The Consequences of War

by Betty Burton

  The Restaurant Women were Mrs Kennedy, for her past experience of running an office, Mrs Partridge, who had good experience of working in the kitchens of a hospital before she was married, and for four years during the last war, and two athletic-looking women whom Georgia recognized as members of the tennis team. They were young and enthusiastic volunteers who had little experience of anything to do with cooking but were willing to do any kind of community work, as long as they would not be called upon to staunch blood. Georgia guessed that they wouldn’t last long doing such unglamorous work. And Mrs Farr, a white-haired, youthful-looking woman who, after being a mystery when she settled in Markham years ago, was revealed, when she applied for the post of Head Cook, as having once been a cook with many years’ experience at a famous public school.

  Mrs Farr was a woman with an air of natural leadership and winning personality, and was therefore the person to whom they all deferred. Her references had been impeccable: if there was anything that Mrs Farr didn’t know about producing puddings by the hundredweight, gravy by the gallon, and baked potatoes by the ton, then it was not worth knowing.

  Mrs Partridge’s daughter-in-law, Marie. Secretly, Dolly had wondered whether the others might think that she was getting Marie in by the back door, which of course she was, and good luck to her – if it wasn’t Marie it would be somebody else. When Dolly saw that Mrs Nob of Nob Hill had brought her daughter, she no longer felt guilty about Marie.

  There was an atmosphere of high old ladylike excitement in the back room of the Old Mission. Mrs Farr had come in good time and, having brought a large basket containing biscuits, cups and everything else necessary, had got the kettle on and had made a brew of good tea. In spite of the heat outside and the steam and lighted gas-oven inside, the room was chilly with that chill of all church halls where not much is spent on heating at the best of times: this one had been closed down for five years.

  Georgia tapped her spoon on her saucer and the talk subsided. ‘Shall we start before the men arrive, ladies?’

  ‘Before we start looking at the place, I should say that Mrs Hardy – or should I say “Captain”, Mrs Hardy…?’

  ‘Oh Lord, no! The rank is embarrassing enough as it is. I really scarcely know how I came by it.’

  We know how, thought Dolly. By knowing the right people. It was rumoured that Connie Hardy and Lady Mountbatten were like that – meaning in one another’s pockets – though why a Lady should want to be in the pocket of a cake manufacturer’s wife, nobody explained.

  ‘…Mrs Hardy is here to inspect the building with a view to using one room for the Red Cross office and a store for their things – tea and condensed milk and cigarettes, I believe, for the troop-trains.’

  They began their tour of the building. Georgia had taken a lot of trouble to anticipate that they would need lists to cover various types of work such as carpentry, plumbing and plastering, and had prepared a headed paper for each subject.

  ‘I say,’ said the tennis girl, ‘that’s terribly efficient, Georgia. Who did them for you?’

  ‘I did them myself. They’re just common sense really.’

  ‘I say,’ said the doubles partner, ‘I am impressed. I thought your Hughie must have done them – he’s always so good at that kind of thing at the Club.’

  As they inspected the old building, each woman had a say about what repairs were obvious, what changes were necessary, what installations, such as cookers, sinks, locked store-cupboards and cold-stores, would be needed. It went without saying that the hall itself, which had once been used for dances and socials, was to be the public restaurant, with a serving counter with heated plates at one end, next to the kitchens which could be installed at the back. There was a great feeling of conviviality… a lot of, ‘That’s a good idea’ and, ‘Oh yes’ and ‘I should never have thought of that.’ Georgia, with her forms and papers clipped to a board, thought, It’s going so well. I wish Hugh could see me now. Then, no I don’t, he would only be patronizing, or try to show me how to do it his way, and I should feel a fool and then I should act like a fool. For some reason, an image of Nick Crockford imposed itself upon her concentration.

  The reason, though she did not know it, was that she wished that Nick Crockford could see her now. It was also that Georgia Kennedy’s husband had been away for weeks, and it was not he who had been breathing close to her ear in her unfaithful dreams.

  An inspection of the dank ‘usual offices’ brought her concentration back to her notes, and by eleven-thirty she had them completed. In their inspection, the team had – amongst other work – theoretically knocked down walls, built flush toilets, scraped surfaces and had them painted, widened doorways and had sheets of tin tiling affixed to the walls of the preparation and cooking areas.

