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

by Ursula Bloom

  My own letter to my father at the time explains it.

  Hertford House,

  Walton-on-the-Naze.

  April the 24th. Monday.

  Dear Dad,

  We have only been to bed in our clothes and the guns began heavily at sea early this morning. Invasion is expected before Tuesday night, and the troops are coming in, it would almost seem in their thousands. A thousand of the Essex Cyclists camped by the roadside outside Walton last night, and a large number of the Yeomanry were camping behind them. Of course it may only be a big scare, but all yesterday they were at work fortifying the place and the big men from the War Office were down here, so it looks quite serious. The troops are up day and night, and you can’t get in or out of the place without passes.

  Love from

  URSULA

  In that same hour a young sub-lieutenant wrote in his diary this message:

  Sea ‒ Scapa. April 24th, 1916

  Awful panic. Last night we were suddenly ordered by the C.-in-C. to take a new route to Scapa and come in by the Pentland Firth, close to where the King Edward lies anchored in Scapa. Arrived at 1.30 p.m. and took in 970 tons of coal, taking about 6 hours over it.

  Scapa-Kirkwall. April 25th, 1916

  Got under way at 6a.m. and came round to Kirkwall, where we are apparently going to lie for some time. Some German ships came over and bombarded Lowestoft at an early hour this morning, with any luck they were caught on the way back.

  On our hall chair two folded blankets rested, a tin of bully, a packet of biscuits, and a bottle of water, but we didn’t evacuate on the Tuesday.

  ‘If they stay there long we’ll be sick to death of the sight of them,’ said Mother.

  ‘Do you think it’ll happen?’ I asked her.

  ‘Probably. If you put yourself in the Huns’ place what would you do? Invade if you could.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I agreed.

  In spite of the shelling of Lowestoft, the scare of invasion seemed to wear itself out a little. Suddenly the passes were cancelled, and we could go in and out of Walton again, though nobody could get anywhere near Harwich or the Oakleys. It was said that they were making high explosives on Bramwell Island, which lay at the head of the backwater, and at times there were explosions and rumours of people being blown up. If I had not been under the suspicion of being a spy I should have gone exploring on my ancient B.S.A. bicycle (‘Made-like-a-Gun’, one of our favourite Britons-never-never-never-shall-be-slaves slogans) of which I was enormously proud. But things being as they were I daren’t go.

  Arthur came round and said thank goodness things were easing off, and what a time it had been, but that was all we were told of it.

  ‘It really is the most wonderful epoch in which to live,’ said Mother. ‘I wish we knew more about it, but I suppose today all the interesting bits have to be kept highly secret.’

  Arthur came in most nights. He had a habit of drinking neat whisky, which was a dreadful tax on our resources, and he was the only man I had ever seen do this.

  ‘Doesn’t it taste awful?’ I asked him.

  ‘Sure, and it does! But afterwards you feel like a giant, nothing matters at all, at all.’

  He was slight, very thin, rather frail if he had spoken the truth about himself, and I don’t suppose he often felt like a giant. We celebrated the fact that things had cooled down, had an evening round the piano, and the blankets and iron rations having gone out of the hall we felt comforted.

  ‘But we missed something awfully exciting,’ I told Arthur, wondering what the walk with covered wagons would have been.

  ‘You’re an awful little goose!’ he said gaily.

  Mother’s condition kept worsening. I had until now been trying to buoy myself up with the silly pretences one adopts in self-defence. Perhaps the doctors were wrong; perhaps a miracle cure would come out in time; perhaps something ‒ anything ‒ would happen. The pain was worrying her now, and when the doctor came he gave me a box of tablets for her.

  ‘She can have one to sleep on, but you must be careful. She can never have more than two.’

  ‘Are they dangerous?’

  He stood there fiddling with a bowler hat in the hall, one of those bluff little men who call a spade a spade. ‘Oh yes, m’dear, three would be tricky, four could be the end. You can’t joke with these things, but you’re a sensible girl.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Whilst she slept that afternoon I sat on the beach and thought about it. I hate suffering. I stared out to the Gunfleet sands knowing full well that what I contemplated would be mortal sin. Mortal sin is something of which I have a horror, early training did that. But I would face it for Mother. It could not be wicked to help someone I loved so that she suffered less. I took six of the tablets out of their box.

