Sleep in Peace (48 page)

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.

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.

Next morning, after a wild night of celebration, London returned
more or less soberly to work. Laura, looking over the Hansard of the day before, read that the Prime Minister had said:
I hope we may say that thus this morning came to an end all war
. Mr. Asquith with his customary eloquence had agreed.
I join with a full heart
, read Laura,
in his aspiration not only that this War may not be resumed, but that now we have entered upon a new chapter in international history in which war will be recognised as an obsolete anachronism, never to be revived
. Grand, grand, thought Laura; we have saved the world from Prussian militarism, from tyranny and oppression and bullying; we have saved the world for democracy; we have saved the world from war.

The House, read Laura, then adjourned, and with the House of Lords went to the Church of St. Margaret, Westminster, and attended a service of Thanksgiving to Almighty God.

Laura felt that Ludo, Edward, Bernard Duchay and even Charles had had a good deal more to do with the Allies' victory than Almighty God. Curious to think that Edward was dead. Somehow one had expected everything to be the same as it was before the War, now that the War was over.

Demobilisation was now the word, and every woman in industry was urged to depart from it in order to leave her place open for a returning soldier.

Laura, ever conscientious, dutifully gave in her notice, and returned to Hudley a week or two before Christmas, armed with an insurance card and a printed letter of thanks from the Minister. The feelings of peace and happiness, of safety for loved ones—Ludo after all was safe, having been in hospital at the time of the Armistice—of Christmas and all its associations, filled the air and warmed everyone's heart; tears of sentiment positively came into Laura's eyes as the train puffed up the cutting and she caught sight of Awe Hill with its mill chimneys, black and white beneath a thin layer of seasonable snow. Dear old Hudley! She bounced out of the train with beaming face and a heart full of love. Papa, Gwen, Geoffrey and Madeline were all on the platform to meet her. Everything is going to be different now, thought Laura; I am grown-up now, I can cope with Gwen, I'm no longer afraid of her—and she fell affectionately into her sister's arms.

This cordial glow received some chill even before she left the station: partly because Hudley itself was so very chilly, a sleet-shower which suddenly drove down the valley tearing her wide-brimmed velour hat from her head and drenching her ankles, exposed by her thin town shoes, partly because the children showed so little enthusiasm for their returning aunt. Geoffrey
presented his cheek for an embrace with the same disapproving politeness which had chilled Laura so of ten before, and Madeline, with her usual wide, remote stare, planted a warm kiss quite inaccurately on Laura's ear, obviously unaware of what or whom she was embracing. However, that was natural and to be expected, thought Laura, recalling her own childhood; it was absurd to expect children to be fond of an aunt. And the cold winds of Hudley were, after all, her native air, stimulating; bracing.

For everything was going to be quite splendid now that the War was over; Laura was going to be thoroughly happy at Blackshaw House. It was good to be at home, to lie in a warm, comfortable bed, to sit before roaring north-country fires, to have leisure, to be able to lounge about and talk after meals. It was good to be driven about in a new car, with a fur rug over one's knees; to meet one's old acquaintances, recount one's London experiences and be told how one had grown. It was good, after all, to see one's family: dear Papa, the children, Mildred, Gwen. It was good to enter the familiar shops and be served by friendly, familiar hands: it was good to see the West Riding Hills again, wild, bleak, grim and one's very own, as of old. Laura, tacking up mistletoe and holly, tying up Christmas presents, basked in a happy jollity, all red and gold like a Christmas cracker. Yes, everything was going to be splendid, in this new, safe, happy world.

To crown all, a wonderful telegram arrived, on the morning of Christmas Eve, from Ludo, telling them to expect him that very day. It was Laura who took in the telegram and opened it at Gwen's request, since Gwen herself, with arms bared to the elbow, was making pastry for the morrow's mince tarts. Laura danced with joy all round the kitchen table: Gwen, having smiled, fell thoughtful and began to discuss how they should erect the attic bed.