Two Women Went to War

by L E Pembroke

  I wasn’t consciously trying to push Tom’s cause with Madeleine, but I was pleased he was to be given the opportunity to stay at her home. It wasn’t healthy the way she still fretted over Charles. Apparently, even Mrs Phillips had suggested to Madeleine that she should start thinking about life after the war, life without Charles.

  The thought of riding, long walks in the country and the sort of food I’d not tasted for months – salmon instead of Toad in the Hole and fresh raspberries instead of Bread Pudding – to some extent took my mind off my recent experiences and Andrew’s death. And, best of all, the German spring offensive looked like failing; expectations about the war ending in 1918 were high.

  Tom easily arranged leave. As I’d judged, he didn’t intend missing the opportunity to meet Madeleine again, especially to be together morning and evening for a whole week.

  *

  A servant, driving the old two-horse carriage to which the family had reverted during the war, met us at the local station. Morton, the family mansion, was set in extensive grounds a short distance from the village of the same name. All rooms were vast; the covered portico led into a stone-walled hall, at the rear of which wide stairs wound up to the first floor. The walls of the hall and stairs were almost covered with portraits of family members who lived at Morton over the previous three centuries and horrific, graphic war scenes, some of them by Lady Butler. The extensive library, in which the family relaxed on informal occasions, was off a wide corridor leading from the hall. French windows led from it onto a huge garden surrounded by acres of mown lawn. That’s where Madeleine took us for tea after showing us the elegant drawing and dining rooms and smaller more informal areas. ‘I told you it was a barn of a place,’ she said with a deprecating smile.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘It’s absolutely marvellous, isn’t it, Tom?’

  ‘Yes, marvellous,’ Tom replied quietly. I guessed he was already wondering and worrying whether Madeleine would ever be prepared to exchange this grandiose home for a homestead on a few thousand acres in western New South Wales.

  ‘Well,’ said Madeleine, ‘I’ll tell you something. It’s damn cold in winter, and all the fires are needed from dawn until midnight. Anyway, let’s go up and I’ll show you your bedrooms. Come to the library for a drink at seven o’clock; you’ll meet some of the family then.’

  Those in the family not in the services always dressed formally for dinner. Each night everyone met in the library for a drink before eating the sort of food I had only dreamt about for the last two years. After dinner, two of Madeleine’s aunts led us into the drawing room for coffee while the uncles stayed with Tom at the dining room table for the ritual of passing the port and, I suppose, more serious discussion about the state of the war. When they joined us Tom, I thought, always looked like a lost dog reunited with his mistress. It must have been obvious to everyone that he was head over heels in love with Madeleine. Sometimes someone played the piano softly while others played cards.

  We all rode daily, or went for long walks and often played tennis or croquet. Within days I was beginning to feel more healthy and relaxed than I’d done for years. I couldn’t easily remember a time when there was so much laughter and optimism in the general conversation. On a few occasions Madeleine and Tom went riding alone. I had no intention of playing gooseberry.

  The grounds of Morton were splendid. In front of the house, just beyond the entrance driveway, there was a wide and long avenue of beech trees that sloped down towards a picturesque small lake – that was my favourite walk. As I strolled along the arboreal corridor, hundreds of clumps of daffodils and other bulbs, blue and white, swayed above the soft green grass. They nodded and waved to me in the gentle breeze as I passed by – just like friendly neighbours.

  Often, during those solitary strolls, I pondered my future. Did I want to continue nursing? Would I ever meet someone I’d like to marry? Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone accompanying me now, someone who would hold my hand and share my joy of a burgeoning spring: fields covered with bulbs, hedges coming to life with small buds and busy insects, and deciduous trees with leaves, nascent and palest green? There was no doubting how very lonely I was. I hungered for love, but there was no love in sight for me. Twenty-six years old, I had convinced myself that I had little chance of ever having a husband and family.

