by John Masters
He said, ‘I thought you was supposed to be home by tea time.’
Rachel said, ‘I’m sorry, Bert. We got to talking.’ She didn’t want to upset him; she didn’t want to tell him what she had been doing, either. It would be a sort of desecration.
‘Talking about what?’ he asked, raising the bottle to his lips.
‘The peace movement, of course,’ she said. ‘Ways to make the government come out in the open … more places where we can employ passive resistance without hurting ordinary people.’
That was true, as far as it went. The meeting had again been held in Bertrand Russell’s rooms. Russell had been there, again with the beautiful young Lady Constance Malleson.
And Wilfred Bentley had been present, the red spots obvious on his cheeks, coughing thinly, holding a handkerchief to his mouth, dabbing his forehead, but the smile always there, the eyes steady, the spirit unbroken, hatred for no one … if there were more Christians like him, she might become one herself.
She said, ‘Bertrand Russell congratulated us on getting out of prison, and said we really ought to be congratulated just as much for going in.’
‘Can’t see him going to prison,’ Bert said. ‘Too bloody aristocratic for that.’
‘He’d go,’ she said indignantly. ‘You know he would. He’s not afraid of them. John Rowland was there … Naomi’s going to France soon, he told me, and he’s expecting his son, Boy, home on leave soon … Wilfred Bentley was there, and…’
Bert said, ‘He’s always there, always talking.’
‘He’s going to become a socialist soon,’ she said. ‘He says he’s learning more with us, at these meetings, about the true state of society in this country, than he had learned at Winchester and Balliol, and in all his years before – he’s twenty-seven.’
Bert said, ‘So you just sat on your arses talking from eleven in the morning to seven, eight, nine at night, eh?’
It was just as she had feared. Bert was laying philistine hands on a wonderful experience. The meeting had ended at two in the afternoon, and Wilfred Bentley then asked her to share a late lunch with him. After hesitation – she should get back to Hedlington, her work, Bert – she had agreed. They had eaten in a little restaurant near the south end of Bloomsbury Street. They talked, before, during, and after the meal. Then they walked to and into Regent’s Park … she had found herself listening as though to two other people – a short dark Jewish woman with short legs, her East End accent only half blanketed by two years of Girton, and a tall young country gentleman and officer, fair haired, unfailingly gentle and polite, with the quiet, confident accents of Winchester and what regiment did he say? Some number, it was. (He had said very earnestly, ‘You are making a mistake to attack the Army as such, Rachel. All of us are proud of our regiments. The 60th has given me something nothing can take away, not even death. We all feel the same. Many of us are disillusioned about the war, even about England, and think peace ought to be, and can be made … but we’re proud of our service, our comradeship in the Regiment.’)
‘’Ave a beer,’ Bert said.
‘No, thank you. I’m not thirsty.’
Bert drank, looking at her over the rim of his glass. She ought to tell him what she had been doing – walking, talking, discussing, listening; but he would say that it was a waste of time. They ought to go out and shoot a peeler, he’d say. And she’d have to tell him she’d been with Wilfred … through the afternoon, in a taxi to the West End, through the evening, dining at some expensive restaurant, strange foods she had never known … ‘Profiteers’ Heaven, this place,’ he had whispered in her ear. What did he see in her? It was just their shared commitment to the cause. Waiting, standing close, at the farthest end of the platform on the Chatham side of Victoria, too? And the kiss under the signal light, the sudden flooding passion making her knees shake, the aching loss of goodbye – these, too?
Bert said, ‘I can see you had a good time, love. Wish I could …’ he shook his head,’ … but I’m not cut out for that sitting round, talking, talking … Oh, those people are all right, an’ they’ve got guts, but they don’t understand me, and I don’t understand them. We don’t speak the same language, see? … I won’t be going to the meetings any more, I’ll …’
‘Oh, Bert,’ she cried, stricken.
‘I’ll work with you here,’ he said, ‘but my place is in the factories, at the union office. I s’pose we’re both fighting the same war, but you and your lot will be in the headquarters and offices … I’ll be in the trenches.’
