Growing Up

CHAPTER I-5

“Bit of swank,” said Jasper. “If I’d a listened to women I’d be telling lies. Silleena. It’s a good name for a woman. Silly by name and silly by nature.”

At this point Lady Waring came in. For her Jasper had an admiration as wife of Sir Harry and as mother of George whom he had taught to shoot and fish, and even as herself, all of which made him tongue-tied in her presence, or ostentatiously gruff, which deceived nobody. Overcome with confusion at his last remark, which Lady Waring must certainly have heard, he sidled his way out of the room against the wall and went away. In the little hall he met Selina.

“Isn’t it dreadful about Matron’s p***y, Mr. Margett?” said Selina piteously. “And poor Private Jenks too. He is so upset. He was at the back door just now and he was so upset about poor p***y that I gave him a cup of tea, poor boy.”

Jasper looked darkly at her.

“If I went about making up to silly women, I’d get cups of tea,” he announced witheringly.

Selina went back to the kitchen and told the cook that poor Mr. Margett was quite upset and no wonder, a poor little cat that never did anyone any harm and Matron was so upset and poor Private Jenks so upset. Then she dried her eyes and went to tidy Lady Waring’s bedroom.

Meanwhile the Warings ate their dinner, which was quite a good one but would have been nicer if the telephone had not interrupted so often. Mr. Palmer at Worsted, who refused to dine till half-past eight war or no war, rang up to consult Sir Harry about a case of fowl-stealing that was coming before the magistrates next week. Lady Bond, who to her husband’s great annoyance made him dine at seven on patriotic but unappetizing food, rang up to say she did not think Lady Waring had quite understood the point at issue in that afternoon’s meeting. Mrs. Tebben, who enjoyed her own discomfort and did not notice other people’s, rang up from Lamb’s Piece to tell Lady Waring a delightful dish she had discovered of some left-over fish and some cold potato mashed together with a teaspoon of made mustard and any bits of cold cabbage one had and you could eat it just as it was, cold, for Sunday supper. As an afterthought she said her daughter Margaret Dean had just had another baby, a girl this time, and was doing nicely, and her son Richard was enjoying the Middle East so much and said Cairo was just like Piccadilly, but had not yet had time to go to the Museum. Roddy Wicklow, Lord Pomfret’s agent, rang up to say his leg was still keeping him away from active service and would Sir Harry like the loan of the tractor next week and his wife and both the children were well. Mrs. Brandon, who to everyone’s surprise and most of all to her own, was in charge of the local Land Girls, and doing the job very well in her own peculiar way, rang up from Pomfret Madrigal to ask if Norma Hopkins was giving satisfaction on the farm, and to say that her daughter Delia Grant’s little boy had chicken-pox, but Nannie thank goodness had gone to take charge and was going to bring Delia and little Freddie back to Stories next week, and Delia would work at the W.V.S. while her husband was in Washington.

And so the county news came filtering in, from one marooned homestead to another. Such was the press of news after seven o’clock that Palmyra (called after Mrs. Palmer) Phipps at the telephone exchange was often able to give a subscriber who couldn’t get through to a friend the exact information she needed.

The Warings were always glad to hear of their friends and to give help or advice when possible, but they did wish they could eat their dinner in peace. Lady Waring had once suggested that Selina should answer all telephone-calls during dinner and take messages. Sir Harry agreed, though secretly convinced that it would never work. To his wife’s triumph Selina had proved invaluable at the telephone, intelligent, quick and accurate, but when she had received and written down the message, her kind heart nearly always led her to summon her master or mistress because the telephoner sounded so upset, so that in the end it was simpler for one of them to go to the telephone in person.

“Shall we wait and have our coffee when Matron comes?” said Lady Waring, when they were back in the sitting-room. “It might soften her a little. I mean she can’t kill us if she has eaten our salt.”

Sir Harry, who wanted his coffee very hot, and directly after his dinner, looked disappointed and said nothing.

“No, we’ll have it now,” said his wife, ringing.

“You women never know your own mind for two minutes together,” said Sir Harry kindly.

His wife smiled at him and said nothing.

Selina brought the coffee.

“Anything wrong, Selina?” said Sir Harry, noticing her tearful eyes.

“Oh yes, Sir Harry, it’s dreadful,” said Selina. “The gentleman said on the radio that there was a big ship sunk and it does seem dreadful.”

“Why you girls listen to that filthy noise I can’t think,” said Sir Harry, roused upon one of his favourite topics of hate. “Gentleman!”

“The lady then, Sir Harry,” said Selina, wiping her eyes.

“It’s not a lady. It’s an announcer,” said Sir Harry. “And whose ship was sunk, ours or the enemy’s?”

