II
a€?I think it so wrong, dear Agatha,a€said one of my mothera€?s elderly friends, a€?that you should go and work in hospital on a Sunday. Sunday is the day of rest. You should have your Sundays off.a€?
a€?How do you suppose the men would have their wounds dressed, get themselves washed, be given bed-pans, have their beds made and get their teas if nobody worked on a Sunday?a€I asked. a€?After all, they couldna€?t do without all those things for twenty-four hours, could they?a€?
a€?Oh dear, I never thought of that. But there ought to be some arrangement.a€?
Three days before Christmas Archie suddenly got leave. I went up with my mother to London to meet him. It was in my mind, I think, that we might get married. A good many people were doing so now.
a€?I dona€?t see,a€I said, a€?how we can go on being careful and thinking of the future with everyone getting killed like this.a€?
My mother agreed. a€?No,a€she said. a€?I should feel just as you do. One cana€?t think of risks and things like that.a€?
We did not say so, but the probabilities of Archiea€?s being killed were: airly high. Already the casualties had startled and surprised people. A lot of my own friends had been soldiers, and had been called up at once. Every day, it seemed, one read in the paper that somebody one knew had been killed.
It was only three months since Archie and I had seen each other, yet those three months had been, I suppose, acted out in what might have been called a different dimension of time. In that short period I had lived through an entirely new kind of experience: the death of my friends, uncertainty, the background of life being altered. Archie had had an equal amount of new experience, though in a different field. He had been in the middle of death, defeat, retreat, fear. Both of us had lived a large tract on our own. The result of it was that we met almost as strangers.
It was like learning to know each other all over again. The difference between us showed up at once. His own determined casualness and flippancya€“almost gaietya€“upset me. I was too young then to appreciate that that was for him the best way of facing his new life. I, on the other hand, had become far more earnest, emotional, and had put aside my own light flippancy of happy girlhood. It was as though we were trying to reach each other, and finding, almost with dismay, that we had forgotten how to do so.
Archie was determined on one thinga€“he made that clear from the first: there was no question of marriage. a€?Entirely the wrong thing to do,a€he said. a€?All my friends think so. Just rushing into things, and then what happensYou stop one, youa€?ve had it, and youa€?ve left behind a young widow, perhaps a child cominga€“ita€?s selfish and wrong.a€?
I didna€?t agree with him. I argued passionately on the other side. But one of Archiea€?s characteristics was certainty. He was always sure of what he ought to do and what he was going to do. I dona€?t mean that he never changed his minda€“he could, and did, suddenly, and very quickly sometimes. In fact he could change right over, seeing black as white and white as black. But when he had done so he was just as sure about it. I accepted his decision and we set about enjoying those precious few days we would have together.
The plan was that after a couple of days in London I should go down with him to Clifton, and spend the actual days of Christmas with him at his stepfathera€?s and mothera€?s house. That seemed a very right and proper arrangement. Before leaving for Clifton, however, we had what was to all intents and purposes a quarrel. A ridiculous quarrel, but quite a heated one.
Archie arrived at the hotel on the morning of our departure for Clifton, with a present for me. It was a magnificent dressing-case, completely fitted inside, and a thing that any millionairess might have confidently taken to the Ritz. If he had brought a ring, or a bracelet, however expensive, I should not have demurreda€“I should have accepted it with eager pride and pleasurea€“but for some reason I revolted violently against the dressing-case. I felt it was an absurd extravagance, and not a thing I should ever use. What was the good of my going back home to continue nursing in a hospital with an exciting dressing-case suitable for a holiday in peacetime abroadI said I didna€?t want it, and he would have to take it back. He was angry; I was angry. I made him take it away. An hour later he returned and we made it up. We wondered what on earth had come over us. How could we be so foolishHe admitted that it was a silly kind of present. I admitted that I had been ungracious to say so. As a result of the quarrel and the subsequent reconciliation we somehow felt closer than before.
My mother went back to Devon, and Archie and I travelled to Clifton. My future mother-in-law continued to be charming in a rather excessive Irish style. Her other son, Campbell, said to me once, a€?Mother is a very dangerous woman.a€I didna€?t understand at the time, but I think I know now what he meant. Hers was the kind of gushing affection which could change just as rapidly into its opposite. At one moment she wished to love her future daughter-in-law, and did so; at another moment nothing would be too bad for her.
We had a tiring journey to Bristol: the trains were in a state of chaos still, and usually hours late. Eventually, though, we arrived, and had a most affectionate welcome. I went to bed, exhausted by the emotions of the day and travelling, and also by contending with my natural shyness, so that I could say and do the right thing with my future in-laws.
It must have been half an hour later; perhaps an hour. I had gone to bed, but was not yet asleep, when there was a tap at the door. I went and opened it. It was Archie. He came inside, shut the door behind, and said abruptly: a€?Ia€?ve changed my mind. Wea€?ve got to get married. At once. We will marry tomorrow.a€?
a€?But you saida€|a€?
a€?Oh, never mind what I said. You were right and I was wrong. Of course it is the only sensible thing to do. Wea€?ll have two days together before I go back.a€?
I sat down on the bed, my legs feeling rather weak. a€?Buta€“but you were so certain.a€?
a€?What does that matterIa€?ve changed my mind.a€?
a€?Yes, buta€“a€there was so much that I could not bring out. I had always suffered from being tongue-tied when I most wanted to say things clearly.
a€?Ita€?s going to be all so difficult,a€I said weakly. I could always see what Archie could not: the hundred and one disadvantages in a prospective action. Archie only saw the essential itself. At first it had seemed to him absolute folly to get married in the middle of wartime; now, a day later, he was equally determined that it was the only right thing for us to do. Difficulties in the actual accomplishment, the upset feelings of all our nearest relations, made no impact on him at all. We argued. We argued much as we had done twenty-four hours before, this time the opposite way round. Needless to say, again he won.
a€?But I dona€?t believe we can get married so suddenly,a€I said doubtfully.
a€?Ita€?s so difficult.a€?
a€?Oh yes we can,a€said Archie cheerfully. a€?We can get a special licence or somethinga€“the Archbishop of Canterbury.a€?
a€?Isna€?t that very expensive?a€?
a€?Yes, I believe it is, rather. But I expect wea€?ll manage. Anyway, wea€?ve got to. No time for anything else. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. So thata€?s all right?a€?
