Growing Up

by Angela Thirkell

  The nurses’ bedrooms and sitting-room with a wireless full on, though the room was empty, were duly admired. One or two nervous convalescents were woken from an afternoon sleep by Matron’s quiet withdrawal. The wards downstairs were of course little used except at night, but Lydia was introduced to some bad cases and was an instantaneous success. Matron beamed at her new friend; Nurse Poulter came up on the pretext of asking Matron about Simmons’s dressing but really to take notes of what in subsequent conversation in the staff sitting-room she called Mrs. Merton’s costume; the other day nurses hovered.

  The billiard-room, from which the billiard-table had been removed to the basement when the hospital took over, was already prepared for Lord Stoke’s lecture. Ping-pong and card tables were pushed to the wall, chairs had been requisitioned, and a table and chair for the speaker placed under the portrait of Sir Harry’s grandfather, which was so large and hideous that its owner would have been glad if the military had used it as a target for darts. The hall had been left much as it was, with its own furniture, and here men were writing, reading, smoking, and in various ways getting through a dull December afternoon.

  From the door that led to the Warings’ quarters came Dr. Ford and Lord Stoke.

  “Good afternoon, Matron,” said Dr. Ford. “This is your lecturer. Lord Stoke. Matron. I had to bring him early or else he couldn’t have come, because of petrol. I’ll leave him with you now. Mind you don’t let him talk too long, as I’ve got to get back.”

  Matron shook hands with Lord Stoke.

  “Oh, hullo, Dr. Ford,” said Lydia. “I’m Lydia Keith, at least I was.”

  One of the soldiers who was writing looked up, looked at Lydia, and resumed his employment.

  “Lord!” said Dr. Ford. “I’ve not seen you since you were a hoyden with a passion for riding on a cock on roundabouts at flower shows.”

  “I do adore cocks,” said Lydia, “but I’m married now. I married Noel Merton, you know, Lavinia Brandon’s friend.”

  “Bless that woman,” said Dr. Ford. “Look here, you know how deaf Stoke is. Don’t let Matron shout too loud. It only annoys him if he sees people bellowing and doesn’t like to confess he can’t hear. See you after the lecture. I’ve got some men to see.”

  He strode away, leaving Matron with her guests.

  “You’ll have some tea with me, Lord Stoke, I hope,” she said. “It’s only a quarter past four and the lecture doesn’t commence till five.”

  Bearing in mind that Lady Waring had said his lordship was deaf, she was not surprised to get no reply, and led the way towards the sitting-room. The writing soldier looked up again as they passed.

  “Tea will be here in a moment, Lord Stoke,” said Matron at the top of her voice.

  Lord Stoke nodded in a friendly way, but it was so obvious that he had not heard, that Matron made the motions of drinking a cup of tea, and pointed to the table to indicate that this refreshing liquid would shortly be served.

  “What the dooce does the woman mean?” said Lord Stoke aloud to himself, without heat.

  “Tea, Lord Stoke,” said Lydia right into his ear.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said Lord Stoke. “Now, who are you, young lady? I ought to know your face.”

  “I used to be Lydia Keith and now I’m Lydia Merton,” said Lydia at the full diapason of her powerful lungs.

  “That’s right,” said Lord Stoke, much pleased to talk to someone sensible who didn’t mumble. “Your father had some cows at Northbridge. Nice animals, but he never did much good with them. How is he?”

  “Dead,” said Lydia in a bellow. “About two and a half years ago.”

  “Dear me, dear me,” said Lord Stoke, patting Lydia’s hand. “How time does fly. Well, well, I suppose it’s what we’ll all come to. Pomfret’s dead, his wife’s dead, Bond’s cowman died the other day. Bond doesn’t look what he was,” said Lord Stoke, who in common with other elderly gentlemen took an enthusiastic interest in the decay or demise of his contemporaries. “Last time I saw him I said to Lucasta, ‘Bond’s breaking up fast, Lucasta,’ she’s my half-sister, you know. ‘I’ll be surprised if he lasts through the winter,’ I said. He’s younger than I am too, a good deal younger, but no stamina, no stamina.”

