Evie's War (3 page)

Lady Braybrooke and her niece, Miss Bartlett, called. I have begun to feel like a piece of livestock at market. Aunt Marjorie was perfectly charming and I perfectly circumspect. Miss Bartlett ended our interview with an invitation to accompany her two days hence to visit Bridge End Gardens in Saffron Walden. Mother was both reluctant to allow it, in case I should embarrass her further, and equally reluctant to risk offending so important a personage as Lady Braybrooke. In the end it was agreed I might go, if the weather is fine, and was thereafter subjected to copious intructions on my conversation and behaviour.

Miss Bartlett says she hopes and believes that she has found a kindred spirit. She talked a good deal more than I, and largely on topics about which I am not well informed. She is a campaigner for Women's Rights — which fact I suspect is unknown to Aunt Marjorie — and describes herself as a great admirer of the New Zealand Parliament ‘for their laudable decision to grant women the vote', adding that she found it shocking that Britain should ‘so lag behind our Colonies'. To her suggestion that I might speak to the next meeting of the Women's Social and Political Union, I made haste to decline, saying that, rather, I would be delighted to come along and learn. She insisted I was too modest, but as I am not yet of an age to vote and had not till this afternoon heard of the WSPU, I do not think it so!

Miss Bartlett grew pinkly enthused telling me about the organisation's founder, Emmeline Pankhurst, and the great sacrifices women have made in their battle to receive recognition for their cause. I was rather horrified when she described the death of Emily Davison, who last year threw herself under the hooves of the King's horse. I really cannot
see how her death helped achieve equality for women, but Miss Bartlett is quite convinced that her ‘brave act of martyrdom' has been in some way beneficial. Not for Miss Davison I thought, but did not say.

Aside from her interest in politics I found Miss Bartlett refreshing. She is some few years older than me and has enjoyed a liberal education. She was impressed to hear of Lettie and said she must be encouraged to press her case for Oxford. ‘Women's Rights have been too long forgotten, but the time is come for change. The whole world is changing and we must be sure to be part of it.' Her zeal is quite catching; I suspect Mother would not approve.

Lettie writes to say that I should try not to be shocking. Which of course I do not! We are to dine with the Morecombes tomorrow and Mother has been severe in her admonitions of what I can and cannot say.

Just back from Catmere Hall, where I behaved meek and mild enough to impress even Mother, which I fancy proved a disappointment to some in the party. The men were much engaged in a discussion of the situation in Europe. I shall ask Miss Bartlett's view at the first opportunity, as I do not doubt that she will be better informed than I.

In response to my enquiries I have learned that Aunt Marjorie and Uncle Aubrey met in Switzerland when she was on holiday with her parents, my grandparents. Shall I meet my future husband on our Tour, I wonder?

During my walk today I stopped to speak with Uncle Aubrey's farm manager, Mr Tolley, who seemed amused by my interest in the operation of the estates. His replies were perfectly civil, however, and he ended by saying I had a quick brain for questions. I believe it was a compliment.

Father and Uncle Aubrey left for London. I confess I am envious.

Despite being summer it has rained non-stop for days, causing my two younger cousins to be at their most tiresome. My retreat to the library having failed, I was obliged to spend the afternoon occupying them with games. Thankless task.

Father returned from his trip in a sombre mood. He says London is in a very grey state, though he wouldn't say more. When I asked about our Tour of Europe he replied that it was ‘not currently possible to proceed', and that we may instead visit Scotland and the Lake District, and perhaps call on the Fairfields in Yorkshire. In truth it is scant compensation for Paris and the Rhine.

Austria has declared War on Serbia. Perhaps it is as well that we are not planning to visit Vienna at present.

The Misses Morecombe have invited Edmund and me to make up a tennis party for this weekend.

