Sleep in Peace (45 page)

Yes, he felt strong and happy and noble, standing there; a lonely figure, stern and austere, sacrificing himself for his family and doing his duty for his country, and not saying anything about it to anyone. The happiness of the Armistead and Hinchliffe families
all hung on him, on his secrecy and endurance, and he would not fail. Mother would be proud of me, thought Ludo, if she could see me now. And of course she
can
see me, he thought with joy; the beautiful strains of
I Know that My Redeemer Liveth
thrilled through his brain.
Messiah
in Hudley, the Thursday before Christmas—that was the only music he could understand. The shops lighted, snow on Awe Hill, a toy for Laura in his hand.
Yet in my flesh shall I see God
. There was nothing to be afraid of. He would not fail he would be faithful to the end; and God would understand.

A Yorkshire voice penetrated his ear; he started back to reality, and saw before him two members of his platoon, who had evidently been addressing him for some time.

“Just round corner, sir.”

“Won't take more nor a couple of minutes, sir.”

“You know you can't I go off this platform once you've passed the barrier,” explained Ludo kindly. “Your leave is over once you pass that gate.”

“There's half an hour before train's due out, sir,” said one.

“Back in five minutes, sir,” said the other.

“Just for a few fags, sir,” urged the first.

Their blunt young Yorkshire faces were fixed on him with an anxious and wistful air—the last draft was very young. In their thick, ugly khaki, which fitted where it touched and didn't touch very often, thought Ludo, they looked ludicrous and pathetic. The uniform of one was greenish, the other sulphur, in hue; their tunics were too short on the rump and too wide in the collar. Yes, they were ludicrous, pathetic; a wave of happy pity flooded Ludo's heart. He smiled.

“Be off with you,” he said.

“Can we go too, sir?” cried half a dozen others, leaping forward.

Ludo, frowning, hesitated.

“Well,” he began in a cross uneven tone.

On the breakfast table stood a substantial cube of butter, whose firm texture and golden hue revealed that it had not undergone any “doubling”. Yet if it were solid its size was inexplicable.

“Is that a fortnight's butter, Gwen?” asked Laura.

“Never mind,” said Gwen, laughing. “Eat it and be thankful.”

“I can't unless I know it's our fair share,” objected Laura in a peevish tone.

“You are a little prig, Laura,” said Gwen, laughing again. “We have to keep alive—I'm doing my best for you, and you ought to be grateful.”

“I don't want to keep alive by cheating other people,” muttered Laura.

“Everybody gets hold of as much as they can,” said Gwen.

“Not everybody,” said Laura with meaning.

“You and your precious Hinchliffes,” said Gwen with affectionate contempt.

“You are a Hinchliffe yourself, and so are the children,” muttered Laura, who resented on Frederick's behalf Gwen's constant implication that the children were hers and hers alone.

“The children are nothing to do with you, Laura,” said Gwen quickly, colouring.

Mr. Armistead groaned and covered his eyes with his hand.

“What's the matter, Papa?” said Gwen sharply, vexed by this excessive reaction, as she thought, to a little harmless bickering between herself and her sister.

“Send the children out of the room,” commanded Mr. Armistead without looking up.

His tone was one of deep trouble, and brooked no argument. In silence, exchanging a perplexed glance with Laura, Gwen rose, unstrapped Madeline from her high chair and set her down on her plump little feet. “Take her into the kitchen, Geoffrey,” she
said. Geoffrey slid from his chair, took his sister's hand in his own, and with an air of condescending distaste led her away.

“Are you ill or is it business, Papa?” said Gwen then, in a tone of some anxiety.

“Read this,” said Mr. Armistead, holding out a sheet of paper in a shaking hand.

Laura bent over her sister's shoulder.

Dear Father
, wrote Ludo:

I am sorry to have to tell you that I have been court-martialled for dereliction of duty, and reduced to the ranks. I allowed some men to leave the platform at Waterloo, and several of them did not come back in time to catch the train. Of course if I had not given them permission, they would be regarded as deserters. I am sorry to have brought this disgrace on you, but I hope to wipe it out by my future conduct. I was not suited to be an officer, and I think I may do better as a private. I shall always try to do my duty
.

“It isn't Ludo's fault, Papa,” explained Laura, trembling, deathly cold. “You can see it isn't Ludo's fault. It's the men's fault really, and Ludo is taking the blame.”

“How do you make that out?” demanded Mr. Armistead.

“You can see it in what he writes,” said Laura.
“If had not given them permission, they would be regarded as deserters
. They
are
deserters really, don't you see? Ludo is saving them from that by saying he gave them permission.”

“I don't see that at all,” objected Gwen. “He gave them permission when he ought not, that's all.”

