by John Masters
Betty said in a clear, distinct voice, ‘I am not going back to America now.’
Isabel Kramer said soothingly, ‘I’m sure your father will understand when you get a chance to speak to him.’
Johnny said, ‘I have a passage booked on the Sylvania, for next Wednesday the 11th, and I’m not going to miss it.’
Isabel looked at Cate and raised her eyes briefly to the ceiling. The young had the bits between their teeth and nothing would stop them now.
Johnny said, ‘I must be getting back, sir. Are you ready, Betty?’
Betty said, ‘Yes. I’ll drop you off at the cottage and then go on home. Phone me to tell me when you want me to move in, after you’ve spoken to Stella.’
‘If I’m leaving on Wednesday, you can come in on Thursday,’ Johnny said.
‘Telephone me, though.’
‘All right.’
Then they went out, with Laurence, who threw over his shoulder, ‘I’m going down to talk to Probyn about the golden oriole I saw on Beighton Hill this morning early, Daddy.’
‘Are you sure that’s what it was?’ Christopher called after him.
‘Quite, Daddy. There’s no other bird, even migrant, as brightly coloured, and of that size.’
Then they were all gone. Isabel turned and put her arms round Christopher’s neck, pressing her body gently against his. He stooped, kissed her on the mouth, and leaned away – ‘They are so sweet and brave … and young,’ Isabel murmured. ‘God grant that they all come out safe and sound.’
‘Safe, perhaps, with luck,’ Cate said. ‘Sound … I’m not sure that anyone who goes through this war, fighting, will ever be really sound again.’
After a while Isabel said, ‘I had a cable from America, too, Christopher. It came yesterday morning, just before I left the house to catch the train here.’
Christopher waited, looking down at her, their hands now locked, face to face, standing a foot apart.
She continued, ‘It was from Stephen, too. He asked me to come home with him, when he goes back, and keep house for him.’
Christopher said, ‘Well, my dear, you must do what you think you must. I shall love you wherever you are, whatever you do.’
Isabel said, ‘Peter van Dehofer lives in Grandview, just down the river. He has asked me to marry him a dozen times since Wilson died.’
This time Christopher eased his hands free of hers and walked up the room, turned, and came back – ‘My dearest Isabel,’ he began slowly, ‘my case seems hopeless. Unless Margaret commits adultery, and I can prove it, without collusion, I cannot get a divorce. Even if Margaret were to be caught, and sentenced to death, and the sentence commuted to life imprisonment – I still could not get a divorce.’
‘You could in the United States,’ Isabel said, her eyes on his.
His lips tightened. ‘You know I cannot leave Walstone,’ he said. ‘You know. Why do you torment me?’
She said, ‘Because I’m a woman, Christopher. I just had to tell you what I am happy to give up. I wouldn’t marry Peter in a thousand years, now that I’ve met you. I am happier seeing you once or twice a month, our moments of love stolen almost in public, than to live day and night with anyone else. And all this is because you are what you are … Now, just humour me, dearest because I’m a woman, and an emotional American. Tell me you love me.’
Christopher stood close, without touching her, and whispered in her ear, ‘I love you, I adore you … with my body I thee worship … with my soul, too, but don’t tell the rector … I want you, I worship you.’ He sank his teeth slowly into her ear.
He heard a knock on the door and Garrod’s ‘Tea, madam … sir.’ She came in bustling, carrying the silver tea tray, preceded by a waft of buttered crumpets and a tinkle of china. She set down the tray and looked up, ‘Nice and hot, madam, and not too strong, just the way you like it.’
‘Thank you, Garrod,’ Isabel said, smiling back. And Christopher smiled. Garrod had seen, of course. Seen and understood. And being what she was, had not gasped ‘Excuse me,’ or dropped the tea tray or slunk out again, closing the door carefully behind her. Her master was in love, and she knew it. And was happy for them both. All the village knew too, and was happy. And, Cate thought, every one of them understands perfectly clearly the nature of the insoluble problem that prevents our enjoying the full happiness that is held in its double padlock.
