After the War Is Over: A Novel

by Jennifer Robson

  It had been so very civil. They had spoken of it freely, as if they were business associates who had agreed to go their separate ways. She had asked him not to write, not at first, because it would be needlessly upsetting to both of them. If he needed to convey any information to her, she asked him to do so through Lilly.

  They had also agreed to say nothing to his sister, or to Robbie, for it would only tarnish their newlywed happiness. One day, perhaps, they might share the truth, when Edward was settled and married and she, Charlotte, had gone from strength to strength in her career and had put all thoughts of marriage and motherhood behind her. Then, perhaps, they might confess the truth to their oldest and dearest friends.

  She still found herself listening for him at night. A passing motorcar, or too-loud voices in the street, and she would rouse herself just enough to pray that Edward had not been awoken, too. In those moments, when she could sense him so close by, almost hear him sighing in his sleep, she was happy.

  The acute pain of his loss did seem to be lessening, and after a while it didn’t hurt to breathe when she thought of him, and she was able to read Lilly’s letters without worrying that she might be sick. Yet a chronic sort of ache lingered on, and Charlotte couldn’t decide whether she welcomed or abhorred it.

  Her colleagues had begun to whisper among themselves, and Miss Rathbone had turned to go up the steps to their offices. The passengers were returning to their seats on the tram, and the motorcars on the street had driven away. The Great Silence was over, at least for another year.

  In a year, where would she be? It was difficult to see how her life might change in any appreciable way. She would continue to work for Miss Rathbone, live on in her dining-room-cum-bedroom at the misses’, and continue to write her column for John. There were many thousands in Liverpool who would have been grateful for such certainty in their lives.

  A year from now, surely, Edward would be married. He would have repaired his family’s fortunes and met his obligations to his relatives, tenants, and servants. He might even be awaiting the birth of a child. He would be happy.

  She went to her desk, not bothering to remove her coat, and pulled an envelope from her handbag. It was from Lilly and had arrived the day before. Charlotte had already read it a half-dozen times.

  8 November 1919

  My dearest Charlotte,

  I hope this letter finds you well and not suffering unduly from the early arrival of winter. Here it has been nothing but rain, rain, rain and, the other day, even a dusting of snow. I had thought myself hardened by my experiences in France, but apparently I have grown soft over the past year, and like being warm and dry too well to happily accept any other state.

  As I’m sure you already know, Edward returned to London a fortnight ago, having declared that he and Andrews could no longer keep themselves warm in the cottage. “Frozen to the marrow,” was the expression he used. Despite his grumbling about the weather, it seems to me that he was very happy there—thanks entirely to you and your expert care. I know you have decreed that I must stop thanking you, but I really cannot help myself. Robbie may have brought my brother back from France, but you restored Edward to the people who love him, and for that I will always be grateful. More grateful than you can ever know.

  In my estimation he is very nearly the old Edward again, if not quite so merry and jolly as he once was. Robbie and I did see him, briefly, at the beginning of October when we went up to Cumbermere Hall for a long weekend, but it’s only since his return to London that I’ve been able to make a proper study of your patient. I do believe he is happier and healthier in every possible respect.

  He is much given to long walks through Hyde Park, no matter the weather, and he told Robbie the other day that he would like to get a dog. He is rarely out in the evenings, and to my knowledge has only accepted one invitation thus far. I have not seen him drink wine or spirits of any kind, which is a great relief.

  A few nights ago we were all at a dinner party at the Finlaysons’—do you remember them from my wedding?—and he spent a good deal of time with a lovely American girl, Miss Edith Hale, who is a friend of Violet’s. I gather her father made a fortune in soap and she is having an overdue Season in London. Edward was maddeningly closemouthed on the subject when I asked him about it afterward, and in any event I doubt he has much time for romance these days. Much of his day is spent with lawyers and estate managers and other bureaucratic types, for Papa left the estate in rather a shambles and it now falls to Edward to sort everything out.