  *

  Sadly, the week had to come to an end. Madeleine and I travelled back to London together after our Easter break. Tom wasn’t with us as he had to be back the previous day. This gave me the perfect opportunity to quiz Madeleine about him.

  Madeleine confided to me that she liked my brother. She also admitted that she was aware that he was pretty keen on her and that was a shame as she could never love him. She said that she enjoyed his company but didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. ‘Would you say something to him, Genevieve?’

  I didn’t fancy doing that. Tom would most likely tell me to mind my own business.

  Madeleine continued to reveal the way she felt. ‘The best thing about Tom is that he doesn’t push me at all. I won’t be pushed. Do you know, Genevieve, even if we learn that Charles is dead, I don’t think I will ever marry. I will just live with my memories.’

  ‘I think memories could be rather unsatisfactory things to live with, Madeleine.’

  I had always known my brother was a determined fellow. I believed he was playing a very smart game so as to put Madeleine off her guard. But when Tom wanted something badly enough he never gave up until he succeeded – just like our mother. I told her that Tom had always been reserved; nevertheless I could tell he was enormously fond of her.

  She became irritated and told me not to go on about Tom, and that I should know better. ‘How many times do I have to say it? I can never look at another man in that way while there’s a chance that Charlie is alive. And even if they’re right and he’s dead, I still doubt if I’d ever look at another man.’

  *

  November 1918, and it was all over. We all heaved a sigh of relief, although many despairing widows and broken-hearted mothers stayed indoors wanting nothing to do with the street parties and victory parades that took place in almost every village. The biggest were in London, especially near Buckingham Palace, in Trafalgar Square and around Piccadilly. I visited Madeleine, but she, as I expected, was taking no part in the celebrations.

  ‘Charlie’s father died last week. Poor man, the last eighteen months have been dreadful for him and for Charlie’s mother. I am going to stay with her for the next few days.’

  When Madeleine returned to London she told me that she now accepted that ‘Charlie had gone’. Mrs Phillips had convinced her. She was arranging a memorial service for both her son and her husband.

  CHAPTER 17

  MADELEINE

  How empty my life was. In December 1918, I believed I had nothing to look forward to. I had no wish to go back to Morton for Christmas celebrations. I would feel like an intruder with my cousins back from the war and everybody celebrating the beginning of life in a peaceful world. My grandmother was ailing – she was eighty-five, and the last four years had been a dreadful strain. Genevieve called in whenever she could, but she had her own life to lead. She was seeing a bit of her doctor friend, the widower, and I thought he was charming. The trouble was he was forty-seven or eight – too old for her, in my opinion.

  Tom Howard was a regular visitor. I was so very grateful for his thoughtful attention. I liked Tom and wasn’t looking forward to the following year when he would return to his own country along with all the other servicemen from our empire. What would I do with myself? So many old friends dead; it was going to be lonely in England. I wondered if I should travel, maybe take a look at America.

  Tom turned up again soon after Charlie’s memorial service. He asked me to dinner at Claridges. Oh well, I could do with a bit of pampering. We were only half way through our dinner when Tom, looking very serious, put down his knife and fork and said, ‘Madeleine, I suppose you are
aware that I will be leaving England within the next couple of months.’

  ‘Yes, I am aware, and Tom, I will miss you greatly.’

  ‘Will you, Madeleine? I know I will miss you. I have been thinking seriously about asking you to marry me and making your home in Australia. I am head over heels in love with you, darling.’

  The suddenness of his proposal shocked me. Although I knew I’d miss him, it would be only as a friend. I felt I had to stop this situation developing. When I turned him down I was quite ruthless. I told him the facts were quite simple. I didn’t love him.

  He blushed, he was hugely upset, then he became aggressive. I remember the first thing he said, very loudly, was that he couldn’t believe that I was still hankering after that fellow, and why didn’t I just grow up and accept the fact that, like millions of others, he was dead? ‘Why can’t you accept that?’ His voice grew louder; people were looking. ‘The bloody man is dead.’

