Andrew Wareham - The Balloonatics - A Tale of the Great War

There were compensations to being in command, Peter discovered. Now if he thought something was bloody stupid he could take action to make it better, if he could work out how to do so. He had no spare time at all, spent three weeks of unbroken flying and deskwork before a spring storm blew through and grounded the balloons for two days and left him able to go to Shoreham.

Josephine was delighted to see him, stepped out with him to the fishing harbour despite the wind and rain, glad to take fresh air in his company.

He found himself comparing her with Charlie, something he had not expected.

‘Chalk and cheese – town sophistication, a free woman compared with a sheltered young girl. Unfair to set one against the other.’

Having said that to himself, he nonetheless did so.

For looks, the differences were obvious – Charlie was generous fore and aft, Josephine slender, far more in the prevailing mode. Charlie was shorter as well, and far darker, and bustling, active, energetic, mistress of her own fate, six or seven years older and much more mature. Josephine was more introspective, inclined to think about the world rather than simply enjoy it.

As a wife, someone to spend the next forty or fifty years with? Far less of a burden than Charlie might become with her need to have her own life. He was sure that Josephine would always put him first… A selfish reason for marriage, almost dishonest, making use of her. Normal for any officer, whose first loyalty must always be to his service, only secondly to his family…

He was making excuses to himself. That was truly dishonest. The reality was that he would have a comfortable life with Josephine, a quieter existence than Charlie could possibly offer. He was not one to ‘enjoy’ the Society existence – parties and balls, dinners and dances, premieres followed by the best restaurants – Charlie no doubt lived for them all and he would find them tedious. Add to that, she was undoubtedly artistic, and possibly literary, and he was neither. They would have lots to do in bed, no doubt, but little to talk about afterwards.

“I am busy now that the days are getting longer, Josephine. It means that I can only ever get across here when it is raining and too windy to fly, which is a nuisance. When is your birthday, by the way?”

“September. The fifteenth. My father always said I was a Christmas present… I don’t know why.”

Peter did, chose not to enlighten her. As well, he did not mention why he had asked her age.

“You will be eighteen then, will you not?”

“Yes. The years are flying by. We left St Petersburg when I was fifteen – it does not seem so long ago.”

“More than thirty months back – I was in the Med. Warm and dry, most of the time. Doing the pretty, cruising from one set of dances and dinners to the next. Rather different from our present existence!”

“Will it go back to that after the war, do you think?”

“Maybe. I do not think I shall be part of it though. I suspect I shall leave the Navy and seek an occupation ashore. I must talk it over with my father. Thing is, Josephine, the Navy is very exciting in wartime. I have just realised how very boring and idle the peacetime existence was. I don’t think I can go back to keeping a smart ship and sailing from one port to another with never a thought for what might be over the horizon. Perhaps I have grown up – always a shocking process!”

She could not entirely understand him, imagined that flying his balloon must always be exciting.

“It must be. In peacetime, I might fly once a week, and then for three or four hours at most, training. The remainder of the time? Parades and inspections and makework. Tedious stuff. Always the need to show keen and enthusiastic in front of one’s seniors, promotion coming as much from currying favour as from displaying efficiency. The life seemed natural, before the war. I don’t know that I could go back to it.”

Her own life was placid, living with elderly grandparents. She wondered what an exciting existence might be like, was not entirely sure she wanted to find out.

Peter changed topic, trying to lighten the conversation as well as making it less focussed on him.

“Great fuss and botheration at home, Josephine. A letter from my mother tells me that sister Minnie has run away to the war. She does not know the detail yet but rather fears that she might be driving an ambulance in France. My good Mama is appalled.”

“She is much the same age as me, is she not, Peter?”

“A few months older. She is eighteen already. She told me last month that she had learned to drive and would be joining FANY as soon as she could arrange. My sister Jennifer, who is nursing, was helping her with the details.”

Josephine had not heard of FANY.

“A women’s military group. The Field Auxiliary Nursing Yeomanry – originally meant to be horse-drawn, hence ‘yeomanry’, now driving motor ambulances immediately behind the trenchlines in France.”

“How very brave of her!”

“I think so. Certainly, I was not to inform my father of her plans and prevent them coming to fruition. I hope she will do well. I think she might show very successful, come back home in a few years as an officer. She told me that she will join as a trooper, expects to be made corporal as soon as she has her own ambulance to drive. After that, who is to say?”

Josephine admired the young lady’s bravery, did not really think it was the way forward for her.

“I have wondered if I should not go as an assistant at one of the hospitals. There is one here in Shoreham now, on the outskirts of town, and needing girls to work all the time.”

“As a skivvy in the kitchens or mopping the floors, Josephine?”

She had not realised that was what they meant by ‘work’, did not think it was quite the thing for her.

Peter agreed – she was not the bold, outgoing sort like Minnie, or Charlie for that matter. None the worse for it. That was how she was, how she had been brought up. It was not as if she was some shy, retreating flower to be protected from life – she was simply not the go-ahead sort. As a wife, she would always be there, committed to her husband’s interests and doing all she could to further them – and she was an intelligent, able girl, as well as most attractive…

He shied away from the word ‘love’ – it had too many implications. For the while, she was far more the sort he wanted at his side. He might, he suspected, occasionally in the future wish that he had Charlie in his bed; that might be up to him – the so-called ‘knowledgeable’ officers had always trumpeted that they could turn any girl into an enthusiast between the sheets. He had never listened to their boasts with anything other than a slightly disbelieving contempt. Perhaps they had a point to make. He was within reason experienced – though he had never found it necessary to inform a wardroom of his prowess – and believed he had generally played his part with competence as well as self-gratification. He suspected that as a husband he could do at least as well, the more for having a substantial degree of affection for the lady in question.

“Penny for your thoughts, Peter?”

He realised he had been silent some minutes, chose not to inform Josephine of all he had been thinking.

“Sorry! Miles away. Thinking about my sister and her life in France. Brave girl – I admire her.”

“And me. That is not to say that I might wish to do the same, Peter.”

“It is not for everybody, not by a long way. Horses for courses, they say, don’t they.”

He returned to Polegate satisfied in his own mind that he would propose to Josephine on her birthday. He thought she would accept him, was sure her grandparents would have no objections. His father had made it clear that he would support his choice, whoever it might be. He started to laugh, imagining the Old Man’s face if he turned up with Charlie on his arm. Brother Geoffrey would have a heart attack, for sure.