While we are in the shop we hear the noise of gunfire, and two shattering thumps which seem uncomfortably near. Several people come in from the street and one woman—somewhat pale and breathless—declares that “one came down on the next block.” Two fire engines rush madly down the street. The noise of gunfire and the roar of aeroplanes is simply terrific. I look at my companions and wonder whether they are as frightened as I am. They show no signs of alarm, but then (I hope) neither do I. The tobacconist, who is a dear old gentleman with snowy white hair, suggests that we should all come into his back room as it is safer there, so we follow him through a door and find ourselves in a snug little parlour. The walls are lined with shelves and the shelves are stocked with packets of cigarettes, but there are two easy chairs in front of a pleasant fire. Our host stirs up the fire and asks us to be seated. By this time the company has been augmented by a taxi driver, a young man in Air Force Pilot’s uniform and an errand boy with a basket. There is also a fat woman, who seems to have risen out of the ground. In spite of the noise, which continues as violently as ever, our companions seem anxious to converse.
The taxi driver remarks that there’s a crater down the street big enough to hold a bus.
“The wickedness of it!” exclaims the fat woman, rolling her eyes. “The wickedness of it! If I could get ’old of ’itler there wouldn’t be much left to bury.”
The pale woman (who looks like a music teacher, though I really don’t know why) replies with spirit, “Berlin’s worse—that’s the main thing. It’s easy to bear if you know they’re getting it too.”
Everyone looks at the Air Force Pilot, but he does not take the hint, and it is left for the errand boy to address him directly. “Could I get into the Air Force, sir?” enquires the boy in an unnaturally gruff voice.
The Pilot does not smile, he replies quite kindly, “Yes, we’ll be glad to have you when you’re a bit older.”
“I’m eighteen”, declares the boy, sticking out his chest . . . but unfortunately his voice goes back on him and the statement ends in a squeak.
“You’ve got to show your birth certificate,” says the Pilot promptly.
“Never mind,” says the taxi driver, “You’ll be ’ere when we’ve gorn west . . . that is, if a bomb don’t get yer.”
He has scarcely spoken when there is an appalling crash, the house rocks upon its foundations and all the ornaments leap off the mantelpiece and strew themselves over the floor . . . several people scream, and I cannot tell whether I am one of them . . . I am absolutely dazed for a moment and, when I recover, I am quite surprised to discover that I am whole. Nobody is hurt though everyone is pretty shaken. The Air Force pilot is heard to remark that it’s a bit thick and he prefers the air any day of the week. . . .
The gunfire has slackened now and the noise of the planes diminished; everyone is preparing to depart on their business when it is discovered that the door has jammed, and at this the music teacher, who has been extremely courageous, begins to laugh hysterically—“We can’t get out—we can’t get out—we can’t get out—” she exclaims.
Mary seems to be familiar with these symptoms of strain and, taking her firmly by the shoulders, gives her a little shake. Meanwhile the combined efforts of our male companions have enabled them to burst open the door, and we are at liberty to depart.
The front shop presents a scene of desolation impossible to describe; the windows are in fragments and packets of cigarettes are strewn all over the floor. The proprietor surveys the debris with a grim expression, but has very little to say. Mary and I are the last to leave the shop, we shake him by the hand and thank him for his hospitality,—and I feel so sorry for him that I slip a pound note into his pocket when he isn’t looking—it is not much, but it is all that I can spare.
We step over the rubble which blocks the door of the shop and find the taxi driver waiting for us outside. He touches his cap and grins and enquires whether we would like him to drive us home, and adds that his taxi is round the corner and hasn’t been touched. This reminds us that Richard will be waiting for us, and after a short consultation we decide to drive to Weston’s. Personally I am thankful to climb into the taxi and sit down for my knees feel as if they were made of cotton wool and my heart is still beating irregularly . . . am quite glad to see that Mary is pale, as I should not like to think that I am less brave than she is.
We look at each other and smile. Mary says, “We ought to powder our noses, but I can’t be bothered,” and I reply that what I need is a bath.
