I’m to be paid ten guineas. I daren’t ask for the sum in cash; that would give rise to the suspicion that I was working behind my husband’s back. But what do I do with the check? Would the bank hand over the money to me without telling Robert? Whatever happens Robert mustn’t hear about this. I think the only answer is to endorse the check to the Red Cross and look upon my writing as war work. That’ll help alleviate my guilt, and nowadays I’m not just guilty that I’m deceiving Robert; I’m guilty because I haven’t been knitting socks or visiting maimed young men or canteening or organizing a bridge afternoon to raise money for war orphans. One longs to do something, but I loathe hospitals, and I tend to shy away from the bossy worthy souls who flourish in charitable organizations.
I’ve stopped trying not to think of the war. It’s impossible not to think of it. One can hardly believe that a year ago there was cricket at Lords and racing at Ascot and everyone was chattering away about what they were going to wear at Cowes. Now there’s no formal sport at all and everyone’s talking of the Zeppelins whenever they’re not whispering about the report of the Royal Commission on Venereal Diseases. They’ve even revived that awful old play Damaged Goods which Robert says he doesn’t have the time to see, but I wouldn’t mind seeing even a play about venereal disease—I’d welcome anything that would take my mind off the ghastly events in the Gallipoli Peninsula which have followed the disaster in the Dardanelles. I thank God daily that both Lion and Edmund are embroiled in the stalemate in France, although God knows there’s little to choose between one hell and the other.
It’s such a relief to turn from the news of the overseas horrors to my personal reports from Robert on the Home Front. Robert says a coalition is now certain but he’s sure Asquith has the power to come out on top. Churchill will have to be dropped, though, after the Dardanelles debacle, and how many other Liberals will have to be butchered to make room for the leading Unionists? To my astonishment I find I’m becoming quite obsessed with politics, but better to be obsessed with what might or might not be happening at Westminster than to be obsessed with what might or might not be happening in France.
Darling Lion writes that he’s at last found the life that suits him: eating, sleeping and gossiping in an amusing little billet behind the lines. He’s somewhere near Neuve Chapelle where the British recently pierced the German lines, but Edmund is nearer the front than Lion. Edmund is at Ypres. How frightened I feel when I remember Edmund but he sent me a placid little letter recently saying what a bore it was to have to cart around a gas mask.
Men have been gassed during this second battle of Ypres. They say the results of gassing are—no, I mustn’t think of such things, I mustn’t.
I’ll think instead of Mrs. Pankhurst proclaiming the suffragists’ desire to help in the war effort. Even Robert is impressed by this desire of the suffragists to put patriotism before their cause, and yesterday he asked me idly if Julie had voiced an opinion on the subject. I said I had no idea as I hadn’t seen her.
I meet Julie regularly at The Gondolier, a cozy little restaurant which serves light luncheons and heavy teas to ladies who shop in Kensington High Street. It’s so middle-class that I know I’m safe; no one Robert knows will ever see me there. Since Julie wouldn’t normally patronize such a conservative backwater either I’ve had to confide in her to explain why it’s such an ideal meeting place, but she was sympathetic, offering no criticism of Robert but merely accepting that he was a man who would drive his wife to hide behind steak-and-kidney pie with two vegetables in a middle-class coffin like The Gondolier.
Julie wants me to write another article, this time on transatlantic travel. Apparently the readers of A Woman’s Place are now in retreat from articles on war work and yearn to be reminded of the more glamorous aspects of peacetime. I say I’ll do my best but do I or do I not disclose what goes on in the lifeboats when everyone’s awash with champagne?
“Oh, toss it in!” says Julie. “Sex is all the rage now that everyone’s either racing to the altar or wailing about the illegitimate issue of our gallant soldiers or rushing around pretending V.D.’s just been invented.”
We laugh. Full of ideas for my new article I rush home and there I find a lovely surprise: a letter from Daphne to say that Lion’s coming home on leave.
“I’m immensely flattered!” said Lion impudently. “I’d no idea the Huns thought I was so important—I leave the Front for a little peace and quiet and what happens? I’m pursued by Zeppelins in London!”
