This Was Tomorrow (34 page)

“Sylvia—I don’t suppose Bracken would listen to me—but won’t
you
ask him to bring Jeff home?”

“I can’t do that, darling.”

“But—Jeff’s not a
soldier!
”

“It’s about the same thing, Mab, to be a good newspaper man. Bracken went to war in Cuba when he was young—his own father sent him there for the paper, just as he in his day was nearly killed in the war before that one—as a correspondent with the Yankee army. The Murrays all go to war the same way soldiers like Oliver do—it’s their job. They’d be angry and humiliated if their womenfolk tried to interfere. Dinah knows all about that. Now it’s our turn.”

“Are you frightened about him too?”

“Yes, I am.”

“So you can’t sleep?”

“So I can’t sleep.”

Mab made a little gesture of despair which wiped away her tears.

“London’s going to be bad enough. But somehow if he was in London one could
bear
it.”

“I know.”

“How do you—how does one manage not to show it?” Mab asked humbly. “I don’t want to make a fuss. But I don’t know how to go on looking as though everything was all right, the way you do.”

Sylvia put her arm around the small shoulders, and they began to walk again, slowly, along the path.

“Well, in the first place, I’m supposed to be an actress,” she said simply. “And our faces are supposed to be more or less under control. But everybody learns, as time goes on, to hide behind their faces. I think you do very well at it.”

“German bombers can get to Prague in twenty-one minutes,” said Mab, and her voice cracked. “I read it. And the American Ambassador there has ordered Americans to leave. And they’ve put out the lights in the streets—”

“I know,” said Sylvia.

“I’m sorry, I—shouldn’t scare you too,” Mab said contritely. “I should think of something comforting to say. It’s worse for you. You’re married to him.”

“You love him very much, don’t you?” Sylvia said, very low.

“More than anybody in the world.” There was no self-consciousness or drama in the quiet statement. “But I know it’s the same for you. I’ve got no right to make a fuss, only—” The words ended in a sort of gasp.

“We’ll have to stick together,” Sylvia murmured. “We’ll have to help each other, Mab—no matter what happens.”

“You
don’t
think I’m a cry-baby—?”

“We’re both cry-babies,” said Sylvia, and Mab glanced up in astonishment to see Sylvia’s face wet with tears. They stood still in the path, their arms around each other, and wept.

“I keep thinking how it was the last time,” Virginia said into a long pause during luncheon. “In 1914, I mean. We were all here for the Bank Holiday—playing tennis—having tea on the lawn—I was waiting for Evadne then, but she hadn’t begun to be the nuisance she was later on when I needed to be doing things—she was born that December. Of course in a way we all knew there was going to be a war with Germany
some
time,
but things were so peaceful anyhow, right up to the last minute—it’s the radio, I suppose, that makes one so keyed up now—we all know so much more about what is happening—I’m not sure it’s a good thing—I sometimes think if it weren’t for radio we would never have had Hitler at all—”

A maid came in to say that there was a telephone call from London for Evadne, who rose swiftly, saying, “I knew it! I left this number with Miss Piggott in case I was wanted at the depot!” And what Miss Piggott had rung up to say was that distribution of gas-masks in London had begun and all the trained people were needed. Notices had been thrown on the screen at the Sunday evening cinemas, and were read out at sports gatherings and from pulpits—people were beginning to come in—queues were forming at the distribution centres….

“Do you want to go back this afternoon?” Stephen asked. “Or will tomorrow do?”

“You needn’t come, Stevie, you and Sylvia. There’s a train I can get—”

“Don’t be silly, if you want to start now I’ll drive you. Sylvia and I will come along to the depot and help if we can.”

“That would be awfully nice, somebody has to write down the names and sizes after the fittings—there has to be a record kept, and we’ll be swamped, I expect, by tomorrow. What happens here, Mummy, have you got any—”

“I’ve got one mask of each size—I’m to fit them and write it down, and they will be sent out to us later. London has first call on the supply. I doubt if we’ll ever need them here, but I suppose the village people will be trickling in—” She stood up with a sigh, and looked long at Evadne, who had not resumed her chair. “You’ve come a long way in twenty-five years, haven’t you,” she said with a queer little smile, and Evadne took her mother into her arms.

