The English Air

by D. E. Stevenson

  “There,” said Wynne as if that settled the matter.

  “Oh Wynne, I don’t think—”

  “Sophie, it’s perfect … not a bit too young.”

  “Wynne, I’m sure—”

  “Honestly,” said Wynne. “Honestly it’s simply perfect. Wear it a teeny bit more … there, like that.”

  “I think that other hat—”

  “No,” said Wynne. “No, you can’t possibly have that frumpy old brown one. I couldn’t let you—not possibly. You’re choosing a wedding hat, Sophie.”

  “I’m glad of that,” said Dane. “Perhaps you’ll give me some idea of when you expect to be married. How long will it be before that hat goes out of fashion?”

  Sophie sighed. She loved Dane dearly and of course she was going to marry him but there was no hurry about it … she was being rushed, she was being harried. Wynne was harrying her into buying unsuitable clothes and Dane was harrying her into matrimony.

  “When?” urged Dane.

  “Darling,” said Sophie. “Of course I want to marry you but there’s no hurry … and the war has upset me.”

  Chapter Seven

  The war had had very little effect upon the outward appearance of Chellford. It was in people’s hearts that the change was wrought and English people do not wear their hearts on their sleeves. Sophie’s heart was leaden, and full of anxiety, but Chellford looked as peaceful as ever. Sometimes it was difficult to believe that war had really come and it was all the more difficult because the weather was so beautiful; the sun shone golden in a cloudless sky, the sea was like blue glass. (How could one believe that death might rain from that sky at any moment of the day or night, or that death lurked beneath that lovely peaceful sea?) Slowly the trees turned red and brown, orange and golden; slowly the tired leaves fell.

  Meanwhile, and in the midst of all the usual daily activities of housekeeping and shopping, the bulletins of the war were issued almost hourly on the radio; the advance of the Germans into Poland, the sufferings of Warsaw, the sinking of ships. It was the sinkings of ships which affected Sophie most, for everyone is selfish at heart, and although Sophie’s sympathies went out to the Poles, her anxiety for Roy’s safety was deeper and nearer and more constant. Roy had been transferred to the destroyer, Spark, which was operating somewhere in the North Sea. His letters were irregular, owing to the exigencies of the service, and when they failed to arrive on the usual day a cloud of misery descended upon Sophie and blotted out the world; but when they did arrive they were cheerful, and it was so obvious that the writer was contented with his lot that the cloud lifted and the sun shone once more.

  Wynne and Nina and several of their friends had been detailed for duty at the Chellford Hospital. They had so many hours on, and so many hours off. Their duties consisted of scrubbing floors, getting the kitchens into order and putting up extra beds. Fortunately these elaborate precautions were not yet required for there were no wounded to be cared for and the patients consisted of a few soldiers from the near-by camp with chills and sprains and one or two accident cases. All over the country, hospitals were being prepared by England’s unpaid army of social workers; they were being prepared not only for fighting service casualties, but also for civilians wounded or gassed in air raids. Everyone seemed to be busy except Sophie, and Sophie had nothing to do. (She knitted socks, of course, but she did not feel that it was enough.) There were no schoolchildren billeted at Chellford, for it had been made a “neutral area” on account of its proximity to Kingsport and the docks. At first Sophie was sorry about this, for she was very fond of children and she had been looking forward to having children at Fernacres and looking after them herself, but after a few weeks of war Sophie received so many letters from her friends in country places telling her of their experiences with “evacuees” that she became resigned to her childless existence.

