Sleep in Peace (42 page)

The trains nowadays were always execrable, and the one in which Laura made her return journey that afternoon was no exception. The compartment was crammed; Laura was wedged closely against a lad in khaki no older than herself, clearly just home from France on leave, and cumbered about with a huge green canvas pack and a German helmet. He unbuckled his belt and shed the pack, but clung tenaciously to the helmet. His young face was drawn with fatigue and lined with sweat and dirt; he drowsed uneasily at Laura's side, his eyes tightly closed, singing over and over again the line:
Roses are blooming in Picardy
.

Laura, walking soberly up Blackshaw Lane, felt that she had been in close contact with real life that day, and that this ought to help her, strengthen her, for the communication of her news to her father. But her imagination boggled—as Ludo would say—at the thought of announcing baldly to Mr. Armistead that Eva Byram and her illegitimate child, alleged to be his son's, were living with his mother and sister. Such things could not be told to members of the previous generation; they could only be delicately hinted; and even then Mr. Armistead would be terribly shocked to find his young unmarried daughter in contact with such affairs. Did she want to tell him, in any case? It was plainly Ludo's wish, for whatever reason, that Eva and her child should live at his grandmother's, supported by himself. Laura felt fairly certain that if Mr. Armistead heard of the arrangement, he would have Eva out of the house in double quick time—as, again, poor Ludo would say. Well, then, he shouldn't hear of it, decided Laura with a kind of grim glee; nobody should hear of it—not from her, at any rate. At Ashworth, of course, they would assume that Papa's silence on the subject meant acquiescence, not ignorance, and Eva would stay on undisturbed. Let it be so.

Whether this was courage on Ludo's behalf, or cowardice on
her own, Laura could not decide; but whichever it was it was not put to the test that night. A Government Inspector was expected to visit Messrs. Armistead and Hinchliffe on the morrow, and Mr. Armistead, after a brief enquiry about Grandmamma's health over his hurried tea, rushed out again and spent the evening at the mill, preparing for his reception.

Suddenly it became quite clear to everyone that if three million men were to be taken out of the country's industries, without impairing the nation's production, somebody would have to take their place. The desire to take a man's place, to do one's bit, to help to keep the home fires burning, promptly filled every patriotic young woman's heart.

Laura longed for her Board of Education examinations to be over, so that she could feel free to start some war work; they were only a few weeks distant, so the country had not long to wait, and she could not bear to throw up her Art course when it was so near completion, but all the same she felt uneasy and ashamed to be drawing from the Antique when other young women were beginning to act as tram conductors and make shells.
“I'm afraid it's rather Yorkshire of me to be unwilling to waste my three years' work,”
she wrote to Grace, who agreed that it was, but urged it all the same. So Laura duly submitted a perspective problem stated in words and neatly worked in ink, a sheet of the classic orders of Architecture with three mouldings shaded in sepia, a drawing of Michelangelo's Lorenzo, a rendering of the harebell plant in water-colour with three designs from the same, and a drawing of mountain ash foliage freely growing, which the examiners judged “satisfactory specimens”, and satisfied them also in the necessary written and practical examinations. She received a handsome certificate, printed in two colours and bordered with designs interwoven with such names as Newton and Reynolds,
without much enthusiasm; she was now qualified, according to the Board of Education, to teach Art in Technical Colleges; in the present European situation nothing seemed to her more useless. There was no chance now, of course, of the pupil-teachership in Hudley for which she had formerly hoped, for the classes were so depleted that the School of Art barely existed at all; but even had it been offered, Laura could not, in this hour of her country's need, conscientiously have accepted it.

Grace meanwhile coolly applied for several posts in boys' schools, and presently, in the summer holidays, was summoned to a large town in the Midlands for an interview. Laura went to the station to meet her on her return.

“Well?” she cried, bounding forward as Grace's tall figure descended from the crowded train.