Susan Rowland hurried out of the drawing room in the middle of a sentence and from the foot of the stairs shouted, ‘Sally! Tim! Come downstairs this minute!’ She waited until the two faces appeared at the banister above her. Both dirty, she noted, though it was barely half an hour since she had personally supervised them washing themselves.
‘Come down,’ she commanded. ‘What were you doing to make such a noise?’
They shuffled down toward her, Sally whining, ‘Only playing with the toys in the day nursery, Mummy.’
‘You must have been throwing them at the wall and then jumping on them,’ she said severely. ‘I can’t think how you haven’t awakened Dicky. Now run and play outside, it’s a lovely day.’
They sidled past her and out of the front door. She returned to the drawing room, where Mrs Baker waited patiently, notebook and pencil in hand, standing by the open window. She said, ‘They’ll wear you out, m’m. It’s a wonder you don’t get a nanny. Of course, they don’t mean any harm, but they’ll wear you out, just the same.’
Susan wondered if it was true that the children didn’t mean her any harm. Raising those two to be ladies and gentlemen in these times was not easy. Sometimes she felt a glow of real warmth coming from them, toward her or Richard, even toward the staff – particularly Mrs Baker … then they would do something despicable, mean … and she would again be convinced, as Richard was all the time, that their interest was always selfish. They only liked Mrs Baker, he said, because she was the cook.
She said now, ‘You know I think a mother ought to raise her children herself, Mrs Baker, if she is able to. I only wish I could feed Dicky.’
‘There, none of us can help that,’ Mrs Baker said comfortably. ‘If God don’t give the milk, there’s no call for us women to feel we done something wrong … Lunch today is cold mutton, but I haven’t bought anything for dinner yet.’
Susan said, ‘There was a good recipe in the Daily Telegraph Page for Women, a few days ago … risotto – here, I cut it out. Shall we try that?’
Mrs Baker held the slip of newsprint as though it were a snake and read aloud suspiciously – ‘Take one ounce chopped onion, half a pint of rice, one ounce fat, half a pint or more of stock …’ She read on and then looked up – ‘Is this Eyetalian, m’m?’
‘I suppose so, originally, but it sounds good. Let’s try it.’
‘All right, m’m,’ Mrs Baker said grudgingly and stuffed the slip of paper into the pocket of her apron. ‘For lunch tomorrow I thought a bit of braised tongue with madeira sauce and spring greens.’
Susan thought, oh dear, that sounds rather rich but Mrs B. had given in over the risotto, with an effort, so she’d better agree. She said enthusiastically, ‘That sounds excellent, Mrs Baker.’
They talked on another ten minutes, then Mrs Baker said, ‘It’s getting a lot of work down there now, m’m, since that flibbertigibbet Peggy went to the shell factory in Hedlington. Don’t know what girls are coming to these days – living by twos and threes in flats in Hedlington and working in a factory instead of living at home, or going into service, and learning something that’s useful when they marry and have kids of their own.’
Susan said, ‘I’ll try to get another maid, but it really isn’t easy. They just don’t want to live in the country.’
‘You could pay ’em more,’ Mrs Baker said.
Susan spread her hands unhappily – ‘Mr Rowland won’t let me offer more than the standard ra
te. He says that would be inflation.’
Mrs Baker said, ‘I don’t know about that, m’m, but I do need help in the kitchen, what with the baby, and Tim and Sally. Joan’s got all she can do upstairs, I know that.’
The mention of Sally and Tim struck a nerve in Susan’s brain and she said, ‘I wonder what they’re doing.’
‘Well, if there’s nothing more, m’m …’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you. That’s all for now.’
Susan hurried out of the room, down the hall, and out of the front door. The lawn was empty, no sign of the children. Had they sneaked down to Handle’s farm again? Kathleen was polishing the car outside the garage. She called – ‘Kathleen, have you seen the children recently?’
‘No, madam,’ the chauffeur called back. ‘They came out about half an hour ago, and watched me for a few minutes – then they went away. I didn’t notice where to.’
