There was no real need for Markie to cook the supper in the kitchen (when she and Jerry had decided to give the soldiers the run of the back premises they had turned the pantry into a kitchenette and installed a gas cooker for which cylinders of gas were procured) but Markie was of an economical nature and it seemed to her exceedingly wasteful to use gas when there was a perfectly good fire in the kitchen range. She therefore used the kitchen for what she called “hard cooking” and the gas stove in the pantry for sauces and omelets and last minute odds and ends.
“I’ll peel those potatoes,” said the man who was reading near the fire. “You leave those to me. I’m a dab at the job. I always do them for the missus when I’m at home.”
“How is she, Willis?” asked Markie with solicitude.
“Better. I had a letter this morning—and the baby’s doing well, too.”
“I expect you’re longing to see them.”
“Yes,” said Willis. He came over to the table and took the potato knife in his large horny hand. “You leave those to me,” he said.
“It’s very good of you,” declared Markie, getting up.
The boy at the other end of the table, who was writing a letter, seemed to be having some difficulty with its composition. He was biting his pencil and twisting himself into knots, and Markie was interested to observe that the tip of his tongue was protruding slightly and rolling around as he formed his words. She had noticed the same thing in the kindergarten at Wheatfield House when she had been called upon to take the “babies” for their writing lesson.
“’ow d’you spell man yoovers?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
Markie spelt it out to him, letter by letter and he wrote it down.
“I’d never ’ave thort of that,” he declared looking at his handiwork in approval. “’Ilda won’t ’arf be surprised when she sees that.”
Markie would have liked to explain the roots of the word, but she curbed the impulse, reflecting as she did so that the difference one found in the intelligence of these men was extremely interesting. They all looked much the same on parade but their uniform appearance hid a multitude of individualities and idiosyncrasies. Girls in schools—of whom Markie had experience—did not show so much disparity, so much innate capacity or incapacity for progress and improvement. Here, too, amongst these men, Markie found many types of cephalism. She measured their heads and jaws in her mind’s eye and labeled them to her own satisfaction…and this was all extremely interesting to Markie, who for years had lived in the depths of the country with practically no human material upon which to try out her theoretical knowledge of the groupings of the human race.
Two other men came in and one of them turned on the wireless, which immediately said…
“And now we are all fairies. Listen to the music, children…it’s gay music, isn’t it? But soon you will hear the raindrops falling and you must run back to your places ever so quickly. Fairies don’t like getting their wings wet, you know. Are you ready, children…”
None of the men smiled. Perhaps none of them heard the sugary voice on the air…not because they were deaf, of course, thought Markie, but simply because they kept the wireless going full blast from morning to night and had become so used to it that the sound did not reach their brains. Markie had been about to take a jar of rice from the cupboard for she intended to give Jerry curry for supper tonight, but now she paused, and looked around. Somehow or other the voice on the air had torn a veil from Markie’s eyes…“Now we are all fairies, running very softly,” and lo and behold there was the kitchen full of soldiers—soldiers smoking, reading, talking, writing letters, and cleaning their rifles—and she, Sophonisba Marks, was moving about amongst them, perfectly at home, perfectly at ease, stepping over their feet on her way to and from the range. She thought, “How very strange! Is this I? Is this true?”
There was no time to stand and ponder, but the scene somehow printed itself upon Markie’s memory. The kitchen was shadowy; there was a red glow from the fire that made it seem more dreamlike. Markie’s eyes took in the whole effect, the big shadowy room, the soldiers, the rain that had begun to beat against the window, and the wireless lashing away unheard. She wondered what Mrs. Cobbe would have said if she had returned from the grave and seen the kitchen thus. Mrs. Cobbe (Jerry’s mother) had been rather old-fashioned, rather “particular,” Markie remembered…and, before her reign, there had been Jerry’s grandmother (probably more “particular” still), and, before her, a whole string of elegant ladies with straight backs and rigid ideas, coming down to the kitchen every morning at the proper hour to interview their cook and order quantities of luscious food for their husbands…and all that time there had been “maids” in Ganthorne kitchen, maids with starched aprons and snow-white caps.