  They agreed that they must keep the stage so that there would be a chance for people to listen to a bit of piano music or singing sometimes, whilst they were eating.

  ‘Or conjuring,’ said the doubles partner. ‘My Pa would love to, he’s as good as a professional.’

  ‘He is, I’ve seen him,’ said Marie Partridge. ‘At the Co-op concert. If there’s a war, people will want things like that to keep their spirits up.’ She flushed at having spoken at a meeting. Charlie would never believe her. Oh Lord,

  Charlie. She turned off thoughts of Charlie. He would probably have seen her note and would know by now where she was. And would probably have gone down to the park to see his Dad. She glanced across at her mother-in-law, who was behaving as though she had served on committees all her life. Marie Partridge’s spirits rose – they were in this together.

  ‘It’s no longer a question of if there’s a war, my dear,’ said Mrs Farr, and they all listened to the older woman, already recognized as wise and intelligent. ‘There will be a war, and it will be soon. And it won’t be over by Christmas, no matter what they tell you. And you are right, my dear, we shall need things to keep up our spirits, even more than in the last war. And you’ (to Dolly) ‘will remember all about what that was like, quite as well as I do.’

  ‘I do. But I hope they write some better songs for this one. The others were mush. War isn’t sentimental, it’s degrading. I suppose it’s because songwriters stop at home where it’s safe –I never heard of a songwriter getting his leg blown off.’

  The other ladies knew that Mrs Partridge was the park-keeper’s wife and they lived on the council estate and even though they might not agree with her, were amazed at how well she could put things – at how ‘deep’ she was.

  ‘Nobody’s going to be safe this time,’ said Connie Hardy, surprisingly.

  Mrs Farr looked at Dolly Partridge, the only other woman here who really had any understanding of war, and was glad that such a very sensible sort of woman was going to work on the food scheme. I have always got on best with the working-classes, Mrs Farr thought. I shall offer her the job as cook’s assistant: it will be better money than kitchen worker.

  By twelve the first of the men arrived – fifteen minutes early, hoping to find some tea about – a man who said he was Clerk of the Works.

  ‘This won’t take long, and then you can get off,’ he said, leaning familiarly on one elbow, having put himself at the centre of the gathering. He savoured Mrs Farr’s freshly-brewed tea. ‘We came yesterday and went through the place. But, well, we got to meet you official so that you can tell us what colour you want things. You’re a proper official body now, an’t you, ladies? Got to put this meeting in a proper report for the Town Hall.’

  ‘Fancy that, ladies,’ said Mrs Farr with a very odd look. ‘A proper report for the Town Hall.’

  The Clerk of the Works continued. ‘I’ll tell you this for nothing, the Borough Surveyor didn’t think much of the place, nor did the Fire Officer, not worth spending the money on; but there, if you asks me it will all be over by Christmas anyway, so whatever happens it’s going to be a waste. The Church people won’t mind, though, give the old place a new lease of life all on rates and taxes.’r />
  Connie Hardy’s clear voice dropped into the women’s stunned silence. ‘Will you please explain exactly who came and went through the place yesterday?’

  ‘Borough Surveyor, myself, Fire Chief, Inspector Knowles and Councillor Hardy, Ma’am.’

  ‘So the five of you have already decided what is to be done?’

  ‘Good as. You ladies will be able to be off by one o’clock. Just a matter of form.’

  Georgia looked at the faces of the women, who were all looking at one another.

  Connie Hardy held up a finger. ‘May I speak with you and the other ladies, Mrs Kennedy.’

  ‘Excuse us,’ Georgia said. ‘Help yourself to more tea and biscuits.’ And led the way outside. They gathered in a close huddle, their backs to everything, facing only their unity and indignation.

  Hello, thought the Clerk of the Works, they’re up to something. But it wasn’t his job to worry about that and the biscuits were delicious – not the boughten muck he got at home.

  ‘Well!’ Mrs Farr exploded first, and then the other established members of the committee exploded too.

