Sarah Morris Remembers

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Perhaps you don’t write to him,” I suggested.

  “I’ve been so ill that I couldn’t write to anyone.”

  “I can give you his address if you like.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Somewhere in France.”

  “Perhaps he’s in Paris,” said Lottie with a sigh. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. It’s lovely to think that we’ll be able to go to Paris after the war.”

  *

  I had lunch by myself in the enormous dining-room, waited on attentively by the old butler. It was a very good lunch: soup and casserole of chicken and mushrooms, followed by chocolate mousse. I was enjoying a cup of coffee when my brother-in-law came in, full of apologies for being late.

  “I’ll just have coffee,” he told the butler.

  “Have you had lunch?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t want anything to eat; it has been a very troublesome morning. I hope they’ve given you a good meal, Sarah.”

  “Yes, the chicken is particularly good. Why don’t you have some, Clive?”

  He looked surprised. “Oh, it’s good, is it? Well, perhaps I’ll change my mind.”

  The butler, who had been hovering in the background, hastened away to get it . . . and I was glad to see that when the casserole was handed to him Clive helped himself to the wing of the chicken and proceeded to eat it.

  “You’re right, Sarah,” he said, smiling at me. “It’s delicious. The fact is I don’t feel hungry when I’ve had a lot to worry me. This morning has been exceedingly upsetting.”

  It was common knowledge that Sir Clive Hudson was a very wealthy man but it seemed to me that his riches were a burden to him; he would have been happier with less money and a wife of his own age who would look after him properly.

  “I suppose your business is very complicated,” I suggested.

  “Some of it is,” he admitted. “But there was nothing ‘complicated’ about my business this morning; it was just . . . infuriating.”

  “Tell me about it, Clive.”

  “I don’t want to bore you.”

  “It wouldn’t bore me. I’m always interested when people talk about their work.”

  “One of my factories makes boots for the Army, but we get the laces from a factory in the Midlands. The boots and the laces have to be packed up together and sent off at exactly the right time to be shipped to France. This morning, quite by chance, I happened to be there when they were being packed and I had a look at them. Would you believe it, Sarah, the laces were too short? The laces were too short and the man who was responsible for the consignment hadn’t noticed! What do you think of that?”

  “If you hadn’t happened to be there . . .”

  “If I hadn’t happened to be on the spot they would have been sent off!” declared Clive. “I don’t often lose my temper, so they were considerably startled when I let fly. I asked the manager how he would like to be issued with boots and laces that didn’t fit; I told him his ‘blue-pencil’ carelessness might have resulted in the loss of a battle . . . rather fanciful, perhaps, but I was angry. To tell you the truth I quite enjoyed letting myself go and laying into the the man . . . but it has upset me.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Oh, the laces had to be sent back and, after a good deal of telephoning up and down the country, I managed to collect suitable laces and the consignment was dispatched . . . but it just shows you can’t trust anyone. I’m afraid this must be boring you, Sarah.”

  “Oh no, logistics interest me!”

  “What do you know about logistics?”

  I smiled and replied, “Not very much, really. Napoleon said his army marched on its stomach but you’ve got to have boots and laces too. Lewis told me that everything from a tank to a trouser button has to be in the right place at the right moment. That’s logistics, isn’t it?”

  He laughed. “You’ve got hold of the essential principle! I forget who it was made the statement that to keep a fighting man supplied with all he needs you must have sixty men behind him.”

  “Sixty!”

  “Personally I think that’s an underestimate,” said Clive thoughtfully. “Consider the manufacture of all the requisites ‘from tanks to trouser buttons,’ not forgetting food and newspapers and postal services . . . and the packing of all the goods . . . and the complicated organisation . . . and the transport . . .”

  We were still talking about logistics, and Clive was enjoying a second helping of chicken, when the butler interrupted us.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he said in confidential tones. “Nurse has asked me to inform you that she will be glad if you will go upstairs to the nursery as soon as convenient; she is anxious to catch the bus to Larchester.”

