Youth at the Gate: A young woman’s memoir of life during the First World War

by Ursula Bloom

  ‘You thought you’d lost me,’ said he, ‘sure and that’s a lie! “Slanté and slanté and slanté again,” and have I and my ma had a row!’

  In he came bubbling with joy.

  We had a happy evening singing round the piano; he drank all the Three Gees we had in the place (Mother said young gentlemen of the aristocracy always did that), but it was satisfactory that the friendship was to continue.

  The round of little parties, of dances, of Army concerts, with Nito persistently reciting ‘If’, went on. Then one foggy afternoon the chauffeur brought me a little note in Arthur’s quite undecipherable handwriting. Never did a man write worse!

  The Albion Hotel,

  Walton-on-the-Naze.

  January the 9th, 1916.

  Dear Infant,

  Can I come in this evening at eight? Don’t have anyone else there, and don’t say I’m coming, for it is a bit important.

  Yours,

  A.

  It seemed odd that he should ask, usually he ran in and out just as he wished, but I had found moments when he behaved a little strangely, for he was unpredictable. It was a foggy night, and when I heard his ring I went to open the door. There he stood in full uniform with a Colt thrust into his belt, which meant that he was on duty.

  ‘Why are you all dressed up like that?’ I asked.

  He grinned at me. A young sergeant was standing at the gate, a ghost figure in the fog. ‘You wait for me, Sergeant,’ Arthur said and stepped inside, closing the door after him. ‘I’m Captain of the Day, that’s all. It doesn’t mean a thing.’

  ‘Put the revolver down, won’t you?’

  ‘No, I’ve got to stay in the rig. Part of the duty. Fred Karno expects it of us. Got a drink?’

  I poured it out for him, and he perched on the arm of the chesterfield sofa which Mother had bought at a bankrupt sale in Birmingham, so fulfilling a lifetime’s ambition. He talked of Hertford House, how we had come by it, and did we like it? We did. It had been sheer luck that it had fallen into our hands. Houses interested him, he said, how many rooms had we?

  The idea came to me that perhaps he had had a chat with the billeting officer and if we were billeted it would be an enormous help with the income. Only too anxious to put this forward I said that if he was interested in houses he could see over it. He would love it, he said, so we went up the curved staircase on to the first landing.

  ‘It’s dark on the next storey,’ I said. ‘We have not got proper curtains, and I dare not strike a light.’

  ‘Sure!’

  ‘They are such pretty views from the windows. You can see to the Oakleys across the backwater, and out to the Gunfleet in front.’

  ‘But you don’t look out much?’

  ‘No, I’m busy,’ I told him. I did not dare confess that we had no maid; those were the days when only the low-downs did without, so we had invented a fictitious maid called Emily, who was always having a night off at convenient moments, or hadn’t heard the bell, or something of that kind. Emily lived only in our imagination of course, but to the rest of the world she was a very real person, so we hoped.

  Curiously enough Arthur wanted to go to the top floor which I thought was extraordinary. I was worried about the lights showing and another row coming with the ‘Specials’; anyway tonight in the fog he’d see nothing. He went alone, was gone some time groping his way about, and now I got the strange feeling that something was wrong. Once the idea came I could not dismiss it, so when he came down, I challenged him.

  ‘Are you going to billet us?’

  ‘Not on your life! They never billet when there isn’t a man in the house. I’m not up to any harm. I’m a nice little fellow when you get to know me.’

  We went downstairs again, and paused by the dining-room door. ‘I haven’t seen the kitchen,’ he said.

  ‘Goodness, you do want to see a lot!’

  We went into the kitchen, with the stone step dropping down on to its bricked floor which was so difficult to keep clean. Frank, the cat (he turned out to be a girl after that, proving it in the most obvious manner), was sitting by the door waiting to go out. I picked the cat up and had my hand on the latch, but Arthur stopped me.

  ‘Don’t go out. You mustn’t go out.’

  ‘Why not? The cat wants to go out.’