  I meant to tell you in my last letter, but I have taken a subscription to the Herald so I might read your columns without delay. The paper comes only a day late and I do enjoy it; you must tell your Mr. Ellis that he has an admirer in London. Your recent columns have been particularly good and I thought the one on the shortcomings of the Sex Disqualification Act was brilliant in every respect.

  I must go, as dear Mr. Pebbles is coming soon and he will certainly insist on putting my nose to the proverbial grindstone. Last week he had me do a test series of examinations and I only just scraped through. I shall have to redouble my efforts if I am to gain a place at the LSE next year. Wish me luck!

  With much love from

  Your devoted friend

  Lilly

  A soap heiress. It made Charlotte wonder: flakes or bar? A choking sort of laugh rose in her throat, but she willed it away. Lilly had said the woman was friendly, and as long as Edward found her amusing that might be enough. She was sorry to hear that the Cumberland estate was in such a state, although it didn’t surprise her in the least. Miss Hale’s millions would certainly help to erase any lingering difficulties, at least in the short term.

  Enough. She had spent enough time fretting about the past, about decisions that had been made, paths that had been chosen. Tonight, if she weren’t too sad, or too tired, she would think of Edward and their month together, and she would remember how happy she had been.

  Until then, however, she had work to do.

  Chapter 25

  There simply wasn’t enough room in the budget. No matter how often she sifted through the numbers, it wouldn’t be enough. She would have to let Miss Rathbone know, and perhaps they could—

  “Someone here to see you.”

  Charlotte nearly fell out of her chair in surprise; it was so late she’d assumed she was alone in the office. “Miss Margison! Heavens—I didn’t see you there. Do you know who it is?”

  “Didn’t think to ask. We’re the only ones left, else Gladys would have asked.”

  “Ah . . . well, I’ll be straight out. I’m sorry for any inconvenience.”

  “Humph.”

  She followed Miss Margison back down the hall. In the reception area were a man and woman; Charlotte recognized the latter, a Mrs. Dooley. Presumably she had come with her husband. She had last seen Mrs. Dooley that morning, when the woman had come in search of help. Her husband hadn’t worked since his demobilization, they had a new baby due to arrive at any minute, and they had no way to pay the midwife, or even to buy nappies and gowns for the infant.

  As Charlotte approached, she saw that Mrs. Dooley had been crying, and was still clutching a handkerchief. Mr. Dooley was angry, so angry the man fairly seethed with ill will. She suspected it would shortly be directed at her.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Dooley. I do apologize for the wait. Perhaps we could speak in my office? I—”

  “No. We’ll say what we have to say and then we’re gone.”

  “Very well. I must say I am surprised. When you departed this morning, Mrs. Dooley, you seemed quite pleased with how we had left things.”

  “She’s not. We’re not,” Mr. Dooley said, his voice so loud that Miss Margison, back in the office she shared with the other clerk typists, must surely have heard.

  “I come home just now, and she give me these,” and he threw a pamphlet for the Personal Service Society, together with Charlotte’s handwritten recommendation on behalf of the family, on the floor be
tween them.

  “Don’t, George. Don’t. You said you wouldn’t make a fuss,” Mrs. Dooley implored.

  “I’m not making a fuss. I’m telling this woman we don’t need no help from her. Not from any of her do-gooder friends either.”

  “Mr. Dooley, I am sincerely sorry for any upset I may have caused. I truly am. If I offended you—”

  “We’re in a tight spot, I’ll admit it. But we don’t need handouts. We’re not that hard up.”

  “George, she was only trying to—”

  “You hush. I know what she was trying to do. Same lot as hands out paupers’ clothes with ‘charity’ stamped on the back. They’re all the same, these types.”

  “But what are we to do when the baby comes?”

  “We’ll manage. We always do, don’t we? And you know what’d happen if anyone got wind of you coming here, cap in hand, to ask the grand ladies for their help. We’d be the laughingstock of the street, that’s what.”

