by Follett, Ken
Ethel liked Mildred, but she wondered whether Billy at eighteen was ready to take on a twenty-three-year-old woman and two stepchildren. True, Billy had always been extraordinarily mature and responsible for his age. And he might be a few years older before the war ended. Anyway, all Ethel wanted was for him to come home alive. After that, nothing mattered much.
Ethel said: “His name’s not on the list of casualties in today’s paper, thank God.”
“I wonder when he’ll get leave.”
“He’s only been gone five months.”
Mildred put down the teapot. “Ethel, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“I’m thinking of going out on my own—as a seamstress, I mean.”
Ethel was surprised. Mildred was the supervisor now at Mannie Litov’s, so she was earning a better wage.
Mildred went on: “I’ve got a friend who can get me work trimming hats—putting on the veils, ribbons, feathers, and beads. It’s skilled work and it pays a lot better than sewing uniforms.”
“Sounds great.”
“Only thing is, I’d have to work at home, at least at first. Long-term, I’d like to employ other girls and get a small place.”
“You’re really looking ahead!”
“Got to, haven’t you? When the war’s over they won’t want no more uniforms.”
“True.”
“So you wouldn’t mind me using upstairs as my workshop, for a while?”
“Of course not. Good luck to you!”
“Thanks.” Impulsively she kissed Ethel’s cheek, then she picked up the teapot and went out.
Lloyd yawned and rubbed his eyes. Ethel lifted him up and put him to bed in the front room. She watched him fondly for a minute or two as he drifted into sleep. As always, his helplessness tugged at her heart. It will be a better world when you grow up, Lloyd, she promised silently. We’ll make sure of that.
When she returned to the kitchen, she tried to draw Bernie out of his mood. “There should be more books for children,” she said.
He nodded. “I’d like every library to have a little section of children’s books.” He spoke without looking up from the paper.
“Perhaps if you librarians do that it will encourage the publishers to bring out more.”
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
Ethel put more coal on the fire and poured cocoa for them both. It was unusual for Bernie to be withdrawn. Normally she enjoyed these cozy evenings. They were two outsiders, a Welsh girl and a Jew, not that there was any scarcity of Welsh people or Jews in London. Whatever the reason, in the two years she had been living in London he had become a close friend, along with Mildred and Maud.
She had an idea what was on his mind. Last night a bright young speaker from the Fabian Society had addressed the local Labour Party on the subject of “postwar socialism.” Ethel had argued with him and he had obviously been rather taken with her. After the meeting he had flirted with her, even though everyone knew he was married, and she had enjoyed the attention, not taking it at all seriously. But perhaps Bernie was jealous.
She decided to leave him to be quiet if that was what he wanted. She sat at the kitchen table and opened a large envelope full of letters written by men on the front line. Readers of The Soldier’s Wife sent their husbands’ letters to the paper, which paid a shilling for each one published. They gave a truer picture of life at the front than anything in the mainstream press. Most of The Soldier’s Wife was written by Maud, but the letters had been Ethel’s idea and she edited that page, which had become the paper’s most popular feature.
She had been offered a better-paid job, as a full-time organizer for the National Union of Garment Workers, but she had turned it down, wanting to stay with Maud and continue campaigning.
She read half a dozen letters, then sighed and looked at Bernie. “You would think people would turn against the war,” she said.
“But they haven’t,” he replied. “Look at the results of that election.”
Last month in Ayrshire there had been a by-election—a ballot in a single constituency, caused by the death of the sitting member of Parliament. The Conservative, Lieutenant-General Hunter-Weston, who had fought at the Somme, had been opposed by a Peace candidate, Reverend Chalmers. The army officer had won overwhelmingly, 7,149 votes to 1,300.
“It’s the newspapers,” Ethel said with frustration. “What can our little publication do to promote peace, against the propaganda put out by the bloody Northcliffe press?” Lord Northcliffe, a gung-ho militarist, owned The Times and the Daily Mail.
“It’s not just the newspapers,” Bernie said. “It’s the money.”
Bernie paid a lot of attention to government finance, which was odd in a man who had never had more than a few shillings. Ethel saw an opportunity to bring him out of his mood, and said: “What do you mean?”
“Before the war, our government used to spend about half a million pounds a day on everything—the army, courts and prisons, education, pensions, running the colonies, everything.”
“So much!” She smiled at him affectionately. “That’s the kind of statistic my father always knew.”
He drank his cocoa, then said: “Guess how much we spend now.”
“Double that? A million a day? It sounds impossible.”
“You’re nowhere near. The war costs five million pounds a day. That’s ten times the normal cost of running the country.”
Ethel was shocked. “Where does the money come from?”
“That’s the problem. We borrow it.”
“But the war has been going on for more than two years. We must have borrowed . . . nearly four thousand million pounds!”
“Something like that. Twenty-five years’ normal expenditure.”
“How will we ever pay it back?”
“We can never pay it back. A government that tried to bring in taxes sufficient to repay the loan would cause a revolution.”
“So what will happen?”
“If we lose the war, our creditors—mainly Americans—will go bankrupt. And if we win, we’ll make the Germans pay. ‘Reparations’ is the word they use.”
