Mary Westmacott - Giant's Bread

‘Yes, but what did you mean by not facing things?’

‘Simply that he won’t admit that there’s anything to face. He’s afraid of minding, so he says there’s nothing to mind. If he’d only admit that it’s a bloody filthy business like I do he’d be all right. But it’s like that old piano business – he won’t look at the thing fair and square. And it’s no good saying “there ain’t no such thing” when there is . But that’s always been Vernon’s way. He’s in good spirits – enjoys everything – and it isn’t natural. I’m afraid of his – Oh! I don’t know what I’m afraid of. But I know that telling yourself fairy stories is about the worst thing you can do. Vernon’s a musician, and he’s got the nerves of a musician. The worst of him is that he doesn’t know anything about himself. He never has.’

Nell looked troubled.

‘Sebastian, what do you think will happen?’

‘Oh, nothing, probably. What I should like to happen would be for Vernon to stop one – in as conveniently painless a place as possible and come back to be nursed for a bit.’

‘How I wish that would happen!’

‘Poor old Nell. It’s rotten for all you people. I’m glad I haven’t got a wife.’

‘If you had –’ Nell paused, then went on. ‘Would you want her to work in a hospital or would you rather she did nothing?’

‘Everybody will be working sooner or later. It’s as well to get down to it as soon as possible, I should say.’

‘Vernon doesn’t like my doing this.’

‘That’s his ostrich act again – plus the reactionary spirit that he’s inherited and will never quite outgrow. Sooner or later he’ll face the fact that women are working – but he won’t admit it till the last minute.’

Nell sighed.

‘How worrying everything is.’

‘I know. And I’ve made things worse for you. But I’m awfully fond of Vernon. He’s the one friend I care about. And I hoped if I told you what I thought you’d encourage him to – well – give way a little – at anyrate to you. But perhaps to you he does let himself go?’

Nell shook her head.

‘He won’t do anything but joke about the war.’

Sebastian whistled.

‘Well, next time – get it out of him. Stick to it.’

Nell said suddenly and sharply: ‘Do you think he’d talk better – to Jane?’

‘To Jane?’ Sebastian looked rather embarrassed. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps. It all depends.’

‘You do think so! Why? Tell me why? Is she more sympathetic, or what?’

‘Oh, Lord, no. Jane’s not exactly sympathetic. Provocative is more the word. You get annoyed with her – and out pops the truth. She makes you aware of yourself in ways you don’t want to be. There’s nobody like Jane for pulling you off your high horse.’

‘You think she’s a lot of influence over Vernon?’

‘Oh! I wouldn’t say that. And anyhow, it wouldn’t matter if she had. She’s doing relief work in Serbia. Sailed a fortnight ago.’

‘Oh!’ said Nell. She drew a deep breath and smiled.

Somehow she felt happier.

‘Darling Nell, – Do you know I dream of you every night. Usually you’re nice to me, but sometimes you’re a little beast. Cold and hard and far away. You couldn’t be that really, could you? Not now. Darling, will the indelible pencil ever come off?

‘Nell, sweetheart, I never believe I’m going to be killed, but if I were what would it matter? We’ve had so much. You’d think of me always as happy and loving you, wouldn’t you, sweetheart? I know I’d go on loving you after I was dead. That’s the only bit of me that couldn’t die. I love you – love you – love you …’

He had never written to her quite like that before. She put the letter in its usual place.

That day she was absent-minded at the hospital. She forgot things. The men noticed it.

‘Nurse is daydreaming.’ They teased her, making little jokes. And she laughed back.

It was so wonderful, so very wonderful to be loved. Sister Westhaven was in a temper, Nurse Potts slacked more than usual. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Even the monumental Sister Jenkins who came on night duty and was always full of pessimism failed to impress her with any kind of gloom.

‘Ah!’ Sister Jenkins would say, settling her cuffs and moving three double chins round inside her collar in an effort to alleviate their mass. ‘No. 3 still alive? You surprise me. I didn’t think he’d last through the day. Well, he’ll be gone tomorrow, poor young chap. (Sister Jenkins was always prophesying that patients would be gone tomorrow and the failure of her prognostications to come true never seemed to induce in her a more hopeful attitude.) I don’t like the look of No. 18 – that last operation was worse than useless. No. 8 is going to take a turn for the worse unless I’m much mistaken. I said so to Doctor, but he didn’t listen to me. Now then, Nurse (with sudden acerbity) no need for you to hang about. Off duty is off duty.’ Nell accepted this gracious permission to depart, well aware that if she had not lingered Sister Jenkins would have asked her, ‘What she meant by hurrying away like that – not even willing to wait a minute over time?’

It took twenty minutes to walk home. The night was a clear starry one and Nell enjoyed the walk. If only Vernon could have been walking beside her.

She let herself into the house very quietly with her latch-key. Her landlady always went to bed early. On the tray in the hall was an orange-coloured envelope.

She knew then …

Telling herself that it wasn’t – that it couldn’t be – that he was only wounded – surely he was only wounded … yet she knew …

A sentence from the letter she had received that morning leapt out at her. ‘ Nell, sweetheart, I never believe I am going to be killed, but if I were what would it matter? We’ve had so much …’

He had never written like that before … He must have felt – have known. Sensitive people did know sometimes beforehand.

She stood there, holding the telegram. Vernon – her lover, her husband … She stood there a long time …

Then at last she opened the telegram which informed her with deep regret that Lieutenant Vernon Deyre had been killed in action.

A Memorial Service was held for Vernon in the little old church at Abbotsford under the shadows of Abbots Puissants, as it had been held for his father. The two last of the Deyres were not to lie in the family vault. One in South Africa, one in France.

In Nell’s memory afterwards the proceedings seemed shadowed by the monumental bulk of Mrs Levinne – a vast matriarchal figure dwarfing everything else. She herself had to bite her lips not to laugh hysterically. The whole thing was so funny somehow – so unlike Vernon.

Her mother was there, elegant and aloof, Uncle Sydney was there, in black broadcloth, restraining himself from jingling his money with great difficulty, and with a suitable ‘mourner’s’ face. Myra Deyre was there in heavy crape, weeping copiously and unrestrainedly. But it was Mrs Levinne who dominated the proceedings. She came back with them afterwards to the sitting-room at the inn, identifying herself with the family.

‘Poor dear boy – poor dear gallant boy. I’ve always thought of him like another thon.’

She was genuinely distressed. Tears splashed down on her black bodice. She patted Myra on the shoulder.

‘Now, now, my dear, you mustn’t take on so. You mustn’t indeed. It’s our duty, all of us, to bear up. You gave him to his country. You couldn’t do more. Here’s Nell – as brave as can be.’