I said weakly that it was. He left me, and I stayed awake most of the night worrying. What would mother sayWhat would Madge sayWhat would Archiea€?s mother sayWhy couldna€?t Archie have agreed to our marriage in London, where everything would have been easy and simple. Oh well, there it was. I finally fell asleep exhausted.
A great many of the things that I had foreseen came true the next morning. First of all our plans had to be broken to Peg. She immediately burst into hysterical tears, and retired to bed.
a€?That my own son should do this to me,a€she gasped, as she went up the stairs.
a€?Archie,a€I said, a€?wea€?d better not. Ita€?s upset your mother terribly.a€What do I care if ita€?s upset her or not?a€said Archie. a€?Wea€?ve been engaged for two years, she must be used to the idea.a€?
a€?She seems to feel it terribly now.a€?
a€?Rushing it on me in this way,a€Peg sobbed, as she lay in a darkened room with a handkerchief soaked in eau-de-Cologne on her forehead. Archie and I looked at each other, rather like two guilty dogs. Archiea€?s stepfather came to the rescue. He brought us down from Pega€?s room and said to us: a€?I think you two are doing quite the right thing. Now dona€?t worry about Peg. She always gets upset if shea€?s startled. She is very fond of you, Agatha, and she will be pleased as anything about this afterwards. But dona€?t expect her to be pleased today. Now you two go out and get on with your plans. I daresay you havena€?t got too much time. Remember, I am sure, quite sure, that you are doing the right thing.a€?
Though I had started the day faintly tearful and apprehensive myself, within another two hours I was full of fighting spirit. The difficulties in the way of our marriage were intense, and the more it seemed impossible that we could be married that day the more I, as well as Archie, became determined that we would be.
Archie first consulted a former ecclesiastical headmaster of his. A special licence was said to be obtainable from Doctora€?s Commons and cost ?￡25. Neither Archie nor I had ?￡2,5, but that we brushed aside, as we could no doubt borrow it. What was more difficult was that it had to be obtained personally. One could not get such a thing on Christmas Day, so in the end a marriage that day appeared quite impossible. Special Licence was out. We next went to a registry office. There again we were rebuffed. Notice had to be given for a period of fourteen days before the ceremony could be performed. Time slipped away. Finally a kindly registrar, whom we had not seen before, back from his elevenses, came up with the answer. a€?My dear chap,a€he said to Archie, a€?you live here, dona€?t youI mean, your mother and stepfather reside here?a€?
a€?Yes,a€said Archie.
a€?Well then, you keep a bag here, you keep clothes here, you keep some of your effects here, dona€?t you?a€?
a€?Yes.a€?
a€?Then you dona€?t need a fortnighta€?s notice. You can buy an ordinary licence and get married at your parish Church this afternoon.a€?
The licence cost ?￡8. We could manage ?￡8. After that it was a wild rush.
We hunted down the Vicar at the church at the end of the road. He was not in. We found him in a frienda€?s house. Startled, he agreed to perform the ceremony. We rushed home to Peg, and to snatch a little sustenance. a€?Dona€?t speak to me,a€she cried. a€?Dona€?t speak to me,a€and locked her door.
There was no time to be lost. We hurried along to the church, Emmanuel, I think it was called. Then we found we had to have a second witness. Just about to rush out and catch a complete stranger, by utter chance I came across a girl whom I knew. I had stayed with her in Clifton a couple of years before. Yvonne Bush, though startled, was ready enough to be an impromptu bridesmaid and our witness. We rushed back. The organist was doing some practising, and offered to play the Wedding March.
Just as the ceremony was about to start, I thought for one sad moment that no bride could have taken less trouble about her appearance. No white dress, no veil, not even a smart frock. I was wearing an ordinary coat and skirt with a small purple velvet hat, and I had not even had time to wash my hands or face. It made us both laugh.
The ceremony was duly performeda€“and we tackled the next hurdle. Since Peg was still prostrated we decided we would go down to Torquay, stay at the Grand Hotel there, and spend Christmas Day with my mother. But I had first, of course, to ring her up and announce what had happened. It was extremely difficult to get through on the telephone, and the result was not particularly happy. My sister was staying there and greeted my announcement with a great deal of annoyance.
a€?Springing it like this on mother! You know how weak her heart is! You are absolutely unfeeling!a€?
We caught the traina€“it was very crowdeda€“and we arrived at last at Torquay at midnight, having managed to book ourselves a room by telephone. I still had a slightly guilty feeling: we had caused such a lot of trouble and inconvenience. Everybody we were most fond of was annoyed with us. I felt this but I dona€?t think Archie did. I dona€?t think it occurred to him for one moment; and if it did, I dona€?t think he minded. A pity that everyone got upset and all that, he would have said, but why should theyAnyway, we had done the right thinga€“he was sure of that. But there was one thing that made him nervous. The moment had come. We climbed on the train, and he suddenly produced, rather like a conjuror, an extra suitcase. a€?I hope,a€he said nervously to his new young bride, a€?I hope that you are not going to be cross about this.a€?
a€?Archie! Ita€?s the dressing-case!a€?
a€?Yes. I didna€?t take it back. You dona€?t mind, do you?a€?
a€?Of course I dona€?t mind. Ita€?s lovely to have it.a€?
There we were, going on a journey with ita€“and our wedding journey too. So that was got over safely, and Archie was enormously relieved: I think he thought that I was going to be angry about it.