Only Lion could have had the nerve to joke about the Zeppelins. As I laughed I felt nearly overcome with emotion; I could hardly believe he was back in my drawing room, a thinner, paler Lion but still just as full of bounce and charm. On the sofa Daphne was looking radiant, her plain little face transformed with happiness. They were staying at the Wynter-Hamiltons’ London house for the duration of his brief leave, and both Bobby and Margaret had come up to London to visit them there.
“Darling Lion, how wonderful to see you again—and looking so well! One hears such ghastly rumors—”
“Oh, I never believe rumors,” said Lion breezily. “The truth’s always so much more entertaining. I’m enjoying this war hugely—never had such a good time in my life! Of course it’s a bit muddy in the trenches but one meets such fascinating people …” And he embarked on a series of amusing reminiscences before his new daughter woke up and began to cry. Daphne, who had been holding the baby, immediately panicked and begged Lion to call for the nanny, but in an effort to beat back my jealousy by being helpful I exclaimed, “No, let me hold her for a moment!” and I took little Elizabeth in my arms. She was plain and bald, just as most new babies are, but when she luckily stopped crying, I said warmly how angelic she was and Daphne blushed with pleasure.
“I’m glad it’s a girl,” said Lion later. “I don’t want a baby who might one day wind up in even the most entertaining of trenches. I wonder what John and Blanche will produce. I suppose a cherub with a halo is the least they can hope for.”
We all giggled. Johnny and Blanche, who had established themselves as the perfect couple, were without doubt destined to be the perfect parents of an intolerably perfect child.
I could feel the jealousy creeping over me again so I said firmly, “Lion, you’re being very naughty!” But Lion just exclaimed outrageously, “That’s what makes life such fun!” and burst into peals of laughter.
The casualty lists are so appalling that I feel numb now whenever I hear someone I know has been killed. I say, “How dreadful!” and I know it is dreadful, but the full dreadfulness has somehow become impossible to absorb. I felt overwhelming terror when Lion left, but I’ve recovered from that now and I still believe he’ll go on bouncing his way to safety. Meanwhile my worry about Edmund has eased. He’s had dysentery and is being sent to a convalescent home in Surrey to recuperate.
I shall conquer my horror of medical institutions and go to see him just as soon as I can.
“Ginevra!”
Edmund was looking so ill, so waxen and gaunt, that I found it hard to believe he was going to live, but the sister in charge of the ward said he was much better and well on the road to recovery.
“Poor Edmund!” I said, forcing myself to kiss him despite my irrational desire to shy away from someone who had been so sick. “What an awful time you’ve been through.”
He looked vague. His mild blue eyes were untroubled. All he said was “It doesn’t matter.”
“But of course it matters!”
“No, nothing matters. Chap I knew wrote a poem about that. I rather liked it. Wish I could write poetry.”
“Does he write much?”
“Oh, not now, no; he’s dead.”
“I’m so sorry, I—”
“It doesn’t matter, one gets used to everyone being blown to bits. In the end it’s the little things one minds most, like the rats and the lice.”
“Oh my God—”
“Sorry, bad form, should be saying it’s all tremendous
fun. … Poor Ginevra, don’t be upset—I’ve been so lucky! I’m not dead, I’m not blind or mutilated, I’m soon going to be fit as a fiddle again! Now … tell me all about your life in London.”
What could I say? The chasm between the Home Front and the Front Line suddenly seemed not only bottomless but obscene. Gripping my handbag tightly I willed myself to be calm, and in an effort to convince us both that London had not been entirely untouched by the horrors he had survived, I began to talk in a steady voice about the Zeppelins.
Christmas at Oxmoon, and everyone’s thrilled because Edmund’s been judged fit enough to complete his convalescence at home. This is probably the first time in his life that Edmund’s been the center of his family’s attention but he seems not to notice; he’s eerily placid and I find his monosyllabic responses soon become unnerving.