Richard is waiting for us in the doorway, he rushes down the steps and opens the taxi door, and enquires whether we are aware that he has been waiting for three quarters of an hour, and has nearly lost his reason with anxiety on our behalf, whereupon the taxi driver turns round in his seat and says, “If these two ladies belong to you, I can tell you they’re made of the right stuff.”
Richard seems to understand. He replies that he knew that before. He gives the driver a ten shilling note and, taking Mary and me firmly by our arms, he leads us into the restaurant. Mary says that we want to wash, but Richard refuses to allow us to do so . . . “No,” says Richard, “I’m not going to let you out of my sight again, so you’ll just have to remain dirty.” We sit down at a corner table and Richard orders cocktails—I murmur feebly that a cocktail is just what I need, but I don’t want much to eat. Richard replies that he is about to order an enormous meal, and that Mary and I have got to eat it; we can tell him what happened when the meal is safely inside us.
“Nothing happened, really,” says Mary. “Nothing serious, I mean. We took shelter in a tobacconist’s, and when we came out there was a crater in the street.”
Richard says, “That’s quite enough—I wish to goodness you would go away to some safe place and stay there.”
When I have had my cocktail and drunk a plate of very hot soup, I begin to feel more like myself and become somewhat self-conscious about my appearance—Mary’s hat has a rakish air, and there is a large streak of dirt across her cheek, and I feel sure that I am even less presentable than she is. . . . I catch sight of myself in a long mirror and my worst fears are confirmed.
Several letters are waiting for me on the hall table at Wintringham Square. I seize upon them eagerly and turn them over and gloat upon them as a miser gloats upon his gold, for, although I have only been away from home for two days, I am longing to return. There is a letter from Betty in the little pile, and I open that first, for Betty’s letters, though less newsy than Bryan’s are always a joy.
“Dear Mummy—we met the twins and they new me. She let me wheel the pram. She sed will you come to tea becos Mummies away so you must be dull so I sed yes. She sed will Daddy come two so I arskt him and he sed not if I no it. I plade with Artha in the bern and he fell in. He shoodent have sed I pusht him becos it was an axident. Pinky ses thats a sneek annyhow and noboddy likes them. Pinky has a dimond ring. Guthry gave it to her. It issent her burthday its becos they are going to be marrid. She told me so its troo. Pinkie ses I mussent arsk you what your going to by me in London. I was wundring if your going to by a bed for Rose but Pinky ses wate and see. It will be nice when your home agen. Your loving dorter, Elizabeth Christie.
Miss Clark ses thats the rite way to end a letter so I did.”
Grace’s letter comes next.
“Hester darling, When are you coming home? This place is a wilderness without you and there isn’t a creature who can understand the simplest joke. First of all, my dear, I must tell you, the Ledgard—Browne Winters engagement is definitely off! Thank heaven we aren’t going to have that awful woman in the Regiment! I can’t think what T.L. saw in her. She came to tea with me yesterday and behaved in the most extraordinary way—stalked in like a tragic muse and said that ‘all was over’ between her and ‘Captain Ledgard,’ and that she had made a great mistake about him. Then she went on to say that it was not T.L. whom she knew and loved in the Days of the Great Pyramid. T.L. is a new soul, and she has nothi
ng in common with him. When I suggested that she might have discovered this sooner, she replied that the whole affair was my fault!!! Naturally I was annoyed and asked her what on earth she meant whereupon she replied that I had presented T.L. to her notice in a false light—I ask you!!!! Fortunately Tom is taking it very well, and in fact if he were not so intensely stupid one might almost suspect that he had engineered the break with Ermyntrude. Jack says that Tom goes about the mess telling everyone that he is a new soul, and standing drinks all round. Betty is coming to tea today. I asked Tim also, as I thought he might be feeling a little dull, but apparently he is too busy. I suppose it is quite impossible to buy silk stockings in London. If you happen to see any (my size is 9) you might get them for me, and I will pay you when you come home. I went to the Comforts Depot this morning, Mamie and Stella were squabbling as usual. I must stop now as there is no more news. Much love, Yours, Grace.”