If our wedding day had been one long struggle against odds, and a series of crises, Christmas Day was benign and peaceful. Everyone had had time to get over their shock. Madge was affectionate, had forgotten all censure; my mother had recovered from her heart condition and was thoroughly happy in our happiness. Peg, I hoped, had recovered. (Archie assured me that she would have.) And so we enjoyed Christmas Day very much.
The next day I travelled with Archie to London, and said goodbye to him as he went off to France again. I was not to see him for another six months of war.
I resumed work at the hospital, where news of my present status had preceded me.
a€?Nurrrse!a€This was Scottie, rolling his is ra€?s a great deal and tapping on the foot of his bed with his little cane. a€?Nurrrse, come here at once!a€I came. a€?Whata€?s this I hearYoua€?ve been getting yourself married?a€?
a€?Yes,a€I said, a€?I have.a€?
a€?Da€?ye hear that?a€Scottie appealed to the whole row of beds. a€?Nurse Millera€?s got married. Whata€?s your name now, Nurse?a€?
a€?Christie.a€?
a€?Ah, a good Scottish name, Christie. Nurse Christiea€“da€?ye hear that, SisterThis is Nurse Christie now.a€?
a€?I heard,a€said Sister Anderson. a€?And I wish you every happiness,a€she added formally. a€?Ita€?s made plenty of talk in the ward.a€?
a€?Youa€?ve done well for yourself, Nurse,a€said another patient. a€?Youa€?ve married an officer, I hear?a€I admitted that I had risen to that giddy height. a€?Aye, youa€?ve done very well for yourself. Not that Ia€?m surpriseda€“youa€?re a nice-looking girl.a€?
The months went on. The war settled down to a grisly stalemate. Half our patients seemed to be trench feet cases. It was intensely cold that winter, and I had terrible chilblains on both hands and feet. The eternal scrubbing of mackintoshes is not helpful to chilblains on the hands. I was given more responsibility as time went on, and I liked my work. One settled into a routine of doctors and nurses. One knew the surgeons one respected; one knew the doctors who were secretly despised by the Sisters. There were no more heads to delouse and no more field dressings; base hospitals were now established in France. But still we were nearly always crowded. Our little Scotsman who had been there with a fractured leg left at last, convalescent. Actually he had a fall on the station platform during the journey, but so anxious was he to get to his native town in Scotland that he never mentioned it and concealed the fact that his leg had been re-fractured. He suffered agonies of pain, but finally managed to arrive at his destination, and his leg had to be reset all over again.
It is all somewhat of a haze now, yet one recalls odd instances standing out in onea€?s memory. I remember a young probationer who had been assisting in the theatre and had been left behind to clear up, and I had helped her take an amputated leg down to throw into the furnace. It was almost too much for the child. Then we cleared up all the mess and the blood together. She was, I think, too young and too new to it to have been given that task to do alone so soon.
I remember a serious-faced sergeant whose love letters I had to write for him. He could not read or write. He told me roughly what he wanted me to say. a€?That will do very nicely, Nurse,a€he would nod, when I read it over to him. a€?Write it in triplicate, will you.a€?
a€?In triplicate?a€I said.
a€?Ay,a€he said. a€?One for Nellie, and one for Jessie and one for Margaret.a€?
a€?Wouldna€?t it be better to vary them a little?a€I asked. He considered. a€?I dona€?t think so,a€he said. a€?Ia€?ve told them all the essentials.a€So each letter began the same: a€?Hope this finds you as it leaves me, but more in the pinka€?a€“and ended: a€?Yours till Hell freezes.a€?
a€?Wona€?t they find out about each other?a€I asked with some curiosity. a€?Och, I dona€?t think so,a€he said. a€?Theya€?re in different towns, you see, and they dona€?t know each other.a€?
I asked if he was thinking of marrying any of them.
a€?I might,a€he said, a€?and I might not. Nellie, she is a fine one to look at, a lovely girl. But Jessie, shea€?s more serious, and she worships mea€“she thinks the world of me, Jessie does.a€?
a€?And Margaret?a€?
a€?MargaretWell, Margaret,a€he said, a€?she makes you laugh, Margaret doesa€“shea€?s a gay girl. However, wea€?ll see.a€?
I have often wondered whether he did marry any of those three, or whether he found a fourth who combined good looks, being a good listener and being gay as well.
At home things went on much the same. Lucy had come as a replacement to Jane, and always spoke of her in awe as a€?Mrs Rowea€?: a€?I do hope I shall be able to fill Mrs Rowea€?s placea€“ita€?s such a big responsibility taking on after her.a€She was dedicated to the future of coming to be cook to me and Archie after the war.
One day she came to my mother, looking very nervous, and said: a€?I hope you wona€?t mind, Maa€?am, but I really feel I must go and join the WAAFs. I hope you wona€?t think it wrong of me.a€?
a€?Well, Lucy,a€said my mother, a€?I think you are quite right. You are a young, strong girl: just what they want.a€?
So Lucy departed, in tears at the last, hoping we would get on all right without her and saying she didna€?t know what Mrs Rowe would think. With her, also, went the house-parlourmaid, the beautiful Emma. She went to get married. They were replaced by two elderly maid-servants to whom the hardships of wartime were unbelievable and deeply resented.
a€?Ia€?m sorry, Madam,a€said the elderly Mary, trembling with rage, after a couple of days, a€?but ita€?s not right, the food wea€?re given. Wea€?ve had fish two days this week, and wea€?ve had insides of animals. Ia€?ve always had a good meat meal at least once a day.a€My mother tried to explain that food was now rationed and that one had to eat fish and what was prettily called a€?edible offala€on at least two or three days of the week. Mary merely shook her head, and said, a€?It isna€?t right, it isna€?t treating one right.a€She also said that she had never been asked to eat margarine before. My mother then tried the trick which many people tried during the war, of wrapping the margarine in the butter paper and the butter in the margarine paper.
a€?Now if you taste these two,a€she said, a€?I dona€?t believe youa€?ll be able to tell margarine from butter.a€?