  It was a lonely time for Sophie. Wynne rushed in at odd hours and rushed out again, and Dane was busy with some work which he had undertaken for Colonel Carter. It consisted of reading and summarising Secret Service reports and translating secret documents. In addition Dane had undertaken the duties of an Air Raid Warden. He went out every evening to make sure that the inhabitants of Chellford were screening their lights in a satisfactory manner, and that no chinks were showing between their curtains. Sometimes it was necessary to ring the bell and to point out deficiencies in this respect, and he found that people were very pleasant and bore no ill will for the interference with their liberties. He slept with the telephone beside his bed and his A.R.P. equipment ready, for in the case of an air raid he would have to go out and look after the people in his district. He would have to direct stray pedestrians to the nearest shelter and to give warning to the proper authorities of fires started by incendiary bombs or of the presence of gas. So far these duties had been hypothetical, and Dane had become quite used to the sight of the telephone beside his bed and to the horrible significance of his service gas mask leering at him from the chair. He had begun to put his kit ready every night without thinking about it, or what it meant.

  It was a curious war, Dane thought. It was so different from what anyone had expected. It was so completely different in every way from the last war. The spirit of the country was different—there was no excitement, no glitter, no bombast—there was just a solid and dogged determination all through the country to fight against oppression and injustice. Migs had summed up the feeling of the younger generation very clearly. He had said one day at tea, “It’s as if a dog had bitten you in the dark and you were going after it with a stick—at least that’s how I feel.” That was how they felt: determined, rather angry, bent on meting out just punishment for unprovoked offence—it was a stick, and not a gun with which Migs was arming himself, and Dane thought this point was particularly interesting.

  Suddenly one morning Dane was awakened by the shrilling of the telephone and the warning—which he had ceased to expect—was given him. He leapt out of bed and shouted to Hartley to rouse the household and then dressed himself hurriedly in the various garments which had been waiting for so long. He was almost ready when the horrible wailing note of the sirens filled the air, a ghastly sound in itself and all the more ghastly because of its import.

  Dane found all the members of the household in the hall—Sophie, Wynne, Barber, Rose and Gladys—Hartley was there too, marshalling them in a military way.

  “All present and correct, sir,” said Hartley gravely.

  “Right,” said Dane, stifling an involuntary chuckle, “right Hartley, carry on.”

  It was quite light now and the sun was rising as the party moved out of the front door and tailed down the garden to the air raid shelter. They carried their gas masks and bags and cushions. Hartley had an armful of rugs and two of the servants were carrying the picnic basket between them—it was obvious that they were well prepared for a long seige. They were all perfectly calm and collected; they were even—as Dane had observed—a little amused at the absurdity of the proceedings. They might not be quite as much amused if a bomb dropped in their vicinity of course.

  Dane decided not to think about that. He could do nothing more than he had done and Hartley would be there to look after them. They would be as safe with Hartley as if he were with them himself. He ran down the drive and out into the road. The sirens had stopped now, for they had given their dread message, and everything was perfectly still and quiet. The sun had risen and was shining brightly; there was a faint breeze and a flock of puffy white clouds was hurrying across the pale blue sky. The birds were singing merrily.

  A man came up the road driving a milk-cart and Dane signalled to him to stop.

  “Hi! Look here, didn’t you hear the sirens?”

  “I ’eard them all right,” replied the man, looking down at Dane from the cart. “It’s practise most likely. They ’ad a lot of practises at it in the summer … makes you blood run cold, don’t it?”

  “It isn’t a practice, it’s the real thing,” said
Dane.

  “An air raid, is it?” inquired the milkman with interest, and he looked up at the sky.

  “Yes, it is,” said Dane. “It’s an air raid alarm. You’ll find a shelter in my garden … cut along.”

  The milkman smiled at him pityingly. “Thank you, sir, but I can’t slack off just for an air raid.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” exclaimed Dane, “do as you’re told. Take your horse out of the cart and tie it to a tree, and then make tracks to the shelter. Hurry up now, I can’t stand here all day.”

  “No, sir,” agreed the milkman amiably, “but I got my work, you see. There’d be trouble if people didn’t get their milk in time for breakfast.”

  Dane gave up the struggle. He dashed down the road after a couple of small boys with sheaves of newspapers under their arms. The boys were more amenable to reason than the milkman.

  “There, what did I tell yer?” inquired the younger of the two. “What did I tell yer, Bert? I sed that there screaming noise was a hair-raid.”

