The Wars

  Their mother, Lady Emmeline, often declared she would have been happy to be a dairy maid—although, her version of a dairy maid had little to do with the real thing. What she meant, undoubtedly, was that she longed for a simpler life than she had. She was both a good wife and a good mother—and delighted in being the second. Her children, her gardens and her belief in God were all that mattered to her. But she extended her energies to providing her husband and children with a life in town even though it was basically abhorrent to her because she believed it was her duty to keep every avenue of social contact open to them. Daughters could not have a social life if their mothers did not provide it. And sons could not make marriages where a mother was conspicuously absent. As for the Marquis—she knew he could not be happy with his mistress unless his wife was there to drive him into her arms. This gave him all the reputation he needed with his peers and it kept him out of her bedroom. The last time she had thwarted him and gone off to St Aubyn’s in the middle of the season, he had become so disenchanted with his mistress that he followed Lady Emmeline home—bedded her and got her pregnant with Temple. Temple was now five—and had been a late child. The experience had nearly killed Lady Emmeline and both her doctor and personal love of life had warned her it did not bear repeating.

  Now that the war had come and settled over their lives, there was more and more reason for Lady Emmeline to remain in the country without a bad conscience. Especially since the Zeppelin raids had begun. Juliet and Temple must be kept entirely away from London. Clive, who had already been in France, and Michael, who was about to receive his commission, needed a haven to which they could retreat from the horrors of Kitchener’s army—(that was Lady Emmeline’s way of putting it)—and Barbara needed the stability of country life to offset the increasingly free-and-easy tenor of the life she led in town. Soon, however, St Aubyn’s became much more than a haven for her sons and an anchor for her daughter. Once the reality of Flanders struck and it was clear that the horrors of Kitchener’s army were real and omnipresent, a flood of Clive and Barbara’s friends in need of rest began to give the place the feel of a hostel. In the end, despite the awesome invasion it would mean of her precious privacy it was the Marchioness herself who decided that her home could not remain a private sanctuary. Once she saw the good it did ‘those poor young men’—she went up to London and quickly got the Marquis to pull the necessary strings to provide her with a charter declaring St Aubyn’s a convalescent hospital. Four doctors and ten nurses and several orderlies were brought in. Friends were solicited for the provision of ambulances and medical supplies. A Fund was established. Well into middle life, Lady Emmeline had discovered her vocation. This was not to be a ‘mother’ and a ‘wife’ but to be a matron in a home for wayward boys. By March 1916 St Aubyn’s had achieved such high standards it came under the patronage of Queen Alexandra. Even the Marquis was impressed by that. He was of an age to have fallen under the spell of her beauty when she was still the Princess of Wales, and now, though she was an old and lacquered woman, he was sufficiently impressed by the fact of her honouring his name to come back home and walk around the wards with his wife’s hand on his arm. This was about the time that Robert Ross returned from the Battle of St Eloi and accepted an invitation to visit St Aubyn’s. It was issued in Taffler’s name—but it bore a forged signature.

  Transcript: Lady Juliet d’Orsey—2

  I must admit to a lifelong love affair with curiosity. There was never a question I wouldn’t ask—and rarely an answer I wasn’t given. I don’t know why that was. When I think back and hear myself—some of the questions must’ve been stupefyingly rude—but it may be I was given the answers because I had no guile. I wasn’t cute, you understand. Or coy. I was precocious—yes: but I had no awareness of that. I can’t remember a single instance in which I was patted on the head. Perhaps I was rather like a dwarf. I never played with other children. The only child I ever had anything to do with was my sister Temple. She was five. My heart adored her—but I also recognized that she was strange. I respected her—but out of fear. She didn’t say her first words till she was three-and-a-half years old. Not a single word till then—and then, in the nursery one afternoon at tea, she said: ‘I want another egg.’ Wilson, our nurse, was very wise. I saw her pale and then with hardly any pause at all she turned to Temple and said: ‘You didn’t say please.’ ‘Please,’ said Temple and that was that. She got the egg. We were all extraordinary. One way and another. I think the fact was, we had reached our genetic peak. Clive was a genius. So was Temple. Michael and Barbara were beautiful beyond compare. And—there isn’t any point in modesty—I was this malapert dwarf with a notebook. At the end of every day, I put down everything that happened—intrigues—conversations—all my questions—all the answers and all the things I’d seen. The affairs of my brothers and my sister—all their friends and all my parents’ friends provided me with endless pleasure. The folly and the anguish of the adult world was food and drink to me and I never thought for a moment it might not be my business. I never took part, you see. Not ever, I was a born observer. Boswell in bows. These diaries will tell you what you want to know, I think. But I warn you—I was ears and eyes and that was all. The conclusions are for you to make. These—(THE DIARIES,)—begin in March. They end in May. Robert’s leave was extended twice because of his knees. In the course of his time with us he went to London for consultations with a doctor there. The second time, he had a minor operation. Something corrective—the sort of operation performed in the doctor’s offices. He was with us both as a friend and as a patient. As a friend, he was given a room of his own. I think that’s all you need to know as a background—so, I’ll start to read. I won’t read everything. The dates are unimportant. You know when this all happened.

