Part 10

Miss Quirker—who always seems to have special and exclusive information about everything—said the creature was exactly over her bedroom chimney when the bomb was dropped; she heard a strange whirring noise (described most graphically), and turned on the electric light for company; then there was a _brilliant_ flash in the sky (yes, she could see it above the electric light), and the bomb fell—she was sure it was in her back garden. She looked very pleased with herself and superior, to think that she had been singled out by Fate for this special and distinctive visitation.

The man of the house, after bidding us stay just where we were as he wouldn’t be gone a minute, hied him buoyantly down the road in company with neighbouring masculines—to find the bomb, I suppose. He soon returned, however, with the exceedingly flat information that a gas explosion had occurred in a house further along, though they couldn’t tell whether it was due to the geyser or the cooking-range, as they couldn’t find either.

[Later on, the remains of a geyser and part of a porcelain bath were picked up about six miles off, in the Walworth Road; and I understand that the police at Sevenoaks found the remnants of an alien gas-stove wandering about in a suspicious manner, and promptly interned it. But this is by the way.]

“Only a gas explosion!” exclaimed everybody in doleful disappointment. Mrs. Brash certainly looked relieved; but then she is a very nervous little woman with a weak heart.

“Well, I call it _too_ bad!” said Virginia. “Every solitary relative, friend, and acquaintance I possess, even to the third and fourth generation, has had a Zepp cross ‘right over their very road’; and every person I’ve met during the last twelve months boasts and brags of the way they’ve had them ‘exactly above their heads.’ And yet, do what I will, I can’t get a sight of even the tail of one.”

“Just my case,” said everybody else in chorus; “I seem to be the only one in London who hasn’t seen one.”

But Miss Thresher cut short our bemoanings over the hardness of our lot, by saying in her head-mistress voice—

“I’m afraid an excess of untutored imagination is one of the weaknesses of this age. We, however, can console ourselves with the knowledge that at least we are _truthful_; and truth, after all, is the greater asset”—looking witheringly at Miss Quirker.

I replied, “How about some hot coffee?” It was the most appropriate remark that I could think of on the spur of the moment.

Cook promptly offered to get it, while I went after tea-gowns and dressing-gowns and similar symbols of propriety for our shivering guests, who looked a trifle nondescript now that the lights were on. The man of the house had returned to assist at the explosion.

If Miss Thresher hoped that her last remark would quelch Miss Quirker, she was mistaken nothing can suppress that lady, and nothing is sacred to her. She will stalk up to your secret cupboard, no matter how boldly you may have labelled it “strictly private,” and drag out into broad daylight the most disreputable skeleton you keep in it, the one you packed away at the very back of the top shelf—and then be pained at your ingratitude!

As I entered the room with an armful of apparel I heard her saying to Miss Thresher, “Why don’t you put a flounce on the bottom? Those cheap flannelettes always shrink in the wash.... Oh, flannel is it?... Really! no one would ever think you gave that much for it, would they? At any rate I couldn’t sleep if I didn’t have them right down around my feet.”

* * * * *

To change the subject I asked Virginia why she had put her mac. on under her kimono, when obviously the correct order would have been to wear it outside.

She said she concluded it was sheer genius and originality made her do it, for she had never worn such a combination in her life before; and the same must have applied to Ursula, for, looking back on a varied and chequered career, she could never remember seeing her sister, even once, promenading the highway in an eiderdown before.

At the same time, she inquired why it was that _I_ had stood for a quarter of an hour on that doormat, clasping feverishly to my chest a pair of satin slippers and a bath towel, and clinging pathetically to a bedroom candlestick; when obviously any candle would have blown out had I attempted to light it, and the bedroom slippers would have been more usefully employed on my shoeless feet; while as for the bath towel...!

The coffee came at that moment. I remembered that some time ago the kitchen had been very interested in an article in one of the dailies, giving various directions as to what should be done in the case of bombs overhead. I forget a good deal of it, but I remember you had to lay mattresses all over the top floors before you came downstairs, and you had to dip a cloth in hyposulphate of something, and hold it to your nose as you came down to seek a place of safety.