  “Come on,” said Dane encouragingly. “There’s a shelter quite near … I’ll show you …”

  They hid their papers under a bush and ran after him across the garden to the square concrete pill-box which had been constructed for the Fernacres household. It was not very large but there was plenty of room for two small boys.

  “Come in,” said Sophie in a cheerful voice. “We’re just making tea. Dane, do wait a minute and have some.”

  Dane did not want tea, but he stooped down and looked in at the door to see how the small party was faring. It was dark inside but an oil-lamp hung from the ceiling on a hook. Sophie was standing beneath it with a tea-pot in her hand and Gladys was boiling the kettle on a spirit stove. The others were sitting on wooden benches and were busy knitting socks … five women hiding in a concrete pill-box on a beautiful autumn morning! Five women hiding from a so-called civilised enemy who was coming to drop bombs on their heads!

  They all looked up and smiled, for Major Worthington was very popular in the household.

  “Everything all right?” asked Dane.

  There were murmurs of assent from all except Gladys—Gladys was looking rather worried and distressed.

  “Will it be over soon, sir?” inquired Gladys anxiously.

  He tried to reassure her. “You’re quite safe, here,” he said in soothing tones.

  Gladys sighed. “If I don’t get out of ’ere soon the breakfast’ll be late,” she declared.

  “We can’t help that,” Dane told her. “It won’t be your fault anyhow.”

  “It’ll be Hitler’s fault,” agreed Gladys in a resigned voice.

  Hartley winked at him solemnly.

  Dane was chuckling to himself as he ran back across the lawn. He had been warned that one of his chief duties was to “allay panic” … it was a dashed funny war! A dashed funny mixture of tragedy and farce.

  The signal began to blow just as Dane reached the gate—it was the same siren, but blowing a long, sustained blast on the same note—he turned in time to see the little procession wending its way back to the house; Sophie and Wynne in front, arm in arm, the three servants behind and Hartley bringing up the rear. The two boys came down the drive with large slices of cake in their hands, they collected their papers from under the bush and proceeded on their way rejoicing.

  Chapter Eight

  Somewhat reluctantly Dane decided that he must have a radio set of his own. It was really essential, for he was spending far too much time in the drawing-room. He went down to the drawing-room to hear the news, and there he remained, talking to Sophie instead of getting on with his work. Hartley, when approached upon the subject, agreed that it had become necessary; indeed Hartley had said, more than a year ago, that they would need one if there was war.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Hartley, “I’ve been keeping my eyes open and there’s a friend of mine in Kingsport that has a first class set he wants to sell.”

  “Why?” inquired Dane, who was naturally suspicious of someone who wanted to sell a first-class set.

  “Been called up,” explained Hartley, “and it really is a bargain. We could get it quite cheap and it would cost about forty pounds to buy new. We want a good one,” added Hartley persuasively. “One that will get America.”

  Dane’s idea had been much more humble, he had wanted a set which would give him the news—the Home Service Bulletins—and perhaps Paris and Hamburg, but Hartley’s suggestions opened up larger vistas and Dane was attracted by them.

  “Well, find out about it, Hartley,” he said.

  He said no more and he was somewhat surprised when he discovered the radio installed in his sitting-room, and a tall youth in battle-dress boring a hole in his window-frame.

  “What on earth’s the meaning of this?” inquired Dane.

  The boy rose from his knees and saluted smartly. “It’s on appro., sir,” he explained. “You don’t need to keep it if you don’t like it—Mr. Hartley said it would be all right.”

  “Oh, he did, did he?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you want for it?”

  “Well sir, you keep it a bit and see how you like it and, if you like it, you can pay me what you think’s right.”

  “But I’ve no idea … What did you pay for it?”

  “I didn’t buy it, I made it,” replied the boy, and his eyes dwelt on the shiny cabinet with regretful affection.

  “You don’t want to sell it?”

  “I do, and I don’t,” replied the boy. “I can’t take it with me, you see—wish I could, I’ll miss it more than anything. You can get any station you like on it—America, China, Australia.”