“How will they manage it?”
“They will starve. But nobody cares what happens to the losers. Anyway, the Germans did the same to the French in 1871.” He stood up and put his cup in the kitchen sink. “So you see why we can’t make peace with Germany. Who then would pay the bill?”
Ethel was aghast. “And so we have to keep sending boys to die in the trenches. Because we can’t pay the bill. Poor Billy. What a wicked world we live in.”
“But we’re going to change it.”
I hope so, Ethel thought. Bernie believed it would take a revolution. She had read about the French Revolution and knew that such things did not always turn out the way people intended. All the same, she was determined that Lloyd would have a better life.
They sat in silence for a while, then Bernie stood up. He went to the door, as if to leave, then changed his mind. “That speaker last night was interesting.”
“Aye,” she said.
“Clever, too.”
“Yes, he was clever.”
Bernie sat down again. “Ethel . . . two years ago you told me you wanted friendship, not romance.”
“I was very sorry to hurt your feelings.”
“Don’t be sorry. Our friendship is the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“I like it too.”
“You said I’d soon forget all that lovey-dovey stuff, and we would just be pals. But you were wrong.” He leaned forward in his chair. “As I’ve got to know you better, I’ve just come to love you more than ever.”
Ethel could see the yearning in his eyes, and she felt desperately sorry that she could not return his feelings. “I’m very fond of you, too,” she said. “But not in that way.”
“What’s the point of being alone? We like each other. We’re such a good team! We have the same ideals, the same aims in life,
similar opinions—we belong together.”
“There’s more to marriage than that.”
“I know. And I long to take you in my arms.” He moved his arm, as if about to reach out and touch her, but she crossed her legs and turned aside in her chair. He withdrew his hand, and a bitter smile twisted his usually amiable expression. “I’m not the handsomest man you’ve ever met. But I believe no one has ever loved you as I do.”
He was right about that, she reflected sadly. Many men had fancied her, and one had seduced her, but none had shown the patient devotion of Bernie. If she married him she could be sure it would be forever. And somewhere in her soul she longed for that.
Sensing her hesitation, Bernie said: “Marry me, Ethel. I love you. I’ll spend my life making you happy. It’s all I want.”
Did she need a man at all? She was not unhappy. Lloyd was a constant joy, with his stumbling walk, his attempts at speech, and his boundless curiosity. He was enough for her.
Bernie said: “Little Lloyd needs a father.”
That gave her a pang of guilt. Bernie was already playing that role part-time. Should she marry Bernie for Lloyd’s sake? It was not too late for him to start calling Bernie “Daddy.”
It would mean giving up what little hope she had left of finding again the overwhelming passion she had felt with Fitz. She still suffered a spasm of longing when she thought about it. But, she asked herself, trying to think objectively despite her feelings, what did I get out of that love affair? I was disappointed by Fitz, rejected by my family, and exiled to another country. Why would I want that again?
Hard as she struggled, she could not bring herself to accept Bernie’s proposal. “Let me think,” she said.
He beamed. Clearly that was a more positive answer than he had dared to hope for. “Think as long as you want,” he said. “I’ll wait.”
She opened the front door. “Good night, Bernie.”
“Good night, Ethel.” He leaned forward and she gave him her cheek to kiss. His lips lingered a moment on her skin. She drew back immediately. He caught her wrist. “Ethel . . . ”
“Sleep well, Bernie,” she said.
He hesitated, then nodded. “You, too,” he said, and he went out.
{ II }
On election night in November 1916, Gus Dewar thought his career in politics had come to an end.
He was in the White House, fielding phone calls and passing messages to President Wilson, who was at Shadow Lawn, the new summer White House in New Jersey, with his second wife, Edith. Papers were sent from Washington to Shadow Lawn every day by the U.S. Postal Service, but sometimes the president needed to get the news faster.
By nine o’clock that evening it was clear that the Republican, a Supreme Court justice called Charles Evans Hughes, had won four swing states: New York, Indiana, Connecticut, and New Jersey.
But the reality did not hit Gus until a messenger brought him the early editions of the New York newspapers and he saw the headline:PRESIDENT-ELECT HUGHES
He was shocked. He thought Woodrow Wilson was winning. Voters had not forgotten Wilson’s deft handling of the Lusitania crisis: he had managed to get tough with the Germans while at the same time staying neutral. Wilson’s campaign slogan was: “He kept us out of war.”
Hughes had accused Wilson of failing to prepare America for war, but this had backfired. Americans were more determined than ever to remain nonaligned after Britain’s brutal suppression of the Easter Rising in Dublin. Britain’s treatment of the Irish was no better than Germany’s treatment of the Belgians, so why should America take sides?
When he had read the papers Gus loosened his tie and napped on the couch in the study next to the Oval Office. He was unnerved by the prospect of leaving the White House. Working for Wilson had become his bedrock. His love life was a train wreck, but at least he knew he was valuable to the president of the United States.
