Her mother is proud of her girl, that goes without saying. Or rather is doesn’t. There is hardly a customer in the shop or visitor to the drawing room who is allowed to slip away without hearing about it at length. Be it the length of a buttered crumpet or of a measure of gabardine. How it all came about so suddenly. What a good boy he is and how they all miss him.
Young Bert what used to be the scourge of the neighbourhood. That boy was a right little devil, that he was. A great one for breaking things. The Misses Morris were still mourning the loss of their nice window with the gold lettering. Never had another one like it, they say. How his father used to thrash him every Saturday night when he came home from the Wagon and Whistle. Never broke the lad, though; by Sunday morning he’d be ready for his next flogging.
Just showed the spirit of the little nipper, didn’t it just. A fighter, if ever there was one. He’ll pull through alright.
How hard it is on the families, waiting and not knowing, though these days postal services are pretty good, considering. When Bert gets the chance he writes; such nice letters. Always a treat that is. But so many lines blocked out you can hardly make sense of the rest sometimes. Fancy seeing all these interesting foreign places and not being allowed to tell the folks back home about it. To be so close to Constantinople. Our brave sailor boys.
Thanks to British and French Fleets on the Seas, Perrier is being shipped via Marseilles as usual.
It is difficult with so few men around to do things now. Hard on the women, there is no denying it. Working all hours and her girl more than most, those endless hours at the hospital.
She is so glad her girl isn’t one of them canaries. Not a pretty sight, poor darlings. Who is going to go out with a girl who looks like that, she would like to know. A soldier on furlough wants something prettier to look at than that. And the work her daughter performs is so much better than filling metal cylinders with powder what makes your hair go orange.
Comes in handy for when a girl becomes a wife and mother. At first both her husband and she were a bit reluctant to let their girl train as an auxiliary nurse. You hear such things about what goes on in the wards. Thankfully all of Kitchener’s Boys are quite respectable. Not like ordinary soldiers, oh no.
There is the wedding to think of as well, once the war is over. It cannot last long now. Not easy to have everything handsome these days, but any less won’t do, not for her dear girl and her gallant young soldier. And all things considered business isn’t so bad. Her man would be able to do something considerable for the young couple in due time. It wasn’t everybody who could promise that these days. Thank the Lord she had the good sense to put away some nice pieces of satin before things got so difficult. Another cup of tea? Sugar? Condensed milk?
Save the Wheat and help the Fleet – Eat Less Bread. The kitchen is the key to Victory.
The Girl keeps his letters and postcards at the back of a drawer in her bedroom. One of them shows two seamen ashore, astride a Gattling Gun beneath the caption Hearts of Oak. There is a faint brown stain in one corner, the yellow-brown of tobacco. Her mother givers her a scarlet ribbon to wrap around the slim bundle. Against the smudged white of the letters the ribbon looks like a bloody gash. She never unties it again.
Do not pity the girl who is alone, the posters exclaim, her young man is probably a soldier, fighting for her and her country – and for you. Young Women of London! If your best boy does not think that you are worth fighting for, do you think he is worthy of you?
She is the girl behind the man behind the gun.
The other girls on the ward love talking about how it happened. Prim little Missy and boy who ran away to sea. She has told them the story of her engagement many times. The telephone ringing at the dead of night. Cook waking up her parents and then how she heard the hum of voices downstairs. Her father bellowing in the drawing room. The damned cheek of that runaway apprentice. Disturbing his employer at this ungodly hour. Her mother murmuring and soothing. Then the loud voice in her ear which she couldn’t place at first, it sounded so strange. The excitement in it, the breathless account of what he had just done.
To Clerks and Shop Assistants: Are you satisfied with what you are doing? Do you feel happy when you see the brave boys in khaki? Will you tell your employer today that you are going to enlist? Ask him to keep your position open – all patriotic employers are helping their men to join.
Her mother thought it was just too romantic. The brave young man off to defend the Empire and him being so much in love with her girl. Only too natural she should love him in return. She was just a little cross that her daughter should in fact have gone dancing when she was supposed to be at the Institute. Improving her mind, my foot. She doesn’t like her girl lying.