“I've got it,” announced Grace calmly in the calm precise tone she used so often nowadays. Then with a return to the old Grace she cried with a rueful grin: “But
how
long I shall be able to
keep
it, Laura, is
another
matter.”

“You'll keep it all right,” said Laura with conviction, taking her arm.

That evening she described Grace's successful interview with great gusto to Mr. Armistead. He listened with a half-smile; he disapproved, but was fond of, Grace.

“What kind of war work do you think
I
ought to do, Papa?” concluded Laura, timid, as always, when speaking of herself.

Mr. Armistead's face clouded at once. “Your war work is to stay at home and look after this house,” he said in a rapid angry tone, “and be a comfort to me and your sister.”

“But, Papa,” began Laura, stricken.

“It's all very well for Grace—she has her mother,” continued Mr. Armistead. “Now don't let me hear another word about it, Laura—I've put up with enough these last few years, with you out all hours of the day at those ridiculous Art classes; it's time
you settled down to your proper duties. I can't do to be worried at home when we're so busy at the mill.”

“But if everyone said that, Papa,” began Laura.

“That's enough!” shouted Mr. Armistead. “Besides, what could a child like you do, Laura? It's not as if you had a degree, like Grace.”

“Papa!” cried Laura, crimsoning with rage at the complex injustice of this remark.

Just then the telephone bell rang; Mr. Armistead jumped up and went out to answer it. When he returned he said in a kinder tone:

“There's plenty of voluntary work you can do, Laura, without leaving home. But it's one person's work to keep house nowadays, with prices rising and food so difficult, and your first duty is to your parents.”

The maddening part of this was, reflected the tortured Laura, that there was some truth in it; housekeeping in 1915 required much more time and care than in the days before the War.

“When I say there's plenty of voluntary work you can do,” resumed Mr. Armistead severely, looking up over his paper, “that doesn't mean you've to be gadding about morning, noon and night.

“No—it means I've to be at your beck and call whenever you need me,” muttered the sullen Laura in a fury.

“What?” barked Mr. Armistead. “Now listen to me, Laura,” he said, taking off his pince-nez. “I've been a very indulgent father to all you children, and I don't expect to be repaid by disobedience and insolence.”

Laura, cut to the heart, burst into tears and fled from the room.

Thus relegated to amateur status, Laura became a zealous snapper-up of unconsidered war-work trifles. Her Belgians had slipped away from Hudley, the confectioner to a baker's job in Leeds, the girls to nursing, the boy to school; she sought avidly
for other activities to take their place. She was indefatigable on flag-days, always ready to take odd times and places which nobody else would have; she was energetic at bazaars; at jumble sales she sat contentedly in the rear, giving change and writing tickets. She was too shy to beg money, and her knitting was a nightmare, but wherever there were lists to be made and figures added in Hudley war charities, there was to be found that young Miss Armistead, so willing and reliable. Once again she attended classes at the Hudley Technical College, but not now in Art; the School of Art had now quite collapsed, and the College had started classes in First Aid and Home Nursing instead. At clubs for the wives of soldiers and sailors Laura carried trays and washed up tea-cups; for Y.M.C.A. concerts she painted posters and arranged the scenery. She also spent many hours in the barracks, copying on to large pink cards, under the direction of a sergeant, the information about males eligible for military service not yet in His Majesty's forces, obtained under the National Registration Act.