“What a long way we’ve come,” said Markie to herself with a little sigh of regret for the good old days that were past and gone forever.
Chapter Nine
Troubles
Jerry had been to Wandlebury with the pony cart (she went twice a week and collected food and anything else that was required). These expeditions were necessary now because none of the shops had vans to send to Ganthorne. Today the task had taken longer than usual and the light was beginning to fade as she drove into the stable yard…it was a time of day that made Jerry think of Sam. If it were not for this horrible war Sam would be here—he would have returned from the office and the two of them would be walking around the stables together saying good night to the horses. If it were not for the war the stables would be full, and there would be that lovely warm horsey smell and the peaceful sound of horses feeding. Jerry’s heart was heavy. It was definite pain to be separated from Sam. Sometimes the pain was bearable and sometimes it almost wasn’t…tonight Jerry felt small and lonely and sad. She was missing Sam with every bit of her. Sam was so dear and understanding, he was so funny, so friendly, so good to look at. Where was Sam now, wondered Jerry, stopping in the middle of the stable yard and losing herself in thought. He was “somewhere in the desert”; that was all she knew and it was not enough. She wanted to know what he was doing at this moment, what he was thinking and feeling. It seemed all wrong not to know what Sam was thinking—they had lived so close to each other in body and mind.
It was not only Sam she missed—though she missed him most. She missed the work she had loved so much, the noise and bustle of the stables, the horses, the grooms. One of the grooms, Edgar, who had been with Jerry for years and was a true and steadfast friend, had been killed in the retreat to Dunkirk. Fred was a prisoner of war in Germany—she sent him parcels. Sometimes she received queer little stilted letters from Fred. Joe had chosen to be a sailor—he was only nineteen and was somewhere in the Mediterranean.
Jerry brushed away a film of moisture from her eyes and taking Dapple’s bridle she went into the harness room to hang it up…and there she found Rudge, sitting by the fire eating his supper. Rudge was the last remaining groom; he was a handyman and helped in the garden. He was older than the others and had not been called up—sometimes Jerry wondered what on earth she would do when Rudge’s age group was conscripted.
Rudge was eating his supper in comfort, he was looking at a newspaper as he ate, and a mug of beer stood at his elbow. He looked up at Jerry and said, “I been to Wandlebury. I got my papers.”
“Oh Rudge, will you have to go?” asked Jerry in dismay.
Rudge laughed shortly. “Not me,” he said. “I got exemption. I told ’em I was the only man on the place—told ’em the size of the garden and that. I put it across ’em all roight.”
Jerry hesitated. She said, “But Rudge, you ought to go—if they want you, I mean.”
“Not me,” replied Rudge, taking another mouthful of sausage. “Why should I go? It ain’t my war. I never wanted war with the Germans.”
“Nobody wanted war!” cried Jerry.
“Why did they ’ave it then? They won’t get me fo
r cannon fodder,” said Rudge with a grin.
Suddenly Jerry saw red. The others had all gone—all the good ones—Fred and Edgar and little Joe…and Sam, too. Edgar was dead. Fred was starving in a German prison, Sam was lost in the wilds of an African desert, and here was Rudge sitting in the warm comfortable harness room eating an enormous supper and laughing at them…
“They’re doing their duty!” she cried. “They’re fighting for their country.”
“Let ’em,” said Rudge shortly.
“No,” said Jerry. “No, Rudge, it won’t do. If you can get exemption that’s all right—that’s your affair, not mine—but I can’t keep you here.”
“You can’t keep me!” he cried in amazement. “Who’s going to do the work?”
“I am,” she replied. “I’ll get a woman. I’ll get an old man or a little boy. I’ll manage somehow.”
“But they won’t exemp’ me unless you ask for me.”
“I can’t ask for you. Why should you be exempted.”
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know,” said Jerry helplessly. “I’m probably quite mad—but I just can’t bear it.”
