Sleep in peace, p.37
Sleep in Peace, page 37
England, then, was in danger; Ludo was a fool; and Laura herself was desperately weary. She now suddenly allowed herself to perceive that for several months she had consistently overworked and undereaten; her salary did not allow her to spend more than ninepence daily on her canteen lunch, and the hostel meals, though appetisingly served, quite lacked nutrition. Often when she had crawled home after an exhaustingly long day’s work, and thrown herself into bed too tired to eat, she was woken an hour later to sit in the cellar through an air raid. These were not hardships, of course, as nurses and munition workers, not to mention soldiers, knew hardships, but their cumulative effect was somewhat exhausting. Laura now admitted that for the last few weeks her spine had ached with a perpetual burning ache; her face, as she looked at it now in the mirror, appeared pale, old and haggard. And for what, after all? “Card-playing,” as Ludo called it. Had her work in the M/M really any value? Probably not, she thought. Could the British Empire depend on sorting cards? Did the cards, when at last they were typed and filed, even provide an up-to-date and accurate record? Was that huge staff necessary, in any case? People said that the French laughed at our huge swollen ministries. Was England going the right way about winning the War? Laura now permitted herself strongly to doubt it.
She stuffed the drawings of Ludo away and threw herself into bed.
14
Next day Laura felt so strongly in need of some antidote to her depression that she spent more on her lunch than her budget allowed. That night, still yearning for stimulation, all the more because her lapse from discipline at lunch-time vexed her, and infected by the pleasures of the previous evening, she dined out and took herself to the lights and colour and easy melodies of a revue. The following day she was ashamed of her extravagance, and for a time kept herself sternly on the rein. But soon she fell from grace again over her lunch menu, and thereafter fought a losing battle with herself over petty luxuries.
“Armistead’s morale is sapped,” they said gleefully at the hostel.
She spent too much on lunch, promising herself to economise over tea, and too much on tea, promising herself to economise on lunch. She sent clothes to the laundry instead of washing them herself in the hostel bathroom, and bought new stockings to save mending the old ones. She jumped on a bus for a distance which in Yorkshire she would most certainly have walked, and bought more expensive tickets for the theatre than of old, so that, she need not stand in a queue. As a result, she presently had to appeal to her father for a little help with her monthly account at the hostel. Mr. Armistead promptly sent her a cheque the size of t which amazed her, and urged her to enjoy herself; it seemed they were making lots of money at Blackshaw Mills. After that Laura did not trouble to be self-supporting, but accepted a cheque from home every month, and on the pretence of keeping up that morale which the hostel rightly judged to be weakening, bought herself some charming new clothes. Led on by the joys of a colour scheme and the urgent temptation of the shops, she acquired a whole new outfit of clothes, including a suit of light fawn gabardine, a turquoise blue hat with soft blue flowers, fawn suède shoes, a turquoise blue blouse of the new georgette, and a camisole to match, with wide satin ribbons.
For everything about her urged her to clutch feverishly at life, luxury, enjoyment, and her resistance to these urgings was exhausted by fatigue. Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die —it was natural that soldiers should feel like that, natural that the women who loved them should feel it too. So, to experience, to enjoy, to taste everything while there was yet time, became the prevailing mood of War society. To live decently and soberly, allowing oneself a few occasional pleasures, was all very well when you had forty or fifty years left to live in, but to deny yourself to-day pleasures for which there would probably be no tomorrow, was simply silly. Cowardly, indeed. It was a duty which one owed oneself, to see that one had every experience life had to offer, before one died. For if one did not experience all that there was to experience, while there was yet time, then one was incomplete, imperfect, atrophied; one had not fully lived.