Mrs. Loudon writes:
“My dear Hester, I would have written you before, but have been too much taken up with the engaged couple. Guthrie has now gone to sea and Pinkie back to Donford. Guthrie behaved like a lunatic while he was here, the two of them might have been ten years old for all the sense they had. However we were all young once. Pinkie is just the girl for him. I said it before and I see no reason to change my mind. She is thoroughly sound and sensible at heart for all her daft carryings on. The only fault I have to find with the creature is that she is a great deal too good-looking, but she cannot help that. She is devoted to you, but I daresay you knew that already. It shows her sense. I am worried about Millie Falconer. I have written her twice and told her to shut up her flat and come to Avielochan, but I can get no sense out of her. If you have the time you might go and see her and tell her she is to come away; it is quite unsuitable for a woman of her age to remain in London by herself. Your affectionate old friend Elspeth Loudon.
“P.S. Maybe you will think I sound a bit half-hearted about Guthrie’s girl. It is not my way to go into raptures, but I am fully aware that I am a lucky woman.”
As this is Richard’s last night before sailing to an unknown destination I feel that it will be kind to leave him alone with Mary; so, after supper, I announce my intention of visiting a friend.
Richard asks, “Who is he and where does he live?” and I answer that the friend is of the female sex and inhabits a small flat in Queen’s Gate. Richard then enquires whether she is young and attractive, to which I reply that on the contrary she is old and somewhat foolish. Richard says he does not know why I am so secretive about my affairs. Any information about them has to be dragged out of me by wild horses, but of course if I prefer to spend the evening with a silly old woman, rather than remain here with him and Mary, I am at liberty to do so.
Mary says “Richard!” in a horrified tone, but I know Richard too well, and am too fond of him to be annoyed by these unreasonable approaches. He is tired and worried and the prospect of leaving his wife alone in London—perhaps for years—has upset his equilibrium. I therefore reply quite mildly that Mrs. Falconer is a cousin of my old friend, Mrs. Loudon, and that I met her at Avielochan when Betty and I were there for a holiday, and I add that Mrs. Loudon has asked me to visit Mrs. Falconer and to persuade her (if I can) to shut up her flat and go north.
Richard looks somewhat ashamed of himself and says that he will walk along to Queen’s Gate with me and leave me at the door, because the streets are as black as Old Sam.
I find Mrs. Falconer sitting over a comfortable fire. Her flat is just as I had expected—full of odds and ends of furniture and liberally sprinkled with china ornaments and knick-knacks of all descriptions.
Somewhat to my surprise Mrs. Falconer knows who I am and welcomes me warmly . . . “So nice of you to come,” she declares, “I would have asked you to tea. I always say that tea is the best meal of the day. Of course it is rather different now, so I daresay it was just as well that you could not come, though you cannot get cream cakes anywhere and crumpets do not taste the same with margarine. It was so peaceful there, wasn’t it?” enquires Mrs. Falconer in her usual vague manner, “and nobody could have imagined that the next time we met it would be war-time. I would not have believed it possible that there could be war again, but now it seems quite natural.”
I search hastily amongst this rag bag of talk for something to answer, but before I have found what I want, my hostess is off again.
“Dear, dear,” she says, shaking her head, “who would have thought that we should all be in the war? Not even Guthrie or that strange Major Martin who came to the house so frequently. I declare one could not turn round without finding him there—it was really very strange.”
I murmur feebly that Mrs. Loudon encouraged Tony Morley to come whenever he liked.
“He did not come to see Elspeth,” declares Mrs. Falconer firmly, “I do not know to this day why he came. But you must not think that I dislike men—and in fact it is always a great deal nicer when there are men about the place. Dear Mama always used to say that that was one of the advantages of daughters.”
As usual Mrs. Falconer is having the effect of making my head swim. When I was at Avielochan I became used to her and sometimes was able to follow her train of thought, but I am out of practice and am completely bewildered.
Mrs. Falconer has paused to poke the fire; she now continues, “Of course, dear Elspeth has no daughters, so it was not that in his case . . . I wonder what became of him—Major Morgan, I mean.”
I tell her that Tony Morley is now a colonel and has gone to Egypt.