Rudge hesitated, and then he said in a different voice. “I know it’s ’ard for you, Mum. I mean it stands to reason you’re feeling a bit under the weather—well, that’s why I arst for exemption just to stay on an’ ’elp you.”
“No, Rudge,” said Jerry, shaking her head. “I can’t explain what I feel about it but you’ll have to leave here. I can’t bear to see you sitting there, having your supper.”
“Why shouldn’t I ’ave my supper?” asked Rudge, heatedly.
“I don’t know,” said Jerry. “Or—wait a minute—perhaps I do know. Perhaps it’s because you aren’t willing to fight for your supper. Willing, Rudge, that’s the test. Yes, I’m glad I’ve got it clear.”
“So I’ve got to go an’ fight, ’ave I?” demanded Rudge in furious tones. “I’ve got to blooming well go an’ fight because you think—”
“No,” said Jerry firmly. “No, you’ve got it wrong. I can’t make you fight if you don’t want to—and anyhow you wouldn’t be much use if that’s how you feel about it—all I say is you can’t shelter behind me. That’s all, Rudge.”
“They won’t exemp’ me unless you arsk,” said Rudge again.
“I can’t ask,” said Jerry. She took up Dapple’s blanket as she spoke and went out into the yard.
Rudge followed her. “I’m sorry I spoke like that,” he said in a wheedling tone. “I was a bit ’asty. You think it over, Mum. You think of all the things I do. I don’t waste my time. You’d find it difficult to get another chap ’oo would do all the things I do. You would really. Everyone can’t fight, you know. We got to keep the ’ome fires burning.”
“That was the last war,” said Jerry gravely, as she flung the blanket over Dapple’s back and strapped it into place. “Business as usual and keep the home fires burning and all that. This war is different. It’s a total war, Rudge.”
“It ain’t my war,” said Rudge.
“All right, Rudge. There’s no need to say any more about it.”
“I didn’t want it,” he said. “It didn’t matter to me if ’itler took Poland. What’s Poland to me? Why didn’t we let ’im ’ave Poland if that’s what ’e wanted.”
“Poland was just the beginning. He would have swallowed Poland first and then he’d have come for us—one at a time, that was his idea.”
“That’s what you think,” said Rudge, not rudely, but just stating the fact.
“That’s what I think,” she agreed. “I’m entitled to my opinion and you’re entitled to yours. It’s no use saying any more.”
“Think it over,” suggested Rudge, returning to his own case, which interested him more nearly than the ethics of the war. “See what Miss Marks ses about it. Don’t do anything in a ’urry that you might be sorry for.”
“No, Rudge,” said Jerry. “I might think for a month and it wouldn’t make any difference because this isn’t a thought—it’s a feeling.”
***
When Jerry had finished putting Dapple to bed she came out into the yard and found that it was quite dark now and the stars were shining. She was very tired, for her argument with Rudge had taken it out of her—taken something vital out of her body—strength, merit. She went across the yard to the big gates and turned up the path to the house. She walked quietly, for she was obliged to pass the cottage and she did not want to see Mrs. Boles tonight. Mrs. Boles was an evacuee. She had come from Stepney with her two children and had taken up her abode in the cottage very thankfully at first, but now the horrors of the bombing were fading from her mind and she had become increasingly discontented.
Jerry looked at the cottage as she passed. She looked at it with affection for she and Sam had had great fun doing it up and making it fit to live in—two of the grooms had lived there with Joe’s mother to “do” for them. It had been a happy place in those days.
“Hallo!” exclaimed Jerry, and she stopped suddenly in her tracks for there was a streak of light showing from the kitchen window. She was tempted to let it slide, but no, that wouldn’t do. She would have to go in and get the blackout adjusted. Jerry knocked twice at the door before Mrs. Boles appeared, wiping her hands upon her incredibly dirty apron. She was a thin wispy woman with a pointed nose and furtive eyes, and her hair was adorned with steel curlers. Nobody in Ganthorne had ever seen Mrs. Boles without curlers in her hair…but perhaps she takes them out at night, thought Jerry vaguely.