Especially was it necessary, of course, to experience the supreme adventure of sex. Aphrodisiac suggestions beat upon Laura’s mind from every direction, in talk, stage, and print. The fiction magazines were full of stories about quiet ugly ducklings of girls who, never having previously attracted men, took to cosmetics, scent, smoking, red velvet cloaks and very low dresses, and at once became beautiful and greatly sought by officers in marriage. Or about the wives of temporary officers, “temporary gentlemen”, who, at first afraid of their husband’s promotion, presently flung a fox-stole lavishly about their shoulders and made an impression on the Colonel himself. Or if the heroines were in uniform, WAACs or WRNs or on the land, they simply relaxed their previous austerity, with the same lovable effect. Sometimes these duckling heroines, thus gloriously transfigured, were sought in sexual relationships other than marriage, and though they did not of course yield to such blandishments, they clearly regarded them as the supreme tribute to their new status as swans. Besides, judging from the number of war-babies and hasty marriages of which one heard, in real life they yielded more often than in fiction.
The effect of all this, on Laura’s weary mind and underfed body, grew increasingly strong, and presently she began timidly to try to learn how to “pick up” an officer, “get off with” a man, as the phrases went, for she now longed to make the sexual experiment; she was sternly determined not to lag behind her contemporaries in knowledge of life, sophistication. Her bashful and totally inexperienced glances and smiles were at first quite unsuccessful, which was only what Laura had expected. However, as they said in that exciting play The Luck of the Navy: you cant keep a squirrel on the ground, which was interpreted to mean that you could get anything you wanted if you wanted it sufficiently hard. So Laura went on wanting.
One evening when she was at the theatre in the fawn suit and the blue blouse, watching a spy-play with another girl from the M/M, she became suddenly deliciously conscious of the lad sitting beside her. He was in officer’s uniform, with a captain’s stars and bands; a handsome, florid youth, with a fine large body which spread over into the space allotted by the theatre authorities to Laura. At first she thought this accidental, but after a time decided otherwise; she blushed, and turning away, began to talk with great animation to her companion. The captain’s companion, a young officer, seemed to have dined not wisely but too well, and the captain, whose name appeared to be Charles, busied himself in the intervals with restraining him. At some of his more outrageous sallies Charles looked to Laura for sympathy, cocking a humorous eyebrow; his wide smile was infectious, and Laura timidly returned it. When next the lights went down Laura found her hand enclosed in a warm, capacious grasp; her half-hearted attempts to withdraw it proved quite unsuccessful, and she was glad that it was so. I shan’t look at him in the next interval, though, decided the fluttered Laura.
But the War decided otherwise. In a moment the curtain unexpectedly came down and the house-lights up, and the principal actor, appearing alone, in his calm, pleasing voice announced that an air-raid warning had been received, and nobody was to leave the theatre until the maroons gave the all-clear. A hum of discussion at once arose among the audience, and Laura, the captain and their respective companions naturally leaned forward and exchanged excited surmises about the direction and duration of the raid. The curtain then rose, and the performance was resumed at the point where it had been broken off for the announcement. Laura’s hand was grasped again, and this time her fingers were forced apart by strong male ones. Laura’s cheeks turned scarlet, and she shuddered with delight.
The play proceeded, at first normally, presently to the accompaniment of distant bombs and less distant anti-aircraft guns. The actors continued their performance with perfect sang-froid, the audience, too, gave an excellent performance; both sides of the footlights sustaining to admiration the role of British courage, British phlegm, British indifference to the enemy’s childish attempts at “frightfulness.” The captain’s arm was now about Laura’s soft blue waist, and his breast behind her shoulder; once when a particularly loud report startled her a-quiver, his lips touched her ear. She turned from him, but only sufficiently to provoke pursuit.
The performance finished, the house-lights rose; the actors and actresses came forward and offered single turns to beguile the time of waiting. To Laura, who was increasingly beset with a curious expectancy, this time seemed intolerably tedious. At long last the explosions ceased; after a period of silence the maroons sounded, and the weary audience was allowed to depart. The four young people clung together as they emerged from the crowded theatre into the no less crowded street. Tubes were hopelessly congested, buses a nightmare; there was nothing for it but to walk. Laura’s companion lived in a hostel across the river; the girls separated, and Laura was not surprised to find Charles, without his friend, close at her side. A taxi, hooting wildly, came slowly towards them through the dispersing crowd. Charles cried “Hi!” and sprang towards it. He displaced the elderly civilian within by the lie that he had a leave train to catch at Waterloo, then bundled Laura in and sprawled beside her.