The servants were rather taken with the mattress idea, said how simple it was, and that, as they had five mattresses between them, they would cover a good deal of floor space. I even generously offered them the two off my own bed, if they would come down and fetch them as soon as the Zepps were heard, so long as they undertook to place them carefully above _my_ head.

When Abigail brought in the trays, I asked how many mattresses she had laid down.

“I never gave ’em a thought,” she owned up; “my two legs seemed all that mattered, for I was sure I saw the Zeppelin-thing looking straight in at my bedroom window—such sauce!”

“Untutored imagination again!” murmured Ursula in my ear.

Nervous little Mrs. Brash said that was just the difficulty; when it actually came to the point you could think of nothing that you ought to remember. Wouldn’t it be well to talk the subject over and decide a few things—merely to be prepared—now that there was a group of us together.

Miss Thresher, who loves the importance of being in any sort of office, enthused over the idea; said we had better have a committee meeting there and then; to be forewarned was to be forearmed, she told us, with an impressive air of wisdom. She said she would be Minute Secretary, and we must draw up schedules stating definitely and clearly what a woman ought to do, first by way of preparation beforehand, and secondly when the crisis actually arrived.

Miss Quirker endorsed this, and remarked in an aggrieved tone (in my direction) that she should have thought the women’s papers would have dealt comprehensively with so important a subject long ago. She added, however, that she thought “crisis” was far too respectable a name to give them; had she not been a staunch Churchwoman, she would have called them something far more vividly appropriate. I didn’t hear the end of this, because I slipped away to find the man of the house, as I had heard him return indoors.

Opening the study door, my eyes fell on such an upheaval that for the moment I felt certain a gas explosion must have been at work there. But no! He explained (turning out yet another drawer) that he was only looking for some insurance policies, as he wasn’t quite certain what was the attitude of the companies towards geysers. I pointed out that it didn’t matter as we hadn’t one; but he went on looking, and his face wore that tense expression seen on most men when hunting for the family screwdriver, or the pair of black gloves kept for funerals. Having found the policies at last (in the drawer where they had always been kept, by the way), I left him in peace, to peruse them at his leisure.

* * * * *

The Ladies’ Committee was well under way when I returned to the dining-room, and as is the correct thing at such gatherings, everybody was talking at once and on the most diverse topics. I consider myself rather great on ladies’ committees; I’ve even occupied the proud position of being in the chair, on occasion. And the more I see of them the more I am lost in admiration of the courage, versatility, and insuppressibility of my sex.

Why, there’s no man living who could trail as many totally irrelevant topics across the agenda, and in defiance of a politely pleading chairwoman too, as can the littlest and frailest woman at any ladies’ committee you like to name.

As it was, the only one who seemed within a hundred miles of Zeppelins was poor Mrs. Brash, who was explaining to Mrs. Ridley—

“It isn’t that I mind dying: we all have to die _some_ day: but I do prefer to die _whole_.”

Of course the doctor’s widow pooh-poohed this as nonsense, and asked severely what would become of surgeons if everybody felt like _that_!

Miss Thresher couldn’t find a suitable heading for her schedule, till Ursula suggested “Antizeptics.” Mrs. Ridley thought the medical profession might not approve of the unprofessional use of the word; but it was accepted by the majority, and then we all settled down wholeheartedly to attack the problem from every point of view—which included, among other things, borax as a preventive for moth, Queen Mary’s graciousness, a comparison of the respective merits of local butchers, economising on corsets, and the War Loan.

Perhaps you can’t see how these came in, but it was simple enough. Miss Quicker said that, after all, explosions that you thought were Zeppelins weren’t so bad if they enabled you to get such good coffee as mine; and might she have a third lump of sugar, please? it was such a treat to get a really sweet cup of coffee; she had given up sugar at home as she was economising on it.

Being the hostess, I couldn’t exactly tell her that I, too, was trying to economise on mine.