  He turned to Charlotte, fiercer than ever, and advanced on her so suddenly that she took a step back.

  “You leave her alone.” It was Miss Margison, of all people, come to her rescue. “Say your piece, and then go.”

  “Fine. We’ll be off, now. Like I said, we don’t want none of your charity.”

  “I truly only intended to help, Mr. Dooley. I am so very, very sorry for offending you.”

  “You do-gooders. You’re all the same. Swanning about like God put you on this earth to fix everything that was wrong with it. You’re not even from Liverpool, are you?” He sneered.

  “Somerset, actually.”

  “Oh, you are, are you? ‘Somerset, actually,’” he echoed, imitating her polished accent. “Well, you can go straight back there, you and your charity, and leave off meddling with my business. Come on, Mary, we’re done here.”

  “But, George—” his wife cried, but he was already pulling her to her feet. Mrs. Dooley cast one last, desperate look at Charlotte, and then they were gone.

  “Sit down,” Miss Margison ordered, guiding Charlotte to the chair behind Gladys’s desk.

  “I . . . I can’t believe that happened. I had no notion . . .”

  “Let me get you a cup of tea. You stay put.”

  Miss Margison bustled away, and as Charlotte sat there, her face burning with chagrin, her hands shaking so badly she had to fold them in her lap, she asked herself what had surprised her most about the past five minutes: the fervor of Mr. Dooley’s accusations, or Miss Margison’s decision to come to her aid.

  “I’ve put the tea to brew. Are you all right?”

  “I am . . . at least I think I am. I don’t understand how that could have happened. When I saw Mrs. Dooley this morning, it seemed perfectly straightforward. I had no notion . . .”

  “Men are a funny lot. You never know when something will get up their nose. And it’s not as if he was angry at you.”

  “He wasn’t? He certainly put on a fine show of it.”

  “All bluff and bluster. He’s angry at himself, poor sod, and he took it out on you.”

  “I only hope he doesn’t take it out on his wife.”

  “I don’t think as he will. Otherwise she’d already have a blackened eye.”

  “What will happen when the baby comes? She hadn’t any nappies or clothes for the infant, and she was so worried about how they’d pay the midwife . . .”

  “Their neighbors will see to them. You stop here a minute more. I’ll fetch the tea.”

  Miss Margison returned with a mug for them both, and pulling the chair from the telephone across to Gladys’s desk, she plunked herself down and blew at her tea to cool it.

  “I’ve always wondered,” she said, “why you up and left when you did.”

  “You mean during the war?” Charlotte asked, a little taken aback by the question.

  “Mm. Miss Rathbone missed you so much in those early days. She was run off her feet, putting together the allowances for soldiers’ and sailors’ families, and managing everything else. You could have done some good here.”

  “I know.”

  “It never made any sense to me, why you did it. I’m not having a go at you,” she clarified. “Only wondering why you went.”

  “It seems so long ago. I can hardly remember it now. I think . . . I suppose I was just swept along by all of it. I do remember that I was very upset by what was happening in Belgium. How savage the enemy seemed to be. If I’d been allowed to put on a uniform and fight, I imagine I’d have jumped at the chance,” Charlotte admitted.

  She’d been seized by an urge to do more, to be more. And there had been her terror of what could happen to those she knew and cared about, Edward most of all.

  “Everyone here talked about you like you was walking the wards at Scutari with your lamp,” Miss Margison said. “But it never made any sense to me. I don’t mean any offense by it.”

  Charlotte looked her colleague in the eye. “I am sorry. I think, looking back, knowing what I do now, I ought to have stayed. The work you did here really did save lives. And I’m not so sure I can say the same for what I did.”

  “You, a nurse?”

  “I wasn’t patching up men who’d come straight from the front lines. After I’d finished the first part of my training, I went to the Special Neurological Hospital for Officers in Kensington.”

  “Special in what way?”

  “It was a neurasthenia hospital.”

  “Shell shock, you mean.”