“I did that rather well,” he observed with glee. “Don’t you think so? Eh? Don’t you think so, Laura?”
Laura bleated that yes, she thought he had; she tried to think of something dashing, something encouraging, to say, but found nothing, so merely giggled nervously. Charles, however, seemed not to require encouragement; he pulled her to him and caressed her. Beneath his hands Laura’s virginal nerves shuddered with mingled repulsion and ecstasy. His lips closed round hers; they felt hard and leathery. Oh, no! thought Laura suddenly, panting. No! This isn’t the right man for me. No. No! She tried to cry out, but his mouth closed hers; she struggled, but her resistance came late. Besides, her will was divided; even as, in his arms, she stiffened and struggled in helpless resentment, she found time to think with bitter pleasure that at least the incident was a triumph over Blackshaw House, a triumph over Gwen; for Gwen had certainly never intended her sister to know the sexual adventure. But he isn’t the right man for me; no; no! gasped Laura. I don’t want to! With a sudden furious effort she wrenched herself away and snatched at the door handle. It gave unexpectedly, and she fell out of the taxi and sprawled on all fours over the pavement, tearing her fawn skirt, stubbing the toes of her shoes and grazing her knees. Charles fell out with her. Half laughing, half furious, he picked her up, smoothed her skirt, and with his arm round her waist urged her back towards the taxi, which had stopped beside them, its elderly driver regarding them with sardonic amusement, as if he had seen such scenes before.
“Nobody would ever know,” urged Charles, his flushed cheek very near her own. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Come along.”
“No, no!” wept Laura, hanging back. “No! No, really! Really, no!”
“Oh, all right,” said Charles sulkily, suddenly letting his arm drop. “But why do you pretend to be one sort of girl when you’re another? Afraid of a bit of fun!”
“I’m sorry,” snivelled Laura.
The abominable Charles gave a cross laugh, and pushing her into the vehicle, slammed the door on her, asked her address and gave it to the driver. He then began a hot argument with this elderly vampire, who demanded a larger sum than Charles intended to pay. Laura, writhing with humiliation, leaned out of the window and besought him earnestly to let her pay the whole fare herself when she reached the hostel.
“I don’t care how much it is,” she wept. “Truly!”
Charles sniffed disgustedly, gave the driver two half-crowns and Laura a sardonic salute, and vanished.
A few days later a postcard came for Miss Laura Armistead from somewhere in France. It read: I hope you got home safely and were not too tired! With love from Charles. There followed a clearly written name and an address of the usual regimental kind.
Laura felt thoroughly frightened. How foolish of her to have allowed him to learn her address, when he had evidently already heard her name in the theatre from her friend’s conversation. Suppose he turned up again and became tiresome! She tore up the postcard, and furtively burned it. For some time her dominant emotion was that of fear; she started when the hostel bell rang, lest it should herald Charles come to pay her a visit, and approached her correspondence with timidity. But as the weeks went by and no more was heard of the captain, she recovered her nerve, and now that the sordid, vulgar little episode was safely over, almost regretted that it had not continued. She had escaped without harm. She had gained some insight into the mystery of sex. It was, obscurely, a triumph over Gwen. On the whole, in her secret heart she felt not averse from another similar experience— provided, of course, it could be relied upon to end in a similarly safe way.
She sought lights, crowds, pretty clothes, easy music, easy laughter, all the lower pleasures, even more avidly than before.
15
And now suddenly there was a change in the War. Our armies were actually pushing back the German line.
Laura had no idea how or why this had happened, and at first declined to believe in it at all. But the rumour persisted and gained in strength; some people said the advance was due to tanks, some people said it was the Americans, some murmured mysteriously that something had cracked in Germany behind the scenes. The newspapers combined all three, but Laura had long ceased to believe in the newspapers. Even on Sunday, when Mr. Duchay, a man not given to fervour, observed: “The Germans are beaten in the field,” Laura forebore to trust news so blissful.
