Sleep in Peace (44 page)

Laura went into her own room, and without switching on the light flung herself down on the bed, and gave herself over to a flood of bitterness.

Presently she saw Gwen's figure on the threshold, silhouetted against the landing light. Involuntarily she started, and the bed creaked responsively.

“Laura?” said Gwen.

Laura made no reply.

After a pause her sister groped her way into the dark room, felt for and clasped her arms about the brass knob at the foot of the bed, and began to argue.

“Laura, don't be unkind to me now I've come home,” she began in a pleading tone. “It's not my fault if I can't get on with Frederick. He was not the right man for me—I always knew it, and I only married him because he begged me so hard. I've tried my best and I can't bear it any longer. And I won't have my children disgraced by a father who's a conscientious objector.” Her voice shook at the mention of Geoffrey and Geoffrey's sister. “And this is my home,” she concluded defiantly. “Papa wishes me to stay here. So don't let us have any silly work from you about it.”

It was all perfectly true; it was also true, Laura felt sure, that Gwen had long since made up her mind to leave Frederick, and had waited for an opportunity to occur when she would have public opinion on her side in doing so.

“This is my home—the only home I have,” repeated Gwen pathetically.

For God's sake don't let's have any sentimentality about it, thought Laura, revolted, and she got up hastily and put on the light.

“Of course it's your home,” she muttered irritably, throwing off
her hat and coat. “But I can't help feeling sorry, Gwen. For Frederick.”

“Frederick has treated me abominably,” stated Gwen.

That's a damned lie, thought Laura. She longed with all her heart to turn on her sister and tell her so, but she could not force herself to this act of courage. She would not, at least, give her assent to the proposition; despising her cowardice, she moved about silently, pretending to be busy with her hair and shoes, her cheeks scarlet, her lips compressed, till Geoffrey's voice called Gwen away to minister to him.

Next morning Gwen resumed the position of mistress or Blackshaw House.

Laura had expected this; she found it natural that Gwen should take up again the reins she had held so long, especially since Gwen's housewifely skill was so much greater than her own. But, since she herself had ruled her father's household now for half a dozen years, she thought that a consultation between her sister and herself would take place, at which she would proffer a voluntary resignation of the housekeeping. Gwen, however, dispensed with any such formality; she simply went down into the kitchen and discussed the meals with Mildred—by the time Laura arrived the menus and the work for the day were all arranged.

The immediate result of Gwen's desertion of Frederick was, therefore, an improvement in the meals at Blackshaw House, and a consequent increase of cheerfulness on the part of Mr. Armistead.

This was from the first the source of a certain jealous irritation to Laura, and presently his exclamations of pleasure at the table became a real grief to her. For, owing to those horrible submarines, the food situation was growing increasingly difficult. Almost the first act of Lloyd George's new ministry was to appoint
a Food Controller, and this was not, in the opinion of Hudley, before he was needed—though it was a pity they hadn't appointed somebody who understood what the word “teacake” meant in the industrial north. Meals were at once limited in all the restaurants, complained Papa irritably; sweets could not be bought, wept Geoffrey. In the spring the newspapers told of revolution in Russia and the accession of the United States to the side of the Allies, but the main topic of conversation in Hudley remained food. War recipes flew about between housewives; dates and figs and dried apricots leaped into unheard-of prominence as articles of diet until the existing stocks in the country were exhausted. Butter, almost unobtainable, was “doubled” by the addition of milk and water; for the first time in her life Laura heard of, and tasted, margarine. An appeal for voluntary rationing was followed by the fixing of the price of bread—at ninepence a loaf; sugar cards were threatened; food queues grew. In such circumstances the meals provided by Gwen were really remarkable, and the suspicion gradually grew upon Laura that, far from scrupulously observing the food regulations, and cutting down the family's consumption of overseas food to a minimum, as it was her patriotic duty to do, Gwen was precisely one of those hoarders, berated by the Press, who had made the voluntary ration system impossible. She watched her sister, and her suspicions were confirmed: Gwen hoarded sugar in cupboards, bought supplies of patent cereals from several different shops, and had butter posted to her by Mrs. Byram's family in Ireland; moreover, Laura was by no means sure that Mildred received the share which was her due.