Lion is in France and Daphne and little Elizabeth are with the Wynter-Hamiltons in Scotland, but Johnny and Blanche are at Oxmoon for three days before joining Blanche’s father in Herefordshire. With them is their new daughter Marian and everyone is busy saying with truth what a perfect baby she is. However Blanche, really is a dear child and I hate myself for being catty enough to think she’s much too good to be true. Meanwhile Johnny’s as priggish as ever and looks at me as if I’m a Soho trollop just because I have a divine new evening gown that’s a trifle décolleté. Well, at least I’m not married to Johnny. Thank God for small mercies.
Robert and I are rubbing along somehow and I’m determined not to complain—things could be worse so a complaint would be hard to justify. We’re pleasant and affectionate to each other, and as I never mention my longing for a baby there’s never a cross word spoken on either side. Margaret eyes my figure but says nothing. I immediately find I have to tell her how blissfully happy Robert and I are. Margaret says she’s so pleased. Robert gives her special attention as usual and I keep coming across them chatting privately in corners. I hate it, I hate being here, I hate Oxmoon, hate it. Oh, I can’t wait to escape to London again. …
I feel so depressed, so absolutely cut off from Robert by our mutual pretense that we have an untroubled marriage, that I’d like to take a lover. But I won’t—and not just because I’m terrified of what would happen when Robert found out. (Of course there’d inevitably be someone only too willing to tell him.) I won’t have an affair because I proved conclusively to myself during my first marriage that adultery solves nothing when it stems from despair. It may temporarily alleviate one’s misery but one’s problems remain not only unsolved but exacerbated by guilt.
I do think a case can be made for adultery but only when the misery of the partners reaches huge proportions: if the husband is impotent, for example, or the wife hopelessly revolted by the sexual act—or if venereal disease, habitual drunkenness, perversion and cruelty persist in raising their vile heads to blight the matrimonial landscape. But my marriage is far removed from such a marital hell and I’ve no right to behave as if it isn’t.
The truth is I have a husband who loves me. The way he expresses that love may not be particularly acceptable to me, but I must at least try to love him loyally in return. I daresay our marriage will jog along well enough in the end. Certainly I feel better able to tolerate it since I started writing magazine articles and meeting Julie for luncheon at The Gondolier.
Julie has suggested that I might like to answer the readers’ problem letters in the new year. What an irony if I end up advising women on their marital difficulties! But at least no one can complain that I’m inexperienced. …
Edmund’s gone back to France. I really must stop crying and telling myself I shall never see him again.
I keep thinking the war can’t get any worse but it does. Robert says there’ll shortly be a handbook issued which advises on the correct behavior in the event of an occupation. Everyone assumes an occupation can never happen, but can it? Can it? The inconceivable has a nasty habit of coming true these days. Everyone said gold sovereigns would go on circulating but they’ve stopped. Everyone said there’d never be compulsory blackout but it’s coming. Even the public clocks are shortly going to cease to chime. We’re no longer mentally gunmetal-gray; we’re slate-gray edging towards black but nobody can stand that thought so everyone’s rushing to the overflowing theaters and dancing themselves into a frenzy in the Soho nightclubs and drinking and drugging themselves into a stupor.
Yes, I’ve heard some very unsavory stories recently about girls with a yearning for morphia, but here, handed to me by Julie, are some very different though in their own way equally hair-raising stories. I know just what goes on among the rich, but now I’m about to find out how the other ninety-five percent of the country live.
“Dear Nurse—” The magazine pretends its problem-letter page is in the charge of a nurse because this is supposed to stimulate the readers’ desire to confess their most intimate troubles. “—I am twenty-five years old and am not sure what is meant when gentlemen ‘take liberties’ but I met a soldier on leave last week who said it was my patriotic duty to …”
“Dear Nurse, I have three children under four with twins expected next month and my husband is in France and I don’t know how I can go on …”
“Dear Nurse, I have allowed a sailor to kiss me on the lips. When will I have the baby?”