  I was livid; I told him that of course I realised now that Charlie must be dead. ‘For God’s sake, I have just come back from his memorial service, but I have no intention of rushing into marriage with another man and a man I do not love. I don’t think we should see each other again. Please take me home.’

  He apologised instantly. But I was fuming. I screamed at him. ‘No man will ever mean as much to me as Charlie!’

  ‘Of course, Madeleine, I do understand; I was out of order, only thinking of myself.’

  I could see Tom knew he had some fence-mending to do. He took a month’s leave. He said that he’d go away for a while and visit Scotland and Wales.

  *

  While Tom was away my grandmother died in her sleep in the house at Eaton Square. I was bereft. My grandmother had taken the place of my mother soon after my birth. The funeral and interment was held at Morton. The family came from everywhere and stayed to hear Uncle William’s pragmatic plans for the London home. ‘I’m selling the place at Eaton Square,’ he began.

  ‘Why, that’s been my home for twenty years, and it’s been the London home of the family for nearly a hundred years. You can’t sell it!’ I was aghast.

  He was unyielding. He said that this was his decision and a necessary one. He told us that the upkeep of Morton was not sustainable. It had to be modernised, reroofed and repaired in a dozen different ways. And he said that many of England’s old country houses were now derelict and he was not going to allow that to happen to Morton. We simply had to get used to the fact that the old ways were changing. Modern-day girls didn’t want to work as domestics; they preferred factory work. He pointed out that cheap domestic labour would soon be a thing of the past and that Morton would have to change, too. ‘I am thinking of going into the business of breeding thoroughbreds.’

  I returned to London knowing I would have only a few more weeks in the family home. The time for me to begin a new life was almost upon me, but nothing appealed. What would I do, where would I live? My grandmother left me sufficient money to live an independent life. What about a small house in some village – no, it didn’t appeal. I’d die with boredom. After all, I was only twenty-three years old.

  I invited Genevieve to lunch at Eaton Square and told her that I’d soon be moving out and that I didn’t know what the hell I would do with my life. She suggested I take a sea voyage and visit them in Australia. She pointed out that I would be able to visit my mother’s relatives. That didn’t appeal to me at all; I mean, the idea of visiting my mother’s family. Why would I want to meet them? I had not known my mother. Even so, I decided to consider the idea, because there was nothing left for me in England with most of my friends dead and Uncle William selling this house to some builder who planned to turn it into a private hotel for genteel people.

  ‘Can you imagine? This house, which has seen so much history, carved up into a home for genteel aged people to retire to? I can’t bear the thought. So there’s nothing for it; I’ll have to start a new life, and I might as well visit Australia.’

  I then told Genevieve that Tom proposed to me and that of course I said no. ‘But I am wondering now if it’s not a bad idea to marry Tom, to get away from all this unhappiness and begin a new life.’

  ‘Do you love Tom, Madeleine?

  ‘Of course not,’ I replied curtly. ‘I will only ever love Charlie.’

  Genevieve, in her turn, was unusually abrupt. ‘If you don’t love Tom you shouldn’t consider marrying him.’

  I don’t like being told what I should do. I pointed out to her that people do marry without being in love. ‘People marry for all sorts of reasons. They might be lonely; they might be prepared to sacrifice feelings of love for security. They might be prepared to rub along with a friend they quite admire. Anything rather than live their lives alone and lonely. I can’t bear the thought of living alone.’

  *

  Tom returned to London in February 1919 and almost immediately received his repatriation order. He rang me to say he would soon be leaving England and asked whether I would consider seeing him again. I said I would. I had missed his company and, besides, I had been giving quite a lot of thought to the subject of marriage for convenience and comfort.

  Tom looked relaxed and handsome that night. Six weeks tramping through the highlands of Britain had done him the world of good. He chose the Savoy for our meal. Tom knew how much I liked to eat at our smart hotels. I had missed him and missed our regular outings. I missed him because he was a naturally quiet man and not in the least loud or pushy. In that way he was a little like Charlie.