From the high price of sugar we naturally floated on to the ruinous tendencies of butcher’s meat, and Mrs. Brash explained the trouble she had with her butcher because he wouldn’t send home all the bones.

Mrs. Ridley had similar harrowments to relate about her butcher, but his vice took the form of sticking to the trimmings from the joints, which she was sure he sold at a good price for soap-making, now that fat was so scarce and soap likely to be dear. She knew it because—as she reminded us—she was the treasurer of the “Women’s League for Encouraging the Troops to Wash,” and it came very hard on their funds. What it would cost them for the cakes of soap they were going to send out no one would believe! (No, they hadn’t sent any yet; but of course they were going to, when they got enough members, and, by the way, would _I_ join?)

She didn’t mind a fair charge, of course (we all murmured agreement). War was war, and we must expect to pay something extra to help the King keep going; he had his family to provide for like any other man. Neither did she grudge one solitary penny that went to Lord Kitchener (hearty applause). No, indeed! But what made her blood boil was to feel that she was actually washing her hands with her own ribs—and at one-and-threepence-halfpenny a pound, too!

Virginia suggested she should try a rather less heating soap; but she was drowned by Miss Thresher, who said firmly, “Borax; that’s what you ought to send to the troops. Not only would it soften the water for them, poor things—and no one knows better than I do what awfully hard stuff that German water is; nearly scraped my skin off when I went up the Rhine two years ago—but they would find it so useful to put in with their woollen things that we’ve been knitting them, to keep out the moth.”

My reminder that our troops were not as yet, alas! drawing their water from German cisterns was unnoticed; for the mere mention of moth produced extraordinary animation. Was borax good? Weren’t they a perfect nuisance? and so on. I said I always put it in with my furs, and never had a moth near them.

“I wonder if that’s what they put with Queen Mary’s furs,” said Mrs. Brash. “I never saw more lovely sables than those she had on when she came to the hospital yesterday.”

Miss Thresher verified this last statement, absolutely superb they were, and Miss Thresher had a right to speak, for the Queen had bowed straight at her, as she stood on the kerb, “as near to her as I am to you.”

Miss Quirker said that for her part she didn’t think there was another woman in the world so gracious as Queen Mary—except of course Queen Alexandra. She would bow to anyone she saw, no matter _how_ shabby they were.

Mrs. Brash hurriedly said what she so much admired in Queen Alexandra was her figure.

Miss Quirker continued, “Yes, and speaking of corsets I want to tell you of another economy besides doing without sugar to help the nation. You should buy your corsets several sizes larger than usual, and then when they are getting worn, you can turn them upside down and wear them the other way up. It’s so saving.”

Ursula said she quite believed it, because she knew, if she turned her long corsets upside down, they would reach high enough up to support the military collar at the back of her neck, and thus save boning.

I felt it was high time we got back to “Antizeptics,” and suggested that we should put something in the first column of the schedule, which was headed: “Things to place in readiness beforehand.”

Mrs. Brash announced that she wasn’t ever going to take her clothes off any more till the war was over, if this was the sort of goings-on we were to expect.

General opinion, however, was decidedly in favour of, at any rate, removing the outside frock, simply because we none of us saw any prospect of ever being able to afford to buy a new one.

Then we all said what we thought ought to go into that column. Woollen undies, a fur-lined coat, a thick dressing-gown, a raincoat, a travelling rug, and all sorts of other things, were to be placed _close to the bedside_. This was insisted upon as a matter of the greatest importance; otherwise, in the dark, we should never find anything, and of course it wouldn’t be safe to have a light.

Miss Thresher and Miss Quirker had a small sub-committee on the subject of stockings—should they be worn all night in bed? Miss Thresher said obviously it was the only sensible course. Miss Quirker objected that she should kick hers off in her sleep in any case, hers was such a delicate skin (as a child people had always remarked on it), though probably women less sensitive than herself might be able to endure them. But if she lost hers among the bedclothes she would never find them in the dark.