She arrived at the Ministry of Munitions, therefore, on the morning of Monday, November nth, in her now customary state of restless fatigue, and set to work with her now customary irritable efficiency. Nobody else seemed at all inclined for work, however; they clustered round Laura’s desk and said that an Armistice had been signed that morning. Laura said: “I shall believe it when I see it,” and the faces of the others became shaded with doubt, though one or two made sarcastic remarks about the incredulity of Yorkshire. They drifted back to work, partly afraid lest Laura was right, partly feeling that they would not like the end of the War to find them neglecting their country’s service.
All of a sudden off went some maroons, and a great shout seemed to swell the air.
Laura turned pale and gaped. “Is it true, then?” she cried.
“It’s true, of course it’s true!” cried all the other clerks. They tossed the papers in the air, tore them up and danced on them, then rushed out into the Avenue, to, catch a glimpse of the Minister, who was said to be driving to the House.
Laura went to the window—not that she believed the man she saw was really Mr. Churchill, for nothing and nobody was ever what it seemed in these days. The road was full of shouting staff; from windows above, typists scattered ribbons and carbons into the street. The head of the section rushed in to say that it was perfectly true, an Armistice had been signed at five that morning, and had come into force at eleven o’clock; everyone could go home except just a few for a skeleton staff. He looked pleadingly at Laura as he spoke, and Laura in a grim tone offered to remain.
“There’ll be a meeting upstairs to discuss Reconstruction, at once,” he said excitedly.
Laura, feeling numb, dazed and irritable, stayed at her post for several hours, but as her services were not once called for, and records of the Ministry staff seemed now singularly pointless, after a time she simply gave up being heroic and left the building.
As soon as she was out on the streets, but not till then, the full realisation of what had happened struck her senses. For the streets were jammed from side to side with a seething, swaying, surging mass of people, laughing and shouting, weeping and chattering, singing and dancing, releasing the pent-up emotions of four terrible years. The War was over! Over! We had won after all! A woman flung her arms round Laura’s neck, hugged her strongly and shouted in her ear: “He’s safe! He’s safe, dearie!” Something melted in Laura. “I’m so glad!” she shouted, returning the hug, tears of sympathy in her eyes. She dared not believe he was safe, yet; it was foolish to trust life too much nowadays.
But still, the War was over. Over! Men would not go on killing and hurting each other any more. There would be no more of that fearful, tense, anguished anxiety; rings at the bell, telephone calls, telegrams, would no longer have that dreadful significance. Now everyone could start being happy again. They could do all the jolly things they used to do. The School of Art, and tea with the Hinchliffes on Saturday. Laura considered the Armistead and Hinchliffe families with a sudden soberness; they were not quite the same as before the War. Mrs. Hinchliffe was gone. Grace had lost her love. Frederick was in gaol. Gwen lived apart from her husband. Laura had lost her innocence, though that, she thought, was probably a gain. Ludo was safe, and perhaps people would forget about the court-martial. (But was he safe? It would be so like Ludo to get killed on the very last day of the War.) Gwen, Ludo, Laura; Grace, Frederick, Edward. Edward? Edward was killed. Yes, so he was. Edward was dead. It seemed so long ago since it happened, in 1914, that Laura had rather forgotten that fact of late; but there it was. Edward was dead. Strange.
Feeling suddenly exhausted, Laura, who had been going with the crowd towards Buckingham Palace, now struggled to withdraw herself from the stream. She had little difficulty, for there were tears; which the crowd respected, on her face; she soon made her way to a Tube station, but finding nearly a thousand people standing patiently outside the locked gates, through which a few only were admitted from time to time, she gave up hope of a train and walked back to the hostel, making her way slowly through the increasingly lively, the presently almost hysterical, groups of those who rejoiced that peace was come.