  “What’s that?” asked Clive in annoyance.

  I rose and said, “Nurse is going out this afternoon and Lottie wants me to look after the baby.”

  *

  The nursery was exactly as Willy had foretold: it was a large bright room on the top floor with bars in the windows, a frieze of Noah’s Ark animals round the walls and white-painted furniture. Nurse was middle-aged and chatty.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come, Miss Morris,” she said. “I want to show you everything before I have to run for my bus. This is the day-nursery, of course; baby is asleep in the night-nursery. I have a room of my own and a nice bathroom and a kitchenette.”

  In the kitchenette there was a row of sterilised milk bottles on the shelf and a row of nappies hanging on the pulley. Nurse’s room was adorned with photographs of babies in various stages of development. “They’re all my babies,” she said proudly. “I’ll tell you about them some day. There isn’t time now. Perhaps you could come earlier next Wednesday.”

  “Next Wednesday?”

  “Lady Hudson said you would come every Wednesday so that I can have my afternoon off duty.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible; I’ve got a job in London.”

  Her face fell. “Oh, what a pity! Lady Hudson said you were very fond of babies and would come whenever we wanted you. I can’t get out much because there’s nobody here to look after baby except the under-housemaid – and she’s only fifteen so I don’t feel very happy about it. Most mummies like looking after their babies themselves, but Lady Hudson wanted a boy so she isn’t interested,” added nurse confidentially.

  This seemed dangerous ground. I said, “Lady Hudson is still very weak, so perhaps she finds it too tiring——”

  “Weak?” exclaimed nurse. “Whatever makes you think that? She’s simply splendid.”

  “She’s still in bed.”

  “Oh, she felt a little tired after last night so she thought she would have a day in bed. The party was a great success; Lady Hudson looked lovely.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Baby has her bottle at four,” said nurse. “Usually I take her out in her pram in the afternoon, but it’s too wet to-day, so just let her sleep. She’s in here,” added nurse, opening the door of the night-nursery.

  My niece was asleep in her cot; she was a dear little creature. Her round head was covered with silky down; her cheeks were pink and her nose was squashy. One tiny hand was grasping the blue cellular blanket.

  “Oh, what a darling!” I whispered.

  “Yes, she’s a nice little baby,” said nurse. “She cries a good deal but that’s good for her lungs. It’s better not to lift them when they cry. If you once begin that sort of thing you’re done for.”

  “You don’t think babies need love?”

  Nurse laughed. “What a funny idea!”

  “Rather an old-fashioned idea, perhaps?”

  “Very old-fashioned. We were taught in hospital that the less a baby is handled the better.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “It’s a great mistake to spoil babies. I hope you aren’t a spoiler, Auntie Sarah,” said nurse archly.

  Fortunately there was no need to answer. Nurse glanced at her watch, gave an exclamation of dismay and ra
n to catch her bus.

  I had been slightly annoyed to discover that the reason I had been invited to spend the day at Brailsford Manor was to deputise for nurse but my annoyance didn’t last long; I was very happy with Freddie . . . I couldn’t call her Frederica.

  After nurse had gone she slept for about half an hour; then, when she wakened and cried, I lifted her and changed her and sat down in the big nursery chair and cuddled her. I was aware that nurse would disapprove but I didn’t care a rap: Freddie was warm and soft and cuddly and obviously she enjoyed being cuddled. I thought we were entitled to our fun.

  She gazed at me with an unwinking stare – her eyes were hazel, like Clive’s. I sang to her and I walked about the room with her and talked a lot of silly nonsense. I told her that her name was Freddie and I loved her dearly and I would come and see her whenever I could.

  “You won’t forget me, will you, Freddie?” I said.

  Freddie blinked at me solemnly so I kissed the back of her neck which is the most delightful place to kiss a baby – and the most hygienic.

  We spent a very old-fashioned afternoon.

