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War Workers

<h3>XII</h3> The next morning Char came back to the office. She found her table loaded with violets and a blazing fire on the hearth. Miss Delmege greeted her with an air of admiring wonder, suffused by a tinge of respectful pity, and ventured to hope that Sir Piers Vivian was better. No one else was sufficiently daring to approach so personal a topic, but little Miss Anthony, blushing brightly, turned round at the door just as she was leaving the room with her work, and said stammeringly that it was so nice to see Miss Vivian back in the office again. Char smiled. She was still looking ill, and she knew that her departure from Plessing had been a severe strain on her barely recovered strength. The effort of giving her attention to the arrears of work which required it taxed all her powers of determination. "Is this all the back work, Miss Delmege?" "Yes, I think so, Miss Vivian." "There are several things here which ought to have been brought to me." "I suppose Miss Jones didn't know." "But she ought to have known. It was most annoying having to leave so much to her. She hasn't the necessary experience for one thing, and is far too fond of acting on her own initiative." It gave Char a curious satisfaction to say this in the cool and judicial tones of complete impartiality. "I shall have a fearful amount to do with these back numbers. Bring me the Hospital files, and the Belgian file, and W.O. letters—and—yes, let me see—Colonial Officers. That will do for the moment; and send for Miss Collins, please." The stenographer entered the room with her most dégagé swing, and seated herself opposite to Char, her pad poised upon her crossed knees. "Good-morning, Miss Vivian," she said gaily. "Nice to see you back again. I hope you've quite got over the influenza?" "Thank you," said Char icily. "Please take down a letter to the O.C. London General Hospital." She dictated rapidly, but Miss Collins's shorthand was never at a loss, and at the end of forty minutes she still appeared tireless and quite unruffled. "That will do, for the moment." Miss Collins uncrossed her knees, and looked up. "I shall be wanting ten days' leave, Miss Vivian," was her unprecedented remark. The scratching of Miss Delmege's pen paused for a moment, and, although she did not turn round, a tremor agitated her neat, erect back. Char looked at her unabashed typist. "There will be no Christmas leave," she said curtly, taking the resolution on the instant. "I expect I shall want it before Christmas—about the end of this week. The fact is—" "I'm sorry, but it's quite out of the question. Naturally, one rule applies to the whole staff, and I shall not expect any one to be absent from duty except on Christmas Day itself, which will be treated as a Sunday. As for ten days, the suggestion is absurd, Miss Collins. I consider that you've practically had ten days' holiday during my absence—and more." "I've been here every day as usual, and cut any number of stencils, and rolled them off," Miss Collins cried indignantly. "I'm glad to hear it. Why do you want leave now?" Miss Collins giggled, tried to look coy, and at last said in triumphant tones, which strove to sound matter-of-fact: "I'm going to be married." There was silence. Char was drawing a design absently on her blotting-pad. "My friend is getting leave at the end of next week, and we've settled to be married before he goes out again. He's an Australian boy." "Of course, that slightly alters the case," Char said at last, stiffly. "Do you wish to go on working here just the same?" "Oh, yes, Miss Vivian. What I feel is, that with him out there, I simply must be doing my bit at home. It'll take my mind off, too, like, and as he says—" Char interrupted her ruthlessly. "In the circumstances, Miss Collins, you can take eight days' leave at the end of this week. But I may tell you that you have chosen a most inconvenient moment, with the Christmas rush coming on and a great deal of back work to be done." Her manner was a dismissal. Miss Collins left the room. "Miss Delmege, do you think that we could find some one to replace Miss Collins?" "For the time—or permanently?" "While she's away, I meant. It would be difficult to get any one permanently in her place, I'm afraid. Besides, she's an extremely good stenographer, and I can't afford to have one who'll make mistakes." Char paused, and her feminine curiosity conquered official aloofness. "Did you know that she was engaged to be married?" "I've seen her wearing a ring, but, naturally, I never come across her except officially," was the haughty response of her secretary. But however detached she might proclaim herself to be, Miss Delmege did not keep the news of Miss Collins's wedding to herself. In less than twenty-four hours it was known all over the office. It was perhaps fortunate that the Director of the Midland Supply Depôt did not know the number of departments in her office that interspersed the day's work with discussions as to what Miss Collins would wear as a wedding-dress. The interest of it almost eclipsed the sensation of Char's own installation at the Hostel. She arrived there at nine o'clock that night. It would have been possible for her to leave the office a good deal earlier, but she was aware that the members of her staff would not expect any deviation from her usual iron rule, and were probably telling one another at that