  I locked these carefully away into a little doll’s wardrobe that I cherished with fond memories of my ‘doll’ days. In it I treasured four of my first teeth (heaven only knows why), the tiny gold cross I wore for my confirmation, a ring Mother gave me but which could not be worn until I was ‘of age’, as she disliked girls wearing rings, and the mosaic brooch Montie had given me when he went with the Fire Brigade to Turin.

  To this collection I had added six tablets.

  I’ve got to do it, I told myself as I sat on the beach. Then I thought that a German shell might destroy both of us before I sought to destroy one of us.

  A young soldier came by, paused, his face flushed, his eyes admiring. ‘Penny for your thoughts, miss,’ he said.

  That was something I couldn’t have told him.

  Chapter 10

  It was a hot eleventh of May and during the morning Arthur came round.

  ‘Are you and Mummy doing anything this evening?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. Why?’

  ‘I want to have a talk with Mummy.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Ask no questions and you’ll be told no flibberty-gibbets. No, honest as they come, I want to talk to Mummy. If I come in after dinner will that be all right?’

  ‘I’ll tell her.’

  ‘And I want no infants hanging around.’

  ‘Meaning me?’

  ‘Meaning you,’ he said, and laughed, then off he went again. He had not even had a drink.

  I thought it was queer, and Mother was afraid that he might have heard something about our being spies, and prayed it was no further trouble on that score. I let him in when he came, then went to the little dining-room to talk to our fictitious maid-servant Emily, whilst he and Mother were in the sitting-room. I sat on the table edge and was apprehensive.

  Supposing Arthur was asking Mother about marrying me? He had very old-fashioned ideas in some ways, and this was just the sort of thing that he would do. I did not want to marry. Mother hated the thought of leaving me alone in the world, and nothing would comfort her more than to know I was with him, I realized that, but what do I do? I asked myself.

  Arthur had considerable charm, but was a changeable personality, at moments gauche, at others warmly amusing. His gaiety was infectious and a tonic to me, but suddenly this night I was afraid of him.

  Mother came into the dining-room looking utterly delighted, which she had not looked for months now. The change in her spurred me on. ‘He wants to speak to you, darling,’ then impulsively: ‘Ursula, I am so happy, so very, very happy. I am just so happy.’

  Arthur was sitting on the sofa looking radiant too, his face flushed, his eyes grey-green and dancing. ‘I suppose you know what all this is about?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘I’d be an awfully nice little fellow to marry.’

  ‘Would you now?’

  He changed at that. ‘Darling infant, I know you aren’t in love with me, but I’ve got enough love for both of us, and I’ll give you the lot. Lands and proud dwellings and all that stuff, and a coronet, Zillah, thy brow shall entwine. I want to marry you most awfully.’

  ‘Why?’

  �
�Because you are the nicest girl I have ever met.’ He began to giggle. ‘What d’you think happened when I told Ma about it?’

  ‘I should think she had a fit.’

  He began to sing:

  ‘And when I told them

  How wonderful you are,

  They didn’t believe me,

  They didn’t believe me.

  That was what happened, infant! Ma said awful things and then I said worse. It was one big hell of a row but now I’ve won the day. Darling, it is going to be “yes”?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said.

  Afterwards I realized that it was hardly the most enthusiastic acceptance, and he always said, ‘She never wanted to marry me, but I made her.’

  In exuberance he tore back to the Albion and returned in the Sunbeam with a couple of bottles of champagne. He and Mother did well on it, and I had a teaspoonful ‘for luck’, which sent me dizzy to bed.

  I had become engaged to a rich young man who could see after me for ever. I had made Mother so happy that tonight her old smile had returned, and she seemed to have forgotten the pain. Mother was happy, yet I didn’t sleep at all that night.

  Being engaged to Arthur was unbelievable.