“Fancy!” says Mrs. Falconer, “I wonder if he has seen the Sphinx. It struck me as being a very large monument. Now I should never have thought of making him a colonel, but perhaps he does not talk so much when he is on parade. Dear Papa used to say ‘Much noise, little speed’—but aeroplanes were not invented then and the truth is we got on very nicely without them. I often wonder,” continues Mrs. Falconer with a thoughtful air, “I often wonder what dear Papa would have said about this war. His remarks were always so illuminating. He was very much interested in the progress of the South African War and we often used to say that if Papa had been younger nothing would have kept him from volunteering . . . ‘Cook’s son, Duke’s son,” says Mrs. Falconer reminiscently, “that was the song in those days and dear Papa was extremely patriotic. He often told us girls that we were fortunate in having been born British subjects. He had a large coloured map hanging upon the drawing room wall and moved the pins every day after he had read the newspapers.”
“It would be difficult to do that with this war!”
Mrs. Falconer agrees. “Difficult certainly, but I have no doubt Papa would have managed it. He was fond of saying ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way.’ However I am really quite thankful that neither he nor dear Mama are still living—you may think this a very heartless thing to say, but I feel sure that they would not be happy if they were alive now. Papa liked bacon for breakfast every morning and Mama was very much alarmed at the idea of fire. I remember once when we were shopping in Bond Street and a fire engine went by at a great rate poor Mama was upset for the rest of the day. We found out afterwards that it was only a practice and there was no fire at all which comforted Mama greatly.”
As I am here with a definite object, I make a determined attempt to break into the conversation and, sitting forward in my chair, I say urgently, “Mrs. Loudon wants you to go and stay with her.”
“Yes, dear,” says Mrs. Falconer, moving her hands vaguely. “Elspeth wrote. I cannot remember where I put the letter. She seems very much pleased with that girl—I mean Guthrie’s fiancée—but perhaps you did not know that Guthrie is engaged again . . . quite good family, I believe, and nice-looking into the bargain. Elspeth seems to think that Guthrie is going to marry her, but I think they should wait for a little in case he changes his mind again . . . these war weddings—are you enjoying your visit to London?”
There is some connection here, but none that I can find, a
nd the question itself is so odd and unexpected that I find some difficulty in answering it. Am I enjoying my visit to London? Yes, in some ways I am. I am enjoying the feeling that I am in the thick of things. I am enjoying the feeling of kinship which unites the whole population of London into one vast family, so that the Queen and the flower woman at the corner are both my sisters. It is an uplifting feeling and a strong aid to courage, and in it lies the explanation of many a brave deed. Having come to this conclusion I am able to reply quite truthfully that I am enjoying my visit to London very much.
Strange to say, Mrs. Falconer has waited for my answer, and now she comments upon it quite sensibly, “Yes, dear, I am so glad,” she says. “There is something about London, isn’t there? It is very kind of Elspeth to invite me to go to Avielochan and stay with her, but I do not feel that I can leave here at present.”
“I think you should,” I murmur.
“No,” says Mrs. Falconer, “no, in times like these it is better to be in one’s own home with all one’s own comforts . . . not that Elspeth’s house is uncomfortable of course . . . but still . . . and another thing to be considered is what would happen if a bomb fell through my roof and I were not here to see to it?”
“But what could you do?” I ask.
“I have a thing with a long handle,” replies Mrs. Falconer promptly, “and the lady next door has a stirrup pump . . . we have filled a pail with sand and put it upon the landing. Perhaps you saw it when you rang the bell.”
I decide to try again, “It would be wiser . . .” I begin.
“No,” says Mrs. Falconer firmly, and with a total absence of her usual muddled vagueness, “no, dear, it is better to remain at home. London is my home. It has been my home for many years, and I should not care to leave it now . . . I believe you understand,” adds Mrs. Falconer, with a sudden knowing smile. “I believe you understand my feelings, so perhaps you will be good enough to explain them to Elspeth. I find it extremely difficult to explain things to Elspeth . . . she has such strong prejudices.”
Mrs. Tim Carries On Page 27