The two old pussies looked scornful, then tried and tested. They had no doubts: a€?Ita€?s absolutely plain which is which, Maa€?am, no doubt about it.a€?
a€?You really think there is so much difference?a€?
a€?Yes, I do. I cana€?t bear the taste of margarinea€“neither of us can. It makes us feel quite sick.a€They handed it back to my mother with disgust. a€?You do like the other?a€?
a€?Yes, Maa€?am, very good butter. No fault to find with that.a€?
a€?Well, I might as well tell you,a€said my mother, a€?that that is the margarine; this is the butter.a€?
At first they wouldna€?t believe it. Then when they were convinced they were not pleased.
My grandmother was now living with us. She used to fret a great deal at my returning alone to the hospital at night.
a€?So dangerous, dear, walking home by yourself. Anything might happen. You must make some other arrangement.a€?
a€?I dona€?t see what other arrangement I could make, Grannie. And anyway, nothing has happened to me. Ia€?ve been doing it for several months.a€?
a€?Ita€?s not right. Somebody might speak to you.a€?
I reassured her as best I could. My hours of duty were two oa€?clock till ten, and it was usually about half-past ten before I left the hospital after the night shift had come on. It took about three-quarters of an hour to walk home, along, it must be admitted, fairly lonely roads. However, I never had any trouble. I once met a very drunken sergeant, but he was only too anxious to be gallant. a€?Fine work youa€?re doing,a€he said, staggering slightly as he walked. a€?Fine work youa€?re doing at the hospital. Ia€?ll see you home, Nurse. Ia€?ll see you home because I wouldna€?t like anything to happen to you.a€I told him that there was no need but that it was kind of him. Still home with me he duly tramped, saying goodbye in a most respectful manner at our gate.
I forget exactly when it was that my grandmother came to live with us.
Shortly after the outbreak of the war, I imagine. She had become very blind indeed with cataract, and she was, of course, too old to be operated on. She was a sensible woman, so though it was a terrible wrench for her to give up her house in Ealing and her friends and all the rest of it, she saw plainly that she would be helpless living there alone and that servants were unlikely to stay. So the great move had been made. My sister came down to help my mother, I came up from Devon, and we all became busy. I dona€?t think I realised in the least at the time what poor Grannie suffered, but now I have a clear picture of her sitting helpless and half blind in the middle of her possessions and everything that she prized, while all round her were three vandals, rummaging in things, turning things out, deciding what to do away with. Little sad cries rose from her: a€?Oh, youa€?re not going to throw away that dress; Madame Poncereaua€?s, my beautiful velvet.a€Difficult to explain to her that the velvet was moth-eaten, and that the silk had disintegrated. There were trunkfuls and drawers full of things eaten by moth, their usefulness ended. Because of her worry, many things were kept which ought to have been destroyed. Trunk after trunk, filled with papers, needle-books, lengths of print for servantsa€dresses, lengths of silk and velvet bought at sales, remnants: so many many things that at one time could have been useful if they had been used, but which had simply piled up. Poor Grannie sat in her large chair and wept.
Then, after the clothes, her store-room was attacked. Jams that had gone mouldy, plums that had fermented, even packets of butter and sugar which had slipped down behind things and been nibbled by mice: all the things of her thrifty and provident life, all the things that had been bought and stored and saved for the future; and now, here they were, vast monuments of waste! I think that is what hurt her so much: the waste. Here were her home-made liqueursa€“they at least, owing to the saving quality of alcohol, were in good condition. Thirty-six demijohns of cherry brandy, cherry gin, damson gin, damson brandy and the rest of it, went off in the furniture van. On arrival there were only thirty-one. a€?And to think,a€said Grannie, a€?those men said they were all teetotallers!a€?
Perhaps the removers were taking their revenge: they had got little sympathy from my grandmother in moving things. When they wished to take the drawers out of the vast mahogany tallboy chests of drawers, Grannie was scornful. a€?Take the drawers outWhyThe weight! Youa€?re three strong men, arena€?t youMen carried them up these stairs full of things. Nothing was taken out then. The idea! Men arena€?t worth anything at all nowadays.a€The men pleaded they couldna€?t manage it. a€?Weaklings,a€said Grannie, giving in at last. a€?Absolute weaklings. Not a man worth his salt nowadays.a€The cases included comestibles purchased to save Grannie from starvation. The only thing that cheered her when we arrived at Ashfield was devising good hiding places for them. Two dozen tins of sardines were laid flat on top of a Chippendale escritoire. There they remained, some of them to be entirely forgottena€“so much so that when my mother, after the war, was selling a piece of furniture, the man who came to fetch it away said with an apologetic cough: a€?I think there is a large amount of sardines on the top of this.a€?
a€?Oh really,a€said my mother. a€?Yes, I suppose there might be.a€She did not explain. The man did not ask. The sardines were removed. a€?I suppose,a€said mother, a€?wea€?d better have a look on top of some of the other pieces of furniture.a€?
Things like sardines and bags of flour seemed to turn up in the most unexpected places for many years to come. A disused clothes-basket in the spare-room was full of flour, slightly weevily. The hams, at any rate, had been eaten in good condition. Jars of honey, bottles of French plums, and some, but not many, tinned goods were liable to be founda€“though Grannie disapproved of tinned goods, and suspected them of being a source of ptomaine poisoning. Only her own preserving in bottles and jars was felt by her to be a properly safe conserve.
Indeed, tinned food was regarded with disapproval by all in the days of my girlhood. All girls were warned when they went to dances: a€?Be very careful you dona€?t eat lobster for supper. You never know, it may be tinned!a€?a€“the word a€?tinneda€being spoken with horror. Tinned crab was such a terrible commodity as not even to need warning against. If anyone then could have envisaged a time where onea€?s main nourishment was frozen food and tinned vegetables, with what apprehension and gloom it would have been regarded.