As it chanced, while she was engaged in this occupation she came suddenly upon the name of Frederick. She winced and blushed, wrote the card hurriedly and was glad to turn it face down, for Frederick's persistent refusal to enlist rankled sorely with the Hinchliffes and the Armisteads. Indeed it was one of the reasons why Laura was so earnest in war-work; for with Gwen declining to take part in any war-time activity at all on the excuse of her children, and Frederick a declared anti-war agitator, Laura felt that there was a shadow on the two families' reputation which was barely redeemed by Edward and by Ludo. Or rather, it was redeemed by Edward and Ludo when people remembered them, but they were not present to counteract the bad effect of Gwen, Frederick, and the horrible amount of money which Blackshaw Mills was making. This amount was apparently large; Laura's housekeeping allowance was more than doubled and for the first time she had a dress allowance for her private use, Mildred was
supplemented in the kitchen by a series of young girls who after a few weeks always went on munitions, while Mr. Armistead bought a car and put one of the older lorry-men to drive it, with a look of beaming simple pleasure took to smoking very handsome cigars, and gave Laura a gold watch for her twenty-first birthday, and both his daughters musquash fur coats for Christmas presents. Laura was ashamed at first to wear an article so luxurious, but she heard so many stories of the high wages of munition workers, of how they were buying fur coats and high boots and pianos, and not investing a penny in War Loan as they should (said Gwen), that she presently gave in and enjoyed the protection the musquash gave against the wintry blasts of the West Riding. Ludo, who was now again on light duty at Headquarters—Laura suspected him of spending his leave elsewhere than at home, for surely he must have had leave after his long stay in hospital?—sent Grace a cheque on Cox's, and begged her to buy
a very swish paint-box or something of that sort
for Laura's birthday. Dear Ludo! His safety, and that odd situation at Ashworth, leaped upon Laura's mind with poisoned claws whenever inactivity left it defenceless.

Frederick was ushered into the Hudley Police Court.

“Do I stand there?” he asked, pointing to the dock.

As usual, his voice rang out, and the members of the Military Service Tribunal all frowned at him. The police sergeant in charge, shocked, indicated the witness box. Frederick climbed into it, and resting his hands wide apart on its varnished ledge, faced the Tribunal. There were five members, all prominent citizens of Hudley, all grizzled business men; the Chairman was the Mayor of Hudley, a friend of Mr. Hinchliffe's and of the same politics and religion, a man noted for his piety, charities and good works. The clerk sat below; on the right the Military Representative,
very spruce in rather pale well-tailored khaki and mahogany leggings, surveyed Frederick's pink face, untidy lock of hair and tumbled suit distastefully. Some members of the general public were present in the gallery. The clerk read out his name and case: Frederick Hinchliffe, aged twenty-eight, married, appealing for total exemption from the operation of the Military Service Act, 1916, on grounds of conscience.

“Did you attest under Lord Derby's scheme?” began the Chairman.

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was not willing to fight—I could not attest a willingness which did not exist,” said Frederick firmly.

“Do I understand you to say in your appeal,” said the Chairman, turning over the papers attached to Frederick's registration card, “that to fight in defence of your King and Country is against your conscience?”

“I refuse to employ violence in any cause,” said Frederick in his ringing tones. “Human life is sacred to me, and I will not take it or be a party to taking it.”

“And on what do you base this conviction?”

“I base it on the commandment of God:
Thou shalt not kill”
said Frederick sternly.

“You're very glib at quoting the Bible, young man,” put in the Military Representative in a light agreeable tone, “but let me ask you this: Did you ever hear these words from Scripture:
An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth?”

“If you'll allow me, sir,” said Frederick with a smile, “I'll just read the whole of that quotation to you. Matthew five, I believe.” He drew out a pocket copy of the New Testament, turned the thin leaves swiftly, and read:
“Ye have heard it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth; But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.”

There was a pause. The gallery rustled and tittered, and someone gave a feeble clap; decidedly the point went to Frederick.

“You are a conscientious objector from religious conviction, then, I take it?” resumed the Chairman, clearing his throat.

“Religious and moral.”

“To what religious body do you belong? Are you a Christadelphian?”

“By upbringing I am a Congregationalist,” replied Frederick. “But my true religion is the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man.”

“You're a Socialist, eh?” put in the Military Representative.

Frederick hesitated. “I am not a member of any political party,” he said. “But surely that's irrelevant.”

“I hardly think so. It's a political revolution you're really after, isn't it?” persisted the Military Representative in a significant tone.