Deeply ashamed of this unpatriotic conduct, but as usual incapable of direct remonstrance, Laura showed her disapproval by pointed questions at the table, by a sullen air and sometimes by a refusal to eat food which she suspected to be beyond their due allowance. But this Gwen seemed not to mind at all; it was clear that she considered it her duty to secure for her family as much
as she could of whatever food was to be had, by money, influence, “wangling”, as Ludo called such manoeuvres in his letters, or, any other means which came to her hand. If Laura disapproved, and would not eat her share, well, that left more for Geoffrey.

Meanwhile Frederick's temporary exemption expired. He received a notice from the Military Authorities ordering him to report for service by a certain date, but did not obey.

Accordingly one morning a sergeant and a squad of men came and arrested him—in Cromwell Place, since he had scrupulously notified the authorities of his change of address. Mr. Hinchliffe was, naturally and perhaps fortunately, absent at the mill, but Mrs. Hinchliffe stood on the steps at No. II and watched him go. He stood unnaturally erect, staring ahead, his hair falling over one eye as usual, a soldier on each side; the sergeant barked a quick word of command, and the men stepped out sharply. Frederick tripped over his own feet, and then fell into step. The sergeant took his place in front and the little cortège marched briskly along Cromwell Place and turned into the street.

The next few days Frederick spent in custody in the Hudley Barracks. Since he steadfastly refused both combatant and non-combatant service, within a week he found himself in Ashworth Gaol.

The procession, as it solemnly circled the small courtyard at Henshawe, represented weeks of work on the part of Class IIIb, and Grace was proud of it.

Some of the more ambitious spirits had suggested advertising the show to the rest of the school as a public performance, to be called
Scenes from Ivanhoe
, but the rest of the class negatived
this strongly, and the tournament was to be held without an audience. Grace had approved this decision at the time, but now almost regretted it, seeing how admirably the boys had equipped themselves. The Saxons wore tunics, and coloured ribbons wound criss-cross over their stockings; the Normans wore helmets and carried shields and swords. Really the armour was most convincing, decided Grace; blacklead applied to cardboard, and then polished, gave the colour and almost the glint of steel. The various coats-of-arms on the shields were authentic and accurate, copied carefully by the class out of that big flat book of illustrations to British history. The Grand Master and the abominable Malvoisin wore fine white capes, with correct red crosses stitched on the shoulder to show that they were Crusaders; Rebecca, that twelfth-century minx, had had the excellent notion of wearing a black veil to represent hair. The Jew was a convincing figure of aged distress, with a long grey woollen beard. A couple of trumpeters wore paper coats, brightly coloured, and had borrowed bugles from the school Boy Scouts, while two of the youngest boys walked ahead, carrying a Knights Templar banner aloft on walking-sticks. It was unfortunate, the boys thought, that Sir Brian and Ivanhoe would be obliged to fight on foot, but as no substitutes for horses were discoverable it simply could not be helped. The class had composed the dialogue themselves in one of their history periods, freely adapting Sir Walter Scott for that purpose. In the course of these proceedings they had caught Sir Walter out in one or two chronological and heraldic errors, and now regarded him indulgently as a fine story-teller who gave you the gist of the matter but was not to be trusted on details, which was pretty much, it seemed, what Miss Hinchliffe thought herself. Altogether the whole thing was splendid, thought Grace, tossing her recently bobbed hair in glad satisfaction, and it was even more splendid that the boys should be willing to give up some of their summer leisure, staying after school in the afternoon, to perform this re-vivification of history.

The trumpet sounded; Malvoisin threw down the glove; the herald in a loud firm tone read out the challenge. Sir Brian, having unavailingly tried to tempt Rebecca from her course, left her to weep beside the stake, bit his lip and tried to look purple with conflicting emotions. Ivanhoe sprang forward, and in a ringing voice accepted the challenge. The preliminaries of the joust were conducted according to the strictest etiquette of chivalry, and the combatants were drawn up at opposite ends of the lists, awaiting the signal to charge. At this exciting moment a peevish voice suddenly demanded:

“What's all this play-acting, may I ask, Miss Hinchliffe?”