His concern was not just selfish. Wilson was determined to create an international order in which wars could be avoided. Just as next-door neighbors no longer settled boundary disputes with six-guns, so the time must come when countries, too, submitted their quarrels to independent judgment. The British foreign secretary, Sir Edward Grey, had used the words “a league of nations” in a letter to Wilson, and the president had liked the phrase. If Gus could help bring that about his life would mean something.
But now it looked as if that dream was not going to come true, he thought, and he drifted into a disappointed sleep.
He was woken early in the morning by a cable saying that Wilson had won Ohio—a blue-collar state that had liked the president’s stand on the eight-hour day—and Kansas, too. Wilson was back in the running. A little later he won Minnesota by fewer than a thousand votes.
It was not over after all, and Gus’s spirits lifted.
By Wednesday evening Wilson was ahead with 264 electoral votes against 254, a lead of 10. But one state, California, had not yet declared a result, and it carried 13 electoral votes. Whoever won California would be president.
Gus’s phone went quiet. There was nothing much for him to do. The counting in Los Angeles was slow. Every unopened box was guarded by armed Democrats, who believed that tampering had robbed them of a presidential victory in 1876.
The result was still hanging in the balance when the lobby called to tell Gus he had a visitor. To his surprise it was Rosa Hellman, the former editor of the Buffalo Anarchist. Gus was pleased: Rosa was always interesting to talk to. He recalled that an anarchist had assassinated President McKinley in Buffalo in 1901. However, President Wilson was far away in New Jersey, so he brought Rosa up to the study and offered her a cup of coffee.
She was wearing a red coat. When he helped her off with it, he towered over her. He caught the aroma of a light flowery perfume.
“Last time we met you told me I was a goddamn fool to get engaged to Olga Vyalov,” he said as he hung her coat on the hat stand.
She looked embarrassed. “I apologize.”
“Ah, but you were right.” He changed the subject. “So now you’re working for a wire service?”
“That’s right.”
“As their Washington correspondent.”
“No, I’m his one-eyed girl assistant.”
She had never before mentioned her deformity. Gus hesitated, then said: “I used to wonder why you didn’t wear a patch. But now I’m glad you don’t. You’re just a beautiful woman with one closed eye.”
“Thank you. You’re a kind man. What sort of thing do you do for the president?”
“Apart from pick up the phone when it rings . . . I read the State Department’s mealymouthed reports, then tell Wilson the truth.”
“For example . . . ?”
“Our ambassadors in Europe say that the Somme offensive is achieving some but not all its objectives, with heavy casualties on both sides. It’s almost impossible to prove that statement wrong—and it tells the president nothing. So I tell him the Somme is a disaster for the British.” He shrugged. “Or I used to. My job may be over.” He was concealing his real feelings. The prospect that Wilson could lose was dreadful to him.
She nodded. “They’re counting again in California. Almost a million people voted, and the difference is about five thousand.”
“So much hangs on the decisions of a small number of poorly educated people.”
“That’s democracy.”
Gus smiled. “A terrible way to run a country, but every other system is worse.”
“If Wilson wins, what will be his top priority?”
“Off the record?”
“Of course.”
“Peace in Europe,” Gus said without hesitation.
“Really?”
“He was never really comfortable with the slogan ‘He kept us out of war.’ The matter isn’t entirely in his hands. We may be dragged in whether we like it or not.”
“But what can he do?”
“He’ll put pressure on both sides to find a compromise.”
<
br /> “Can he succeed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Surely they can’t go on slaughtering one another as they have been at the Somme.”
“God knows.” He changed the subject again. “Tell me the news from Buffalo.”
She gave him a candid look. “Do you want to know about Olga, or is it too embarrassing?”
Gus looked away. What could be more embarrassing? First he had received a note from Olga, calling the engagement off. She had been abjectly apologetic but had given no explanation. Gus had been unwilling to accept this and had written back demanding to see her in person. He could not understand it and speculated that someone was putting pressure on her. But later that same day his mother had discovered, through her network of gossiping friends, that Olga was going to marry her father’s driver. “But why?” Gus had said in anguish, and Mother had replied: “My darling boy, there is only one reason a girl marries the chauffeur.” He had stared uncomprehendingly, and Mother had at last said: “She must be pregnant.” It was the most humiliating moment of Gus’s life, and even a year later he winced with pain every time he recalled it.
Rosa read his face. “I shouldn’t have mentioned her. I’m sorry.”
Gus felt he might as well know what everyone else knew. He touched Rosa’s hand lightly. “Thank you for being direct. I prefer it. And yes, I’m curious about Olga.”
“Well, they got married at that Russian Orthodox church on Ideal Street, and the reception took place at the Statler Hotel. Six hundred people were invited, and Josef Vyalov hired the ballroom and the dining room, and served caviar to everyone. It was the most lavish wedding in the history of Buffalo.”
“And what is her husband like?”
“Lev Peshkov is handsome, charming, and completely untrustworthy. You know as soon as you look at him that he’s a rogue. And now he’s the son-in-law of one of the richest men in Buffalo.”
“And the child?”
“A girl, Darya, but they call her Daisy. She was born in March. And Lev is no longer the chauffeur, of course. I think he runs one of Vyalov’s nightclubs.”