“Dear Nurse, My husband has just run off with a land girl and I have no money and nowhere to turn …”
“Dear Nurse, My husband has been wounded …”
“Dear Nurse, My husband has been blinded …”
“Dear Nurse, My husband has been castrated …”
“Dear Nurse, I’m a war widow and feel I have nothing left to live for …”
I stop. The well of undiluted misery and ignorance is so appalling that I feel as if God has reached out, seized me by the scruff of the neck and given me a violent shake. Here are hundreds of women, all far, far worse off than I am. Yes, pull yourself together, Ginevra Godwin. Robert was right—as usual—and it’s time you stopped behaving like a rich spoiled bitch. This is your chance to do some worthwhile war work at last and alleviate the suffering on the Home Front. Roll up your sleeves, stop thinking of yourself and make a big effort to help those who are so much less fortunate than you are.
I like the effect of the new summer-time act. It means the evenings are so light that I can sit at my secrétaire after dinner and draft my answers to the problem letters while the sun’s still shining in the summer sky. Robert’s at the House so much at the moment and I always seize the chance to work when I’m on my own.
I was glad to be alone this evening because I have a horrible letter to answer—not a letter from a reader of A Woman’s Place, but a letter from France. It’s from Lion. I shrink from reading it again but I can’t delay my answer so I must somehow drum up all my courage and confront that terrible message for the second time. …
My dearest Ginevra, Lion had written, things are busy here for a change, although I haven’t mentioned this to Daphne as I didn’t want her to worry about me. Ginevra, if anything happens please will you always keep in touch with her? She’s frightened of Mama and she thinks Celia’s a bore and she finds Blanche maddeningly pi, but you she genuinely likes. You were so nice to us when I had my leave after Elizabeth was born. What a wonderful sister you’ve always been to me, it seems strange to think you’re really just a cousin. God bless you, and my love always, LION.
I read the letter a third time but found myself unable to write a word in reply. I merely sat with my pen poised over the blank paper as the sun finally set and the darkness began to fall.
Later I tried to think of Edmund, who so clearly had the mark of death on him, but I found I couldn’t worry about Edmund anymore. Edmund, I knew, was safe behind the lines, whereas Lion … well, obviously Lion was right at the front.
Robert came in at ten, and after kissing me he asked in concern if I felt well. I assured him I did. Then I heard myself say in a calm voice, “Robert, there’s a big show brewing, isn’t th
ere?” and he answered after only the briefest hesitation: “Yes. The British Army’s lining up along the Somme.”
Nobody knows what’s happening. It’s July the first, 1916, and nobody knows what’s going on. Robert says this will be the greatest action of the war so far, an action by a British army of continental size. Robert is optimistic. Lloyd George believes Haig is about to win the war, and Robert is Lloyd George’s man at heart now even though they both still claim allegiance to Asquith. But the war’s proving too much for Asquith. The war’s proving too much for us all.
I’m thinking of Lion all the time, I’m praying and praying to my nice kind Church of England God, the God whom I first met long ago during my magic childhood with Robert and whom, like Robert, I’ve always been unable to abandon. During my marriage to Conor I nearly turned Catholic three times but I always balked at the last minute; I felt the Roman Catholic God would be too demanding and we’d be forever having rows which would leave me a nervous wreck. My Church of England God doesn’t mind if I go to church only at Christmas and Easter; he sits up in heaven quiet as a mouse but if I ever want him he’s always there to listen even though he can seldom be bothered to reply. But perhaps out of sheer horror he’ll now intervene and look after Lion for me. It’s only as I pray that I wonder if God really is benign. Perhaps he’s evil. Or indifferent. Or simply not there at all.
“Any news?” I keep saying, but there never is. The Somme. What a vile name. It reminds me in shape of the word “tomb.” But that’s an unspeakable thought which I must erase at once. I must think of the name as a clean-cut shining syllable, sharp as the edge of some invincible sword; I must picture the word as it will appear in future history books. “The Great War, which began in 1914, was triumphantly concluded in July, 1916, by the mighty victory of the British Army on the Somme. …” Yes, I can see it all: the battle that will go down in history as the battle that won us the war, the greatest British battle since Waterloo, the last huge battle of the twentieth century—
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