  We now have fourteen men. Seven want around-the-clock attention. Of the others, five are on their feet and they walk in the gardens. It rains a lot, but the daffodils have just begun to bloom and the vista down towards the lake is spotted with them bobbing in the breeze. I counted over a hundred yellow heads before they began to blur and I was afraid I’d started counting twice. There’s a nurse I don’t like called Babbington. She never smiles at all and calls me Lady Julie. What if I called her ‘Babbins’? I bet she’d stop—but I’m not going to stoop that low. The next time she calls me Lady Julie I shall look the other way. Robert Ross, another Canadian, came up from town today. Barbara was supposed to be here to meet him but she wasn’t. She was off somewhere in the hinterlands. Mother was in her office when he arrived and she came out wearing her jumper. Really, she can be so exasperating. Then she didn’t remember why Robert Ross was here and she said to him: ‘Shall I call you a nurse to take you to your room?’ as if he was a patient and I’m certain he thought she was peculiar. I was sitting on the stairs and I said that I would look after him. That was fine. Mother said she’d come along and see him later, once he was in his pajamas!!! What’s the use, sometimes? He was jolly decent, though. He didn’t even smile until she’d gone away. I said: ‘She’s just preoccupied. At teatime, she’ll be mortified and make a thousand apologies. Pay no attention. You’ll get used to her. I have.’ I liked him at once. His jaw is absolutely square and he has the nicest hair that won’t lie down. He limps and he told me it was in his knees. Going along the gallery he said he thought that Barbara must be with Captain Taffler and I said no, I didn’t think so but maybe. The truth was I wasn’t really certain where she was but I found it awfully embarrassing since it seemed from the way he talked that he didn’t know about the captain and I decided I would play his ignorance by ear. His room is the one with Lady Sorrel’s ghost. I told him to expect her every night at two but not to wait up for her since she isn’t really all that exciting. I told him what to do when she lights the candles—just to wait until she’s gone and blow them out. If she comes and goes and he’s sound asleep it’s a waste of candles but that can’t be helped. I told him if he could bear the draught he should leave the windows open and that way
the breeze will blow them out. I told him nobody dressed for dinner. Army officers couldn’t be expected to trundle their evening clothes around in those funny little bags. I sat on the bed and watched him unpack. He had a satchel full of books and I asked him what they were and he showed me: sketch books with toads and things. I said they were jolly good and he said thank you but they weren’t his own. A friend in France had done them. After that he set them open on the mantel and beside the toads there’s a rabbit and a mouse. His friend is dead. I didn’t ask. Then he wanted to know where my own room was and I told him down the hall. I said: ‘I sort of waver on the verge of the nursery so that Wilson can keep an eye on me. Most of the time I give her the slip. She doesn’t care. Her hands are full with Temple.’ I told him who Temple is and he said it was nice to have a child around. He said he had a brother who was younger and a sister who was older and a sister who was dead. He said his brother was about my age and I just said oh. The truth is, I felt rather sorry for him having a brother my age because I haven’t met a single boy of twelve I liked. Twelve is a dreadful age in boys. All they do is blow farts and giggle. They think they’re all so dreadfully funny and haven’t an ounce of taste or intellect. I don’t know how they grow up into men. The thought that Michael and Clive were ever that age simply makes the mind boggle. Ugh! I’m glad I didn’t know them then. Anyway, Robert Ross was mostly interested in Barbara and Captain Taffler so I finally took the bull between the horns and said that Captain Taffler was just downstairs and why not go and visit with him now? That seemed the right thing to say because I could see a funny look pass through his eyes when I said the word visit. The penny hadn’t dropped but at least it was rolling around and whether he knew it or not he was getting himself prepared for something to be wrong. He took his army jacket off and showed me an old woolly cardigan and asked if it would be all right to put that on and I said yes, of course. One look at mother should have told him that. Then we went and looked at Temple, who was sitting on the window seat. Wilson was trying to get the fire not to smoke but since the shortage of coal we’ve had to burn all kinds of things and whatever it was had an acrid smell and the nursery had a sort of layer of haze. The light outside was very bright and at first we couldn’t see Temple’s face. She looked like an angel sitting in a halo. Both of them just stared. It made me feel most strange. Then we left. When we were going along the gallery again towards the other wing so I could take him down the Parson’s stairs to visit with Captain Taffler there was laughter in the lower hall and, looking over, there was Barbara. And Major Terry. They had been at Cambridge and their arms were filled with packages. It’s odd to see my sister and my mother holding things. I’ll never get used to it. Seems like yesterday there was a hand on every door and all you had to do was turn your back and someone took your cloak. I don’t mind, of course. But Barbara never looks her best with packages. Anyway, there they were laughing and they hadn’t seen us and I waited to see whether Robert Ross would make a move in her direction but he didn’t. This time, the penny rolled towards the slot. I felt very badly. I could see he was dreadfully worried, wondering where Major Terry fitted into the scheme of things and what it must mean he would find when he opened Captain Taffler’s door. Then we went down the other way by Parson’s and came to the room. Poor Robert Ross. It wasn’t fair. I’d bungled it and should have been more forthright when he’d mentioned Captain Taffler first. The shock was terrible. I tried to imagine someone like Michael losing both his arms and no one telling me and me just barging in and finding him that way. But Captain Taffler made things easier when he winked at me and said that I should stand outside the door and keep the baboon at bay. I didn’t know what he meant exactly till I saw Nurse Babbington. Then I realized that Captain Taffler didn’t like her either and that she was the ‘baboon.’ I decided I should call her that myself. It’s so much more imaginative than Babbins.