moment how wonderful it was to think that Miss Vivian should never have her dinner before half-past nine at night. Char, tired and oddly apprehensive, was inclined to think it rather wonderful herself. The door of the Hostel stood open to the street, as usual, but since the air-raid over Questerham all lights had been carefully shaded, and only the faintest glimmer of a rather dismal green light appeared to welcome Char as she rang the bell. She thought that the hall looked narrow and dingy, and a large box took up an inconvenient amount of space at the foot of the stairs. Then it occurred to her, with an unpleasant sense of recognition, that the box was her own. "Is that Miss Vivian?" came a voice through the gloom. "Won't you come in?" Char came in, gingerly enough. Then a match was struck, and Mrs. Bullivant anxiously held up a lighted candle to guide her footsteps. "Just down the step, Miss Vivian, and I've got supper all ready for you in my sitting-room. I thought you'd like it best there. Our dining-room is in the basement, you know." "Thank you; this will do very well." Char looked round the tiny room rather wonderingly. Preparations for a meal stood on a table that was obviously a writing-table pushed against the wall and covered with a white cloth. "It'll be ready in one minute, Miss Vivian," repeated the Hostel Superintendent nervously. "I'll just go and tell the cook. I expect you must be hungry, and would rather have supper first, and then go to your room. And I'm very sorry, but we've had to leave your trunk downstairs. The stairs are rather too narrow, and the maids thought they couldn't manage it." Mrs. Bullivant went away, as though supposing that the last word had been said upon the subject of the trunk. Char thought otherwise. In a few minutes Mrs. Bullivant came back with a tray, on which stood a cup of cocoa, another one of soup, and a plate with two pieces of bread. "I thought you'd like soup, as it's such a cold night," she said triumphantly. "Now, you must tell me if you have any special likes and dislikes, won't you? I do so hope you'll be fairly comfortable here, Miss Vivian. I can't tell you how very much it's impressed all the girls, your coming here like this, for the sake of the work. I'm afraid it won't be as comfortable as Plessing." The same fear was also taking very definite possession of Char's mind. She pulled up a low cane-seated chair to the table and began the soup and bread. The cocoa, already poured out, must, it was evident, be allowed to get cool until the arrival of a next course. This proved to be a dish of scrambled eggs, and was followed by one large baked apple. Char felt thankful that she had refused her maid's solicitations to come with her. Preston confronted by such a meal, either for herself or for Miss Vivian, was quite unthinkable. Char thought of Plessing and the dinner that had awaited her there every evening, with Miss Bruce hovering anxiously round the other end of the table, with something like homesickness. Then she derided herself, half laughing. What did food matter, after all? But she decided that Miss Delmege must be told to find her rooms in Questerham as soon as possible. Then Preston could join her. This last thought was prompted by Char's strong disinclination to unpack, a duty which she realized now would, for the first time, devolve upon herself. It would not be facilitated by the prominent position given to her trunk in the hall of the Hostel. "Mrs. Bullivant," said Char, when the Superintendent returned, "my trunk must be taken up to my room, please." Her tone was unmistakably, and quite intentionally, that of the Director of the Midland Supply Depôt issuing instructions to a member of her staff. "Yes, Miss Vivian," automatically replied the little Superintendent, and added desperately: "But I'm afraid that cook and Mrs. Smith won't do it—not if they've once said they won't." Char raised her eyebrows. "If the servants don't obey your orders they must leave," she said. "But isn't there any one else?" "Perhaps two of the girls—" Mrs. Bullivant hesitated, and then left the room. Char heard her open the door of the next room, which she knew must be the sitting-room, and a babel of voices immediately became audible. She waited, rather annoyed. Mrs. Bullivant came out into the hall, followed by quite a large group. "This is it. Look, dears, can you manage it? Miss Henderson, dear, you're tall." "Oh, yes. It's only up one flight, and it isn't a very large box—only an awkward shape. Will some one give me a hand?" Miss Plumtree, who was sturdy, came to assist, and between them, with a great deal of straining and pulling, and many anxious ejaculations from the door-way of the sitting-room, they slowly lifted the box. "Don't hurt yourself, now!" cried Mrs. Bullivant. "Get it from underneath, Henderson!" "Mind the paint on the wall!" "Mind the banisters!" "Oh, mind what you're doing, Greengage!" Similar helpful ejaculations resounded, as the two girls carried the box up the first flight of narrow stairs. Just as they reached the top step, Char heard the small, clear voice of her secretary, standing in the hall. "Can you manage, or shall I help you?" There was a general laugh, echoed from above, as Miss Henderson's voice came briefly down to them: "Thanks, Delmege; just like you, dear, but we happen to have finished." They all laughed again. Char, through the half-open door, saw Miss Delmege tossing