  The arrival of tea now eased the situation. Lord Stoke was loud in his approval of the hospital catering and ate a great deal of cake, ably seconded by Lydia. Matron poured out, gave an excellent pantomime about milk and sugar, and quite won Lord Stoke’s heart by providing for him a very large teacup, for ordinary china was his abomination and he often asked for the slop-basin when among friends; especially among those who had cups that turned out and over at the rim, thus causing the tea to run down both sides of a thirsty man’s mouth. Only one thing marred Matron’s perfect pleasure, the question of Bloody Meadow. Lady Waring had promised to do her best to influence Lord Stoke, but how could she find out whether her ladyship had done so? The efforts she made to reassure herself on this point were vain, as Lord Stoke was telling Lydia about the infamous conduct of the Government in regard to pigs and finding in her an intelligent and sympathetic listener. Still, as Dr. Ford and Lord Stoke had come by the door from the servants’ quarters, it probably meant that they had called on Lady Waring first, and she was more at ease. Had she been better acquainted with either of these gentlemen, she would have known that Dr. Ford preferred to visit his more distinguished patients by the back door as he said it made him feel eighteenth-century and in his proper place, while Lord Stoke found an approach via the stables and kitchen quarters of his friends far more productive of local gossip than the more usual approach by the front door.

  At five minutes to five Matron said they ought to be moving. Lord Stoke caught her meaning, looked wistfully at Lydia and pulled out of the pocket of his old shooting-jacket, with some difficulty, a large and very untidy mass of papers.

  “Hope they’ll like it,” he said. “Doesn’t seem to me quite the subject with all this war going on. I should have thought a really constructive talk on dairy-farming after the war—but I dare say there’ll be no cows after the war. If the Government have their way, there certainly won’t.”

  Matron led Lord Stoke towards the billiard-room, Lydia in their wake. As she passed, the soldier who was writing got up and came towards her.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he said, “but I thought you mentioned the name of Keith.”

  “That was my name,” said Lydia. “I’m Mrs. Merton now.”

  “Beg pardon, miss,” said the soldier, whom Lydia now recognized to be a sergeant, “I mean madam. I just happened to hear you mention the name and I thought it might be a relation of Captain Keith.”

  “Colin?” said Lydia.

  “Captain Colin Keith, that’s right, miss,” said the sergeant. “You haven’t any news of him, have you, miss?”

  “I wish I had,” said Lydia. “He had a sort of embarkation leave and I haven’t heard anything since, not for weeks. He might be in Africa, or he might be on a course in England.”

  “I am sorry, miss,” said the sergeant. “My name’s Hopkins, miss. I don’t know if the Captain ever happened to mention it.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Lydia, “though I’m sure he would have if he had known we were going to meet,” she added, with an insane wish to give pleasure.

  “No, I expect not, miss,” said Sergeant Hopkins, rather dashed. “I’ve a lot to thank the Captain for.”

  “Do tell me all about it,” said Lydia sitting down, the lecture banished from her mind by the chance of talking about her dear Colin.

  Sergeant Hopkins required little encouragement, and as long as he was allowed to express himself in his own slow, circumlocutory Barsetshire way, would probably have talked all night. His first words were interrupted by the sound of perfunctory clapping from the billiard-room, indicating that Matron had said a few introductory words and Lord Stoke was about to begin his lecture.

  “Don’t you want to go to the lecture?” said Lydia. />
  “Not if I’m not keeping you, miss,” said the sergeant. “The boys are all right. They meant to be up to some funny business with Winnie, but they won’t.”

  As he spoke he unbuttoned his tunic and pulled down the front of his khaki pullover. Inside it the kitten was curled up in a somnolent condition. It opened one eye, yawned a dislocating yawn and went to sleep again. With no further comment he began to tell Lydia how his wife had died a year ago while he was in camp and how kind Colin had been, pushing through his special leave, giving him the benefit of his legal knowledge about his wife’s affairs and allowing him to talk. Lydia’s eyes shone at this praise of her favourite brother and she felt an unmanly choke in her throat. Suddenly from the billiard-room came a roar of laughter of an extremely joyful and unrefined nature. Sergeant Hopkins clapped his hand to his chest, but Winston was safely there. Reassured, he continued his simple tale.

  “Had you any children?” asked Lydia.

  “Well, no, miss; no, we hadn’t,” said Sergeant Hopkins, having apparently thought out this question with some difficulty. “Perhaps it’s as well. And then I was for light duties only, so I got sent here to be in charge.”

