Evie's War (5 page)

Mother is very puffy around the face and ankles. She did not attend Church but came down in the afternoon and lay on the sofa. Aunt Marjorie appears worried.

There are reports of a terrible battle at Ypres, which is a town in Flanders. Casualty lists are alarming: four more
local boys have been killed, including Mr Tolley's nephew. It is all quite awful and has not helped Edmund's case.

Turkey has joined the War on the side of the Germans. Uncle Aubrey telegrammed to say he is unable to get away this weekend. Monty went on a rampage at the news and broke a vase, apparently quite valuable. Aunt Marjorie announced herself ‘at the end of her tether', at which point I thought it best to take my cousins out for a walk, though it was hardly the weather. Damp and dispiriting.

With all the upset over Edmund and Mother, I missed the last two meetings of the WSPU, and last night arrived to find all in an uproar. I kept very quiet throughout — Aunt M and Mother would have been impressed! Winifred was interested to hear of Miss Duncan, and wonders whether the Red Cross might not be more practical than the VAD in terms of progressing to useful work.

Mother is somewhat better and Dr Chiltern has approved her being up, with the proviso that she must have several hours' rest each afternoon. Also, that there must be No Emotional Upsets. Enforcing that during a War may prove difficult — perhaps he should speak to the Kaiser.

Finally Mother has mentioned receiving a letter from Mrs Fairfield (which I have suspected since seeing the Yorkshire
postmark). I sat meekly awaiting her judgement, only to learn she has ‘simply not been able to think about it'. Lettie will be wondering whether the letter has gone astray.

Jubilation! Uncle Aubrey is up for the day and when the question of my having been invited to Yorkshire arose, my dear uncle announced that there was absolutely no reason why I shouldn't go. So it is agreed that I might visit Lettie for one week in December, though not for Christmas, when I am wanted here. Mother has promised to write to confirm arrangements.

Monty has been misbehaving terribly and is confined to the nursery. Millicent is crying in sympathy, while Eugenie has taken to slamming doors at every opportunity. All were upset when their father departed so soon after his arrival, on top of which the weather has turned beastly. Frost sits thick upon the garden till at least mid-morning and the wind is absolutely bitter. Mother says it is too cold to go out, so I shall miss another WSPU meeting (and, which is worse, the relief of Winifred's company). Were I not on my best behaviour, I might very well slam a door myself!

Mrs Fairfield suggests I might come any time in December. Aunt Marjorie says Cook's sister, Mrs Pratchet, intends spending Christmas with her daughter in Thirsk and might therefore chaperone me as far as York, where Lettie's uncle will meet me and escort me the last part of the journey. So it is arranged, and in just a few weeks I will see Lettie!

Snow! It is falling as I write, leaving a pattern of white dust across the windowpane. Earlier it was melting on first contact with the ground, but it is now starting to gather in small drifts in the lower pockets of the garden. It is rather beautiful. Aunt Marjorie says she had forgotten we would not have seen snow before, and that it is nowhere near so pretty after months and months of cold and damp.

My toes froze solid this afternoon when I walked to the village for my bandaging class and my fingers were so cold it was half an hour before I was of much use at all. Lady Braybrooke said I must tell Mother that I need proper gloves with fur linings. As a consequence Aunt Marjorie has loaned me boots with delicious woolly linings, and Millicent provided me with a fur hat. The snow is now quite thick, but my cousins say it will not stay long.

How right my cousins were: this morning is dull and grey and raining and feels even colder than yesterday, the snow having washed away and slushy mud proving nowhere near so attractive. Another bandaging class, and I confess I am thoroughly bored with them.

Winifred called for me in Lady B's motorcar. We cut quite a dash roaring along the country lanes, bundled in scarves and rugs and quite revelling in our freedom. Winifred drives rather fast, which she says is quite the proper way to do it, and confessed — fortunately after we'd left — that
she had learned to drive just last week. I felt perfectly safe, however, except on one corner where we went off the road and up onto the verge, the car collecting a smear of green along its side. We sat quite still for a few moments, gasping and giggling. Winifred was thoroughly relieved when one of the lads from the estate came past and helped her restart the engine, as she is apparently not very good at that yet. She swore him to secrecy, so we hope that neither my aunt nor Lady B will hear of our small adventure.

A letter came from Mrs Fairfield confirming that I am expected in Yorkshire in the second week of December. Hooray!

Winifred has offered to teach me to drive. She says there is demand for ambulance drivers at the Front, and she thinks she may prefer it to nursing, which ‘has no flair'.

Edmund sought me out in the library this afternoon; I did not immediately gather that he was asking my help. But he hopes I might convince Mother of his cause. Father will accept it, he thinks, though his preference would be for the New Zealand Expeditionary Force over a British Unit.

As bid, I attempted to smooth Edmund's path (for who knows when I might require similar assistance?) and spoke with Mother about my brother's plight. She agreed that it is hard for young men not to join up when others are going, but says it is also hard being a mother, especially one not in her own Home and Country, and that Edmund
might try to understand that. Aunt Marjorie came in during the discussion and announced that mothers must urge their sons to go for the sake of All That Is Good And Pure in our World. Mother said that was all very well when one's own son was only a child. Aunt Marjorie bristled in response, announcing that we are All At Risk, and asking: ‘If none go to fight, do you think the Hun will stop at the Channel?' Which is a valid question but, seeing they were determined to disagree, I felt it best to change the subject.

The mood in the house remains strained, with Mother refusing to come down — whether due to her health or her displeasure with her sister is not clear. To be fair, it must be uncomfortable to be so heavy as she is grown. Dr Chiltern comes to see her every second day.

True to her word, Winifred has begun teaching me to drive. It is quite complicated but I believe I shall manage it. After a number of tries I finally completed a lurching circuit of the lake, and Winifred proposed that next time we might venture onto the road.