her fair head. "I'm afraid I don't quite see the point of the joke," she observed acidly. "Now go in to the fire again, all of you," Mrs. Bullivant exclaimed. "Miss Vivian will hear you if you chatter like this in the hall. I'll tell her the box is safely upstairs." When she returned to impart the information, Char had shut the door of her little room again. "Wouldn't you like to come upstairs, Miss Vivian?" the Superintendent asked her timidly. "They've managed to get your box up all right, and I expect you'll be wanting to unpack." Char wanted nothing less, but she realized that the unwelcome task must of necessity precede her night's rest, and went upstairs with Mrs. Bullivant. The bedroom seemed to her very tiny, and, indeed, what space there was, her box and dressing-bag mainly occupied. It was also exceedingly cold. When Mrs. Bullivant had wished her good-night, with a certain wistful air of expecting an enthusiasm which Char felt quite unable to display, she slipped on her fur coat and began to tug at the strap of her trunk. The process of unpacking at least succeeded in warming her. But there was hardly any room to put away even the limited number of belongings that she had brought, and Char told herself rather indignantly that Mrs. Bullivant seemed to be a most incompetent manager, and might at least have provided her employer with a respectably sized bedroom in her own Hostel. Towards ten o'clock she heard the sitting-room door opened, and a general whispering and rustling proclaimed that several people were coming upstairs. Char did not, however, at once realize the full significance of the fact that her own room adjoined the bathroom. A thin but incessant stream of conversation began, punctuated by the loud hissing of a kettle which had overboiled upon the gas-ring. "How's the water tonight?" "Fair to middling. I don't know who is having baths, but there won't be enough water for more than two." "It's only tepid as it is." "I am hungry," proclaimed a plaintive voice in incautiously raised tones. "H'sh-sh! You'll disturb Miss Vivian. Why are you hungry at this hour, Tony?" "Well, we didn't have anything frightfully substantial for supper, did we? and I had to go after the scrambled eggs, because I was on telephone duty. So I didn't even have any pudding." "Oh, poor kid! Couldn't Mrs. Bullivant have got you something?" "I didn't like to ask her; she's so worried tonight, what with Miss Vivian's coming and everything. Besides"—Tony's voice sounded very serious—"there never is anything, you know. Only tomorrow's breakfast." "Hasn't any one got some biscuits?" "I'll go down to the kitchen and find some milk for you," said the peculiarly distinct tones of Grace Jones. "I know where it's kept." "Oh, why should you bother?" "It isn't at all a bother. You must be starving." Char heard Miss Jones going downstairs again, and then a triumphant voice proclaimed: "I know who has some biscuits! Plumtree. She brought them back from her holiday. I'll go and ask her." "Come on!" Evidently Tony and Miss Marsh felt an equal certainty that Miss Plumtree's biscuits could be looked upon as community goods. There was a silence, before a voice from the next story cried urgently down the stairs: "I say, is my kettle boiling? I put it on the gas-ring ages ago, as I went upstairs. Will some one have a look?" "It boiled over some time ago," Miss Delmege proclaimed very distinctly. "I took it off for you." "Thanks very much. I'll come." There was a hasty descent, evidently in bedroom slippers, and then a long whispered colloquy of which Miss Vivian heard only her own name. Evidently Miss Delmege, at least, had not forgotten the proximity of her chief. Char several times heard her "H'sh!" her companions in a sibilant and penetrating whisper. "You can't want to wash brushes at this hour!" "My dear, I simply must. Just let me have the basin half a minute; I've got the water all ready." "This your kettle?" "Yes, dear, thank you." "Oh, Mrs. Potter, have you actually got some ammonia in that water? I wish you'd let me do my brushes with yours." "Of course, Miss Marsh. There's plenty of room." "Well, good-night, girls," from Miss Delmege. "It may seem strange to you, me going to bed before ten o'clock, but it's the life. One gets tired, somehow." "Good-nights" resounded, and one door banged after another. There was splashing in the bathroom for a little while, and then silence. Char realized with dismay that she had no hot water, and that the brass kettle on her washing-stand was empty. After reflection, she filled it from the jug, and decided that she must go to the bathroom where the gas-ring was. She would not have been averse to being seen by her mother just then. War-work under these conditions could not be mistaken for anything but the grim reality that it was. Lady Vivian, however, not being present, Char performed her domestic labours unobserved, and went shivering to her bed. She wondered if any one would call her in the morning. This, however, proved not to be necessary. The walls were thin and the stairs only carpeted with oilcloth, and before seven o'clock Char was startled out of sleep by a prolonged whirring sound overhead, which she only identified as that of an alarm-clock, when footsteps hastily crossed the floor above, and it ceased abruptly. "Who on earth wants to get up at this hour, when they none of them start work before half-past nine!" she reflected rather