  Supper was dire. Mother prattled. There were six of us. I was allowed to stay down so there’d be the right number of ladies. This meant putting on the dress which I hate. The smocking pinches my breasts which mother won’t admit I’m sprouting. The other day when Wilson was rubbing them with the ghastly oil she says will make them peak, mother came in and absolutely shrieked, ‘What are you doing, Wilson?’ and when Wilson explained mother went into another shrieking fit and, staring at my breasts she said, ‘Don’t you understand she can’t have breasts? She’s only twelve!’ Then she went down the hall and I could hear her telling Barbara and then she went and told Doctor Withrow. Now I feel like a freak. I’m supposed to eat a lot of spinach—whatever that means. Anyway—at supper tonight there was mother and me and Barbara and Major Terry and Michael and Robert Ross. Mother has a rule that men from battle won’t be asked questions and another rule that Michael is not to ‘rave’ about the war the way he does every chance he gets. It was ludicrous. There we sat—with Robert Ross still in shock I think—and everyone was talking about Marrydown Cider. Mother let me have a glass of wine. I think she thinks it makes me sleepy. Here I am—and the clock has just struck twelve. Sort of like me. Barbara spent the whole time watching Robert Ross and I guess that means the end of Major Terry. Clive is coming tomorrow, bringing friends.