It is jolly lucky that I was on the tennis team at School, as several of the group proved fearfully good. Edmund acquitted himself well on the court but less favourably in discussion, announcing that women ‘should be content to choose motherhood as a career, as it is to this that they are best suited'. I believe he only said so to be controversial, as he has at least two friends whose sisters have careers in teaching and nursing, and I have never observed him to disapprove of them — quite the reverse. Miss Bartlett, who had raised the topic, refused to become riled, instead challenging him to a further game of tennis in which she did her best to beat him, and came close to doing so. I remained aloof from their debate. Miss Hurley and two of her friends are planning a visit to the maze at Saffron Walden next week and have invited me to join them.

Germany declared War on Russia yesterday. It seems odd that such things should be happening when we are enjoying the sunshine and playing tennis.

Britain has declared War on Germany, that country having declined to halt its aggression against our Allies in Europe. Father says New Zealand will stand behind Britain, and that our troops will soon be on the seas.

There has been a terrific thunderstorm today, which feels quite appropriate, as if God himself is raging over the foolishness of Men.

Miss Hurley arrived in a carriage mid-morning and we jogged off along the narrow lanes, raindrops sparkling like jewels where they hung in the hedgerows. The maze was diverting (if a little damp underfoot), but it is the architecture of the town that thrills me. Even the simplest worker's cottage has charm, while the dark timbers, whitewash and handsome pargeting of the larger buildings are steeped in the memory of those gone before.

A number of ships have been sunk and hundreds drowned. The Defence of Belgium is under way, with reports in the newspapers of fierce fighting on both sides. Mother says I am becoming far too serious and is planning an outing ‘to cheer us'.

It seems there is to be one shock after another. I discovered Aunt Marjorie ripping open the seams of one of Mother's dresses. When I asked why, she replied, ‘Can you not guess?' I could not, and said so. Pursing up her mouth, she sent me to Mother, who first denied there was anything wrong then broke down in tears. Given her persistent illness of the last months, I began to worry that something serious was afoot, as indeed it is, though not at all in the way I expected. I went looking for Father to demand he tell me what was wrong,
but instead found Uncle Aubrey. His reply to my distressed outpouring was to say, with some embarrassment, that it was a ‘woman's concern', and to escort me back to Aunt Marjorie with a firm directive that she should enlighten my ignorance, which she proceeded to do.

I confess I don't know what to think. Mother is with-child, by some four months. Apparently Mr Wheatley, the Ship's Surgeon, proposed it as an explanation for Mother's lingering malady. Edmund, it seems, has known for some time — in fact, everyone but me has known. If it was not now quite confirmed, I should think it impossible at Mother's age. As it is, I am finding it rather hard to take in.

Our outing to Cambridge proved a pleasant enough diversion, though I remain piqued that Mother should have kept me in the dark over so significant a matter. I really must wonder whether she had planned to confide in me
at all.

I should have described Cambridge a little. It is a beautiful and venerable town. Our capital city of Wellington, which I previously thought quite cosmopolitan, is positively dowdy and provincial by comparison. We visited St John's College, which was sublime (although that might truthfully be said of all the Colleges). They are like grand cathedrals — cathedrals of learning, I suppose. The River Cam, at Littlebury no more than a creek, is in Cambridge a calm expanse bounded by manicured parks and overhung by willows, on which punting is a common pastime. Aunt Marjorie has allowed we might try it at a later date. It being the summer holidays there were few students about, but still I could imagine the cobbled streets and parks
and even the river crowded with them. It made me quite envious of Lettie, who aspires to be admitted to such a place. I have written to tell her about the Colleges and to ask after her application to Oxford University, which I am sure will prove just as beautiful, if not more.

Today's sermon focused on the brave Sacrifice of our Soldiers and the need to stand firm against the Menace shaking its mailed fist over Europe.

A letter came from Lettie, who says I should not be cross with Mother for failing to inform me of her condition, as the situation must be quite difficult enough at her age, and worrying besides. I confess I had not thought of it being worrying, merely repellent.