The telephone in Betty’s front room rang just as she was patting her hair into place before starting to cook her dinner. It was her brother. His voice sounded strange and awkward: ‘Betty … I’ve spoken to Stella. She’s very grateful to you for offering to come here but she swears she’ll be all right by herself … She’s pregnant, and …’
Betty cut in, ‘Oh, Johnny, how wonderful! When’s the baby due?’
‘Middle of October. I know she wants me to stay, but I can’t, Betty, I can’t. You do understand, don’t you?’
Betty said quietly, ‘I understand, Johnny.’
‘Perhaps, later, when the baby’s nearly due, she won’t want to be alone here. Perhaps …’
‘I’ll make it quite clear to her that I’ll come whenever she wants me,’ Betty said.
She replaced the receiver and stood a moment, staring at it. So Stella was pregnant, at last. It couldn’t have come at a worse time, with Johnny going off to the war, but in the long run it might be the best thing that ever happened to her. Meantime, it was clear that she, Stella, wanted to be alone, to live her own life – whatever that now was.
In the First Sea Lord’s spacious room at the Admiralty, Admiral Sir John Jellicoe, Royal Navy, faced Rear Admiral William S. Sims, United States Navy. Sims had sailed before the American declaration of war, and arrived in England three days after it. The biggest chart on the wall showed the loss of tonnage to German U boats, month by month. It was a steadily rising red line. On the same graph there was another line, in blue – also rising, but not as fast as the red one: this was the monthly tonnage of shipping being turned out of the shipbuilding yards. A third line, in green, also rose, but at a still lesser angle: this was the sinking of U boats.
‘Half a million tons in March,’ Admiral Sims said.
‘And it’ll be over eight hundred thousand tons this month, if the trend continues,’ Jellicoe said gloomily. He was the finest naval tactician of the time. His handling of the enormous Grand Fleet at the Battle of Jutland had been brilliant, and must have resulted in a decisive victory if he had been as well served by his scouting admirals and commodores as he deserved. But this war under the sea seemed to be outside the scope of his mind.
‘Looks as if the Germans are winning the war,’ the American said cheerfully.
Jellicoe said, ‘They will unless we stop those losses.’
‘We will,’ Admiral Sims said. ‘With convoys.’
Jellicoe looked up. ‘I’ve been forced to accept them. I must say I don’t like the idea. Blockade and patrol are the classic answers, but … perhaps the Prime Minister’s right. Here, come along to our Anti-Submarine Division and you can see how it works, in theory.’
The two admirals walked along the passage and up a wide flight of stairs. Jellicoe opened the door of a big room on the third floor and looked around. Commander Tom Rowland glanced up from his desk and at once came forward.
The First Sea Lord said, ‘Where’s Admiral Duff?’
‘In conference, sir. And Captain Fisher.’
‘Well, this is Admiral Sims, United States Navy. Who’s in charge of the trans-Atlantic convoy planning?’
‘I am, sir – Commander Rowland.’
Sims stuck out his hand. ‘You’re my man, then, Commander. Admiral Bayly has already told me how he works it, in practice, out of Queenstown. Now you show me how and where you get the ships and convoying vessels into Admiral Bayly’s hands, and I’ll see how we can best fit in with you. We’re slow, but we’re not stupid.’
Jellicoe laughed, and said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you in Rowland’s hands … Bring the
admiral back to my room when he’s had enough here.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Daily Telegraph, Saturday, April 28, 1917
PREMIER’S CALL TO THE NATION FOOD ECONOMY VITAL
It was as one watched the guests arrive that one realized the significance of the ceremony in the Guildhall yesterday. At the heart of the Empire, a stone’s throw from the Bank, there assembled men from its outermost parts, and as one looked at them and remembered the reason for their presence in our midst at this time it was borne in upon one that this conferring of the freedom upon the Prime Minister was a ceremonial act of the City’s faith in Britain’s cause …
… the ceremonies followed their accustomed routine … Then came the Prime Minister’s turn to reply … If one might describe the spirit of his speech in a sentence, it was confidence with an ‘if.’ The ‘if’ was the spirit in which, in the coming weeks, the public faces its proper responsibilities in regard to the food supply. Here are some of his most striking points:
More cargo ships would be brought to our ports in July than in March, even though we continued to lose from submarine activity at the rate we are now doing.