  By probing, which she did with her usual ferocious benevolence, Lydia discovered that the sergeant had been in a lorry collision in a fog, and had had injuries which had affected his eyes. If, he said, the Captain had still been there, he’d have seen he went with the battalion, but the Captain had been sent off somewhere while he was in hospital and he had lost his address. While distrusting even Colin’s powers of getting an invalid soldier out of hospital, Lydia sympathized heartily with Sergeant Hopkins. Her deep interest in all Colin’s affairs and the long letters he had always found time to write to her had made her familiar with the names of many of his brother officers and men, so that she was able to discuss regimental matters in a way that confirmed the sergeant’s good opinion of Captain Keith’s sister.

  During the whole of this conversation further roars of laughter had been coming from the billiard-room at intervals. Lydia was pleased that Lord Stoke, whose celebrity in the cow world had impressed her, was being such a success and wondered what he was saying. Sergeant Hopkins, satisfied that the kitten was not implicated, thought the boys were enjoying themselves and told Lydia more about himself and his nice little greengrocery business in Northbridge which his mother was carrying on while he was in the Army. His mother, he said, was a rare one at business and up at half-past five every morning, summer and winter.

  “She’s always at me to marry again, miss,” he said, “but it seems to take the heart out of a fellow when his wife dies. A bit like Mrs. Crockett, she was, miss, but not so cheerful-like. I’d like you to see mother, miss, if it’s not asking too much, when she comes over to visit me.”

  Lydia said she would be delighted. A tremendous outburst of laughing, cheering, clapping, stamping and cat-calls now showed that the lecture was over. Lydia promised to let Sergeant Hopkins know when she heard from Colin. Lord Stoke emerged, flushed with success; Matron followed him, her eagle eye looking for her sergeant in charge.

  “I’m for it,” said Sergeant Hopkins resignedly. “But it’s worth it to have a talk about the Captain, miss.”

  Lydia, grasping the situation, begged Matron to forgive her for not attending the lecture, giving the true and reasonable excuse that she had met a man who knew her brother, and apologized for having kept Sergeant Hopkins talking so long. Matron graciously accepted her excuses, Sergeant Hopkins saluted, touched his tunic, winked, and vanished into the billiard-room. Lord Stoke complimented Matron on the nice body of men she had under her, said he had never had an audience with a keener sense of humour, and issued a general invitation to any convalescent who felt like walking fifteen miles each way to come and see his dairy herd, which, he said, he had managed to keep as a pretty good going concern in spite of those meddling fools in Whitehall. A nurse then brought a message that Dr. Ford was over at Lady Waring’s and would Lord Stoke join him there, so he and Lydia said good-bye to Matron.

  “I suppose,” said Lydia, “you don’t want an odd V.A.D. You said you were short-handed and I’d be awfully glad if I could help. I’ve got my uniform and everything at Southbridge, at my sister’s.”

  Matron said she would certainly consider the suggestion, and then Lydia and Lord Stoke went back to the servants’ wing, where they found Dr. Ford gossiping with Lady Waring and Leslie.

  “How are you, Lord Stoke,” said Lady Waring loudly. “I hope the lecture went well.”

  Lord Stoke, beaming, said it had gone very well indeed. In fact, it had been one of the best audiences he had ever spoken to. The interest the men took in the excavations in Bloody Meadow was, he said, most marked, and several supplementary questions had been asked about it, though he was sorry that, doubtless owing to the acoustics of the place, he had not quite caught them all. Lady Waring, who had a pretty shrewd guess as to the nature of the questions, felt rather guilty, but as she had not seen Lord Stoke before the lecture it couldn’t be helped.

  “Well, Stoke, we must be off,” said Dr. Ford. “You are doing me credit, Miss Waring,” he added to Leslie. “Keep going, and we’ll have you fit by the time your leave is up; before that, I hope.”

  Cutting short Lord Stoke’s account of how Lord Bond was breaking up, he seized that worthy peer and hustled him away.

  “What really happened?” Lady Waring asked, when they had gone.

  Lydia said she didn’t know, but the men had laughed and cheered a great deal, on which Lady Waring made no comment.