  ‘All right. I’ll do it.’ He went to the nasty little window over the sink and rapped on it, instantly a man spoke. The man must have been in our back-yard, which was something of a surprise. ‘All right, Sergeant,’ Arthur said, then slipped the cat out.

  ‘What is all this?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t tell you. I will one day, but for the moment you’ve got to trust me.’

  ‘Who is that outside?’

  ‘Nobody to worry you if you do as I tell you. Let’s go back to Mummy.’

  We went back, I feeling most uncomfortable, and I seemed to have infected Arthur with this, for he refused a drink, and said he would have to be back on duty. We went into the hall, and he picked up his ‘British Warm’ off the chair. Perhaps he knew that I was worried, for he turned to me.

  ‘Believe me, I’m on your side in this,’ he said, and at the door he called to the man beyond it. ‘Sergeant Bryant?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  As he opened that door I realized for the first time that the house had been surrounded. ‘What are those men doing here?’ I asked.

  Without a word he turned, saluted, then marched away, the men with him. I went back to Mother, my knees shaky. It all seemed to be so absurd. ‘What do you suppose it was?’ I asked her.

  Neither of us guessed the truth. It was only after we were married that I found it. The story of our being spies had gone further and orders had come to Colonel Concannon. The Army were tightening up against the spy menace. I think the Colonel, knowing us, was sorry, but had to take action, so he sent the one officer who he knew would treat us well. An armed picket had surrounded Hertford House, and inside it to fulfil his duty Arthur had gone into every room. In reality he had looked at nothing, but had done what he was told and was petunia with rage.

  The spy story went on. All the time we were being watched. The worst part of all was that there was not a thing we could do about it.

  It was a gayer spring than the others if only because young people came in and out of the house. There were the subs. ‒ Fred Goosey, young Bushell and Nito del Riego; there were concerts, soldiers’ theatricals, dances, and dinners. It was now for the first time that I realized I was one of those unfortunate girls who had side-stepped adolescence. I had grown up completely on the day my mother left my father, and I had recognized it was my duty to see after her. But at this hour I grew younger.

  The affair with Arthur was not progressing. I found him a charming friend, loved his music, and sympathized with his rather pathetic loneliness. The hand worried him so much.

  ‘It’s awfully silly to get so upset about it,’ I said. ‘People don’t really notice.’

  ‘Don’t they just! Half the stupid old women who would have given me white feathers without it, treat it as an honourable war scar.’

  ‘Why not pretend it is?’

  In a sudden rush of confidence he said: ‘When I was a kid, Ma always made me sit on it so that people wouldn’t see. She felt pretty sticky about it, too. The first thing the Governor said when he saw me was, “Well, there’s one boy who will never go into the Army.” ’

  ‘That shows how much he knew!’ I told him. ‘Look at you now!’

  ‘You can’t call this the Army, it’s Fred Karno’s whatnot. The Guards had me out damned quick when they spotted it. I’d have the devil of a job to get overseas.’

  ‘Aren’t you lucky!’

  ‘Lucky? Hell!’ and he went scarlet. ‘I don’t want other fellows to die for me, I want to do my bit. Think I like this? If you do, think again.’

  He had pluck all right, but he still went on feeling badly about the hand, and the three false fingers that he wore on it, covered by a tiny
worsted mitten.

  ‘Makes you feel sick, doesn’t it?’ he asked.

  ‘No, it doesn’t. Why should it?’

  ‘Thanks a lot for that, acushla,’ he said tenderly.

  There was another bad night when the Zepps came over at the end of March, the night when Joachim Breithaupt was brought down at Rainham, and that was something, for he had been captain of Zepp L15, which had done so much harm on London last autumn. The Zepps were hanging about half the night, it seemed, and one of the soldiers in them must have looked out over our backwater behind Hertford House, for next morning there was a German cap lying on the mud. One of the Queen’s men found it, and sold it for five bob to an officer in the 23rd Londons then stationed in Frinton. It was a man of Arthur’s company, and he charged in for a drink at eleven, red with fury.

