The Storms of War (25 page)

‘Maybe I could stay with Miss Webb.’ The idea thrilled her as soon as she said it.

‘Don’t be silly, Celia. Anyway, she is going to put lodgers into her home and live in the digs for the hospital.’

‘But what can I do? I can’t go home.’

‘Wait until you’re eighteen and get married. Mama won’t let you go back to school?’

‘She said she thought I was better at home. That some of the girls might say unkind things because of our name.’

‘At Winterbourne? I can’t imagine it. Oh dear, Celia, I do feel sorry for you. There’s not much to do at seventeen. I mean, it’s not like you could go to work. I think it’s school or home.’ She patted her hand. ‘But you must come back here for a holiday soon.’

‘I could work.’

‘What on earth as?’ Samuel was coming through the door. ‘Dear, Celia thinks she might go to work.’

He shrugged. ‘The rate Asquith is going, he’ll be sending children to work, babies to war.’

‘Imagine.’ Emmeline pulled herself up from the sofa, and the thing breathed out as she stood.

‘I suppose I will go tomorrow,’ Celia said tentatively, wondering if Emmeline would say,
Oh no, please stay for a few days at least!

‘That would be sensible. You must give my love to Mama.’
Emmeline padded back to her bedroom, holding her tea, and shut the door.

Celia sat there, the book about modern art still in her hands. She gazed down at it. She was not going to finish it. She would have to wait until the next time she came to read about the legacy of Degas. But then, she thought, when on earth would that be? Verena would never allow her to leave again. At Winterbourne, they were told that self-pity was a girl’s greatest failing, outside of the seven deadly sins. She tried to hear Miss Davis’s voice, but she could not fight away the pity. It swelled in her, angry.

Well, if she must go, she would take her last opportunity to see London. She decided she would go one final time to the British Museum, in the hope that they might have opened it again. Anyway, she thought, if she went out, it might convince Mr Janus she was really no trouble and could stay after all.

She tidied away her bed, dressed and tugged on her boots. She could not find her coat, so she took Emmeline’s blue one – it was not as if she would be up to see – picked up the key and set off down the stairs, past the bicycle and out into the street. Two dogs were picking over the pavement – Mr Janus said there were hundreds of them roaming the city, whose owners could not afford to keep them. Without Emmeline beside her, she stopped to stare at the recruitment posters plastered over the walls: pictures of happy men and women going out to war, sad people sitting in their grey parlours.
I will look like that,
she thought, then heard Miss Webb chastising her.

She carried on walking until she reached a large building with a sign reading
LADIES’ RECRUITING STATION.
Emmeline had made her hurry past on the other side of the road, muttering things about the war machine. ‘Excuse us, please!’ came from behind her. She stepped aside. Two dark-haired girls about the same age as Emmeline walked in ahead of her. They were arm in arm and laughing.
Surely a machine wasn’t made up of happy people?
Celia thought.

She gazed at the posters on the front of the building, admiring the artistry. Some were of wives and mothers waving men off
to war with smiles (which made her feel unhappy about how much she had cried over Michael). Most were of women doing things. A woman in a large white hat tended a man in a hospital bed who looked at her with eyes full of gratitude. Some girls hoed farmland, smiling under a beating sun. Another woman in uniform poked out her arm.

‘Nice lot of pictures, aren’t they, miss?’

She turned. A man dressed in khaki was standing next to her. He was smaller than her, with bright blue eyes. His accent was a strong one, London, she supposed, but she was not sure.

‘A friend of my sister, Miss Webb, is a lady volunteer,’ she said. ‘She is going to a hospital.’

‘Well, good for her, I say. They are angels, those gals. I hope I never end up in a hospital, but if I do, I’m glad that we have the best nurses there to make us well again.’

‘Are you going out to France?’

‘That’s it, miss.’

‘My brother and my best friend are there. Michael de Witt and Tom Cotton. If you meet them, tell them … tell them hello!’ She could not think of what else to say.

‘I will, miss. Funny, I have a lot of ladies saying the same thing to me. I have a few messages to pass on.’

‘But you won’t forget mine, will you?’

He shook his head. ‘I won’t. See, your sister’s chum will be one of that lot over there soon.’ Celia gazed the way he was pointing and saw a group of young women dressed in white hats and dark capes. ‘They look the same age as me.’