A year hence there will be three, if not four times – as many ships as were built in the preceding twelve-month period.
We shall have three million more acres in cultivation for the harvest of 1918 than we have now, and without a ton of food ‘from abroad’ no one could starve us.
The people must vigorously ration themselves, just to be absolutely safe, proceed as though the submarine problems were insoluble.
‘I have never seen a human problem which is not soluble, and I do not believe this is an exception.’
It was one of the essentials to speedy victory that Ireland should be converted from a suspicious, dangerous, surly neighbour to a cheerful, loyal comrade.
Cate read the long speech with interest, and, with equal interest, the list of guests. It would be nice, some time, to attend such a gathering and feel – indeed, know – that you were at the very heart of the Empire, in some sense a part of it; but they also serve who only … inspect dry rot in tenants’ cellars. And worry about the French. It had long been obvious that their new Commander-in-Chief, Nivelle, would mount a great offensive as soon as he could in the spring. It had, equally obviously, been launched a week ago, and continued on successive days. The newspaper communiqués had started by being boastful, rapidly becoming chary, cautious, and now all but silent. What had happened? Something bad, that one could count on, in this war.
24
House of Commons, London: Thursday, May 10, 1917
The Right Honourable Member for Caernarvon, Mr David Lloyd George (Lib.), called ‘I spy strangers.’ The Strangers’ Gallery was cleared. The House met in Secret Session. The Right Honourable Member for Dundee, Mr Winston Churchill (Lib.), then said, in substance, a new campaign is about to open. Since the beginning of the year two events have occurred, each of which has changed the whole situation and both of which must be taken into account in the policy of the Allies. On the one hand an Allied Empire whose standing Army comprised over seven million soldiers has been crushed by the German hammer. On the other a nation comprising one hundred and twenty millions of the most active, educated and wealthy citizens, commanding intact almost limitless resources of every kind, has engaged itself in our cause … If time is given nothing can stand against Great Britain and the United States together …
There is one other factor beside time which is vital: Sea Communications … We do not know, we do not wish to know, how many ships are being sunk each week by submarines. We know that the number and proportion is most serious and is still increasing. Here then is the fatal crux. Let the whole energies of Britain be directed upon this point … Let every resource and invention be applied. Let the antisubmarine war claim priority and dominance over every other form of British effort. Let us make sure we can bring the American Armies to Europe as soon as they are fit to come.
Meanwhile what should be our policy on land? Is it not obvious, from the primary factors which have been described, that we ought not to squander the remaining Armies of France and Britain in precipitate offensives before the American power begins to be felt on the battlefields? … Let the House implore the Prime Minister to use the authority which he wields, and all his personal weight, to prevent the French and British High Commands from dragging each other into fresh, bloody, and disastrous adventures. Bring over the American millions, and meanwhile maintain an active defensive on the Western Front, so as to economize French and British lives, and so as to train and perfect our Armies and our methods for a decisive effort in a later year.
(Various members then intervened in the debate.)
The Right Honourable Member for Caernarvon, Mr David Lloyd George (Lib.) … I accept in principle my Right Honourable friend’s statement of the main factors affecting our policy. I must, however, decline to commit this government, or myself personally, against a renewed offensive on the Western Front during the current year.
(The Prime Minister then surveyed the war situation on all fronts, and at home. On resuming his seat, he was loudly cheered by nearly all sections.)
Stella had had lunch with her aunt by marriage, Fiona Rowland, and was now feeling a little muzzy from the wine Fiona had given her at the meal, and the sherries beforehand. Fiona, she noticed, had taken no sherry, or wine, but two small glasses of whisky, neat. But of course Aunt Fiona was Scottish, and had probably been given whisky as soon as she was old enough to sit at the grown-ups’ table for dinner.