  At four o’clock precisely I warmed Freddie’s bottle and gave it to her; at five my tea was brought to me on a very large tray by a very young footman; at six, when nurse returned, Freddie was back in her cot and sleeping peacefully.

  “I hope she’s been good?” asked nurse anxiously.

  “Good as gold.”

  “She cries a lot when I leave her with Maureen.”

  “She didn’t cry at all with me.”

  Nurse looked somewhat taken aback. She was not altogether pleased to hear that all had gone well during her absence . . . but, on the other hand, she realised that as all had gone well there was more chance of my coming again soon to relieve her. These two incompatible emotions, struggling in nurse’s bosom, produced a very curious effect.

  “Good-bye, nurse,” I said, smiling blandly. “I wish I could stay and see her in her bath but I’ve got to catch my train.”

  We shook hands cordially.

  Lottie was still in bed when I went to say good-bye to her.

  “Good-bye,” I said. “I’ve enjoyed my afternoon with Freddie. She’s a darling.”

  “Frederica,” said Lottie, frowning.

  “No, Freddie.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Well, I do,” I said cheerfully. “Freddie likes it too.”

  “What nonsense! She doesn’t know anything.”

  “She knows a lot more than you think. She’s a dear little baby and very clever for her age. Lottie, why don’t you look after her and have fun with her when nurse goes out? You used to like playing with dolls. Freddie is a real live doll.”

  Lottie was silent for a few moments. I knew why, for I had just seen the same thing happen to nurse: two incompatible emotions were struggling in Lottie’s bosom; she was annoyed with me . . . but she wanted me to come back.

  “Oh well,” she said at last. “It doesn’t matter. It was very kind of you to come. You’ll come again, won’t you? Perhaps you could come for a week-end? Nurse wants to go to Devonshire to see her mother. You’re so clever with babies, aren’t you?”

  “The best butter.”

  “No, really and truly,” declared Lottie, opening her blue eyes very wide. “It’s a wonderful gift to be clever with babies. Do come for a week-end, Sarah.”

  “I’ll see if I can arrange it, but I’ve got a job, you know.”

  “Oh, are you still doing that Barrington job? I thought you’d given it up ages ago.” She added, “Look, here’s the cheque and thank you very much for lending me the money.”

  I was surprised that she had remembered.

  “You will come, won’t you, Sarah?” said Lottie, as she kissed me good-bye.

  As I went home to London in the train I thought it over seriously and decided that if father were willing – and if Mrs. Raggett could come to the flat on Sunday – I had better go to Brailsford. It would have to be soon, of course, for once the Christmas rush began I should be too busy to get away for a week-end. Barrington’s was always terribly busy at Christmas time. Yes, I had better go. Nurse wanted to see her mother and wouldn’t be happy until she had accomplished her object . . . and although nurse was too stiff and starchy for my liking, she was fond of Freddie in her own way and obviously efficient. It would be unfortunate, to say the least of it, if nurse decided to look for another post where she would have more freedom.

  When I explained the matter to father he agreed at once; Willy was not so amenable.

  “Why should you?” he said crossly. “Oh, of course we can manage all right – but Lottie ought to look after her baby herself. Why should you have to bother? You’re working all week; you need a quiet Sunday to rest . . .”

  He went on like that but I took no notice. It was for Freddie’s sake that I was going to Brailsford.

  I went on the following Friday night and stayed until Monday and I had a very happy time with Freddie; she was no trouble at all.

  On Monday morning nurse walked in while I was giving Freddie her orange juice.

  “Oh, Freddie, look who’s here!” I exclaimed rapturously.

  Fortunately Freddie played up, she smiled and held out her arms in a most endearing manner.

  Nurse picked her up and kissed her. “That’s the worst of babies,” said nurse apologetically. “You can’t help getting fond of them however hard you try.”

  “Boo!” exclaimed Freddie, blowing an orange juice bubble.

  It seemed to me an apt comment.

  Part Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  In November large notices were put up in Barrington’s advising people to shop early for christmas but it wasn’t until the beginning of December that the Christmas rush started in earnest.