  The whole world changed, and he himself was amusing in his joy. He rushed the announcements into the papers before Ma started to make a fuss, or the Germans landed, or something ridiculous happened. He got sudden leave, which the Colonel did not want to give him, and dashed up to London, having one car accident at Romford, and another in Chelmsford on the return journey.

  He had wired the Brigadier who was one of those dapper elderly gentlemen who adore a social jaunt. He prided himself on being something of a ‘picker’ when it came to spending, and there was nothing he liked better than dipping into somebody else’s purse. Meeting at the R.A.C. they went on to Marshall’s, and there made friends with the model dress buyer, a Miss Parker, so they said. They were set on two small gilt chairs, and dresses were displayed for them. They bought three, some lingerie, and an evening cloak, the Brigadier fixed up a dinner engagement with Miss Parker, and on they went to Bond Street.

  There they bought a sapphire and diamond engagement ring, and a bracelet to go with it. A string of pearls, and a small gold mesh bag (highly fashionable at the time), little realizing that I had not two-and-eightpence in the world to put inside it.

  ‘Whatever happens he must never know how hard-up we are,’ Mother explained.

  ‘Of course not.’

  These exciting parcels were sheer ecstasy, and then we went back to the Albion to chicken and champagne with him. At that moment the chicken was far more use to me than the diamonds, sapphires, and pearls. I’ll never know myself all dressed up like that, I thought.

  Next day he was back with five pounds’ worth of flowers. I thought the chauffeur would never stop carrying them in. The following morning it was chocolates. Then we had a serious talk. I told him he must not give me so much, I had no intention of ruining him, and it must stop, right now! I showed him innumerable letters from photographers, dressmakers, florists and such, to do with my wedding.

  ‘Nothing from Ma?’ he asked.

  There was indeed nothing from Ma. He went back to the Albion and telephoned her; I gathered the conversation was not satisfactory. She was so deaf that she had to leave interpretation to Rowland, her personal maid, and Rowland was not an interpreter of the first-class variety. Arthur decided that he would go up and see her, and drove half the night, returning in a fury at dawn. Next time, he said, he’d take his Colt with him, and shoot both Ma and Rowland. ‘Women!’ said he. ‘Oh, my God! Women!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I had got him into our sitting-room and the truth came out. Mrs. Denham-Cookes had discovered that Mother was living away from my father, and she wanted this to end, otherwise she would never agree to the wedding. As I listened I went cold.

  ‘Look here,’ I said, ‘if anybody is going to get at my mother, this affair ends right now.’

  ‘Darling, you couldn’t let me down?’

  ‘I could,’ and he knew that I meant it! I would not marry him at all if he made any pass at trying to persuade Mother to return to the rectory.

  He got up. ‘Right,’ said he. ‘Now there is nothing left for it but to go up to Prince’s Gate and shoot Ma. I shall swing for this, but at least I’ll have done something.’

  He got the better of the second row, and came back in a burst of success. A week later I went with him to pay my first visit to Prince’s Gate.

  As we entered the big hall, Mrs. Denham-Cookes was coming down the stairs, and she was one of the most beautiful women that I have ever seen. Both of us were nervous, as we went into the library which looked out on the almost countrified gardens behind the great house. Her ear trumpet was alarming. We talked banalities. Where had I been to school? I hadn’t. When did I come out? I never had. When was I presented? With the same answer. My future sister-in-law sat by, and I could not eat my tea; we left early, Arthur red with rage.

  ‘But she’s seen me, surely that’s something? Did she say anything to you about me?’

  ‘Only that you had very beautiful eyes.’

  We nearly missed the train and when we got back to Walton it was obvious that something exciting was afoot. It was a good deal more exciting than we knew.

  The German Fleet was out.

  Extra guards had been set along the front, and fresh troops were pouring in so that the road to Colchester was almost blocked again. At Hertford House a couple of blankets were back in the hall, and the iron rations tucked into the old string bag.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come back,’ said Arthur. ‘What a shemozzle this is going to be!’