  Dolly Partridge said, ‘It’s not often I get het up, but I must say, I can’t abide being treated like I was a child by somebody like Bert Bartram and – I’m sorry Mrs Hardy – by Councillors.’

  ‘You don’t have to apologize, Mrs Partridge,’ Connie Hardy said. ‘You have a right to be annoyed.’

  Mrs Farr said, ‘It is quite clear. Emergency committees (of which this is one) are set up by Government, not Councils. Council workmen will be employed, but Councillors have no authority to recommend what shall be done with this building. It is for this Committee to recommend.’

  ‘Look,’ Georgia said, ‘I think we all feel the same: that we have put in a lot of thought and work into what wants doing in this place and if we let ourselves be walked over now, they will keep on doing it and we shall have only ourselves to blame. I must say, I feel pretty niggled about it.’

  ‘Niggled!’ said Mrs Farr, ‘I feel angry. The kitchens and the entire preparation area at Melsbury School were planned by me, and when the new kitchens were to be installed at a new Navigation College, I was invited to vet them. And now I am expected to have my kitchens arranged by firemen and police constables.’ With her smooth, unaged skin and pure white hair springing from her black peasant headscarf, she looked magnificent. Had there been people there who had known her in her younger days, they would have been reminded of when she had defied jeering crowds whilst she was chained to the House of Commons’ railings.

  ‘I’ll tell you what riles me about it,’ Dolly said. ‘It’s that five men, who probably never cooked a rasher of bacon in their lives, think that they can come in and tell us!’

  Dolly Partridge, on one of her hobby horses, went on.

  ‘They haven’t got no idea what a kitchen ought to be. You ought to see the kitchens in the council houses. The gas-stove so you’ve got your back to the light, sink where water splashes the curtains, nowhere to put hot pans down safe – and it’s all too blooming high.’

  ‘Kitchens always are,’ said Eve Hardy, speaking for the first time.

  What she knows about kitchens you could write on a matchstick, thought Marie Partridge.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think we should do.’ All eyes swivelled in Connie’s direction. ‘Go across to the Town Hall now. There’s a meeting of the Council Executive.’ Knowing how it must look to them, and knowing better than anybody perhaps her own husband’s reputation, she said earnestly. ‘Look, I’ll support you, and I can guarantee the Red Cross will support me if necessary. If you can try to ignore the fact that it’s my husband who is Chief Executive, I assure you that I can. We are going to have to work together here. We ought to stick together.’

  So, they went. And, united, they stood up to the Borough fathers, who were at first delighted to receive the charming ladies all in their summer dresses and hats, and Mrs Hardy in her delightful uniform.

  Refusing their offer of sherry or rolls and coffee, Mrs Farr said, ‘We intend to deal direct with the appropriate Government body, and so that there is no misunderstanding, we think it preferable that you give the Council’s sub-contracted labour written notice that Mrs Kennedy is Administrator and that they must take instructions from her.’

  Georgia Kennedy felt Freddy Hardy’s eyes alight upon her and she knew that she must stand up to him.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Farr, I couldn’t have put it better myself. You see, gentlemen, it is not that we want to be against any suggestions that you might have – I am sure we need the advice of the Fire Chief – but I have been appointed to organize and administer this restaurant and, in any case, I am sure that you will have more important affairs to deal with than the mass provision of meat and two veg.’

  And it was done.

  Later, Georgia and Mrs Farr met for the first of many ‘Departmental Conferences’ as they wryly referred to their informal talk about the administrative and practical running of the restaurant.

  ‘I hadn’t realized that you had been appointed,’ Mrs Farr said. ‘I must say that I am pleased. I had visions of having some retired bank manager telling me what to do. I certainly never in my wildest dreams expected that they would have the extreme good sense to appoint a woman as Administrator.’

  It had not taken Georgia long to know that Mrs Farr was one of the straightest kind of people, somebody you could be honest with and know that she would never let you down.

  ‘Well actually, I wouldn’t give them credit for good sense too soon. Look.’ She handed Mrs Farr a letter from the Ministry.

  Mrs Farr read the closely-filled pages carefully, then looked up at the young woman who would be her boss and began to laugh quietly. ‘Oh, I say, isn’t that rich? George Kennedy.’