Eventually they compromised by agreeing to safety-pin a pair to the front of the nightdress (as they fasten your handkerchief to you in the hospital), so that at least they would know where to find them in case of precipitate flight.

Meanwhile the question, “Should hats be worn?” necessitated Ursula and Mrs. Brash going into another sub-committee on the lounge. Mrs. Brash favoured a shawl—preferably white—being draped over the head; it was more suited to the _négligé_ condition of the hair. This led her to consult Ursula about the winter’s hat she was evolving. She had had an _exceedingly_ good white and black crinoline hat the summer before last, and the winter before last she had had a _very_ lovely violet velvet toque—the rich deep colour favoured by Queen Alexandra.

Last winter she had taken the violet velvet from the hat of the winter before, and put it over the crinoline hat of the summer before (you can follow this, I hope?), and everybody had admired it. Now she proposed to return the violet velvet to its original toque, only this time she would smother it with some violets she had by her, and she had a really beautiful little sable skin which she proposed to put round the brim. Did Miss Ursula think the violets and the fur would combine well?

Ursula said she herself didn’t care for fur and flowers in combination, because she always associated sables with snowy northern regions, whereas violets suggested soft spring days and awakening woods and gardens.

Mrs. Brash, who had never thought of putting things together in that way before, said how very poetic it was. Then would Miss Ursula think that quills would look better? After all, birds and flowers went together.

Ursula agreed, and added that she had even found the neighbours’ fowls scratting up the white violets one day. Mrs. Brash seemed to feel that was conclusive proof of the desirability of the combination. And in that case, should the quills tilt outwards or inwards? No, she didn’t mean inside the hat, of course, but across the top or off the head?... Yes, perhaps it would be the best to tilt them backwards, and she should fasten them with a large cameo that had belonged to the late Mr. Brash’s mother (prolific details as to the grasping character of Mrs. Brash, senior, who had never given her a thing except this cameo).

Finally, she aired her only anxiety—would the shape of the winter-before-last toque still be worn this winter? Ursula assured her that the shapes of the winter-before-last will be worn till the war is over, and by that time we shall have become so attached to them that we shall refuse to part with them.

* * * * *

After we had collected a fairly comprehensive pile of clothes—including most we possessed—and placed it all close beside the bed, jewellery came under discussion. Naturally no one wanted to lose even the smallest tiara, and we were all quite sure the Government wouldn’t include jewellery in the insurance. So we collected our trinkets and placed them on top of the garments. It was astonishing how much we each seemed to possess, and how careful we were to enumerate it all. Mrs. Brash enlarged tearfully and at great length on the diamond necklace her late husband had given her.

This opened up a wider question. How about silver plate? Yes, how about the silver? each one echoed. Was it likely we were going to hand over our teapots, shoelifts, candlesticks, pin-boxes, spoons and forks, hair-brushes, entrée-dishes, and photo-frames to the enemy? No, indeed not! So we all lugged our plate-chests to the bedside; though Miss Thresher said she should put hers all into a laundry bag and hang it on the bedpost; it would be easier to carry that way.

Then a number of side issues cropped up. Virginia had just invested in the War Loan; there was her scrip. Mrs. Brash couldn’t think of leaving behind the portrait of her great-grand-uncle, the admiral (always thus referred to, as though no other had ever existed), whereupon we all remembered we had ancestral portraits calling for preservation—after all, it doesn’t look well if you haven’t!

Miss Quirker decided she would take the bedspread she had crocheted for their forthcoming Red Cross bazaar (but didn’t intend to give it to them now it was finished; it was far too pretty. Besides, the secretary had only put her name in small type among “other ladies helping” below the stallholders, and just think how she had slaved over that bazaar!).

Mrs. Ridley said that whatever else went, she meant at all costs to save the presentation clock given to her late husband by a very celebrated patient, whose name she was not at liberty to state. I’m inclined to think this was mentioned as a set-off against Mrs. Brash’s diamond necklace; the late Mr. Brash, though an admirable husband, did not seem to have generated anything remarkable in the way of public esteem, whereas the late Dr. Ridley was known to be anything but generous.