The Senior History Master, on his way home, had come into the courtyard, and was glaring at the scene in angry astonishment.

All the boys at once became conscious that they were dressed up in ridiculous gewgaws and looking foolish; they shrank, and fell out of their
Ivanhoe
characters; the banners and spears drooped, the shields rested on the ground. As for Rebecca, he seemed about to shrink into his flowing garb with shame.

“We are studying the result of the Norman Conquest in England, and the Crusades, sir,” said Grace.

“But are you learning anything? That's what I want to know,” said the old man crossly.

“Yes, sir, I think we are learning a good deal,” said Grace.

“You, boy!” said the old man, pointing at Rebecca, who blushed and cowered: “Tell me the date of the first Crusade.”

“The Crusades were supposed to be for the recovery of Jerusalem,” temporised Rebecca, rolling his eyes in fright.

“Supposed to be!” bellowed the old man in a rage. “Supposed to be!” He turned to Grace. “What does that mean, may I ask?”

Grace tried to divert him by pointing out the excellence of the boys' home-made costumes, which, since after all he was a sound historian, he was obliged to admit. He permitted himself to show a reluctant interest.

“Well, go on, go on, then,” he said in a grumbling tone. “Let me see what you learn.”

Grace signed to the boys to carry on the play. But now they were timid and self-conscious; their spears had become window-poles, and the tournament just a silly idea of Miss Hinchliffe's, who after all was only a woman. The whole of Grace's effort that term, to make history seem a continuous living story, stretching into their own times, was in fact made of no effect.

The Senior History Master watched
Scenes from Ivanhoe
till the end, then turned and walked beside Grace towards the school buildings.

“That sort of thing is all very well for girls' schools,” the old man told her, not unkindly: “But at Henshawe I think you had better keep to the curriculum, Miss Hinchliffe.”

“I have never departed from it,” said the furious Grace.

“I have to teach these boys after you, and get them up to Matriculation standard, you know,” grumbled the Senior History Master, “so they must have a good foundation. Their careers depend on it.”

“Their lives may depend on my way of teaching history,” flashed Grace.

“Come, come, Miss Hinchliffe,” soothed the Senior History Master: “We must keep our sense of proportion, you know.”

The platform was slowly filling with men returning from leave; the train already stood, steam up, awaiting them. Outside the barrier a crowd of soldiers, their wives, sweethearts and children, were saying good-bye. The women very pale, looking aside, or clinging in a final embrace, their hands gripping deeply into the khaki sleeves. The men very much laden, serious and subdued, or pouring out a string of jokes, pinching their babies' cheeks in a last frenzied attempt to make them smile. The face
of every person in the crowd was more or less contorted by the anguish of parting—but Ludo envied them.

Ludo envied them; for he had no one to see him off, no one to whom to say good-bye. He felt desperately neglected, desolate and lonely. It was hard, he thought, to have no loving face to look into, no loving voice to hear, when one was going to the Front. It was hard not to have been home this leave, not to have seen a single person for whom he cared, not to have seen Laura. Though ever since Laura had begun going to the School of Art, thought Ludo sadly, she had been slipping away from him, getting carried away by silly, high falutin' ideas. Still, Laura was his little sister, whom he loved; his warm heart ached for her. Yes, it was hard to have to stay away, to spend one's leave amongst these smooth-voiced southerners, with their polite, stuck-up manners which didn't mean anything, their condescending, drawly speech. But there was nothing else to be done. For if he went home they might guess, and they must not guess. No; they must never guess.

And now his heart swelled with pride; he threw back his head and smiled, proudly and sardonically. These superior, condescending people who think so much of themselves, he thought; they get into a mess, and simple people like me have to get them out of it. The whole brunt of the affair falls on me. But I shall be equal to it, I shall sustain it; they despise me, they think I'm not clever, because I'm not always swanking, not always putting on side, not always showing off, but it's to me they have to come for help, in the end. And I'll give it to them, thought Ludo in a warm gush of love; I shan't fail them, they needn't be afraid. I'll heap coals of fire on their head; I won't let them down. And if I'm killed, it's all arranged; Eva will be all right.