“They’re making the top back bedroom into a spare room—for Peter when he comes home,” she goes on.
“Laura, you know everything,” I laugh.
“Well, Daphne told me. You know, of course, about Peter.”
“I know all about Peter,” I reply firmly, but Laura is irrepressible.
“Is it true that Angela Worthing is going to America for the B.B.C.?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, Laura; I haven’t seen Angela since Mary Cross’s party and that’s quite two months ago.” I will not be drawn into the tittle-tattle of Kirton by Laura Watson. It is true that Angela has an opportunity of visiting the United States, but she told me that confidentially in a letter. I marvel again at the grape-vine system in the village.
“Helen, you think I’m gossiping.” Laura looks hurt.
“My dear, I don’t think it, I know it.”
Her face is set and unhappy at my words, but I am unmoved. I study her features which are so good and regular; her eyes, large and rather cow-like, are unblinking against palely smooth skin. I notice the lines between her brows and the slight thickening of her jaw. Because her face is static she looks younger than her years, but the scaffolding of age is already there.
“I’m sorry, Helen,” she says, “I suppose it’s having nothing much to do makes me interested in other people.”
I help myself to some home-made plum cake—Laura is an excellent cook—and I wonder how many ex-service women there are like Laura Watson, bored and unoccupied; little minds that glimpsed another life and were then sucked back into the uneventfulness of their drab existences. And is it they or the circumstances who are to blame?
“Haven’t you been doing anything interesting yourself lately, Laura?” I ask.
“Oh, me—” suddenly she drops the tea-party manner and her face crumples with worry; “you know Father’s very ill, don’t you? Gyp has told me that there is no cure.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I thought Gyp would have told you. It’s cancer. It’ll probably only be a question of months now.”
“I’m terribly sorry for you, Laura.” I feel beastly now because I have been superior about her village gossip. What else has she to think about but that and her father’s health?
“I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind.” There is a kind of dignity about her in her misfortune.
We sit in rigid silence for a moment and then Laura smiles at me.
“You’ve changed, Helen.”
“Have I?”
“Yes, you even look quite different now. Sort of radiant—I can’t explain it.”
“Oh well, I lead a very easy life, Laura.” I feel embarrassed by her curious eyes.
“We’ve all changed, I suppose,” she goes on; “do you remember one evening at the Cock and Pheasant last summer? Gyp wasn’t home then, and everyone was sitting around and arguing with Dick Cobb about the rights of ex-service men and women. The three Gurneys were there, and Angela and Michael Cross and you and I. What a lot’s happened since then, hasn’t it?”
“Wasn’t it bound to, Laura? We were all just back in Civvy Street getting ready to start a new life.”
“Yes, but such big things have happened, like marriages and births and the Gurneys selling the Manor and Michael Cross writing a book. No one’s done quite what one expected them to do, having known them before the war, and during it.”
“But what did you expect them to do, Laura?”
“Oh, I don’t know. As a matter of fact I could never imagine people like you and Gyp and the Gurney boy out of uniform again. Or myself, for that.”
“I sold all mine to a junk shop for ten shillings,” I laugh suddenly at the memory.
“Sold all your uniform?” Laura sounds incredulous.
“Yes, why?”
“Oh, I’ve kept mine. We’re supposed to, you know. We’re only on the reserve now; we shan’t be demobilized until the end of the emergency.”
“As far as I’m concerned the emergency ended at the Dispersal Centre,” I reply.
“But we could be recalled,” she says wistfully.
“Let’s hope the occasion never arises. If it does I’m afraid the army’s going to find itself short of one senior commander A.T.S.”
The garden gate makes a noise and Laura looks up.
“Oh dear, it’s Lady Gurney, and the tea must be stone cold. Fill up the pot, will you, Helen? No . . . it’s all right, I will. No, you do it while I answer the door.”
I do as I am told and the whole scene of last year returns vividly to me. Have I ever moved out of this chair? I see Laura’s glance in my direction as she follows Lady Gurney into the room, but I no longer have to compose myself to meet Brian’s mother.
“My dears—” Lady Gurney is like an old-fashioned bathing tent in her faded striped dress; “I didn’t mean to intrude and I certainly don’t expect a cup of tea at this late hour. Oh, well, perhaps. . . . Thank you Laura, dear. How well Helen is looking, isn’t she, Laura? But I must tell you my news. You’ll never guess. . . . Peter has come home!”
It seems that Lady Gurney has lost all sense of discretion in the joy of having her eldest son home again. Laura and I gape at one another in embarrassment.
“Such a silly boy, he’s been, and so glad to be back. He’s tired, of course—been working far too hard in London and we’re going to try and fatten him up a little. But isn’t it lovely to have him home again?”
“In time to help you with the move,” Laura says thoughtlessly.
But Lady Gurney is unperturbed.
“That’s just what I said to the others, and how lucky we planned to keep the top bedroom for him. It’s almost like old times again. I feel years younger.”
“I expect a holiday will do him good,” I say stupidly.
“Holiday? Oh, my dear, he’s not going back. The flat he was in has been sub-let. The person it belonged to has gone away.”
I feel an appalling desire to giggle at the anonymity thrust upon Angela Worthing, but Laura’s intense interest in everything Lady Gurney has blurted out makes the whole scene suddenly tawdry.
Perhaps I am unduly sensitive—the two of them are deep in friendly gossip. I break in:
“Laura, I must be going.”
“So must I,” Lady Gurney jumps out of her chair and her gloves fall to the ground. “Oh, thank you, Laura, I’m always losing them, and thank you for a lovely cup of tea and that delicious cake. I’m just going round to see Mrs. Cross. She’s promised to house some suitcases for us while we move and I must find out if I can take some over tomorrow. Good-bye, Helen—you really are looking splendid; putting on a little weight at last, and about time too. Isn’t she, Laura?”