Mrs. Ridley had no diamonds; but the clock was of solid granite, made on the model of a pyramid. It was surmounted by a coy-looking sphinx, representing about a quarter of a hundredweight of bronze metal. Accompanying the pyramid—one at each end of the mantelpiece—was a pair of heavy granite obelisks (like Cleopatra’s Needle, but just a size smaller). It took both the servants to lift the clock every time the mantelpiece was dusted, Mrs. Ridley explained with pride. Besides, the obelisks were very useful to hang her knitting bag on, and so appropriate too, with our brave lads out there rallying round and defending the poor sphinx from the Turks. (Virginia whispered in my ear, it was no wonder the bronze lady looked so cheerful.)

So of course these weighty items joined the jewellery at the bedside.

Other valuables rapidly suggested themselves; also more sordid things, such as matches and candles, a tin of biscuits, and a small stove and kettle, for use if we had to sit out in the road all night gazing at a ruined home.

And of course we placed pails of sand and buckets of water close at hand, to use if it should be an incendiary bomb. (I hoped I shouldn’t hop out of bed straight into the water!)

Here Ursula reminded me that the pile of sand placed on the platform of our London station several months (or was it years?) ago, for Anti-zeptic treatment, was now sprouting luscious grass; obviously the lawn-mower and garden-roller must be added to the bedside museum.

But I told her afterwards, she had better keep quiet if she lacks the ability to grasp the strenuosity of any situation where a group of conscientious women are conversing on the subject of “doing something.” As it was, her remark only incited Miss Quirker to spend a tedious five minutes in explaining to her how impossible it would be for a single woman, with only one maid, to get the garden-roller upstairs, and another ten in giving her recipes for exterminating grass; while Mrs. Ridley went off at a tangent on the shortage of gardeners, and the advantages of paraffin over fish-oil as a lubricant for mowing-machines.

I only succeeded in getting her back to the agenda, by begging her to advise us, as she was such an authority on paraffin, whether to take an oil-stove or a spirit-lamp for the outdoor encampment.

* * * * *

At length, when any ordinary bedroom must have been packed quite full, and suggestive of a furniture depository, Virginia’s voice rose above the babel—

“But what I want to know is, how am I ever going to get into bed?”

“You may well ask!” said her sister. “Look at the time! Just you come along home with me. I’ll show you. Where’s my eiderdown?”

Miss Thresher besought them to stay a few minutes longer, merely to decide what to do when the Zeppelins actually arrived. But Ursula said they had got all their work cut out to get through the preparatory stages of the schedule.

So the Committee adjourned.

As they went out, a figure came out of the kitchen side entrance and made for the coach-house, carrying a big cardboard box.

“Is anything the matter, Abigail?” I asked.

“No’m! I’m only hiding all our best hats in the stable; I expect they’ll be less likely to find them there.”

“But the Zepps aren’t exactly like burglars!” I said.

“No, I suppose they’re not,” she replied, “but when a creature like that Kaiser gets nosing about among _the stars_, as well as trying to rampage all over the earth, there’s no telling _what_ he’ll be up to next. It’s as well to be prepared.”

IX

Where the Road Led Over the Hills

NEXT morning I was a wreck. Virginia and her sister were the same.

For a week past I had realised that I was in the last stage of mental and physical disrepair. The midnight committee was the final straw.

As a rule, I stick at work in town till nerves and brain refuse to hold out another day; then, flinging my tools down, and leaving both my office desk and my study table in a hopeless and bewildering state of piled-up letters, MSS. and proofs, I just fly—a goodly bale of arrears following me by next post.

I had had practically no holiday owing to the war, and had reached that forlorn and useless frame of mind when I declared I was far too busy to take one—a very mistaken notion for anyone to have, by the way; it is surprising how well most of us can be done without when we do at last take a little time off duty!