  Last night, very late, I heard somebody walking and I thought it might be Lady Sorrel so I got up to see. I was thinking that if I followed her into Robert Ross’s room I could blow out the candles and tell him how sorry I am for what I did. I shall always feel guilty that I didn’t prepare him for seeing Captain Taffler. And I wonder if there’s something mean in my spirit that makes me do these things. Three times I had the chance to say he hasn’t any arms and three times I didn’t say it. Maybe I should ask Clive. Clive is lovely the way he forgives you. If we were Romans I could go and tell a priest. Maybe the priest would forgive me. That would be so much easier than having to go and apologize to Lieutenant Ross. Anyway—it can’t have been two o’clock yet because it wasn’t Lady Sorrel walking in the hall. It was Barbara. She was coming out of Major Terry’s bedroom and I distinctly heard her saying: ‘Don’t be such a jackass, Ralph. Goodnight.’ Then she went along past me but didn’t see me because my door was only open a crack and I saw her pause by Robert Ross’s door and my hair just stood on end! He’s only been here a few hours and they hardly even spoke at supper. What can it mean? She wavered there quite a few moments and I saw her put her hand out almost as far as his door but then she withdrew it and held it behind her back. Then she looked right at me, but again she didn’t see me and then she turned around and went down the hall toward the Parson’s stairs and I thought this was just too intriguing so I slipped out and followed her. I was just too late. All I heard was a door clicking closed—but it must’ve been Captain Taffler’s. Underneath, there was a sliver of light. But I didn’t hear a sound. I waited quite a while but Babbington came around the corner and I had to shrink into a doorway. Then I got too frightened to stay and ran all the way back here. This morning I did another mean thing which I just couldn’t help. I was looking through the toy box for some dominoes and found our old Pin The Tail On The Donkey game and—honestly—simply not able to stop myself because it was just too perfect—I crept around the corner and slipped it under Major Terry’s door.

  (Really! said Lady Juliet at this point. Wasn’t I an awful child! That poor man. He came down to breakfast absolutely ashen and hardly said a word the rest of the whole day. But what l’d done I think in the long run made things easier for Barbara and Robert. Major Terry accepted the fact—all too quickly I think—that Barbara had put the donkey under his door and he withdrew from her company as if he’d been stung. I don’t think he ever mentioned the prank to Barbara because I’m certain she’d have come to me about it. After all, who else had access to the toy box except Temple and Wilson and it was hardly likely they’d have done it. At any rate, the fact was Major Terry took the hint and was gone by the end of the weekend.)

  Clive arrived with masses of people. All his pacifist friends. I think t
hey want to persuade him not to go back—but he’s going. At least he says he is. Michael loathes and detests them. He says they’re ruining the war. It’s supposed to be very bad for everyone’s morale to have them about. This afternoon he had a fight with Clive in the nursery. They fought in there because there wasn’t anywhere else they could go where the pacifists couldn’t hear them. The fight was about Mrs Lawrence. Mrs Lawrence is a German lady (Fat!!!) and Michael says they want to put her in jail. He says it is because she and Mr Lawrence signalled to the Zeppelins from their garden in the dead of night. And Clive said that was just a horrible rumour and no one had proved a thing. And Michael said even if it was a rumour her brother Baron Von Richthofen had killed a lot of brave British airmen and it wasn’t right and proper to have such a woman in our house with men like Taffler lying downstairs without arms. And Clive said if that’s the way Michael feels then what on earth is the war about? And they went on hours like this till Wilson said if they didn’t stop she’d have to ban them from the nursery and the whole thing was very bad and upsetting to ‘my lady’—meaning Temple, and I thought there’s a fat chance of that, the way Temple sat there beaming at them both. She thought it was marvellous. Afterwards, at tea, Michael made a lot of noise stomping around the drawing room with his riding boots and every time one of the pacifists started to speak Michael called across the room to someone else and asked them at the top of his voice if they wanted more sandwiches or cake. Mother sat in the middle of it all trying to persuade Major Terry there was ‘absolutely no reason in the world she could think of why he should leave so suddenly and wouldn’t he change his mind…?’ All of this gave me the giggles and I thought one other thing was sort of strange. I mean that I don’t understand why Clive wears his uniform when the pacifists come. Shouldn’t he wear a suit? Later, all the pacifists went and sat at the bottom of the garden by the hedge. Looking down the lawn, you could see them there in the shadows leaning their heads together, smoking cigarettes and talking very seriously. Then every once in a while Mrs Woolf would throw back her head and laugh. Mrs Woolf is my idol. She wears such marvellous clothes and hats. I like the way she sits, with her knees drawn up till they nearly touch her chin and she smokes at least a dozen cigarettes just sitting on the lawn! We were standing on the terrace and there they all were at the end of the garden—about eight or nine of them with Clive—and Michael said to mother: ‘Why do they huddle like that?’ And mother said: ‘I think it’s because they’re literary, dear.’