  ‘It was Councillor Hardy as well as Councillor Greenaway who backed my application.’

  ‘Well, for once they made a mistake worth making.’

  ‘Do you think my appointment’s legal?’

  ‘Fait accompli.’ The older woman’s eyes sparkled with delight. ‘Now you’ve started the job, it won’t be easy for them to take it away from you.’

  ‘What do you think I should do about my salary cheque?’

  ‘Have you your own bank account?’

  ‘No. I didn’t know that a married woman could have a separate account.’

  ‘Of course. Perhaps it might not be a bad idea if you open one: it would forestall any queries by the bureaucrats.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Georgia, ‘I feel quite conspiratorial.’ Mrs Farr momentarily squeezed Georgia’s shoulder and smiled in a wry and serious way. ‘Women do have to be, George.’

  ‘I shall enjoy working with you, Mrs Farr.’

  ‘And I you. What a wonderful experience, to have a woman in charge.’

  ‘Goodness!’ said Georgia Kennedy. ‘Whatever will Hugh say?’ at which Mrs Farr gave her a funny look, ‘But I don’t think that it would be a good idea to tell Hugh.’

  ‘About George.’

  ‘He would call it false pretences or something.’

  ‘Least said soonest mended?’

  Georgia covered her smile with her hand. ‘It never occurred to me that one could enjoy a conspiracy.’

  ‘My dear, if women are to get even the smallest freedom to work in the men’s world, we sometimes have no choice but to conspire.’

  Georgia warmed to this strong woman and seemed herself to grow stronger in her presence. ‘You’re right. Men conspire all the time, don’t they, but they call it putting their heads together, or meeting over a drink.’

  Georgia departed from her new colleague feeling stimulated and eager. She could do anything. Anything!

  1989

  ‘They want to take our picture, Dorothy.’ Mrs Farr leaned towards her friend and sister inmate. Inmate was Mrs Farr’s word: the matron (I wish you would call me Nancy, dear) liked her charges to think of themselves as Residents (It’s what you are, dear, what we all are,
Residents in Homelyside).

  ‘Who, the Clarion?’ Dolly Partridge’s voice was pitched slightly higher and louder than was necessary, indicating deafness.

  ‘No, the Guardian. And do an interview.’

  ‘The Manchester Guardian?’

  ‘“Monday Women”. It’s a feature…’

  ‘I know what it is, I’m not senile – only deaf. What do they want pictures of us for?’ Her body shook and wheezed slightly with amusement. ‘Is the Guardian starting a page three?’

  ‘No, it’s a series on old wrecks.’

  ‘You’re fishing for compliments, Ursula. You know you don’t look a day over a hundred.’

  ‘You don’t look bad yourself, Dorothy.’

  ‘So I should, I’m younger than you.’

  And neither did they look so bad for their century of hard wear, as they walked at the pace of Dolly’s legs in the Homelyside garden.

  Ursula Farr was thin and wiry from a lifetime of sensible eating and brisk daily walking, and she still swam. Her thick white hair she wore cut in the same Twenties bob she had worn it in since the Twenties. These days, her reading glasses lenses were thick, even so, she didn’t miss much and her eyes were as intelligent as when Dolly Partridge had first met her in 1939.

  Dorothy Partridge was plumper than her friend of fifty years’ duration, deaf without her hearing-aid, and her legs didn’t work at all well, but then Dolly had had four children, a poor diet for all her young years, and stood and knelt on more stone floors than she cared to remember. For a woman of her great age, with her sparse, fluffy hair and unself-conscious smile, she would make a good photograph for the papers. They both would.

  After a few minutes’ pause, Dolly asked, ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘I said we’d do it. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘I thought you went off the Guardian. It makes my arms ache. Good cartoons.’

  The postman, taking a short cut through the garden, saw the two old ladies helping one another slowly, and made a mental note to put them down in his Writer’sjournal and do a characterization piece to read out at the group meeting. ‘Shuffling, ancient, walking with two sticks, hearing-aid. Hair like dandelion clock. Companion wearing ethnic dress, shrivelled – ripe granadilla – contrasting hair like Jean Harlow.’