Susan walked back into the house and stood in the hall a moment, thinking. She felt uneasy, as though something terrible was about to happen. She heard a faint sound from above and at once hurled herself at the stairs, her fears concentrated into a central knot – Dicky, Dicky, something wrong with Dicky, the fruit of her womb. As she neared the top of the stairs she saw Sally and Tim sneak out of the nursery and across the passage. They saw her and broke into a run, diving into the day nursery. She burst into the night nursery, screaming as she saw the cradle, the five-week-old baby in it hidden under a heavy pillow. She wrenched the pillow away and threw herself to her knees. The baby’s face was blue, his eyes starting out of his head. She plucked him up, held him to her, and breathed slowly into his mouth, then squeezed his chest, breathed again. Oh God save him, save him! The little body hung limp in her arms. Again, again … he moved, gasped, coughed, sucked air into his lungs … After he had breathed normally for ten minutes and the colour had returned to his fat cheeks, she carefully laid him down in his cot and walked across the landing to the day nursery.
They were in there, sitting side by side on the sofa, their faces taut. She walked over to them and hit each of them as hard as she could on the cheek with the flat of her hand. Sally rocked, gasped, and came back upright. The force of her blow knocked the smaller Tim clear off the sofa to the floor. He moaned once, then climbed quickly back up beside his sister. She said, ‘You know why I did that?’
Sally said coldly, ‘Yes, Mummy.’
‘Why did you do it? Why? Tell me. When you hear the words you may understand what a terrible thing you tried to do.’
‘We tried to kill ’im,’ Tim said. ‘Wish we ’ad.’ It was the first time in months that he had dropped an aitch, Susan noted.
‘Why do you want to kill him?’
‘You love ’im more’n you do us,’ he said in the same small hard voice.
Sally said, ‘When he grows up, you’ll get rid of us. We know.’
Susan stood back, staring down at them. Tears sprang to her eyes and she knelt in front of them, crying, ‘You’re wrong! You’ll always be our children. This will always be your home. But it’s got to be Dicky’s, too.’
They stared at her. She could not know whether they understood, or believed. Only time, and deeds, would show. She said, ‘Now go outside, and stay outside until you’re called for lunch.’
She followed them downstairs, watched them go out in unusual silence, and turned into the drawing room. She went to the telephone and picked up the receiver – ‘Give me the Hedlington Courier, please … classified advertisements, please … I want to advertise for a children’s Nanny at thirty shillings a week and all found … Yes, I said thirty shillings a week. Ready?’ She began to dictate the wording of the advertisement.
Bob Stratton surveyed Victoria on her platform. He’d run her up to ninety-five yesterday, on the Canterbury road, and she’d hardly seemed to be trying, running smooth as a bird, quiet, too – all the improvements he’d made this past four years and more come to their best, and working together – that was important, for sometimes you made one thing better but it didn’t fit with something else, which got worse. The Thompson Bennett magneto was great, and the new sparking plugs of compressed mica worked fine: he’d mistrusted them – but they were lighter, no doubt of that, and every ounce counted; and if the aeroplanes could use them, at their higher speeds and all kinds of temperatures, they should be better for motors on the ground; and, so far, they’d proved so … wish he could find a way to use aircraft cylinders … but there were too many problems … it was like attacking a nest of rats, soon’s you got one killed, two more popped up.
He climbed astride the machine, started it, and sat there, the engine ticking slowly as it warmed up, his fingers automatically moving the choke and air levers … The reason Victoria had run so good yesterday was that he’d made up his mind not to go to that Dr Deerfield any more, and that was the truth of it. Near eighteen months he’d been going, five times a week, regular as clockwork, and what good had it done? It wasn’t right, trying to cut into a man’s mind like it was a bit of wood, or an old book you’d picked up … as though you could see what was in there … and not just what was there, but what had been there, forty, fifty, years ago. Had he ever seen his mother naked? Why should a man remember a thing like that, sixty years on? She’d been in her shift, stooped over the bed, and the shift rode up and there was a tuft of hair sticking out between her legs at the back, high up, and like thick lips, hanging open. It had frightened the wits out of him. What had she got there? A rabbit, cut open? What was she doing with it? ’Course he was only two then, maybe three … and he’d learned soon enough what it was, but that wasn’t the same. It never gripped him again, in the belly, so that he broke out sweating, wanting to be sick, like that time, with Mother, God rest her soul … Had he ever thought of his mother sexually? What a question to ask a man, his mother long since in her grave? Never, never never … Cuddled up in her titties, yes, that was it, he’d thought of that, often and often, as a boy … a young man even. Did he fear women, grown women? Had he ever had a sexual relation with another man, a boy? Did he like boys, prefer looking at them to girls?