  We had a pleasant night during which I fully realised what a comfort Tom had been to me during that second year without Charlie. I might have had a little too much wine; I know I was feeling mellow (a sensation I hadn’t known for almost two years). At the end of the meal I delivered my prepared speech.

  ‘I think I was a little precipitate last time we met, Tom, so if the offer of marriage still stands I just want to say that it’s too early yet, but I might think about it. I just need more time.’ I went on to say that perhaps I was being a little selfish and, in a way, unfair to him, but I did feel I should get away from England and its bitter memories. ‘That being said, Tom, I’m honour bound to tell you again that, although I am fond of you, I don’t love you. I am certain I will only ever love Charlie.’

  I tried to make clear my true feelings to Tom. I explained how being orphaned at such an early age left me unusually dependent on family members – especially uncles and male cousins. I said I was lucky I met Charlie when I was young and that he was empathic towards me, so much so that I knew instantly he was the man for me, and I never wanted anyone else. I finished by saying I seem to be the sort of woman who always needs to have a man I can turn to.

  I couldn’t help thinking that Tom was being sycophantic (which didn’t appeal to me one little bit) when he said, ‘You’ll always be able to turn to me, Madeleine, and you’re not in the least selfish.’

  Even I recognised that I was inclined to be selfish. He went on to assure me that he didn’t really mind if I didn’t love him yet because he was convinced I’d grow to love him if I came to Australia.

  I wasn’t so sure, although I had virtually made up my mind to take a chance on it. I said that I wasn’t as confident about that as he was; however, I was thinking of coming to Australia, possibly towards the end of the year. ‘A year,’ he groaned. ‘Why that long, Madeleine?’

  I was adamant, replying that I didn’t want to make a rash decision, and as it was probably the most important decision I’d ever made, I had no intention of being bullied into changing my mind.

  *

  Tom left England in February 1919, and almost as soon as he’d gone I began having doubts. I told Genevieve that I didn’t want to wreck Tom’s life as my mother had wrecked my father’s. ‘She was shallow and thoughtless, and I don’t want to be like her.’

  ‘Do you ever regret not knowing your mother?’ Genevieve asked.

  I never had, and I said so. I’d always thought my m
other must have been a worthless sort of individual, and I was perfectly happy with my grandmother and the rest of the family. Anyway, as I pointed out to Genevieve, she was dead, apparently having died in a motor accident two or three years ago, so there was no point giving her a thought.

  ‘How sad. Wouldn’t have been very old, would she?’

  I thought she was about forty at the time. I didn’t want to talk about her. She meant nothing to me. My main worry right then was whether I had been too impetuous. Would I be making a mistake by leaving England and thinking of marrying Tom? Would my life be any happier in Australia, especially living on a farm in the back of beyond?

  I told Genevieve that I received a letter from Tom only the day before, written in April soon after his arrival. ‘It took eight weeks to get here – can you imagine that? And what’s more, he spoke of how cold it was already.’

  ‘It’s not the back of beyond where we live, not even two hundred miles from Sydney. I have to admit it does get cold in autumn but no worse than here. One thing – at home we can always be sure of long, warm summers. In fact, rather hot ones, with the odd snake and spider to deal with.’

  ‘I could probably put up with the odd snake after some of the things we had to put up with during the war.’

  I told Genevieve that I’d booked already and would be sailing in October. It wasn’t that easy to get a berth what with war brides and all sorts of other people travelling to meet up with family and friends after their years of separation. I still wasn’t sure about marrying Tom, so I decided I would spend some time with my cousins in Sydney upon my arrival.

  ‘Tom won’t like that. He’s sure to be in Sydney to meet you.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but I won’t be forced. I just hope he accepts that.’

  ‘Well, I’m not too sure that he will, Madeleine.’