“But only to be absent for a little while,” urged. Laura, looking pleadingly from her sister to her father. “Not to stay away, not to miss the train. It's their fault really, and Ludo is taking the blame.”

“He's disgraced himself and his family, however it happened. said Mr. Armistead sternly.

“Oh, no, Papa!” whispered Laura. “Not disgraced—not Ludo.”

“I don't see what other interpretation you can put upon it,” said Mr. Armistead. “Court-martialled!”

There was an anguished silence.

“I don't know how I shall face Henry Hinchliffe, I'm sure,” said Mr. Armistead after a moment in a bewildered, childish tone.

Suddenly they all broke down; the two girls sobbed, Mr. Armistead blew his nose repeatedly in his white silk handkerchief. Ludo disgraced, Ludo court-martialled, Ludo reduced to the ranks!

Their grief was disturbed by Geoffrey, who came in to announce in a scornful tone that the telephone was ringing, and Mildred had answered it and said it was for Grandpa.

“Confound it!” exclaimed Mr. Armistead, rising irritably.

He went out; Gwen drew Geoffrey to her and straightened his hair with a maternal gesture; Laura sat weeping, twisting her fingers, gazing into the fire. Presently Mr. Armistead returned, his face haggard and distorted.

“I shall have to go to the mill,” he threw out in a peevish angry tone: “The new looms have come. Now mind, you two, you're not to speak of what has happened to
anyone
. Not to anyone, do you hear?”

“Yes, Papa,” murmured Gwen and Laura dutifully.

Gwen went out into the hall to help her father into his coat, and did not return. Geoffrey leaned against his grandfather's armchair with his ankles crossed, and turned his cool, considering gaze on his aunt.

“What is a deserter, Auntie Laura?” he enquired. “Is Uncle Spencer a deserter?”

“No! No!” cried Laura. “Some of Uncle Ludo's soldiers missed their leave train, so they were deserters, and then Uncle Ludo look the blame,” she explained rapidly in a breaking voice.

“Why did he let them go?” asked Geoffrey. “Why did he take the blame?”

Laura gave a deep sigh. It was only possible to answer those questions, and to understand the answers, when one understood and knew the whole life of Ludo. So she gave no reply. The child continued to regard her with his clear, scornful eyes.

“How silly!” said Geoffrey.

Laura sprang up and ran to her own room. Sinking on her knees beside the bed, she buried her face in her hands and allowed her grief to sweep over her. Oh, Ludo! The blow she had feared so long was fallen, and she lay prostrate. The hours passed while she experienced anguish, vicarious, but unmitigated, intense.

Gwen came into the room.

“Now, Laura,” she said, in a firm, kind tone: “You mustn't go on like this, you know. Think how it will grieve Papa!” This was true, and to an appeal to spare another's suffering Laura could not be unresponsive. She rose at once; “Besides,” continued Gwen: “There's no need to worry so much, Laura. Nobody in Hudley will hear about Ludo. They don't print things like that in the newspapers.”

Laura exclaimed in disgust. Partly at her sister's sudden relegation of Ludo to that old childish name which she had long ceased to give him, as if now he was in trouble he did not deserve to bear his grandfather's name. Partly because she marvelled, not for the first time, at her sister's capacity for finding the most repulsive and meanly calculating, though perfectly true, aspect of any situation and dwelling upon that and that alone. When, for instance, that autumn, Mr. Hinchliffe was not offered the mayoralty of Hudley—an omission which everyone knew was due to his possession of a son who was an imprisoned conscientious objector— Gwen's comment was that her father-in-law would be saved a great deal of money; these War charities, she said, ruined so many mayors. And now all Gwen thought about Ludo's disaster was that it could be concealed from their acquaintances. Is it because she's Yorkshire, wondered Laura, washing her tear-stained face,
or because she's a woman, or just because she's Gwen? Whatever its cause, this habit of personal calculation made life at Gwen's side a continual torment to Laura. How she longed to be away, to live and feel as she liked without the continual torturing necessity of defending her feelings from this odious tarnish! But of course she must not think of anything so selfish, especially in their present trouble. Oh, Ludo!

“Papa came home rather early, to have a talk with me,” continued Gwen, who had followed her into the bathroom. “We've been talking things over, and we think you really ought to go and do some war work, Laura.”

Her tone was one of respectful remonstrance, as if she were reproving her sister for a duty long urged, long unperformed.

“But I've calways wanted to do war work!” spluttered Laura, astounded. “Over and over again I've begged Papa to let me go.”

“All the other girls are doing something, and we think you ought to be helping, too,” continued Gwen, disregarding her. “With Ludo being a deserter, you ought to do something to make up for it. Of course I can't go, because of the children.”

“Ludo's not a deserter,” shouted Laura, blushing with rage. “But I'll join these new WAACs to-morrow.”

