Sleep in Peace (38 page)

“Have you decided what you'll do after your degree, Grace?” she began, meaning to distract Grace's attention from the examination itself. “The War rather changes things, doesn't it?”

“Yes, the War rather changes things,” replied Grace in a low tone. After a moment she said suddenly: “Bernard Duchay died on Monday.”

“What? How do you mean, died?” exclaimed Laura.

“He died of wounds received in France in the London Hospital last Monday at half-past eight,” said Grace.

“Oh!” cried Laura. “Grace!” In a rush of emotion she sprang across the road and put her arm clumsily round her friend.

“Don't, Laura!” cried Grace, bounding away. Her voice was so harsh that she almost seemed to shout, and Laura stared at her, hurt and bewildered. “Don't say anything to me about it, Laura,” went on Grace rapidly. “I haven't told Father and Mother. I don't want anyone to speak of it to me.” Suddenly her composure broke; an ugly flush covered her face, and her lips twisted. “Go on and leave me,” she commanded. “I'll follow presently. I'll follow in a few minutes, Laura. Go
on”

Laura, whose belief it was that one should give what a friend wanted rather than what one wanted to give, wretchedly walked away. After a time she looked back, in humble appeal; Grace was following very slowly, her head down. Laura did not dare to wait for her, but walked on till she reached the rough path which led up to the Ellistone, then climbed the steep slope and stood on the massive rock, shading her eyes from the westering sun. Presently she saw Grace approach along the road, and waved to her. Grace waved in reply, but did not begin the ascent, seating herself instead
in a hunched attitude on one of the rough black rocks which lay fallen amongst the heather. As soon as Laura thought a reasonable time had elapsed, she went down to her friend. Grace rose, and looked steadily at Laura, as if defying her to speak; her eyes were red and sunken, her cheeks blanched. Laura met her glance with a look of love; the two friends turned towards Hudley in silence.

The following week Grace returned to London, and Laura to her classes at the School of Art.

“A great deal has happened since we last met, Mr. Quarmby,” ventured Laura as they chanced to meet on the stairs on the first day of term.

“Seemingly,” snapped Mr. Quarmby, moving on.

As soon as the classes met, Laura understood his irritability, for their numbers were already much depleted; very few new students had joined, and almost every week one or two of the former students fell away. Mr. Quarmby sadly but proudly wrote
Enlisted
opposite their names in the register, and presently, by some, the final entry:
Killed in Action
, It was difficult for those who remained to work at the School of Art with any enthusiasm this year. Making marks with pencils on cartridge paper seemed singularly futile, while guns were booming in Flanders; examinations were irrelevant, and original work quite impossible, for no sooner did one retire into one's mind and begin to consider than the whole War rushed in, a flood of black flame, filling every nook and cranny, leaving no capacity for any other thought. Laura, though she went on drawing doggedly from a habit of industry, felt feverish, excited and empty; the only time when she seemed to be satisfied was when she was writing to Grace. This she did almost daily, collecting small cheerful incidents to retail, to distract Grace's mind from the subject which was not mentioned between them.

Presently Antwerp fell; the tide of Belgian refugees reached Hudley; a heterogeneous collection of Belgians, of diverse age,
sex, and financial position, linked only by nationality and misfortune, were accommodated by the local branch of the Belgian Refugee Fund in Spencer Thwaite's old house, which still stood, large, dank and cheerless, behind the outposts of Prince's Road Terrace and similar rows. Laura, seized upon by the Vicar's wife, eager to help, but rejecting any work of a domestic kind, found herself unexpectedly and at their own request instructing a class consisting of a spruce and dapper young confectioner, his fashionable wife (who was heavy with child and mentioned the fact on every possible occasion), two large, slow young women, farmers' daughters, and their schoolboy brother, in the English language four times a week. Perspiring freely, her throat constricted and her heart thumping from fright, and lacking the least notion how to teach the English language, Laura stood up before the ancient blackboard which someone had lent—everything in the house was lent—and began to draw common objects and write their English names below, as a means to a vocabulary.

“Tiens! Mais c'est beau, ça,” said all the Belgians, and they began to discuss the fine points of Laura's drawing, in French.

