java.’
I thought of the New York Times, unbeknown to me, one of the World’s Largest Newspapers, and decided, I am not going to show myself up again by asking what Java is. Instead I said, ‘Oh. I’m so sorry.’
The others were taking a walk but we decided not to join them. As Elsie said pointedly, ‘We will see plenty of them soon enough!’ Instead, she suggested she go and get some drinks to have in our room and even though I didn’t want any more alcohol, I agreed.
While I was waiting, I wrote a letter to my mother, beginning, dramatically: ‘My last day on English soil’. I explained that the group were spiffing. ‘You would like them,’ I wrote, feeling she’d like Lady D if not the others. I didn’t mention the suitcase – foolish to hold a grudge when I was on the precipice of a great adventure.
Even after I had finished, Elsie still hadn’t come back, so I dashed off a letter to Uilleam too, gloating that I was sharing a room with none other than the infamous motorcycling dare-devil ‘Gypsy’. I could just imagine his face on reading it! He always hated to be left out of the fun.