disgustedly. But she remembered that Mrs. Bullivant's duties as Superintendent might include the supervision of Mrs. Smith's arrival every morning and the preparation of breakfast, when a step stole past her door, and the reflection of a lighted candle was flung for a moment on the wall. Conversations in the bathroom were much briefer in the morning than at night. Evidently every one was too cold, or in too much of a hurry, to talk, although there were sounds of coming and going from half-past seven onwards. Char went to the bathroom herself at eight o'clock, selecting a moment when it appeared to be empty. She went behind the curtains that screened off the bath from the rest of the room, and found the water very cold. "Very bad management somewhere," she reflected austerely, and wondered why it should be difficult to provide boiling water by eight o'clock in the morning. She felt chilled, and not at all rested. In the little sitting-room downstairs she found a rapidly cooling plate of bacon, uncovered, but solicitously placed on the floor close to the gas-fire, and some large, irregular slices of toast. Marmalade stood in a potted meat jar. It cannot be denied that Miss Vivian flung an agonized thought to the memory of the admirably furnished breakfast-tray provided for her each morning by the agency of the invaluable Preston at Plessing. Still very cold, and feeling utterly disinclined for the day's work, Char donned her fur coat over her uniform and went out. She was not unconscious of the likelihood that her exit from the Hostel might be observed from the windows, and reflected that it would be incumbent on her for the present to take advantage of her new quarters by starting for the office at least an hour earlier than any one else. But again she found here inconveniences which she had not taken into consideration. The fire in her office was not yet lit, and the charwoman who had charge of keeping the building in order greeted her with frank dismay. "Your room isn't done yet, miss." Miss Vivian, exasperated, and colder than ever, set her lips together in a line of endurance. "You can leave it for today, and in future I wish it to be ready for me by nine o'clock. Please light the fire at once." The stage of lighting the fire, however, was further off than she realized, and she was obliged to sit huddled in her fur coat, opening letters with mottled, shaking hands that were turning rapidly purple, while the charwoman made an excruciating raking sound at the grate, put up an elaborate and exceedingly deliberate erection of coal, sticks, and newspaper, and finally applied to it a match which resulted in a little pale, cold flame which did not seem to Char productive of any warmth whatever. She sat at her table and wrote: "DEAREST BRUCEY, "Will you send me every woollen garment I have in the world, please? Preston will find them. The cold here is quite appalling, and, of course, one feels the absence of proper heating arrangements at the Hostel terribly. It is, however, naturally much more convenient for me to be able to give more time to the work, which is fearfully heavy after my absence, and will probably increase every day now. I am writing from the office, having been able to get in very early. It might not be a bad plan, later on, to put in a couple of hours' work before breakfast, but please don't let the suggestion dismay you! I shall move into rooms as soon as my secretary can find some, and probably send for Preston. She could be quite useful to me in several ways. "There is a mountain of papers on my table, all waiting to be dealt with, so I can't go on writing; but I know how much you wanted to hear if the Hostel had proved at all possible. Don't worry, dear old Brucey, as I really can manage perfectly well for the present, in spite of the bitter cold and poor Mrs. Bullivant's hopeless bad management. She had not even arranged for my box to be taken upstairs; and as for hot water, decently served meals, or proper waiting, they are simply unknown quantities. I dare say I shall have to make one or two drastic changes. You won't forget to ring me up if there is any change in father's condition, of course. I could come out at once. This anxiety underlying all one's work is heart-breaking, but I know that I was right to decide as I did, and stick to my post. "Yours as ever, "CH. VIVIAN. "P.S.—Do as you like about reading this letter to my mother." It was fairly certain in what direction Miss Bruce's "liking" would take her on the point, and it was not without satisfaction that Char felt the certainty of her voluntarily embraced hardships becoming known at Plessing. Her letter to Miss Bruce somehow restored to her that sense of her own adequacy which physical conditions of discomfort, against which she had felt unable to react, had almost destroyed. When Miss Jones came to work, a few minutes earlier than usual, she noted, with a regret that was not altogether impersonal, the cold, bluish aspect of her employer's complexion, and wondered if she dared infringe on Miss Delmege's cherished privilege of producing a foot-warmer. But she was not aware that her own excellent circulation, quite unmistakably displayed in her face and in an unusually white pair of capable hands, formed a distinct addition to the sum of calamities that had befallen Miss Vivian. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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