It seemed they knew the English names of most common objects already, so Laura began to teach them the English auxiliary verbs. They knew those, too; and knew them much more systematically than Laura. So Laura abandoned grammar altogether, and the class became a meeting for conversation and reading; they read English novels from the Municipal Library together, passing the book from hand to hand and making a translation at the end of each paragraph, then discussing its substance. It was agreed that when words occurred which none of the pupils understood, Laura was to illustrate them on the blackboard until they guessed the meaning. They had a lot of fun over these pictorial charades, and Laura took great pleasure, when the word had several applications, in illustrating them all, rapidly and with some wit. “Tiens! C'est beau, ça,” cried the Belgians admiringly, while the schoolboy cried out: “Marge!” After the class each
member drew her aside and confided how impossible all the rest were. Laura saw the point of view of each, and very earnestly sympathised and soothed. She was very happy with the Belgians, feeling that she was being of some slight service in the War, for even if they didn't learn much English, she reflected, at least it took their minds off the ruin of gallant little Belgium. And it made something amusing to talk about to Papa. Her attendances at the School of Art rather suffered.

Returning one afternoon, in a cheerful mood, from her Belgian
conversazione
, as Ludo called it in his letters, she found a postcard awaiting her from Grace. It was the week of Grace's B.A. examination, and Laura: seized it eagerly, hoping for some news about the difficulty or ease of the questions. She read:
Laura, do go and see Mother, Edward is missing. Love. Grace
.

Laura gave a low cry, and ran to Cromwell Place.

When she reached the steps of Number n, however, she had great difficulty in persuading herself to go in. “Mrs. Hinchliffe won't want me,” she thought: “
I
shouldn't want anyone, if it were Ludo.” But the older generation were so different, one could not count on their feelings being the same, and to refuse Grace's request was impossible, so Laura rang the bell and was shown in to Mrs. Hinchliffe, who sat mending socks as usual in the dining-room.

“Have you heard the news about Edward?” said Edward's mother in a mild, cheerful tone.

“Yes. Grace told me. I suppose,” said Laura, stumbling over the lie, “I suppose it means he is a prisoner?”

“We must hope so,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe in the same calm tone. “We mustn't give way, you know, Laura; it would be wrong to give way.”

“Yes,” agreed Laura. But she felt an obscure anger against this calm, which seemed to do so much less than justice to Edward's value. “Of course Edward's so very sensible,” she began.

“He wouldn't be likely to do anything rash or foolish,” agreed Mrs. Hinchliffe.

“And then he knows German so well,” continued Laura.

“That makes all the difference,” agreed Mrs. Hinchliffe.

“I find it very difficult to make out from the papers exactly what
is
happening at the front, don't you?” said Laura.

“Mr. Hinchliffe says a battle is in progress near Ypres,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe.

“But Edward's so very sensible,” said Laura hastily.

“And then his knowledge of German is so very thorough,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe. “He might almost be taken for a German, he speaks so well.”

Laura smiled and nodded, unable to give a verbal agreement to a suggestion so preposterous, since Edward would be wearing British uniform. The buzzers sounded; she rose. “I must go,” she said. “I don't like to be out when Papa gets home from the mill.”

“Come again, Laura,” said Mrs. Hinchliffe, as Laura stooped to kiss her cheek. “You're so sensible and cheerful.”

Laura, amazed by this unexpected tribute, surmised that Mrs. Hinchliffe stood in much greater need of reassurance than she appeared, and her heart warmed to her. For the next fortnight she called at Cromwell Place every day, and each day the same conversation recurred; Mrs. Hinchliffe and Laura agreed that Edward was extremely sensible and unlikely to do anything rash, his knowledge of German being quite out of the ordinary. The reality which lay behind these visits became gradually obscured by their routine, and Mrs. Hinchliffe and Laura both enjoyed them. Each day Laura approached Number n more comfortably, feeling more sure of her reception.