“I never heard, Sir Harry. The gentleman said it was sunk by an American destroyer, Sir Harry. I was so upset and so was Cook.”

“Listen, Selina,” said Sir Harry. “The Americans are our allies. Have you got that?”

“Oh yes, Sir Harry, like the poor French.”

“Good God!” said Sir Harry. “Oh well, we’ll leave it at that. So if the Americans sink a ship, it’s an enemy ship, and you ought to be glad.”

“Oh yes, Sir Harry,” said Selina, her tears ceasing by magic, her cheeks dimpling and her hair curling in wilder tendrils than ever. “Cook will be pleased. Oh dear, the coffee will be cold. I’ll bring some fresh in a minute, Sir Harry.”

Her employers looked at each other in amused resignation.

“Please, my lady,” said Selina reappearing with the coffee, “it’s Mrs. Phipps. She says could she see you a moment, my lady.”

“Mrs. Phipps?” said Lady Waring.

“Yes, my lady. Miss Phipps is on the railway. It’s about her Mrs. Phipps wanted to see you.”

“I can’t think who it is,” said Lady Waring, “but she had better come in. Do you mind, Harry? No, Matron may be here at any moment. I’ll see Mrs. Phipps in the hall, Selina. Matron will come by the passage door from the house and you can show her straight in. And bring some more coffee when she comes.”

She went into the hall. Sir Harry, left alone, drank his coffee and wished his wife would spare herself, though this was a thing she had never done since the day he married her more than forty years ago. She had made as happy a home for George as a boy could possibly have. When George was killed she had met the blow with a strength and courage that sustained them both. Between the wars she had seconded him devotedly, ably, in his military life, been liked by all his junior officers and made the best of impressions on his superiors. When he retired to take up the management of his estate she had thrown herself with equal vigour into country life and was liked and trusted by all ranks. And the extraordinary thing, thought Sir Harry admiringly, was that she always looked so handsome and was hardly ever in a hurry. It was pure selfishness, he told himself, to want her to do less and rest more; a wish to have a few peaceful evenings at his own fireside. Then he sighed inwardly and had to admit that he was as busy as she, that he was often out at night and away for days at a time, and that his wife never complained. Well, some day the war would be over and perhaps they would settle down; or perhaps everything would be taken from them and they would be glad to go on living in the servants’ quarters as they were now; and after all, what was it all for? There was no child to inherit; the place would go to a cousin in the Navy, who had spent much of his life out of England. What a weary business it all was, giving one’s best to a place where one’s widow wouldn’t even have the right to live. Still, one could keep the place going, and there was Jasper, and there were old men about the place who had known his father, and young men who looked to Sir Harry to get them out of trouble, and old women who wanted advice about old-age pensions and were afraid to ask at the post office. One must keep going for them.

From the hall came an interminable monologue, from which his wife would, he knew, come back exhausted, but probably having done some kind deed. Damn Mrs. Phipps, whoever she was. And damn Miss Phipps, who was on the railway. People didn’t come to their houses badgering their wives to death at all hours of the night. He remembered the two young women at Winter Overcotes station. Dreadful-looking girls they were, but good-humoured as could be, grateful for his help, and probably helping to win the war just as much as he was, in their own way. No place for old men in the world now, he thought; though no one would have called him an old man. Angrily he took up the evening paper and read what Mrs. Betty Higgins, aged ninety-seven, had to say about the war. Oh, Lord!

He was almost glad when Selina appeared at the far door and announced, “Matron, Sir Harry.”

“Tell her ladyship, Selina,” he said. “Good evening, Matron. Come and sit by the fire and we’ll have some coffee.”

He managed to keep the conversation on neutral ground till the coffee came, and then said:

“Well, Matron, I’m sorry to hear about your cat. Whose fault was it?”

Matron, who had arrived full of pent-up emotion of various kinds: anger, grief, the holy feeling that a good cry leaves behind it, and several more, was rather taken aback.

“Whose fault?” she repeated.

Sir Harry looked at her. She was a handsome, middle-aged woman with grey waving hair and a firm mouth. Her dress was as precise as it could be; a long line of ribbons on the bodice spoke of honourable service in many places and campaigns. He was willing to wager that she was one of those rare nurses who look even better out of uniform than in it.

“Yes, Matron. Jenks had no business with a gun, but why was he out after tea? I thought they had to be in unless they had special permission.”

“He had no business to be out at all,” said Matron severely. “Then why was he out?” said Sir Harry.

“I really thought Nurse Poulter understood that no one could go out unless he had a proper leave pass.”

“Who is Nurse Poulter?” asked Sir Harry. “I don’t think I’ve met her.”