“Now, you’re not to worry about me,” she said firmly. “I shall be perfectly all right, and Miss Piggott says they’ve begun to dig trenches in the parks for people caught in the street during a raid, and our building has a wonderful basement.”

As though you’ll be in it, thought Virginia, and straightened, and wiped her nose on a wisp of handkerchief. “It used to be only the boys,” she said apologetically. “Promise always to wear your tin hat, won’t you?”

“Darling, I promise to
sleep
in it, if you’ll be happier!”

“That would be very uncomfortable,” Virginia conceded. “Keep in touch with Oliver, and ask him to ring me up if it’s allowed. One always feels they must
know
something at the War Office, even if they don’t tell. Get the car, Stevie, I’ve stopped being a mother.”

The drive back to London through a grey, misty Sunday afternoon countryside was even more silent than the drive down had been. An early dusk was drawing in as they reached the flat and paused briefly for a restorative cup of tea before going on to the depot.

Trenches and shelters were still being dug in London by the light of headlamps and flares. There was a queue outside the dingy school building where the gas-masks were being distributed, and the thin unshaded lights inside were cruel to the white strained faces they shone on. A double row of wooden chairs had been placed back to back down the middle of the long room, and as people rose from them they were filled again from the queue, like a ghastly sort of game. In front of the chairs, bending over the silent, patient people who sat there were the ARP workers, fitting masks…. “That’s yours, madam—don’t carry it by the straps, mind—thank you, good night—will you sit here, please?—get your chin well in—is that comfortable—take a deep breath….” It had been going on for hours. It looked as though it would never end.

Mrs. Piggott’s nephew, his spectacles gleaming on his kind, pasty face, his smile nailed on, greeted them with genuine pleasure, and asked Stephen if he would care to lend a hand. “It’s quite simple,” he said. “Just watch me. Anyone can get the hang of it in no time.” Stephen watched, said he had the rough idea, and rather gingerly picked up his first mask. “It will move them faster,” said Tilton gratefully. “The more help we have to fit them, the faster we can empty the chairs. Begin just anywhere. These people have been waiting quite a while.”

They were two shabby elderly ladies who had come together, almost hand in hand, to face this ordeal. They looked up questioningly, like well-behaved children, as Stephen approached them, mask in hand.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to take off your hat,” he said politely, with his priceless easiness, his ingrained charm. “
And
your spectacles.”

“I can’t see much without them,” she quavered, and obeyed him with hands that were not quite steady.

“If it comes to that, you probably won’t want to see much,” he suggested with his grin, and mercifully she thought it was funny.

“Will I have to take this down, or cut it off?” Her gnarled,
shaking fingers went up to the small grey bun on the back of her head.

“I guess we can dodge that,” he said casually, and she laid one hand on his to detain the mask, gazing up at him in surprise, crying, “You’re an American!”

“Mm-hm. But I married one of you English girls, so here I am.” He slipped the mask over her face, and heard himself repeating by rote the grim patter of the ARP…. “Get your chin well in—is that comfortable?—now, this is how we tell.” He laid the square of paper against the nozzle. “Take a deep breath.” The paper clung. “That’s it. That one fits you.” He slipped it off and she clutched at her bun, smoothed the hair at her temples. “Not too bad, was it? Don’t carry it by the straps, ever—and keep it dry. Were you two together? Let’s do this one next—” He reached for another mask.

“Are you going to
stay
here?” She had her hat on again now and her spectacles, and sat looking up at him, still puzzled and anxious.

“Of course I’m staying,” he said to her, aside, busy with the straps over the thin grey hair of her friend. “We’ll all be here before long, same as last time.”

“Oh, I
do
hope so—you
will
come in—?”

“Sure, sure, we’ll be in. We always start from behind, but we get there eventually. That’s yours, then—you both take the same size—leave your names at the door on your way out, over there where they’re writing it down—no, nothing to pay—compliments of the Government—good night—” He reached for another mask.

“You’re doing splendidly,” said Tilton’s voice beside him. “That’s two more. So glad you came!”

The empty chairs in front of Stephen were taken by two young women, one with a frightened child of about seven, and one with a baby in her arms. Stephen said to the first mother, “We’ll do yours first, then the little girl will see that it doesn’t hurt.” She nodded, and as she was hatless with a lank bob the fitting was quickly done. The child drew back from the thing in his hands and her face puckered.