  “I didn’t really hear it,” said Lydia, “only the noise through the door, because I was talking to Sergeant Hopkins who was in Colin’s regiment and wanted his address. I promised I’d let him have it as soon as I heard from Colin, but if he is in Africa I shan’t hear for ages probably. Or he may be in England and not allowed to write.”

  “At least I know that Cecil isn’t in England, which is something,” said Leslie generously.

  Lady Waring thought of the last war, when letters to and from France were almost as regular as letters to Brighton, and how George’s letters had gone on coming after the news of his death. She thought of it now as something which had happened to a young woman whom she hardly recognized; she thought of it very seldom, for which she was grateful.

  The telephone bell rang in the hall. Lady Waring was just about to switch it through to the sitting-room when the noise of the front door being shut was heard and Sir Harry’s voice answering the call. Then he came in.

  “The 6.25 was punctual for once,” he said, “and one of the hospital cars brought me up. That was Colonel Winter just now, my dear.”

  Of course, thought Leslie Waring. He would be kept at the office to-night. Still, we are very comfortable as we are.

  “He said someone had just turned up who is going abroad,” Sir Harry continued, “and is only down for the night. I asked him who it was but the connection was very bad. It sounded like his brother, so I asked him to bring him here. Is that all right, my dear?”

  The General’s wife, with one rapid mental glance over her dinner, said of course he was right. Lydia said Philip hadn’t got a brother, so it must be someone who wasn’t his brother. Sir Harry said it might be someone with a name like Brother. Or even called Brother, he added. Leslie Waring thought, rather bitterly, that friendships between men were very fine things, but such a bore for other people if it meant that one couldn’t count on getting a proper talk with people who were coming to dinner. Then she reflected that Cecil would certainly have asked any friend to dinner in such an emergency, nay preferably five or six friends or friends of friends, so it must be right. Also, to be quite truthful with herself, she had always liked his improvised parties, so why should she not like this?

  Noel as a rule did not get back till nearly eight, so Lydia usually dressed earlier and left the room free for him to throw his belts and spurs and things about, as she unfairly said, for not only was he very tidy, b
ut he did not wear spurs. On this particular evening she was dressed sooner than usual and found herself alone in the sitting-room. While she was knitting, with only one reading lamp on for economy, she heard the front door bell and Selina hurrying to open the door. There was a noise of people taking off overcoats and Philip came in. Lydia got up to greet him, but suddenly stood quite still and felt almost faint. Then she gave a most unladylike yelp of happiness and hurled herself into the arms of her brother Colin.

  “Oh, Colin!” she said, rubbing her face on the front of his tunic with sheer joy, while she held out a hand to Philip. “Why didn’t you say it was you?”

  “Ask Philip,” said Colin. “He rang up.”

  “I did say it was your brother,” said Philip.

  “Sir Harry thought it was your brother, only I told him you hadn’t got one,” said Lydia, recovering her wits. “Oh, Colin, how lovely. How long are you here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  Colin explained that he had not been able to let her know that he was coming, in fact he would never have been there at all except that he had been sent to the camp at a few hours’ notice without even much hope of being able to get to the Priory, had found Philip and by the greatest luck been able to come this evening.

  “Bother the Warings,” said Lydia, most ungratefully. “We can’t have a proper talk.”

  “Bother me too, I suppose,” said Philip.

  Lydia said Rot, he didn’t count, which he took as a kind of compliment, for he knew his Lydia.

  “Colin,” said Lydia, looking up at him with sudden earnestness. “May you tell me if you have come to say good-bye?”

  Colin did not answer.

  Then Lady Waring came in and was delighted to meet Mrs. Merton’s brother, and so was Sir Harry, and so was Leslie Waring when she came down a little late owing to a misunderstanding with her lipstick which had not satisfied her and had to be wiped off and put on again twice. Not that Colonel Winter would notice, for if he had been engaged to a girl like that Miss Birkett he probably preferred a lot of make-up sloshed on anyhow. But when she saw Philip she felt unreasonably glad that she had taken pains. Noel was the last to come in. He had already seen Philip at the camp and was delighted that he could spend the evening at the Priory. Dinner passed pleasantly. Both Leslie and Lydia behaved very well, taking part in the general conversation and deferring prettily to Sir Harry, who was in high good humour with so much military company and had not the faintest idea that any of his guests wished to talk to each other in peace.