In spite of affection and willing service, how little I sympathised with my poor grandmothera€?s sufferings. Even when technically unselfish, one is still so self-centred. It must have been, I see now, a terrible thing for my poor grandmother, by then, I suppose, well over eighty, to uproot herself from a house where she had lived for thirty or forty years, having gone there only a short time after her widowhood. Not so much perhaps leaving the house itselfa€“that must have been bad enough, although her personal furniture came with her: the large four-poster bed, the two big chairs that she liked to sit in. But worse than anything was the loss of all her friends. Many had died, but there were still a good many left: neighbours who came in often, people with whom to gossip over old days, or to discuss the news in the daily papersa€“all the horrors of infanticide, rape, secret vice and all the things that cheer the lives of the old. It is true that we read the papers to Grannie every day but we were not really interested in the horrible fate of a nursemaid, a baby abandoned in her perambulator, a young girl assaulted in a train. World affairs, politics, moral welfare, education, the topics of the daya€“none of these really interested my grandmother in the least; not because she was a stupid woman, nor because she revelled in disaster; it was rather that she needed something that contradicted the even tenor of everyday life: some drama, some terrible happenings, which, although she herself was shielded from them, were occurring perhaps not too far away.
My poor grandmother had nothing exciting now in her life except the disasters which she had read to her from the daily papers. She could no longer have a friend drop in with sad news of the awful behaviour of Colonel So-and-So to his wife, or the interesting disease from which a cousin suffered and for which no doctor had yet been able to find a cure. I see now how sad it was for her, how lonely, and how dull. I wish I had been more understanding.
She got up slowly in the morning after breakfast in bed. She came down about eleven and looked hopefully for someone who might have time to read the papers to her. Since she did not come down at a fixed time this was not always possible. She was patient, she sat in her chair. For a year or two she was still able to knit, because for knitting she did not have to see well; but as her eyesight grew worse she had to knit coarser and coarser types of garments, and even there she would drop a stitch and not know it. Sometimes one would find her weeping quietly in her armchair because she had dropped a stitch several rows back and it had all to be pulled out. I used to do it for her, pick it up and knit it up for her so that she could go on from where she had left off; but that did not really heal the sorrowful hurt that she was no longer able to be useful.
She could seldom be persuaded to go out for a little walk on the terrace, or anything like that. Outside air she considered definitely harmful. She sat in the dining-room all day because she had always sat in the dining-room in her own house. She would come and join us for afternoon tea, but then she would go back again. Yet sometimes, especially if we had a party of young people in for supper, when we went up to the schoolroom afterwards, suddenly Grannie would appear, creeping slowly and with difficulty up the stairs. On these occasions she did not want, as usual, to go to an early bed: she wanted to be in it, to hear what was going on, to share our gaiety and laughter. I suppose I wished she wouldna€?t come. Although she wasna€?t actually deaf, a good many things had to be repeated to her, and it placed a slight constraint over the company. But I am glad at least that we never discouraged her from coming up. It was sad for poor Grannie, and yet it was inevitable. The trouble with her, as with so many old people, was the loss of her independence. I think it is the sense of being a dispaced person that makes so many elderly people indulge in the illusion that they are being poisoned or their belongings stolen. I dona€?t think really it is a weakening of the mental facultiesa€“it is an excitement that they need, a kind of stimulant: life would be more interesting if someone were trying to poison you. Little by little Grannie began to indulge in these fancies. She assured my mother that the servants were a€?putting things in my fooda€?. a€?They want to get rid of me!a€?
a€?But Auntie dear, why should they want to get rid of youThey like you very much.a€?
a€?Ah, thata€?s what you think, Clara. Buta€“come a little nearer: they are always listening at doors, that I know. My egg yesterdaya€“scrambled egg it was. It tasted very peculiara€“metallic. I know!a€she nodded her head. a€?Old Mrs Wyatt, you know, she was poisoned by the butler and his wife.a€?
a€?Yes dear, but that was because she had left them a lot of money. You havena€?t left any of the servants any money.a€?
a€?No fear,a€said Grannie. a€?Anyway, Clara, in future I want a boiled egg only for my breakfast. If I have a boiled egg they cana€?t tamper with that.a€So a boiled egg Grannie had.
The next thing was the sad disappearance of her jewellery. This was heralded by her sending for me. a€?AgathaIs that youCome in, and shut the door, dear.a€?
I came up to the bed. a€?Yes, Grannie, what is the matter?a€She was sitting on her bed crying, her handkerchief to her eyes. a€?Ita€?s gone,a€she said. a€?Ita€?s all gone. My emeralds, my two rings, my beautiful ear-ringsa€“all gone! Oh dear!a€?
a€?Now look, Grannie, Ia€?m sure that they havena€?t really gone. Leta€?s see, where were they.a€?
a€?They were in that drawera€“the top drawer on the lefta€“wrapped up in a pair of mittens. Thata€?s where I always keep them.a€?
a€?Well, leta€?s see, shall we?a€I went across to the dressing-table, and looked through the drawer in question. There were two pairs of mittens rolled up in balls, but nothing inside them. I transferred my attention to the drawer below. There was a pair of mittens in there, with a hard satisfactory feeling to them. I brought them over to the foot of the bed, and assured Grannie that here they werea€“the ear-rings, the emerald brooch, and her two rings.
a€?It was in the third drawer down instead of the second.a€I explained. a€?They must have put them back.a€?
a€?I dona€?t think they could have managed that,a€I said.
a€?Well, you be careful, Agatha dear. Very careful. Dona€?t leave your bag lying about. Now tiptoe over to the door, will you, and see if they are listening.a€?
I obeyed and assured Grannie that nobody was listening.