Misery! On Sunday I was caught by a thundershower and became quite drenched. Consequently I took a chill and have been feeling positively beastly, with a throbbing head and my throat so sore I can barely speak. I am a little better today, but Mother says I can't possibly visit the Fairfields unless I am fully recovered. I do hope Lettie is not too upset.

Mrs Pratchet cannot be prevailed upon to delay her departure and leaves on Monday. I have written to Lettie with the news.

Today's sermon had the theme of Sacrifice for the Greater Good. Families whose sons and brothers and husbands have already made the Sacrifice showed a very brave front, and there was much talk afterwards of more signing up. The Hun must be stopped, no matter the cost.

My head still aches. I am currently rather glad I am not travelling to Yorkshire, though I shall regret it later.

When the sun broke through at midday I went for a short walk. Mother said I was foolish and headstrong, but I was glad to let the crisp air clear my head.

Sniffling once more, for which I apparently have no one to blame but myself. Aunt M has provided me with mending to ‘occupy my hands'. To think I could have been in Yorkshire with Lettie!

My cough being finally subdued, permission to attend a meeting with Winifred was granted (but only, I suspect,
because the request was made in person by Lady Braybrooke's niece). Hurrah for Winifred's gumption, I say!

Tonight's speaker rather elevated the level of debate. It seems some suffragists are in favour of working for the Peace Movement while others prefer to work for the War Effort. My head was too fuddled to decide what I thought. Winifred says she will call tomorrow so that we might go for a drive.

With perfect aplomb Winifred convinced my mother and aunt that she simply must have my opinion on a hat she was thinking of buying in Saffron, while all the while she was planning another driving lesson. Which proved quite thrilling! I have now driven on the road. When I saw a horse and cart approaching I was a little nervous but we (and they) survived without incident. Winifred says I shall soon be driving as well as she.

The German Fleet has shelled England! Last night they fired upon towns along the Yorkshire coast. And while I should worry for all in that region, it is mainly Lettie I fear for. Father says hundreds are killed and wounded, most of them civilians. The papers are full of the attack, with reports of women and children killed in their homes. In Scarborough the shelling went on for an hour and a half.

Uncle Aubrey denounced the attack as extremely cowardly. Scarborough and Whitby had no means to defend themselves and there were no Navy ships in the vicinity, although there
were at Hartlepool. The response will be swift! There has been a renewed call from Lord Kitchener for men to sign up. Our response must be determined, but we will never behave as abominably as the Kaiser.

A telegram has arrived from Lettie: she is unscathed but confirms hundreds killed and twice as many injured, with much damage. Mother is now in doubt about ever allowing me to visit. If I should see a German right now I should jolly well tell him what I think!

Winifred has shown herself a capable teacher: today I drove from Audley End to Saffron Walden. Winifred drove on the way back, though I was obliged to start the car. It frustrates her terribly that she still cannot do it. I have tried to explain that it is a knack in the way one turns the crank, but she says her wrists are simply not strong enough. I have proposed exercises she might undertake to strengthen them, which she has agreed to try. I do hope they prove successful; I feel rather guilty that I can do it while she cannot.

With Christmas so close there is much excitement in the house. Monty, in particular, is quite ungovernable (my aunt does not currently appear to consider him a treasure!). Millicent seeks me out as a means of escaping his rampages.

Beautiful Carol Service this evening: candlelight against
the old stone walls and heavenly singing. Walking back to the house with moonlight on the snow and the sky crisp with stars one could almost forget the War. I sent a prayer on behalf of the Men at the Front. Lady B has organised parcels for all the local boys, some containing socks knitted by me — which I hope do not prove too lumpy and misshapen!

Earlier we collected holly and mistletoe (having, of course, foregone a tree) with which we festooned the hall and dining room. Monty asked whether he might put out two stockings as his were so small. His mother said definitely not, though I suspect she will indulge him nonetheless. As I write I find myself wondering about my friends at home, and try to imagine them waking to a hot, bright morning while here all is snow and tradition. Standing outside our door after Church I felt as if I had stumbled into a scene from a Christmas card. Strange to think that, in the midst of such beauty, across the Channel our Men are at War.

There has been the most fearful scandal — I scarcely know where to begin. We had just sat down to dinner when there were raised voices in the hall and, moments later, a man burst into the dining room. Bromley had him by the arm but he wasn't to be stopped. He was dressed as a gentleman, though rather on the shabby side, and there was a wild air about him. I should say he was about thirty — or at least that he was somewhere between Edmund's age and Mother's. He shook Bromley off, straightened his collar and said, for all the world as if he knew us, ‘I see you've started without me.' You can imagine how everyone stared! Uncle Aubrey cut through Bromley's apologies, demanding of the man to know if he was mad, then Father stood up, spilling his soup in his haste. He was very pale.
Quite shockingly the stranger said, ‘Hello, Father. You recognise me then.'

It became even more confused thereafter. Uncle Aubrey, Father and Bromley hustled the man off to the library, Mother gave a little cry and clutched at her breast, Monty stood up on his chair and demanded to be told who the fellow was, while my aunt announced it was all a misunderstanding and we should carry on as usual. As if we could! A glass of wine had been spilled and Nancy came in to clear it away, and the soup as well, though we'd scarcely touched it, while Aunt Marjorie wittered about how the poor man had probably escaped from the asylum.

As one might imagine, Christmas dinner was rather spoiled. The men remained in the library for an age while Aunt M endeavoured, quite unsuccessfully, to jolly everything along. The goose was finally served by a rather dishevelled-looking Bromley and we began to eat, though really, I think we should have waited, it being Christmas. Mother picked up her cutlery and put it down several times then set her plate aside and stood.