  One afternoon when I was in the office Duncan came in and spoke to me and said he was raising my pay. When I told him I was getting enough already he replied rather crossly that none of his employees got more – or less – than they were worth. So I smiled and thanked him.

  “That girl you’ve got is good value. I’ve raised hers too,” said Duncan.

  I was glad of this; Cécile would be pleased.

  “Would you like another understudy?” asked Duncan. “It seems to me that things are getting a bit beyond you . . . and you’re looking tired, Sarah.”

  I was very tired but I didn’t say so. “There’s a lot to do,” I admitted. “Cécile and I are on the go all the time.”

  “Shall I tell Marriott to advertise?”

  “No, don’t do that. Cécile has a great many friends in London; she might know of someone suitable.”

  “That’s an idea. I’ll ask her,” said Duncan, nodding.

  We were still discussing the matter when Mr. Marriott came out of the telephone room and interrupted our conversation.

  “Miss Morris is wanted in ‘Photography,’” he said in his usual brisk way. “It’s a Danish gentleman. His English is poor but he speaks German.”

  The Danes were the only people I had met who were willing to speak German; their country had offered little resistance to the German invaders and, for that reason, it was well treated by the occupying forces. Denmark, a land of bacon and butter, was used by the conquerors as a holiday resort.

  These were my thoughts as I went down in the lift to the second floor where the Photography Department was situated. Afterwards it seemed strange that I had no premonition of what was in store for me . . . it was just an ordinary afternoon at Barrington’s and I was on my way to cope with one of my usual jobs.

  When I arrived at the Photography Department I was pleased to find that there hadn’t been any unpleasantness; there was no “muddle” to be smoothed out; they were awaiting me in amicable silence. The assistant was elderly and competent; the Dane was tall and fair and handsome, though slightly overweight, and only wanted a golden hat with horns to transform him into a Viking.

  “The gentleman wants a film p
rojector,” explained the assistant. “We’ve got two different makes of projector and I thought it would be a good plan for you to tell him about them.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about film projectors.”

  “No, but I do,” replied the assistant, smiling. “And here’s the book of instructions, Miss Morris.”

  The task was not as difficult as I had feared; the assistant demonstrated the working of the projectors; we examined the diagrams in the book and I translated the instructions.

  One of the projectors was “a better job” than the other; it was also more expensive but after some consideration the Viking decided to buy it and produced a large wad of pound notes. When the transaction had been completed he thanked me very politely for all the trouble I had taken.

  “It has been a pleasure,” I told him.

  Then I turned to come away and found my way was blocked by a very tall man, in a grey overcoat, who obviously had been listening to the conversation. I looked up at his face . . . and my heart gave a wild leap!

  It couldn’t be Charles! It couldn’t possibly . . . but it was . . . or was it? This man looked older than Charles and less full of vitality. Could I be mistaken? No, I couldn’t be mistaken, for it was not only my eyes that recognised him, it was the feeling in my heart. It was . . . it was Charles!

  All this happened in a moment – it happened in a split second – my lips were forming his name when he swung round and walked away.

  I was so astounded by conflicting emotions, that I was stricken dumb; my heart was hammering madly, my feet seemed rooted to the ground.

  Then, as I saw the tall figure disappearing, I suddenly came to my senses and dropped the book I was holding and ran after him. I pushed through the crowd at the Christmas card counter like a mad-woman and ran down the wide space between the displays of Fancy Goods. Ahead of me was the tall figure in the grey overcoat. I saw him turn to the right, where there was a tiled vestibule with lifts on each side. When I arrived, breathless, in the vestibule I caught sight of him entering one of the lifts and rushed forward. I was too late; the lift was full; the sliding gates were slammed in my face, the lift moved downwards and vanished . . . but again I had seen him, head and shoulders above the packed crowd of women and children, and for a moment he had looked straight at me! I was certain now, certain beyond any possibility of doubt, that it really was Charles for I saw that he had recognised me.