How terrible it is, I thought, to be old! It was a thing, of course, that would happen to me, but it did not seem real. Strong in onea€?s mind is always the conviction: a€?I shall not be old. I shall not die.a€You know you will, but at the same time you are sure you wona€?t. Well, now I am old. I have not yet begun to suspect that my jewellery is stolen, or that anyone is poisoning me, but I must brace myself and know that that too will probably come in time. Perhaps by being forewarned I shall know that I am making a fool of myself before it does begin to happen.
One day Grannie thought that she heard a cat, somewhere near the back stairs. Even if it had been a cat, it would have been more sensible either to leave it there or to mention it to one of the maids, or to me, or to mother. But Grannie had to go and investigate herselfa€“with the result that she fell down the back stairs and fractured her arm. The doctor was doubtful when he set it. He hoped, he said, it would knit again all right, but at her agea€“over eightya€|However, Grannie rose triumphantly to the occasion. She could use her arm quite well in due course, though she was not able to lift it high above her head. No doubt about it, she was a tough old lady. The stories she always told me of her extreme delicacy in youth, and the fact that the doctors despaired of her life on several occasions between the ages of fifteen and thirty-five were, I feel sure, quite untrue. They were a Victorian assertion of interesting illness.
What with ministering to Grannie, and late hours on duty in the hospital, life was fairly full.
In the summer Archie got three daysa€leave, and I met him in London. It was not a very happy leave. He was on edge, nervy, and full of knowledge of the conditions of the war which must have been causing everyone anxiety. The big casualties were beginning to come in, though it had not yet dawned upon us in England that, far from being over by Christmas, the war would in all probability last for four years. Indeed, when the demand came out for conscriptiona€“Lord Derbya€?s three years or for the durationa€“it seemed ridiculous to contemplate as much as three years.
Archie never mentioned the war or his part in it: his one idea in those days was to forget such things. We had as pleasant meals as we could procurea€“the rationing system was much fairer in the first war than in the second. Then, whether you dined in a restaurant or at home, you had to produce your meat coupons etc. if you wanted a meat meal. In the second war the position was much more unethical: if you cared, and had the money, you could eat a meat meal every day of the week by going to a restaurant, where no coupons were required at all.
Our three days passed in an uneasy flash. We both longed to make plans for the future, but both felt it was better not. The one bright spot for me was that shortly after that leave Archie was no longer flying. His sinus condition not permitting such work, he was instead put in charge of a depot. He was always an excellent organiser and administrator. He had been mentioned several times in despatches, and was finally awarded the C.M.G., as well as the D.S.O. But the one award he was always most proud of was the first issued: being mentioned in despatches by General French, right at the beginning. That, he said, was really worth something. He was also awarded a Russian decorationa€“the order of St. Stanislausa€“which was so beautiful that I would have liked to have worn it myself as a decoration at parties.
Later that year I had flu badly, and after it congestion of the lungs which rendered me unable to go back to the hospital for three weeks or a month. When I did go back a new department had been openeda€“the dispensarya€“and it was suggested that I might work there. It was to be my home from home for the next two years.
The new department was in the charge of Mrs Ellis, wife of Dr Ellis, who had dispensed for her husband for many years, and my friend Eileen Morris. I was to assist them, and study for my Apothecarya€?s Hall examination, which would enable me to dispense for a medical officer or a chemist. It sounded interesting, and the hours were much bettera€“the dispensary closed down at six oa€?clock and I would be on duty alternate mornings and afternoonsa€“so it would combine better with my home duties as well.
I cana€?t say I enjoyed dispensing as much as nursing. I think I had a real vocation for nursing, and would have been happy as a hospital nurse. Dispensing was interesting for a time, but became monotonousa€“I should never have cared to do it as a permanent job. On the other hand, it was fun being with my friends. I had great affection and an enormous respect for Mrs Ellis. She was one of the quietest and calmest women I had ever known, with a gentle, rather sleepy voice and a most unexpected sense of humour which popped out at different moments. She was also a very good teacher, since she understood onea€?s difficultiesa€“and the fact that she herself, as she confessed, usually did her sums by long division made one feel on comfortable terms with her. Eileen was my instructress in chemistry, and was frankly a great deal too clever for me to begin with. She started not from the practical side but from the theory To be introduced suddenly to the Periodic Table, Atomic Weight, and the ramifications of coal-tar derivatives was apt to result in bewilderment. However, I found my feet, mastered the simpler facts, and after we had blown up our Cona coffee machine in the process of practising Marsha€?s test for arsenic our progress was well on the way.
We were amateurish, but perhaps being so made us more careful and conscientious. The work was uneven in quality, of course. Every time we had a fresh convoy of patients in, we worked furiously hard. Medicines, ointments, jars and jars of lotions to be filled, replenished and turned out every day. After working in a hospital with several doctors, one realises how medicine, like everything else in this world, is very much a matter of fashion: that, and the personal idiosyncrasy of every medical practitioner.
a€?What is there to do this morning?a€?
a€?Oh, five of Dr Whitticka€?s, and four of Dr Jamesa€?s, and two of Dr Vynera€?s specials.a€?