It is fiendishly hot. The Misses Morecombe sent a note inviting us over for the afternoon, but it was too hot for tennis. At length Sybil brought out the latest papers, which report a Russian victory on the Eastern Front. It seems as if this War will engulf every country of Europe! Sybil is of the view that one must do what one can to help, to which end Lady Braybrooke is organising First Aid courses. Mrs Morecombe says there is no end to useful work if one only puts aside one's more frivolous concerns. I have volunteered to knit scarves, though my knitting is rather poor. Sybil has promised to teach me socks.

As Edmund and I walked back to Deans Park he raised the possibility of signing up, but is unsure whether the British
Forces will accept him. By preference he would join the New Zealand Expeditionary Force but as they are unlikely to arrive in Europe for some months, he is concerned lest he miss the War completely. My advice was that he should better wait until Father decides what we are to do.

The British Forces are in retreat and Germany has invaded France. Everyone begins to fear that the War may not be won quite so quickly as had been hoped. Uncle Aubrey says we must accept that this summer is out completely for our Tour. Father raised the possibility of our returning to New Zealand at once, but — to my relief — Mother is reluctant to travel in her condition. I should certainly not wish to sail back around the world having seen so little of Europe, which, alongside visiting Aunt Marjorie and Father's obligations regarding his father's estate, is our chief purpose in coming all this way.

Having done First Aid at School last year, I acquitted myself favourably at the St John's Course organised by Lady Braybrooke, afterwards accompanying Miss Bartlett to her WSPU meeting. The women were all of one mind: namely, that their focus must, in the interim, be on supporting Our Men at the Front. All efforts are to be put into fundraising for a Mobile Hospital Unit, and to helping in any other practical way. It was suggested by the evening's speaker, the Honourable Evelina Haverfield, that our combined efforts will not only be of immeasurable value, but in the long term will work in aid of obtaining Women's Suffrage by demonstrating women's value outside the domestic sphere. It is the first time I have attended such a meeting
and I confess I found it somewhat jingoistic, though I do not doubt the worthiness of the cause.

Uncle Aubrey is to join the War Office, which will oblige him to move to London for the duration. As a consequence he has requested of Father that we remain at Deans Park, both to look after his interests and to keep my aunt company. He is confident the War will be over before Christmas, and that we might then decide whether we proceed directly with a more limited Tour or wait until the following summer. I hope delay is possible, as I should not like to miss anything by rushing.

Sybil and Isabel Morecombe came to tea, during which the vigour of their inquisition suggested they have developed more than a passing interest in Edmund. Mother described their questions as a ‘favourable sign' and instructed me ‘not to do anything which might damage my brother's chances', so she clearly sees Catmere as a desirable match. I wonder whether Edmund is to have any say in the matter?

Eugenie wildly upset, having newly been told of her father's imminent departure. Millicent more composed but looks pale. I feel guilty for neglecting them.

Attended my second, and somewhat heated, WSPU meeting. Some members wish to form a local branch of the
Women's Emergency Corps, for which Mrs Haverfield is Patron, while others feel that organisation's insistence on uniforms is an unnecessary expense when no more would be achieved through wearing them than not. I confessed to Miss Bartlett that I thought it all rather trivial, to which she replied that in the event of a German invasion, it might seem less so. At the time I conceded meekly, though as I write I find that I can't, in that horrid circumstance, see how uniforms would make the slightest difference either way.

There was a depressing article in yesterday's newspaper, which I did not read till this evening, about British losses. Despite the best efforts of both British and French Armies, Paris itself seems at risk.

I am the cause of further furore: a peaceful afternoon picnic was spoiled when Monty fell into the river. Of course I plunged in after — really, the water was only waist deep. But all present were surprised to learn that I was perfectly able to swim (this apparently being a skill rather more commonly acquired in New Zealand). Eugenie promptly asked if I might teach her, which made Monty demand a similar favour. I am glad there is one thing my cousins have found to admire in my Colonial upbringing!