  “Yes. Though I’ve always thought the term too simple for something so complicated. The men we cared for were broken. And I learned, very quickly, that it’s harder to fix a man’s spirit than his body. Sometimes the methods the doctors used there were . . . well, they didn’t always sit well with me. It was a difficult time, you know, and sometimes I regret . . .”

  “I’ll wager you did a lot of good for those men, no matter what you say. Anyhow, it’s done and dusted now, as my mum would say. No point in looking back. It doesn’t help, and sometimes it makes things worse.”

  “You’re right. Of course you’re right. Thank you, Miss Margison. And if I may . . . I’m sorry if I ever treated you in a discourteous manner. If I ever failed to show you the respect you deserve.”

  “Shouldn’t that be the other way round? I’ll admit it—I made a right pill of myself, mucking about with your outgoing post when you first came back. I shouldn’t have done it, and I’m that sorry for it now.”

  “Please, you needn’t—”

  “It got up my nose, that’s all. The way everything always seems to turn up roses for you. I used to dream of going to school. I could’ve, you know. I always did well. But there wasn’t any money to pay for it. So I started work when I was fourteen, at the bakery down the street. Hated it. Up at dawn six days a week. Still can’t abide the smell of fresh-baked bread.” Miss Margison smiled then, really smiled, and it transformed her appearance entirely.

  “How did you learn how to type?”

  “I saved up and started going to evening classes. Thought I’d died and gone to heaven when Miss Rathbone hired me on.”

  “She would be lost without you. We all would. You know this office upside down and sideways.”

  “Nice of you to say so. Well, I suppose I’d best be off now. Half past six and black as pitch outside.”

  “Will you be going north?” Charlotte asked. Perhaps they might walk awhile together, and talk of easier things. Friendlier things.

  “No, I’m off down Garston way. Thanks all the same. You will be all right, won’t you?”

  “I will. Thank you again.”

  It would have been sensible to take the tram, for winter had arrived with a vengeance, the rain outside threatening to turn to sleet. But the walk home would give Charlotte the chance to be alone with her thoughts, and her doubts, and so she turned up her coat collar and continued north, though she was walking in the teeth of the wind nearly the entire way.

  It had been a normal day until a half hour
ago. A long day, a sad day in parts, for there was so little help she could give, and so many who were suffering. Her encounter with Mrs. Dooley had, to her mind, been a positive one. Yet . . . could she have been more understanding? Had she become so inured to requests for help that she had grown insensitive in her conduct?

  A memory assailed her, as sharp as a slap across the face, of Lady Cumberland and her outings to dispense charity. Wrapped in an unbreachable aura of self-righteousness and smug entitlement, the countess had handed out baskets of food and castoffs to her family’s tenants each Christmas and Easter, secure in the knowledge that none would ever dare to complain or even question the laws of God and state that had set her so high and them so low. Humiliation had been an accepted part of the equation.

  Such petty humiliations were everywhere, even when charity wasn’t being dispensed. Even in her own office, she realized, such class divisions were alive and well and unthinkingly accepted by everyone. The clerk typists made less than Charlotte and Mabel, for a certainty they did. They weren’t even given the dignity of being addressed by their surname; only Miss Margison had been brave enough to insist on that common courtesy.

  It wasn’t that anyone, least of all Miss Rathbone, had consciously decided to erect a barrier between the clerk typists and the constituency assistants; it had simply been there, likely predating Miss Rathbone’s election as a ward councilor.

  So where should she begin? Not by suddenly addressing the clerk typists by their surnames, nor by charging into Miss Rathbone’s office and demanding a rise in pay for her colleagues. But perhaps she might ask the other women if they might like to use her Christian name. Perhaps she might fetch them tea, instead of waiting for one of them to bring it to her each afternoon.

  Great change comes from small steps. Her father had told her that when she was little, likely when she was bemoaning an injustice she had read about. Pit ponies, or little boys set to work as chimney sweeps, or something similarly distressing.