The ignorant layman, or laywoman, as I suppose I ought to call myself, believes that the doctor studies your case individually, considers what drugs would be best for it, and writes a prescription to that effect. I soon found that the tonic prescribed by Dr Whittick, and the tonic prescribed by Dr James and the tonic prescribed by Dr Vyner were all quite different, and particular, not to the patient, but to the doctor. When one comes to think of it, it is quite reasonable, though it does not perhaps make a patient feel quite as important as he did before. The chemists and dispensers take rather a lofty view where doctors are concerned: they have their opinions also. One might think that Dr Jamesa€?s is a good prescription and Dr Whitticka€?s below contempta€“but, they have to make them up just the same. Only when it comes to ointments do doctors really become experimental. That is mainly because skin afflictions are enigmas to the medical profession and to everyone else. A calamine type of application cures Mrs D. in a sensational manner; Mrs C., however, coming along with the same complaint, does not respond to calamine at alla€“it only produces additional irritationa€“but a coal tar preparation, which only aggravated the trouble with Mrs D. has unexpected success with Mrs C.; so the doctor has to keep on trying until he finds the appropriate preparation. In London, skin patients also have their favourite hospitals. a€?Tried the MiddlesexI did, and the stuff they gave me did no good at all. Now here, at U.C.H., Ia€?m nearly cured already.a€A friend then chimes in: a€?Well, Ia€?m beginning to think there is something in the Middlesex. My sister was treated here and it did her no good, so she went to the Middlesex and she was as right as rain after two days.a€?
I still have a grudge against one particular skin specialist, a persistent and optimistic experimenter, belonging to the school of a€?try anything oncea€?, who conceived the idea of a concoction of cod liver oil to be smeared all over a baby just a few months old. The mother and the other members of the household must have found poor babya€?s proximity very hard to bear. It did no good whatsoever and was discontinued after the first ten days. The making of it also rendered me a pariah in the home, for you cannot deal with large quantities of cod liver oil without returning home smelling to high heaven of noisome fish.
I was a pariah on several occasions in 1916a€“more than once as the result of the fashion for Bipa€?s Paste, which was applied to all wounds treated. It consisted of bismuth and iodoform worked into a paste with liquid paraffin. The smell of the iodoform was with me in the dispensary, on the tram, in the home, at the dinner table, and in my bed. It has a pervasive character which oozed up from your finger tips, wrists, arms, and over your elbows, and of course was quite impossible to wash off as far as the smell went. To save my familya€?s feelings I used to have a meal tray in the pantry. Towards the end of the war, Bipa€?s Paste went out of favoura€“it was replaced by other more innocuous preparations, and finally was succeeded by enormous demijohns of hypochlorous lotion. This, arising from ordinary chloride of lime with soda and other ingredients, caused a penetrating smell of chlorine to pervade all your clothes. Many of the disinfectants of sinks, etc., nowadays have this kind of basis. The mere sniff of them is enough to sicken me. I furiously attacked a very obstinate manservant we had at one time:
a€?What have you been putting down the sink in the pantryIt smells horrible!a€?
He produced a bottle proudly. a€?First class disinfectant, Madam,a€he said.
a€?This isna€?t a hospital,a€I cried. a€?Youa€?ll be hanging up a carbolic sheet next. Just rinse the sink out with good hot water, and a little soda occasionally if you must. Throw that filthy chloride of lime preparation away!a€?
I gave him a lecture on the nature of disinfectants and the fact that anything which is harmful to a germ is usually equally harmful to human tissue; so that spotless cleanliness and not disinfection was the thing to aim at. a€?Germs are tough,a€I pointed out to him. a€?Weak disinfectants wona€?t discourage any good sturdy germ. Germs will flourish in a solution of one in sixty carbolic.a€He was not convinced, and continued to use his nauseous mixture whenever he was sure I was safely out of the house.
As part of my preparation for my examination at Apothecaries Hall, it was arranged that I should have a little outside instruction from a proper commercial chemist. One of the principal pharmacists in Torquay was gracious enough to say that I could come in on certain Sundays and that he would give me instruction. I arrived meek and frightened, anxious to learn.
A chemista€?s shop, the first time that you go behind the scenes, is a revelation. Being amateurs in our hospital work, we measured every bottle of medicine with the utmost accuracy. When the doctor prescribed twenty grains of bismuth carbonate to a dose, exactly twenty grains the patient got. Since we were amateurs, I think this was a good thing, but I imagine that any chemist who has done his five years, and got his minor pharmaceutical degree, knows his stuff in the same way as a good cook knows hers. He tosses in portions from the various stock bottles with the utmost confidence, without bothering to measure or weigh at all. He measures his poisons or dangerous drugs carefully, of course, but the harmless stuff goes in in the approximate dollops. Colouring and flavouring are added in much the same way. This sometimes results in the patients coming back and complaining that their medicine is a different colour from last time. a€?It is a deep pink I have as a rule, not this pale pink,a€or a€?This doesna€?t taste right; it is the peppermint mixture I havea€“a nice peppermint mixture, not nasty, sweet, sickly stuff.a€Then chloroform water has clearly been added instead of peppermint water.
The majority of patients in the out-patient department at University College Hospital, where I worked in 1948, were particular as to the exact colour and taste of their preparations. I remember an old Irish woman who leant into the dispensary window, pressed half-a-crown into my palm, and murmured: a€?Make it double strong, dearie, will youPlenty of peppermint, double strong.a€I returned her the half-a-crown, saying priggishly that we didna€?t accept that sort of thing, and added that she had to have the medicine exactly as the doctor had ordered it. I did, however, give her an extra dollop of peppermint water, since it could not possibly do her any harm and she enjoyed it so much.
Naturally, when one is a novice at this kind of job, one has a nervous horror of making mistakes. The addition of poison to a medicine is always checked by one of the other dispensers, but there can still be frightening moments. I remember one of mine. I had been making up ointments that afternoon, and for one of them I had placed a little pure carbolic in a convenient ointment pot lid, then carefully, with a dropper, added it to the ointment that I was mixing on the slab. Once it was duly bottled, labelled, and put out on a slab, I went on with my other work. It was about three in the morning, I think, that I woke up in bed and said to myself, a€?What did I do with that ointment pot lid: the one I put the carbolic in?a€The more I thought the less I was able to remember having taken it and washed it. Had I perhaps clapped it on some other ointment I had made, not noticing that it had anything in itAgain, the more I thought, the more I was sure that that was what I had done. I had put it out on the ward shelf with the others to be collected on the following morning by the ward-boy in his basket, and one ointment for one patient would have a layering of strong carbolic in the top. Worried to death, I could bear it no longer. I got out of bed, dressed, walked down to the hospital, went ina€“fortunately I did not have to go through the ward, since the staircase to the dispensary was outside ita€“went up, surveyed the ointments I had prepared, opened the lids, and sniffed cautiously. To this day I dona€?t know whether I imagined it or not, but in one of them I seemed to detect a faint odour of carbolic which there should not have been. I took out the top layer of the ointment, and so made sure that all was well. Then I crept out again and walked home and back to bed.