  ‘Sold it to the 23rds! Can you beat it! It ought to be a trophy of the regiment, and what does he do, picks it up and all for a wretched five bob trots it over to Frinton and sells it to the first chap who makes a bid for it!’

  ‘Buy it back?’ suggested Mother.

  ‘Do you think I haven’t tried? Och, but I was over there and after the chap, it’s Captain Harris who has it; I offered him a fiver, and he just waggled it at me and said all the tea in China wouldn’t get it out of him. It makes me livid.’

  The papers said that ninety bombs had been dropped in the eastern counties, certainly it had sounded like it.

  It seemed sickening that this particular spring we had none of the thrill of a big push coming. Last year we had been so certain, but this year we were droning along with nothing much happening, and peace no nearer.

  The idea of any sudden spurt and the war smashing out in a single conflict was dead, but the Daily Mail of April the second was depressing. There was a beastly article in it, ‘The End is Not Near. Spring prospects of the war’, by Lovat Fraser. It ended with:

  The ultimate victory of the Allies seems more certain and inevitable than it was a year ago, but there is not one sure or safe sign that the war is anywhere near a close.

  ‘Well,’ said Mother, ‘all I can say to that is that it is a good thing that a year ago we did not know how sticky was our wicket. We at least have that to be thankful for.’

  Lots more barbed-wire entanglements were going on to the cliffs, and loads of sandbags kept coming up. A special company had gone out to Holland Gat at the far end of the Frinton golf links, which it was said was dangerous, for there in the 1910 manoeuvres it had been proved that the water was of sufficient depth for a fleet to come close, bombard, and perhaps land. That was a nice thing!

  It’s thrilling, I thought. It’s exciting. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, and if only Mother were better some of it would be rather fun.

  At that hour I had not realized that at the very beginning of the war, Dover had been submitted to an ordeal which could very easily come our way given time. In October 1914 every home in Dover had been served with this notice:

  The inhabitants of Dover are informed that they are to evacuate the town immediately. All civilians resident in the district described on the enclosed sheet must meet at the place of assembly at — and there await orders to leave for the country together on foot. Vehicles will, as far as possible, be provided for those unable to walk. Each person must carry warm clothing and food and drink for twelve hours.

  Mr. A. C. Leney will act as Evacuating Officer, with headquarters at the Town Hall.

  ……‪…Mayor.

  I was young enough and silly enough to think that if there was an evacuation it would be something to have seen and done, and of course it would all turn out all right in the end. I had a blind faith in the mercy of providence.

  ‘If anything like that happens, I shan’t wait for wagons to get me out,’ said one of the subs. ‘The first bicycle I can pinch, I’ll pinch, and hop it with amnesia. That ought to excuse me.’

  That week my mother wrote to my father:

  Hertford House,

  Walton-on-the-Naze.

  April the 8th, 1916

  Dear Harvey,

  The bombs have been bad all round us. Some were dropped on the munition works at Stowmarket and did a good deal of harm, and the sound of the reports shook us up. The same day a ship struck a mine just off Walton, and I thought the house would come down. We have a great many wounded soldiers here now, they march past very slowly every morning and are then dismissed for the day. Some of the French are with them, and it is very interesting.

  We have not heard from Joscelyn for a long time, and when he wrote he complained that he had had no regular letters from us, though we do write regularly.

  Ursula sends her love.

  MARY

  The French wounded caused a casualty in our home, for I had a tortoise by the name of Daniel who browsed in the front garden. The soldiers found they could whistle him up, as he was very tame and came out if called. (He ate chocolate.) One of the Frenchies threw a ship’s biscuit at him, and poor Daniel had his head out and was killed. I was indignant about it and Arthur said he would get me another, then found he couldn’t, for tortoises were not being imported during the war, and the man whom he asked about it was rude.

  Arthur was very angry, but angrier about Mr. McKenna’s Budget. Cocoa, sugar, and coffee would be dearer, not that any of those bothered him, but there was a trebled duty on the rich man’s car. The lowest income tax was to be two-and-three, and the highest eight-and-six. He was in the eight-and-six class.