“Oh, no; why not go into one of these new ministries in London?” urged Gwen in a kindly tone. “I think you'd be more use there, Laura, and you could consult those Duchays about how to get in, you know.”

Laura thought: “Gwen's been wanting me to go for months, because I criticise her housekeeping. She's made Ludo's misfortune her opportunity. I shall never forgive her for that.” Aloud she said grimly:

“I'll write to-night.”

Laura was happy. She was ashamed to be happy, with Ludo in disgrace and England in the middle of a war, but she simply could not help it; it was impossible not to be happy when one lived in a hostel in Kensington, and earned thirty-five shillings a week as a Higher Grade Clerk.

It had all been so easy. One afternoon Laura, who was staying with the Duchays, went to the Ministry of Munitions in Northumberland Avenue, in her best clothes. (“I should wear my fur coat if I were you, dear,” drawled Mrs. Duchay. “Culture is at a discount in the present régime, and fur coats above par.”) Laura filled in a form with her name and business, and was escorted by a girl messenger in a brown overall to a dark little room, where two middle-aged women with intelligent faces sat behind a long desk, dealing with the seething horde of girls who like Laura were seeking employment. Laura handed in her form, stated her education (Art and General), offered the names of Alderman Hinchliffe and Mr. Duchay as references, and was told to report in a certain department on the following Monday. She gaped; could she enter her country's service as easily as that? Apparently she could; for the next girl in the line was already pushing her aside impatiently.

It remained to find a place in which to live. Gwen had instructed her to live with the Duchays if she could possibly arrange it—anyone with a fixed income nowadays, said Gwen, would be glad to have a little extra coming into the house from a paying guest. But as soon as Laura saw Mrs. Duchay with her thin arched eyebrows and her eyeglass, Mr. Duchay with his aquiline face and pointed silvery beard, and the Duchay home, with its upstairs drawing-room, its silhouettes, its miniatures and its grand piano, she knew that such a proposition was out of the question, and did not even approach it. But there was no difficulty about finding a suitable hostel; Mrs. Duchay had the names of several
at her finger-tips; Laura moved in on Sunday night and thenceforward Lived Alone in London.

She loved the life. The hostel had some disadvantages; a couple of houses had been converted to the purpose, and, as the inhabitants said, not converted far enough. Large rooms had been made into small rooms by somewhat fragile partitions, so that intramural activities were altogether too audible; Laura suffered especially from the girl next door, who was training at the Royal College of Music and sang in oratorio. The geyser was slow, the food inadequate though well served. The strict rules of the house exasperated some of the girls; Laura, however, accustomed to the restrictions of a good northern home, found her freedom quite amazing.

She woke every morning to the joyous remembrance that this room was her own, and that she was a long way from Blackshaw House. After a careless breakfast—one served oneself from a side-table, and left when one had finished—one rushed off to the Tube. In the Tube one read—Roger Fry's edition of
The Discourses of Sir Joshua Reynolds
, or Clive Bell's
Art
, or the life of the abominable but gorgeous Cellini. For light recreation there was
The Pretty Lady
, or a volume of one of the great Russian novelists who were now so fashionable. Laura had become a member of the London Library by the help of Mrs. Duchay, and she got through an immense amount of reading; it was said in the hostel that Armistead had been seen straphanging with one hand, clutching a book in the other, and extending an anatomical diagram with her teeth. All round one in the Tube were crowds of people; people one did not know, for whom therefore one needed to feel no responsibility, no compulsion to compassion; people whom one could observe with the impartial eye of the artist, without feeling that one was neglecting any duty. One reached Charing Cross; the crowd poured out; one poured out with them—how joyous to be a member of a crowd, one of the world's workers as the saying went, a wage-earner. In the appointed
cloakroom of one of the great Northumberland Avenue hotels Laura removed her hat and coat, admired her trim figure in its navy-blue “coat-frock,” a new kind of garment all of cloth, very austere and business-like, suitable for work in offices. (The cloth of Laura's coat-frock had been made, of course, by Messrs. Armistead and Hinchliffe.) It seemed that to wear a roll of hair at the back and bulges at the sides was no longer fashionable; hair should be cut short, “bobbed,” if one were a wildish spirit, or else turned underneath to follow the lines of the head. Laura did not venture to cut her hair, but her head soon became very neat. Also, it seemed that something must always be done to the end of one's nose, which otherwise, it appeared, was always shiny. Many girls used powder, and some went so far as to touch up their lips as well! Laura, who prided herself on a certain flexibility of mind, an artistic tolerance, resolutely refused to be shocked by these cosmetics, but did not adopt them; she bought some “vanishing cream” for her nose, however, and marvelled that she had never noticed how much it shone, before.