On the whole it is not usually the novices who make mistakes in chemistsa€shops. They are nervous, and always asking advice. The worst cases of poisoning through mistakes arise with the reliable chemists who have worked for many years. They are so familiar with what they are doing, so able to do it without really thinking any more, that the time does come when one day, preoccupied perhaps with some trouble of their own, they make a slip. This happened in the cases of the grandchild of a friend of mine. The child was ill and the doctor came and wrote a prescription which was taken to the chemist to be made up. In due course the dose was administered. That afternoon the grandmother did not like the look of the child; she said to the nannie, a€?I wonder whether there is anything wrong with that medicine?a€After a second dose, she was still more worried. a€?I think there is something wrong,a€she said. She sent for the doctor; he took a look at the child, examined the medicinea€“and took immediate action. Children tolerate opium and its preparations very badly. The chemist had blundered; had put in quite a serious overdose. He was terribly upset, poor man; he had worked for this particular firm for fourteen years and was one of their most careful and trusted dispensers. It shows what can happen to anybody.
During the course of my pharmaceutical instruction on Sunday afternoons, I was faced with a problem. It was incumbent upon the entrants to the examination to deal with both the ordinary system and the metric system of measurements. My pharmacist gave me practice in making up preparations to the metric formula. Neither doctors nor chemists like the metrical system in operation. One of our doctors at the hospital never learned what a€?containing 0.1a€really meant, and would say, a€?Now let me see, is this solution one in a hundred or one in a thousand?a€The great danger of the metric system is that if you go wrong you go ten times wrong.
On this particular afternoon I was having instruction in the making of suppositories, things which were not much used in the hospital, but which I was supposed to know how to make for the exam. They are tricky things, mainly owing to the melting point of the cocoa butter, which is their base. If you get it too hot it wona€?t set; if you dona€?t get it hot enough it comes out of the moulds the wrong shape. In this case Mr P. the pharmacist was giving me a personal demonstration, and showed me the exact procedure with the cocoa butter, then added one metrically calculated drug. He showed me how to turn the suppositories out at the right moment, then told me how to put them into a box and label them professionally as so-and-so one in a hundred. He went away then to attend to other duties, but I was worried, because I was convinced that what had gone into those suppositories was 10% and made a dose of one in ten in each, not one in a hundred. I went over his calculations and they were wrong. In using the metric system he had got his dot in the wrong place. But what was the young student to doI was the merest novice, he was the best-known pharmacist in the town. I couldna€?t say to him: a€?Mr P., you have made a mistake.a€Mr P. the pharmacist was the sort of person who does not make a mistake, especially in front of a student. At this moment, re-passing me, he said, a€?You can put those into stock; we do need them sometimes.a€Worse and worse. I couldna€?t let those suppositories go into stock. It was quite a dangerous drug that was being used. You can stand far more of a dangerous drug if it is being given through the rectum, but all the samea€|I didna€?t like it, and what was I to do about itEven if I suggested the dose was wrong, would he believe meI was quite sure of the answer to that: he would say, a€?Ita€?s quite all right. Do you think I dona€?t know what Ia€?m doing in matters of this kind?a€?
There was only one thing for it. Before the suppositories cooled, I tripped, lost my footing, upset the board on which they were reposing, and trod on them firmly.
a€?Mr P.,a€I said, a€?Ia€?m terribly sorry; Ia€?ve knocked over those suppositories and stepped on them.a€?
a€?Dear, dear, dear,a€he said vexedly. a€?This one seems all right.a€He picked up one which had escaped the weight of my beetle-crushers. a€?Ita€?s dirty,a€I said firmly, and without more ado tipped them all into the waste-bin. a€?Ia€?m very sorry,a€I repeated.
a€?Thata€?s all right, little girl,a€he said. a€?Dona€?t worry too much,a€and patted me tenderly on the shoulders. He was too much given to that kind of thinga€“pats on the shoulders, nudges, occasionally a faint attempt to stroke my cheek. I had to put up with it because I was being instructed, but I was as stand-offish as possible, and usually managed to engage the other dispenser in conversation so that I could not be alone with him.
He was a strange man, Mr P. One day, seeking perhaps to impress me, he took from his pocket a dark-coloured lump and showed it to me, saying, a€?Know what this is?a€?
a€?No,a€I said.
a€?Ita€?s curare,a€he said. a€?Know about curare?a€?
I said I had read about it.
a€?Interesting stuff,a€he said. a€?Very interesting. Taken by the mouth, it does you no harm at all. Enter the bloodstream, it paralyses and kills you. Ita€?s what they use for arrow poison. Do you know why I carry it in my pocket?a€?
a€?No,a€I said, a€?I havena€?t the slightest idea.a€It seemed to me an extremely foolish thing to do, but I didna€?t add that.
a€?Well, you know,a€he said thoughtfully, a€?it makes me feel powerful.a€?
I looked at him then. He was a rather funny-looking little man, very roundabout and robin redbreast looking, with a nice pink face. There was a general air of childish satisfaction about him.
Shortly afterwards I finished my instructional course, but I often wondered about Mr P. afterwards. He struck me, in spite of his cherubic appearance, as possible rather a dangerous man. His memory remained with me so long that it was still there waiting when I first conceived the idea of writing my book The Pale Horsea€“and that must have been, I suppose, nearly fifty years later.