  ‘I would be!’ he said, ‘and if you ask me they aren’t getting on with the war. We are taxed to the hilt, it gets us nowhere, and everybody is hanging about waiting for something to happen. What a world!’

  Mr. McKenna’s new ruling had given his ma a heart attack. He laughed about it, which I thought rather hard on her. I was getting an odd picture of this very beautiful but possessive lady, who had been an old man’s darling, and now lived in an enormous mansion where she was admirably protected by Old Rowland her personal maid (a bulldog, I gathered), Old Jim, who had once been the children’s nanny, but had never pushed a pram in her life because it was demeaning and the duty of an under-nurse only, and Chown the butler who was a pet.

  But none of these could protect Ma from the Zepps, and she went night after night into the cellar, in what Arthur said she would have termed ‘unsuitable attire’, and sat there heroically until the danger passed by. Arthur was casual about her difficulties.

  ‘Bombs never fall in the right place,’ said he. ‘Only the other night my three uncles and my cousin were in Uncle Billy’s place, when a bomb took the area railings. Had it removed all of them I should have been Lord Lurgan, and that would have been an occasion! Och, but it makes you sick!’

  ‘Too bad!’ I murmured.

  He brought amusement into my life. He was such fun, and I was growing fonder of him. I felt that had he really wanted me he would have asked at Christmas, but that occasion had gone wrong on us. What had I done? I still did not know.

  The April weather was mild, and it was nice that the primroses had come. All the soldiers seemed to be very busy, we had an idea that something was on though we dare not mention it, and we had fewer musical evenings in consequence.

  I went out to the shops, met Arthur on a bicycle, and he seemed to be in a disturbed mood, and hardly stayed to speak to me. I imagined his mother had been difficult again, for by now I had become accustomed to the fact that he was quite under her thumb, and she had only to start a row to reduce him to a frazzle. It was, I thought, the usual maternal argument.

  On my return home Mother met me. She was standing in the hall with a piece of paper in her hand. ‘Here it is,’ she said and held it out to me. I read it.

  All civilians resident in the district described on the enclosed sheet must meet at the place of assembly at Walton church, and there await orders to leave for the country together on foot. Vehicles will, as far as possible, be provided for those unable to walk. Each person must carry warm clothing, a
nd food and drink for twelve hours …

  It was signed Stanley Nicholson, Clerk to the Council.

  My first feeling was one of supreme thrill. ‘Good gracious!’ I said. ‘Isn’t that exciting?’

  Mother, her face like a mask, said, ‘Isn’t it?’ No more.

  I read on about the ringing of the church bell which must be accepted as the warning, and when that came the town must be evacuated immediately. Reading this, I got the feeling that my two feet were no longer on mother earth. ‘What happens to the house and the furniture?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I expect they’ll be all right,’ Mother said, and I was so elated that I did not realize she was being unnaturally calm. To me it was one of the most exciting things that had ever happened, and eagerly I prepared to get things ready. Two blankets. Iron rations. Could we take our famous Tommy’s cooker as well? I began to wonder if my old osteomyelitis ankle would hold up to any long march, comforting myself with the assurance that anyway it would have to, and it was quite a good time of the year for a nice long walk. Mother would be all right in a wagon, and that was what mattered most. Never did it occur to me that our evacuation from Walton would be anything but the greatest fun, and something to talk about for years!

  I ran out to Mr. Mills the grocer for a tin of bully beef for the trip and he told me that he understood that as the civilians went inland along the peninsula to Colchester we should be quite safe, for their garrison would be coming out into action to defend Frinton and Walton. I never realized that our departure would be hurried by German shells from the sea, and the outcoming troops would have been an additional trial on the narrow roads. At the time I was gay about it, exuberant if anything, for this showed that we were getting on with the war, weren’t we? It was rumoured that Cambridge was our destination. Some walk!

  The imminence of invasion seemed to increase, so much so that we no longer dared to undress at night in case we should be caught unawares, which would be most improper. (In 1916, the thought of anybody ever seeing me in my stalwart cambric nightdress with my hair down, sent me into a tizzy!)