Four eyes converge upon me and I wish I had made my exit first; but Laura accompanies Lady Gurney to the front door and I am left to my thoughts.
Laura comes back.
“Helen, must you really go?”
“Yes, I must. Gyp’s getting back early tonight.”
“Oh dear, I wanted to show you the last copy of the Old Comrade’s Gazette. Did I tell you I’d become branch secretary of the association for this county?”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“I wish you’d join, Helen. You ought to, you know.”
“Perhaps I will sometime.” I edge my way out to the front door.
“Oh, do. You can have the magazine for five bob a year, but you can be a life member and get it free for five guineas. We’re going to arrange some reunion dinners as soon as rationing and transport improve. In any case, it’s a bit too soon now; quite a lot of people are still in the service. But were building up the ex-service side as hard as we can. We must keep some organized link with the past, don’t you think?”
“Dear Laura, I never think!” I am on the doorstep now.
“Helen, you say such silly things. But you’re looking much better and I believe Lady Gurney’s right, you are putting on weight and you’re fuller in the face
too.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised. Good night, Laura.”
“Good night, Helen; I’ll drop you in a membership form for the Old Comrades’ Association tomorrow.”
It is cool and clear outside and I walk slowly down Pilferer’s Lane, round the Cock and Pheasant Arms—they are just opening the doors—and into Kirton High Street.
As I walk I am filled with the pleasure of being alive and I think of Gyp’s delight and my own deep content at the child I am bearing.
T H E E N D
About The Author
Barbara Proctor Beauchamp was born in 1909, and brought up in France and Switzerland. She had a younger brother and sister, twins, who both died in early adulthood.
Before World War Two Barbara Beauchamp was a freelance journalist and the author of three novels. In 1939, living in London, she joined the ATS, and Wine of Honour (1945) was her first novel since the outbreak of war.
After the war she continued to live in London, with her partner Norah C. James, a fellow novelist. In later life she shared a house with Millicent Dewar, a renowned psychoanalyst.
Barbara Beauchamp wrote three further novels after Wine of Honour, the last published in 1958. She died in London in 1974.
Titles by Barbara Beauchamp
Fiction
Fair Exchange (1939)
Without Comment (1939)
The Paragons (1940)
Wine of Honour (1946)
Ride the Wind (1947)
Virtue in the Sun (1949)
The Girl in the Fog (1958)
Cooking
Greenfingers and the Gourmet (1949) (co-authored with Norah C. James)
FURROWED MIDDLEBROW
FM1. A Footman for the Peacock (1940) ... RACHEL FERGUSON
FM2. Evenfield (1942) ... RACHEL FERGUSON
FM3. A Harp in Lowndes Square (1936) ... RACHEL FERGUSON
FM4. A Chelsea Concerto (1959) ... FRANCES FAVIELL
FM5. The Dancing Bear (1954) ... FRANCES FAVIELL
FM6. A House on the Rhine (1955) ... FRANCES FAVIELL
FM7. Thalia (1957) ... FRANCES FAVIELL
FM8. The Fledgeling (1958) ... FRANCES FAVIELL
FM9. Bewildering Cares (1940) ... WINIFRED PECK
FM10. Tom Tiddler’s Ground (1941) ... URSULA ORANGE
FM11. Begin Again (1936) ... URSULA ORANGE
FM12. Company in the Evening (1944) ... URSULA ORANGE
FM13. The Late Mrs Prioleau (1946) ... MONICA TINDALL
FM14. Bramton Wick (1952) ... ELIZABETH FAIR
FM15. Landscape in Sunlight (1953) ... ELIZABETH FAIR
FM16. The Native Heath (1954) ... ELIZABETH FAIR
FM17. Seaview House (1955) ... ELIZABETH FAIR
FM18. A Winter Away (1957) ... ELIZABETH FAIR
FM19. The Mingham Air (1960) ... ELIZABETH FAIR
FM20. The Lark (1922) ... E. NESBIT
FM21. Smouldering Fire (1935) ... D.E. STEVENSON
FM22. Spring Magic (1942) ... D.E. STEVENSON
FM23. Mrs. Tim Carries On (1941) ... D.E. STEVENSON
FM24. Mrs. Tim Gets a Job (1947) ... D.E. STEVENSON
FM25. Mrs. Tim Flies Home (1952) ... D.E. STEVENSON
FM26. Alice (1950) ... ELIZABETH ELIOT
FM27. Henry (1950) ... ELIZABETH ELIOT
FM28. Mrs. Martell (1953) ... ELIZABETH ELIOT
FM29. Cecil (1962) ... ELIZABETH ELIOT
FM30. Nothing to Report (1940) ... CAROLA OMAN
FM31. Somewhere in England (1943) ... CAROLA OMAN
FM32. Spam Tomorrow (1956) ... VERILY ANDERSON
FM33. Peace, Perfect Peace (1947) ... JOSEPHINE KAMM
FM34. Beneath the Visiting Moon (1940) ... ROMILLY CAVAN
FM35. Table Two (1942) ... MARJORIE WILENSKI
FM36. The House Opposite (1943) ... BARBARA NOBLE
FM37. Miss Carter and the Ifrit (1945) ... SUSAN ALICE KERBY
FM38. Wine of Honour (1945) ... BARBARA BEAUCHAMP
A Furrowed Middlebrow Book
FM38
Published by Dean Street Press 2019
Copyright © 1945 Barbara Beauchamp
Introduction copyright © 2019 Elizabeth Crawford
All Rights Reserved
Published by licence, issued under the UK Orphan Works Licensing Scheme.
First published in 1945 by Macdonald & Co.
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 912574 34 2
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
Wine of Honour Page 22