‘I should think you are the same age, miss. Twenty-one or so, I guess. I am eighteen myself, find it difficult to guess a lady’s age.’

‘That’s right,’ said Celia, thrilling to the deceit. ‘Twenty-one.’ Emmeline’s blue coat must make her look older.

‘Well, good day, miss. I go to France tomorrow.’

‘Good day.’ She hesitated. What did one say? ‘Good luck.’

He held out his hand. ‘Would you shake on it, miss? I don’t have a wife or a sister, you see.’

Celia supposed that if she looked more like Emmeline, he
might have asked for a kiss on the cheek. ‘Of course.’ She held out her hand and he gripped it hard. His palm was dry, and she could almost feel the lines running through it.

He let go first. ‘Goodbye, then, miss. I won’t forget your message if I see them.’

‘Goodbye.’ She watched him go, then turned in the direction of the British Museum. All over the country, she supposed, soldiers were asking girls to say goodbye to them. It ran through her with a jolt: he was the first person she had met in her life who had no idea who she was, knew nothing of Stoneythorpe, of de Witt Meats, of anything. She wanted to run after him and say:
What did you think of me?
But she knew such a question would confuse him. Instead, she watched the group of nurses walking purposefully along the street. They were not like her, wandering with nothing to do. They had work, important work.
They are angels, those gals.

She carried on towards the British Museum. But she was no longer thinking of mummies. Instead, she played the conversation with the man over in her head. He had seriously thought she was twenty-one. Was it the case that the minute she put on Emmeline’s clothes, she looked like a grown-up? If she were twenty-one, rather than seventeen, as old as Emmeline, she could do as she pleased.

Then she reminded herself that it didn’t matter what she looked like. She still had to go back to Stoneythorpe and live with Verena once more, bear her grief, try to comfort her.

No choice,
said the voice in her head.
You must go home.
To helping Jennie and Thompson clean the house in the morning, then spending the afternoons reading
Persuasion
to Verena. Captain Wentworth’s courtship stretched blankly in front of her. After they finished it, she supposed, they would go back to
Pride and Prejudice
and start all over again.

The museum was closed still. She gazed at the white pillars at the front, the fan of steps leading upwards. She held on to the railings while ideas formed in her head, quick-fire, her heart beating so hard she could almost hear it. If Michael and Tom were out there, why should she not go too? The girls with their arms linked
laughed in her mind. After all, she told herself, it was logical: the more people who helped out, the faster the war would end – and the sooner they would set Rudolf free. She could do something helpful, like writing up lists of things in one of the offices.

Verena would be furious and disappointed, and there was the fact that she would be lying about her age. But then, she could say, writing lists in an office was hardly dangerous. Miss Webb was right: it was their duty. The thought of Miss Webb and how delighted she would be at the news decided her. She turned back on herself and towards the recruiting station. She was going to see, nothing more.

Three women walked out as she stood there, holding pieces of paper and chatting excitedly. Celia breathed deeply and stepped inside. The signs pointed her past rows of books to a long hall lit by high windows. She supposed it must be a reading room or something similar. The walls were covered in recruiting posters, and two women in khaki uniforms were sitting behind a high desk. There were two queues of girls waiting to be seen. Celia joined the shortest and tried not to seem too nervous.
Just having a look,
she told herself. It was just to find out how far she could go.

She finally reached the grey-haired woman at the desk.

‘I have come to enquire.’

A young woman in khaki stepped up to the side of her. ‘You’ll find it is great fun, you know. Here are the papers you need to fill in.’

The grey-haired woman pulled some ink towards her. Her pearl necklace quivered as she talked. ‘Doing your bit.’

‘I just came to ask. What I might need. So I have to fill out the papers – and what else?’

‘That is it. Name, age, address, just a few questions. Then we need …’ She paused and turned to the other woman, who nodded. ‘Yes, dear, we need your certification of birth.’

‘Oh. I don’t know where it is.’

The lady with the necklace conferred with the woman next to her. ‘Annoyance, I know, dear. Ladies like you are clearly of age. But still, rules …’

‘I’ll find it and come back.’

‘Good. Annoyance having to ask for it, I know. New edict from on high.’ The woman waved at the ceiling. ‘Why don’t I take down a few particulars now? What is your name?’