It was a sin, really, trying to see into a man’s mind, that only God could make, or know.
He opened the throttle and the engine growled louder, the rear wheel spun faster on the sunken counterwheel … Dr Deerfield was a Hun, that was the truth of it. Couldn’t make a man an Englishman by giving him a piece of paper and changing his name. Just a dirty Hun, asking dirty questions … and costing a lot of money, too.
He closed his eyes, the engine roaring. There it was, plain as a pikestaff in front of him, a little girl’s cunny, smooth, fat, the lips folding in, big … twice as big as a grown woman’s, that was the God’s truth. His breathing came unevenly, gasping, the engine throbbed more heavily to the touch of his hand. He felt an erection growing inside his trousers and cried out, with no blasphemy – ‘Oh, Jesus Christ! Oh, God Almighty!’
Shaking, he throttled the engine back until it stopped, then climbed down, covered Victoria with her dust sheet, and went out of the shed and the garden, by the little door beside the shed. The lane was empty, but it was a fine summer evening. There’d be some girls playing hopscotch at the corner, and there were always two or three looking for rags and bones and tins in the refuse dump by the Scarrow. He made sure that he had two shillings in his pocket and walked faster. One way or another, the ache in his groin, the bursting lust in his heart for that fat slit would kill him anyway. A man could only go so far against what God had made him.
Daily Telegraph, Monday, June 4, 1917
SOCIALIST DEMANDS AT THE LEEDS CONVENTION SOLDIERS’ COUNCILS
The conference convened by the United Socialists Council was held at Leeds yesterday, and attended by 1,500 delegates. Mr Robert Smillie presided.
A telegram of greeting was read from Petrograd in the following terms:
The Executive of the Soldiers’ and Workmen’s Deputies sends salutations and fraternal greetings to the
conference of Socialist and Workmen’s organizations at Leeds, and hopes to meet representatives of the Labour Conference between July 15 and 30. The Executive Committee finds Stockholm most convenient as a place for the conference …
Resolutions were passed hailing the Russian revolution; calling upon the Government to announce its agreement with the declared foreign policy and war aims of the democratic Government of Russia; to establish political rights for all men and women; and to grant a general amnesty for all political and religious prisoners. The chief interest centred in a resolution demanding the setting-up of Workmen’s and Soldiers’ Councils in this country. This resolution was carried by a large margin.
Mr PHILIP SNOWDEN moved a resolution urging the convention to identify itself with the declared policy and aim of the Russian Government of peace without annexation or indemnity …
Captain TUPPER: Can the voice of the seamen be heard? (Uproar)
Mr FAIRCHILD seconded Mr Snowden’s resolution, declaring that … indemnity was a device of capitalism to further its own process of exploitation.
Captain TUPPER expressed his regret that his amendment had been disallowed, because it would have raised the question of merchant seamen who had been foully murdered when bringing food to this country … Seamen wanted to know who, in the event of there being no indemnities, was going to reimburse the widows and orphans for their loss. (Voices: the shipowners) …
A delegate, standing on a chair, protested against this ‘gammon’ about seamen being torpedoed, and added that the Germans were not such enemies of our seamen as the shipowners were. (Cheers)
At this enlivening stage the convention adjourned for lunch.
Mr C. G. AMMON moved a further resolution calling upon the Government to carry into immediate effect a charter of liberties establishing complete political rights for all men and women, unrestricted freedom of the press, freedom of speech, a general amnesty …