On a bright Saturday afternoon in November—Papa had gone to a football match, and the cheers, drifting on the wind, reached her as she stood—when Laura had rung the Number n bell she moved back a step or two to admire the Michaelmas daisies in Mrs. Hinchliffe's carefully tended strip of dank black soil. The
door was abruptly flung open behind her. She turned, startled, and was amazed to see Grace standing on the threshold.

“Grace!” she exclaimed with delight, springing forward.

“We've news of Edward,” said Grace in a loud, harsh tone.

“Yes?” breathed Laura.

“He's killed.”

“Oh, no! Oh, no!” cried Laura. “Grace,
no!”

“Yes. Blown to bits. They've found his identity disk. You'd better not come in,” said Grace harshly. “Frederick's with Mother.”

She shut the door.

Laura turned and walked away. When she reached the end of Cromwell Place she found she was trembling, and she leaned against the iron railings for a few long moments before resuming her way home.

When Mr. Armistead came home from the football match and heard the news, he was very much upset. He strode about the dining-room with his hands in his trouser pockets, shaking his head soberly, and saying from time to time with great conviction:

“He was a very remarkable young man.”

“And how did your mother seem?” asked Gwen. “Did the news come in a telegram or a letter? Will you all go to Chapel as a family to-morrow? I'll come with you if you like, Fred. I have a black hat, and I can put a black band round my sleeve. Would you like me to go?”

“You must do as you please,” said Frederick in a sombre tone.

He was eating a belated meal which Gwen had prepared for him on his return from his parents' house. Madeline was asleep upstairs, Geoffrey was playing on the hearth; Gwen sat beside her husband,, elbows on table, and asked him questions, to most of which Frederick replied, his golden tones heavy with grief: “I don't know.”

“I don't know,” he repeated in some irritation, as Gwen asked him again how Mrs. Hinchliffe seemed. “How do people usually seem in such circumstances? She's bowed with sorrow, but restraining it for my father's sake—I can't tell you any more.”

“But that's just what I wanted to know,” expostulated Gwen.

“Surely you could imagine it for yourself,” said Frederick.

“I like to hear,” said Gwen.

“So it seems,” said Frederick.

After a while Gwen threw out, on an odd note of malice:

“I suppose you'll enlist now.”

“No!” cried Frederick explosively. “No! If Edward can die for his ideas, I suppose I can suffer for mine.”

“Suffer?” murmured Gwen. “Well, of course,” she resumed with a sensible air, “you never were very fond of Edward.”

“That's not true,” said Frederick sternly. “I loved my brother and admired him.”

“Well, you needn't be so fierce about it, Freddie,” said Gwen with a titter.

Frederick gave her a moody stare.
“Forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum,”
he said.

“What do you mean?” said Gwen angrily, flushing.

Frederick was silent.

After a while Gwen said in a friendly tone: “It's just as well you're not enlisting, Frederick; with Edward gone your father will need you more at the mill.”

Frederick gave a furious exclamation and flung out of the house.

On Monday Frederick went to Mr. Armistead with a request for advice about a certain improperly dyed piece—his father, he said, did not feel well enough to go to the mill that morning.
Mr. Armistead accompanied Frederick to the Hinchliffe side of Blackshaw Mills with a rapid step, spent most of the morning advising and telephoning about the unsatisfactory piece, and told Frederick not to hesitate to come to him if he found himself in any further difficulties. The next morning Frederick came to him again, and thereafter these consultations across the archway at Blackshaw Mills took place with increasing frequency.

For Mr. Hinchliffe continued feeling unable to go to the mill. He gave way to his grief completely, and allowed himself to become an invalid, sitting by the fire with a shawl over his knees and a bunch of grapes by his hand. He lost weight; his cheeks grew pale, and sagged; his sandy hair, drained of gloss and colour, lay untidily about his head. He read everything that he could find to read about the War, and grumbled constantly to Laura, who went in often to sit with him, because Frederick and Mrs. Hinchliffe did not bring him enough war literature from the library. He grumbled, too, about the French and British High Commands, speaking of them very familiarly, as though he knew them in person, and explaining their policy in terms of local affairs, as though they were members of the Hudley Town Council. He also wrote long letters on strategy to the War Office, and was vexed because he received merely a printed form of acknowledgment in reply.