Mrs Orr, the cook, came in and said, ‘I’ll be going out shopping now, m’m. The new saucepans, m’m.’
Fiona said, ‘I remember. Thank you.’ The cook bustled out, closing the drawing room door quietly behind her. Fiona leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs at the ankles, and said, ‘So you’re pregnant. Are you happy about it?’
Stella said, ‘Of course, Aunt Fiona! I only wish Johnny could be with me.’
Fiona said, ‘But the baby’s not going to be Johnny’s … is it?’
Stella stared, entranced, at the other woman. Fiona seemed to be moving, swaying. There were two Fionas, over-lapping. Stella said at last, ‘How do you know?’
Fiona said, ‘I have the sight, child.’
She’s mad, Stella thought. But Aunt Fiona had always been strange, given to prophetic utterances which often turned out to be correct.
Stella felt herself crying, the tears rolling silently down her cheeks. She stammered, ‘I was … s-so lonely … I …’
Fiona said, ‘Don’t tell me … I wish I could have had a child by my lover. God knows I wanted one, and begged him to give me one … but mostly he used those rubber things, and even when he didn’t, nothing happened.’
Stella’s tears slowly dried as she stared in mounting astonishment at her aunt, Guy and Virginia’s mother, Uncle Quentin’s wife. She said, ‘You had a … a lover?’
Fiona rose abruptly from her chair and stood by the window looking out at the bright yellow blossoms of a laburnum and the pink candles of a horse chestnut, glowing like fire in the light spring rain. She said, ‘For ten years – until he joined the Army, last Christmas. Why did he do that? He could have been excused. If he had tried … or become an official war artist. But he joined up, and now he’s in the same battalion as Quentin. He’s Quentin’s adjutant, his personal staff officer!’
Stella said wonderingly, ‘Does he … do they … know?’
Fiona said, ‘Quentin doesn’t.’ She was silent a moment, then said abruptly, ‘Do you love him?’
Stella said slowly, ‘I don’t know, Auntie. I don’t think so. But when I’m with him, I think I do.’
‘That’s true with all men who show interest in you, isn’t it?’
Stella said, ‘Not every man … It’s when they’re exciting. They make me feel bolder than I really am … I love Johnny so much, but …’ She shrugged; she was becoming irritated and unhappy and her mouth was dr
y. Aunt Fiona could not understand, and she could not explain. She’d leave as soon as she decently could, go home and have a little sherry and a little sniff. What to talk about for the next ten minutes?
She looked round. The walls of the room were hung with small water colours, some oils, and a few pen and ink drawings, all of wartime scenes in France. On a sudden intuition she said, ‘Are those pictures by … him?’
Fiona said, ‘Yes. Some, Archie gave to Quentin, others I am to keep to the end of the war, when we’ll give them back to Archie.’ She laughed bitterly – ‘There’ll be no end of the war for one of them … perhaps neither. Have a look at them – a good look.’
Stella rose and circled the walls examining the paintings. She didn’t know much about art, but the Manor was full of good classic English oils, family portraits, country scenes; and her father used to take them all to the Royal Academy summer exhibitions … These were very good, very strong. The condition of the war over there was apparent in every line … Here was a soldier, stretched out beside a road, weariness in every line of his face, in the exhausted fall of his hand across his rifle beside him … Here was a soldier talking to a girl, in a bar – what did they call it? estaminet – just the two heads, the girl obviously flirting, the soldier’s face yearning, trying not to show it – she knew that look in men, too well – bottles and glasses sketched in, all seen through a bluish haze of tobacco smoke … And here was Uncle Quentin, as she had known him all her life … a little thinner than he used to be, his mouth set, his popping blue eyes more wrinkled at the corners, staring past the painter, binoculars in his hands, held high, ready … She licked her lips, and stifled a yawn.
‘They’re awfully good, Auntie,’ she said, ‘and now I’m afraid …’