“Oh, it’s you!” exclaimed Mrs. Boles. “That’s lucky. I was wantin’ to see you. The coal ’ammer’s broke. The ’andle came away in my ’and when I was breakin’ up the coal—so now I ’aven’t got nothin’ to break up the coal with.”
“There’s a light showing,” said Jerry. “You can’t have drawn the curtains properly.”
“They’ve come orf the ’ooks,” said Mrs. Boles.
Jerry sighed. “Couldn’t you have sewn them on?” she asked wearily.
“I meant to, but summow I never got around to it.”
They were standing in the passage and as Mrs. Boles spoke she rubbed herself against the passage wall. It was like a cat, thought Jerry, with a little shudder of distaste. Cats rubbed themselves against walls like that…but cats did not leave greasy marks on the wallpaper…
“Oh dear!” exclaimed Jerry. “I think you might have found time.”
“I’m always busy,” whined Mrs. Boles. “There’s the ’ouse to clean an’ the clo’es to wash. I’m never off my feet from the toime I gets up till the toime I goes to bed. It’s crule the amount of work the ’ouse taikes to keep it toidy.”
Jerry looked around the kitchen. It was anything but tidy; it was dirty, smeary, sordid, and a curious sickly smell pervaded the place. In the corner sat Elmie Boles (a child of about fourteen with a small white peaky face) she was hunched up in a curiously dejected position like a moping bird.
“What’s the matter with Elmie?” asked Jerry.
“She never slep’ a wink all noight,” replied her mother proudly. “’Urt ’er finger—that’s wot—tore it on a nile. Real narsty, it looks.”
Here was another job, thought Jerry in vexation, the child’s finger would have to be dressed—but first the blackout must be adjusted. Jerry borrowed some pins from Mrs. Boles, climbed onto the kitchen table, and pinned up the curtains.
“You must sew them tomorrow,” said Jerry firmly as she jumped down and surveyed her dirty hands in disgust. “And I do wish you would try to keep the place cleaner, Mrs. Boles; it used to be so fresh and nice when Mrs. Lander was here.”
“I never bin told I wos dirty before,” said Mrs. Boles aggressively.
Jerry did not reply. There were many things she might have said but she could not trust herself—if she began to tell Mrs. Boles
what she thought of her it would be difficult to stop—and what was the use of it? The woman was not capable of keeping the house properly.
Elmie’s finger was the next consideration, but nothing could be done here. To begin with Jerry’s hands were not in a fit condition to dress a wound…and Jerry’s one idea was to get away quickly before she lost her temper.
“You had better come up to the house with me, Elmie,” said Jerry a trifle wearily as she turned to go.
Elmie rose and followed her at once and Mrs. Boles came to the door with them. “Wot about the coal ’ammer?” inquired Mrs. Boles. “I carn’t break up the coal without a ’ammer. The poker’s no use.”
“I’ll remember about it,” said Jerry shortly.
“That’s roight,” said Mrs. Boles, who had suddenly become quite pleasant and cheerful now that she had achieved her end. “That’s roight. You can sen’ the ’ammer back with Elmie—an’ she can bring a little milk as well—jus’ a few drops that you can spire. I ain’t got a drop o’ milk for the supper.”
“I’ll see if there is any,” replied Jerry, edging away.
But Mrs. Boles was not an easy person to escape from. She kept Jerry standing on the step while she discoursed about her children, and it was impossible to get away without being actually rude. Jerry heard the whole story of Elmie’s finger and, when that was finished, she was obliged to listen to a long account of Arrol’s doings at school. Arrol was eleven, he was big and boisterous and the pride and joy of his mother’s heart. His name really was Arrol—not Harold, as Jerry had thought at first—though why he had been given that name she had never been sufficiently interested to inquire. (Elmie was really Wilhelmina. It was a fine-sounding name but too grand for everyday use.)
Mrs. Boles was still in the middle of her story of what the master had said to Arrol and what Arrol had said to the master when the hero of the tale appeared on the scene looking even dirtier than usual and with one sleeve of his coat hanging in tatters from his shoulder.
The Two Mrs. Abbotts Page 7