‘Emmeline de Witt.’ She thought of Michael. ‘But really I call myself Emmeline Witt.’

The woman wrote it down. Was this adult life? Celia wondered. You could tell a lie, two lies, and
nobody would know
? She gave the address in Bedford Square.

‘Age?’

‘Twenty-one.’

‘Excellent. Some services demand twenty-three, you know, but we are twenty-one. Our ladies are grown up enough at that age, we find. And what are you signing up for?’

‘Writing things.’

The woman looked at her sharply. ‘What do you mean, writing things?’

‘I thought you might need some lists or descriptions. I like writing.’

The woman looked dubious. ‘And do you like anything else?’

‘I enjoy horse riding.’

‘Horse riding? Well, we don’t have any horses.’ She fingered her pen. ‘Has your father an occupation, dear?’

‘Er – business.’

‘Yes, thought so. So, I tell you what we do have. Have you ever driven, Miss Witt?’

‘Oh yes. I am very fond of driving.’ She had once driven a carriage, with Tom helping her. But she could learn, couldn’t she? After all, she couldn’t think what Miss Webb or Emmeline would be like at driving a carriage. ‘I am good with horses.’

‘I’m sure. But I meant motor vehicles. Do you have any experience?’

Celia looked at her blankly. Then she thought of Rudolf’s expensive motor car; Michael teaching her how to drive it as they flew past Callerton Manor, laughing. ‘Oh yes. Yes, I do.’

‘Right then. I thought you looked like the kind of girl who
could. Many young ladies who have fathers in business are rather good at driving. Come back with your birth certificate and we can get you registered. Then we will sort out the fee you need for training, certification and uniform, ten pounds.’

Celia gazed at the woman.

‘Don’t be disappointed, dear. You volunteer ladies are our heroines; you don’t need recompense.’

Jemima had told her that VADS did not get paid; clerks and domestics from the lower classes did. This, she’d said, was the right decision – those girls needed the money.
But so do I,
Celia wanted to cry. Ten pounds was almost everything she had in the purse from Verena. The money was supposed to be for Emmeline. She’d been going to buy her a wedding present. But Celia reminded herself, the money had been to persuade Emmeline to come back, and as she hadn’t done that, perhaps it was hers. ‘When will I be going out?’

‘A month or so, usually. Depends on demand. First, some training. Thank you, Miss Witt.’

Celia walked back past the line of girls. Not one looked at her, not one poked her friend in the ribs and said,
That one is too young.
They paid her no attention. She walked out into the sun.

Emmeline and Mr Janus were up and drinking tea when she walked in.

‘I see you took my coat,’ Emmeline said, raising her eyebrows.

‘I’m sorry, sister. I couldn’t find mine.’

‘I found it stuffed under the sofa.’

‘I brought you these flowers.’ She held out a bunch of daffodils that she had bought from a lame man on the way back for threepence.

‘What have you been doing?’

‘Walking about.’

‘Well,’ said Mr Janus. ‘Emmeline tells me you are going home. That sounds like an excuse for a send-off tonight. Maybe Rufus will be able to find us some cake.’

‘Mama will be so pleased to have you back.’

‘Actually,’ Celia said, hesitating, blushing, then forcing herself to speak, ‘I’m not going home. I … want to sign up for the war effort.’

Emmeline threw back her head. ‘Oh stop that, Celia. You are too young.’

‘But I look twenty-one. People have told me so. I want to go! I want to be a part of it.’ Mr Janus shook his head. ‘I want to help,’ she finished, lamely.

‘If you look twenty-one, how old do I look?’ Emmeline threw up her hands.

‘You both look twenty-one,’ said Mr Janus, soothingly. ‘Twins, not sisters.’

‘We cannot be twins! We look nothing alike.’

Mr Janus patted his wife’s hand. ‘There are twins who do not look alike. But this is beside the point. Celia, you know you cannot sign up to the war. Even if you look old enough, you must prove it. Anyway, war is wrong.’

‘And what would you do?’ said Emmeline. ‘Farm the fields?’

‘I could drive things. Cars.’

‘Drive a car? Celia, you have never driven in your life.’

‘I have once! Michael let me drive Papa’s car. And besides, I can learn. Everybody has to learn.’