  “Marvellous!” exclaimed Dane, looking at the little cabinet with something like awe. It really was marvellous. It was the miracle of modern days.

  The boy was rubbing the cabinet with a duster, now, polishing it carefully after its journey, and Dane watched him for a few moments.

  “Look here,” said Dane. “You don’t want to sell it—I’ll hire it from you at so much a week. We’ll find out how much would be fair. Then it will still be yours and you can have it back when you want it.”

  “Would that suit you?” inquired the boy, his eyes lighting with pleasure. “Would it really, sir? It would be grand for me.”

  The bargain was sealed, and, after showing Major Worthington how to work the set and displaying its unique advantages, the young man departed.

  No sooner had he gone than Dane drew up a chair and sat down and began to play with his new toy. It was a thrilling experience to turn on the tap (as it were) and to find French, German, Italian, Spanish, Dutch and a host of English voices pouring out of the faucet. It reminded Dane of a conjuring trick performed by the great David Devant in which an ordinary-seeming kitchen kettle was made to produce at command a dozen different kinds of wines. It was thrilling, and it was even a trifle alarming to hear those voices. They went on all day (presumably) and far into the night. All those voices pouring out floods of news, alleging this, discussing that, pleading to be heard, shouting for people to listen, filling the ears of their hearers with truth, with lies, with opinions and theories and facts and fancies, with propaganda of every sort and description.

  Dane played with his toy a good deal in the next few days and one evening about six o’clock he came upon something especially interesting. He had heard the voice of the friend, and the voice of the neutral, and, stranger than either of these, he had heard the voice of the enemy, but this was the voice of the enemy of the enemy; it was a German voice coming from Germany and speaking to the Germans, and it was giving out Anti-Nazi propaganda. The talk was good and well-reasoned and Dane listened to it with interest. He realised that the speaker knew his facts and had thought them out and discovered their implications, he realised that the speaker knew Britain and understood British policy. Dane thought that even a prejudiced person, listening to this talk, must be impressed with the sense of it and with the sincerity of the
speaker’s voice, and he wondered how many people in Germany were risking imprisonment by listening to it. The listeners—if there were any—were risking imprisonment, but the speaker was risking death and worse, yet there were no signs of urgency in the voice, no haste or excitement, and occasionally there was even a touch of humour. He must be a brave man, thought Dane, and for a moment or two Dane lost the thread of the discourse in thinking of the man himself. He listened without listening—as it were—and it was then that he discovered that the voice had a familiar ring. Dane sat up and listened more intently than before … it was absurd, of course … it couldn’t be …

  He rang the bell in a somewhat urgent manner and Hartley appeared immediately in a large dressing gown, but with his hair sleeked down as usual. Hartley began to explain that he had been in the middle of changing to go out, but Dane signalled to him to be silent and pointed to a chair. Hartley gathered his dressing gown round him and sat down.

  The voice went on. It filled the room. It was strong and vibrant but perfectly controlled. Presently the voice stopped and Dane leant forward and turned the switch. There was silence.

  “Was it young Mr. Heiden?” inquired Hartley with interest.

  “Well, was it?” inquired Dane. “Did you think it was?”

  “It was like his voice,” said Hartley thoughtfully, “but then I haven’t ever heard him speak German. It makes a difference.”

  “Yes,” agreed Dane. “Yes, it does. Don’t say anything about it to anyone … we’ll listen again tomorrow.”

  They listened for several evenings at the same hour but the speakers were different, and then, on the fourth evening, it was the same man.

  Dane tried to clear his mind of all preconceptions; he tried to forget the words and to concentrate on the voice; he tried to imagine that voice speaking English. He tried to imagine Frank sitting in the chair—where Hartley was sitting—he tried to conjure up Frank’s figure. Frank had sat in that chair after the pact of Munich had been signed—it was more than a year ago now—and had talked of eternal peace between his two countries. Poor Frank!