  At that very hour a young sub-lieutenant, who never comes into this book but who only a handful of years later came into my life for keeps, wrote this:

  May 31st, 1916. Swin ‒ Sea ‒ Black Deep

  Sub-Calibre all the forenoon. Raised steam for full speed with the utmost despatch in the afternoon and rushed out. We cleared ship for action, and really thought we were in for something. However, we anchored at 6.30 at the southern end of the Black Deep, in the middle of the North Sea and a prey to submarines.

  June 1st. Black Deep ‒ Sea ‒ Swin

  Got up anchor at 2 p.m. and came back to the Swin, coaling on arrival. Awful panic tonight, and there has apparently been a Fleet action of sorts which we of course missed. The Marlborough is flooded up to the main deck, and the Warspite has gone into dock, and the C.-in-C. is signalling everywhere for hospital ships. We were apparently kept south in case the Germans detached a raiding squadron.

  June 3nd. Swin ‒ Sheerness

  Came back to Sheerness after lunch. From what I can gather the action yesterday was quite a big affair, in which we don’t seem by any means to have got the best of it. (Awful bad luck being out of it after waiting eighteen months!)

  That was the attitude of the morning papers after the Battle of Jutland, due to the fact that the Admiralty had revealed our losses but not those of the Germans.

  ‘Anyway, God bless the Navy,’ said Mother.

  Almost immediately after that, disaster came. On June the fifth Lord Kitchener set off for Archangel in H.M.S. Hampshire,, and he and nearly all the ship’s company went down never to be heard of again.

  ‘There was a spy on board,’ said everyone, ‘of course there was a spy on board. That’s sticking out a mile.’

  Although we were getting used to dramatic horrors, none of us had thought of Lord Kitchener being killed, and all the older people despaired. They said we couldn’t win the war without him. We younger ones thought new blood was a good idea.

  ‘How foolish you children are!’ said the older and wiser ones. ‘That would be disastrous.’

  Mr. Lloyd George became Secretary of State for War and the gossips said he would soon be Prime Minister. The blankets and the iron rations popped back into the cupboard, but of course they would be out again sooner or later. The Victoria Cros
s was won for the first time on our own soil when Lieutenant Leefe Robinson brought down a Zepp in flames at Cuffley.

  ‘This is triumph,’ said Mother, even if she didn’t like aeroplanes. ‘We’ll win the war after all.’

  I don’t know where she got that idea! I could see no immediate hope ahead, and on the home front the food prices were shooting up and horrifying me. The bread was so difficult. Chocolates were growing scarcer and those we could get had a new taste about them which had never been there before. ‘Three Gees’ was now four-and-threepence a bottle and I was absorbed in the complexities of making-do. Early in August Mother wrote to my father.

  Hertford House,

  Walton-on-the-Naze.

  August the fourth, 1916

  Dear Harvey,

  Things are getting much more difficult here, for we cannot get either a woman or a child to help us, and I am very helpless, whilst Ursula’s health has been so bad. I feel it is hopeless to go on as we are doing. Arthur complains that Ursula has no right to do the washing-up, which is true. It is a worrying time for all of us, but what can we do? Ursula is ill; she gets so depressed and unhappy. The poor child is very much thinner, which worries me.

  As ever,

  MARY

  If I had inherited much of my mother’s spirit of determination, the background of the war was in itself undermining. Also I was worried about Arthur. In many ways I found him unpredictable. Charmingly gay, amusing, and generous, yet there were things about him which I did not understand. One of his brother officers, a widower and a man I had liked very much, tried to persuade me to break off the engagement.

  ‘But why?’ I asked.

  ‘Because I like you very much. I want to see you happy, truly happy, I mean.’

  ‘I am happy,’ I told him.

  Arthur was perhaps unpredictable because he was as ever having trouble with Ma; she wanted this, she wanted that, and the truth of the whole matter was that she didn’t want him to marry. Although he had a couple of thousand a year of his own, his Army pay, and those dainty details known as ‘perks’ which went with it, her extra substantial allowance buttered his bread. Nothing would persuade him to forgo that. ‘It would be living in stinking poverty, and I’m not good at all, at all at that sort of thing,’ he said.