Her father consented readily enough, considering. Not the match he would have picked for his only daughter. But that was before the world turned topsy-turvy. He is doing his bit. He is the very model of the Patriotic Shopkeeper.
Have you any fit men between 19 and 38 behind your counter? Have you realized we cannot have ‘business as usual’ whilst the War continues? Will you tell them what you are prepared to do for them whilst they are fighting for the Empire?
The Girl’s father looks forward to a son-in-law who has proven himself in the service of King and Country. If he had had sons, they’d all have volunteered for the armed services as a matter of course. Royal Naval Air Service preferably. That is where the real war is going to be fought these days, after all. They might be officers by now. Not that the men on and below deck aren’t doing their bit to keep the enemy at bay. The Lord knows how many times an invasion had threatened by way of the Frisian littoral, for example, if it wasn’t for our brave boys. He says, ‘littoral,’ not coast, being a man of educated notions.
On the mantelpiece in the drawing room is a photograph of Bert in his naval kit. It is a bad photograph; the Girl can hardly make out his features. If the boy ever gets decorated, they must have a better picture this time. There is just enough room left for another photograph. The Girl’s mother has already satisfied herself that Garner’s around the corner keep the appropriate shade of blue ribbon in stock.
The Meteor Flag of England shall yet terrific burn.
As she approaches Charing Cross, the Girl comes across one of those voluntary police patrols. The two middle-aged women are clad in long military coats and hats, with a National Union of Women Workers armband. They are talking loudly to a constable. He is taking notes.
Her second cousin Mabel works as attendant in the laboratory of Messrs Lovett & Lyle now. She has had her picture taken in her long, white coat, among her Bunsen burners, jars and gas cylinders. The room looks like a boudoir, only much more interesting. She thinks Mabel looks really clever in this picture. Mabel smokes woodbines on the sly. She says loudly to every one who is or isn’t willing to listen that she isn’t going to get married after the war, not ever. She has boyfriends, though. Mabel is fast, says the Girl’s mother disapprovingly. Look at that short hair.
The conductor of the bus drawing up beside her is a girl hardly older than herself. Maybe the London General Omnibus Company even employs female fitters and mechanics now. She has seen pictures of grim-looking middle aged women in aprons and shawls doing men’s work at a colliery in the paper. Nothing is like it used to be any more.
The uniform she really covets has a Shoulder Flash with Royal Flying Corps on the gabardine jacket. Those splendid driving gauntlets. She would love to learn how to steer an automobile.
Her cap needs to be stuck on with hairpins. There is one sore spot beneath her plaits that itches infernally. On the recruitment posters the VAD’s uniform looks like a billowing dairymaid’s costume.
A man who goes to war needs the memory of a woman who is pure and gentle, straight and true.
In the afternoon, when everything is calm and spruce; the men and the sheets straightened and the all the more unseemly chores have been done, the Lady Visitors turn up. The Girl wonders what makes the Ladies sally forth and come to see unknown soldiers. Fawn over them in full visiting costume. Take tea as if in a drawing room. Their stays creaking surreptiously. They volunteer to write letters. The soldiers don’t want to see them. They want to be left among themselves, among the ones who understand. The Girl doesn’t want to see either of them.
Quiet for the Wounded, say the banners overhead, as she walks along the Strand towards Aldwych station. The Girl stops to pick up a card. There are many designs to choose from. Wreaths of roses surrounding the Union Jack. Caricatures of Kaiser Bill. Some just have captions, others long rows of rhymed sentiment. The Up-and-at-them Drawings of British troops are always popular. She hates the ones with ‘official photographs’ of exploding mines or of wounded men in French trenches. There are Lovers’ Knots and humorous drawings of soldiers under attack from flirting French damsels. Be courteous and no more. Just in case. Regimental colours and lists of battle honours. Greetings from Home cards. One of the latter is almost appropriate.
We’re all of us thinking about you dear,
Now you are far away;
Here in the home where you’ve laughed and talked
We sit and we hope and pray.
The Girl does. For a reprieve from the aftermath of pity to arrive. For the field service postcard reading, ‘I have been discharged and hope to be on my way to you soon’ never to be delivered.
Postage must be prepaid on any letter or postcard addressed to the sender of this card.