Louis de Bernières - The Dust That Falls From Dreams

‘You’re a bad lassie, Millicent,’ he said, but kindly. ‘In future, please refrain from eavesdropping. If my wife had caught you, I expect she would have dismissed you.’

‘I’m ever so sorry, sir,’ she said, adding, ‘But I don’t think she would, sir, not really.’

‘You are indeed fortunate that I didn’t catch you,’ said Mr McCosh, and he bounded up the stairs two steps at a time until he reached his study. Somewhat breathless after his exertion, and feeling a little dizzy, he took a false book from the shelf and removed from it a small bottle of Bladnoch. He took one swig direct from the bottle, and then poured himself a little stiffener. He sat at his desk until he felt his heartbeat slow down. What mortification and inconvenience it was to live in such terror of one’s wife, and to be obliged to stand up to her so often.

Back in the drawing room Mrs McCosh stood up, rearranged her skirts and sat down again. ‘I absolutely forbid it,’ she said. ‘I will not have one of my daughters becoming a mere nurse. Ladies of our station do not enter such professions, any more than they dance the tango. They do not, indeed, enter any profession. Nurses have been at the forefront of the suffragists. They are a most reprehensible class of woman.’

Rosie protested, ‘But, Mama, after campaigning with the Pankhursts, I would have thought you’d find a mere suffragist not remotely extreme enough! I don’t wish to be contrary,’ she said, ‘but you are quite in the wrong.’

‘Am I indeed? A mother cannot be wrong, and a daughter’s duty is always to be in agreement with her. And I was campaigning because I want the right to vote Conservative. I am convinced that nurses are, in the main, not merely suffragists, but socialists. They are not of the class of women who would vote for Sir Kingsley Wood, now, are they?’

‘A wife’s duty is to agree with her husband,’ said Ottilie drily, whilst avoiding her mother’s gaze.

‘Mrs Claude Watney,’ persisted Rosie, ‘has turned part of her house into a hospital. In Berkeley Square.’

‘Mrs Claude Watney? Has she? Goodness me!’

‘And Mrs Alice Keppel —’

‘The late King’s mistress? Please, Rosie!’

‘And Lady Sarah Wilson and the Duchess of Westminster —’

‘That’s more like it!’

‘— are setting up base hospitals.’ Rosie paused for effect.

‘I fear there may be more,’ said her mother.

‘Yes, indeed. Lady Esher is conducting a course on first aid and home-nursing at the Duke of York’s Barracks.’

‘And?’

‘The Duchess of Teck is working voluntarily at Knightsbridge Barracks.’

‘And?’

‘Queen Amelie of Portugal has taken up work with the Red Cross.’

‘A Portuguese queen is not to be compared with one of our own, of course,’ said Mrs McCosh, with a knowledgeable air. ‘In England and Scotland I doubt if she would amount to more than a duchess.’

‘Nonetheless, Mama, you are quite wrong about ladies not taking such work.’

‘It seems I am to be overruled by my betters, who in this case should know better, but apparently do not,’ said Mrs McCosh with resignation. ‘Where do you expect to find employment?’

‘You get sent where you get sent, Mama, but I know you wouldn’t want me to go to France, and I wouldn’t want to be so far away, so I am hoping to get into something a bit closer, like Netley. In Southampton. Or Brighton Pavilion.’

‘Southampton? Such a dreary place. At least you can get a presentable croissant in France. One hopes that hasn’t changed, at any rate.’

‘The hospital was founded by the late Queen, and she used to visit it several times a year when she was at Osborne House. She used to knit things for the wounded.’

‘I see that you are quite playing upon my respect and admiration for the quality.’

‘I’ve been praying and praying,’ said Rosie, ‘and I am sure that it’s what God wants.’

‘My dear, please, Queen Amelie and the Duchess of Teck are quite enough. To enlist God as well is simply de trop .’

‘She’s been most awfully clever, hasn’t she?’ said Sophie brightly. ‘I wish I was as clever as Rosie.’

‘You probably are,’ observed Ottilie. ‘Everyone suspects that you only pretend to be silly.’

‘Oh no,’ said Sophie, ‘I have no brains at all. I am quite hebetudinous.’

‘Sophie, my dear, I think you’ve just invented a word again,’ said Christabel.

‘Have I? You see, I told you I was silly.’ She paused and put her forefinger to her lips. ‘I think I will knit balaclavas, scarves and stockings for the troops. It’s something I might be able to manage without causing distress or creating too much havoc. I’m just too trivial for anything as grave as nursing.’

‘They also serve who only sit and knit,’ said Ottilie. ‘Apparently you can get all the patterns you need by sending off to the Queen’s lady-in-waiting at Devonshire House. I’ve heard that they’re asking for 300,000 pairs of socks.’

‘Heavens, have I got to write a letter then?’ exclaimed Sophie. ‘How does one address a lady-in-waiting in the post?’

‘I expect Mama knows,’ said Ottilie.

‘I shall find out,’ said their mother. ‘It is bound to be in one of my books of etiquette, or in the first part of my diary. If you have to write to Devonshire House, it may be that the Duchess is the lady-in-waiting concerned.’

‘How amazing that you don’t know,’ teased Ottilie.

Later, as they strolled in the garden after tea, Ottilie said to Rosie, ‘Guess what? I’ve already got a job at Brighton Pavilion. I’m going to be a VAD too!’

‘Ottie, you’re such a dark horse! You pipped me to the post! Have you told Mama and Papa yet?’

‘Gosh, no. But luckily Mama doesn’t know that the troops in Brighton Pavilion are from India. She would positively shudder at the thought of my pink little hands washing them and carrying off their bedpans.’

‘I spoke to an Indian doctor once,’ said Rosie.

‘Did you?’

‘Yes, he was most fantastically civilised. He made me feel quite the barbarian in fact. He told me that if you flay someone there is no way at all to tell what race they belong to. If you think about it, it must be true.’

‘All God’s children? Well, I think that if they’re good enough to come here and die for us when it isn’t really their war at all, then the least we white ladies can do is look after them when they get wounded. That’s what I’m going to do, anyway. I had been wondering how to tell Mama and Papa. I did it all in secret. I was intending to leave a note and vanish, but now that Papa’s ordered us to go out and be useful, the problem’s disappeared.’

‘All those trips to Barker’s and Chieseman’s and Gorringe’s when you didn’t come back with anything!’

Ottilie nodded.

‘You are a dark horse,’ repeated Rosie. She paused for a moment and said, ‘All the same, don’t you think it might be a bit difficult working with Indians? I mean … they’re so different from us, aren’t they?

‘Anything unfamiliar is difficult to begin with,’ said Ottilie calmly. ‘I have looked into it, you know, and I’ve talked to lots of people, and everyone says the same. After a little while you just stop noticing that they’re different from us, and then you end up thinking they’re exactly the same. So I’m sure your Indian doctor was right. To tell the truth, I’m more worried about how they will feel about me. I understand they are quite as ignorant and silly about us as we are about them. I expect the Mahommedans will be appalled to be cared for by an infidel harlot with her face showing.’

‘Well, I won’t tell Mama,’ said Rosie. ‘You can tell her. Or she can find out on her own. Tell Papa first.’