“Now, then, Dorrie, be a brave girl,” said her mother sharply. “Mustn’t keep the gentleman waiting.”

“Come on, Dorrie, let’s see if it fits,” said Stephen, going on one knee. “I’ve got three guesses, and I guessed this one for you. I bet you tuppence I got it right the first time. Stick out your chin—” He pretended to fumble the mask without really getting it on. “Wrong,” he said. “I have to try another one, and I owe you tuppence.” He exchanged the mask, felt in his pocket, and put two pennies in the small moist palm. “Let’s try again now. That’s better, isn’t it.” It was on. “Now take a deep breath. Once more—breathe in. That’s the girl, it works. This one is yours. Take good care of it, won’t you?”

The second young mother wore spectacles and there was the usual argument. When her mask had been pronounced a success she sat still, looking helpless and ready to cry. “What about ’
im
?
”
she asked, pointing to the baby in her lap.

Stephen looked round him hastily for advice and saw Evadne coming towards him along the row of chairs.

“Sylvia’s taking down the names as they go,” she told him, smiling. “The girl she relieved hasn’t moved for hours.”

“What do you do about babies?” he asked in a low tone, and she glanced beyond him.

“It’s too small. There isn’t anything.”

“
What?
How can I tell her that?”

“I’ll do it.” Evadne bent over the stolid, waiting woman, laid a light hand on the somnolent baby, and said, “He’s got good nerves to sleep through all this. I’m afraid children under four can’t be fitted with these masks. The best thing to do is to wrap the baby in a blanket with its face covered and take it to the nearest shelter.”

The woman stood up with the heavy child.

“It don’t seem right,” she said stupidly.

“I know. They’re working on one that you put the baby right into, with bellows that you pump. They’ll be ready, I expect, before we really need them. Leave your names as you go out, won’t you—at that table over by the door.”

The chairs were full again. Stephen and Evadne worked side
by side, their voices blending on the limited lines of the dismal patter. The hard, pale light beat down on the trusting faces of old people, the wry smiles or hollow wisecracks of the young, on the tears or the tense docility of children, on sleeping, defenceless babies. The hours went by without relief or refreshment, and Stephen knew that the girl beside him never faltered in courtesy and patience and confidence—the same girl who had said in the Soho restaurant a year ago that she was scared, the family coward, self-styled, the problem child. Hermione had gone to the Lake Country with her delicate friends. Evadne was here in London where the bombs would fall, doing something about it, and he was proud to be there too, doing the same thing as the night wore on in endless repetition without monotony…. Get your chin well in—is that comfortable?—please breathe deeply—thank you—once more—I think the next size smaller for you—breathe deeply, please—that’s it—never carry it by the straps—keep it dry—be careful of the eyepiece—you register just there, on the way out, where the next queue—no, nothing to pay—Get your chin well in—sorry, let’s try again—no
hurry, sir—spread the straps—is that comfortable?…

Sylvia slept in the guest-room at the flat and returned with them to the depot Monday morning, and they kept at it all day. Stephen sent out at noon for sandwiches and beer for all the ARP workers, but there was no real break—just a hasty gulp and munch and back to the row of chairs, which were always full. About five o’clock someone handed round mugs of hot, sweet tea. Nobody seemed to know where it came from. Soon after that he and Sylvia made Evadne stop for a quick hot meal at a restaurant nearby, and then they went on to the theatre while she returned to the depot.

London had changed, they discovered during the taxi ride to the Strand. The unsensational black and white ARP notices had gone up in the windows of public buildings and were pasted on walls and gate-posts—where to get your gas-masks,
information about shelters, black-out, gas-proof rooms, etc. There were trenches in the green lawns under the windows of the Ritz. Sand-bags were being laid round churches and museums and banks. Traffic was complicated by trucks loaded with anti-aircraft guns and searchlights and Air Territorials. The evening papers Stephen had bought gave plans for the evacuation of schoolchildren, and what they were required to bring with them. Hitler was to make another speech that night at the Sportspalast in Berlin, replying to the Czech refusal of the Godesberg terms, expounding his October 1 ultimatum.