TWENTY-ONE
Lieutenant Metcalf found a large scrubbing brush under the sink in the kitchen at Suffolk Farm, A Company’s billet. He used it to get the last of the whitewash from under his nails. He had quite enjoyed the physical work of painting and had enjoyed the company of the two nurses even more.
He was not sure that his mother would have approved of them, mind. The red-haired one in particular, Mrs Gregson, was positively intimidating. He imagined her coming to tea and the look on his mother’s face when she let forth with some of the rather fruity opinions she had about the war and women.
‘It’ll never be the same again,’ she had said. ‘Women won’t have to break windows to get the vote. Because men will have seen them at their best – away from the washing tub and the hearth.’
Mrs Metcalf thought suffragettes were some kind of inverts, who needed only a strong man to make them see the error of their ways. She was very baffled when a significant number of men – some of whom she admired – turned out to support the idea of universal suffrage. But he was getting ahead himself. He had never brought any girl home for tea yet, let alone one as sparky as Mrs Gregson.
‘How are the men at the hospital?’ asked de Griffon as he entered the kitchen, ducking to clear the low door beam.
‘Bearing up for the most part,’ Metcalf replied. ‘Shipobottom was a little windy. How was the ride?’
De Griffon had been up early to exercise Lord Lockie, his horse. ‘Excellent. You don’t, do you? Ride?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Pity. He’s a fine horse and a few miles east of here you could almost forget there is a war on. Have you seen Sunderland?’ This was their batman. ‘Need to get these boots off.’
‘He’s gone scavenging for food. Promised us eggs. And milk.’
‘Have to make my own tea then, I suppose.’ De Griffon set about filling the enormous black kettle. ‘How are you getting on with the dance?’
‘Oh, I’ve found some likely candidates.’
‘I passed a barn down the road. Peeked in. Clean and dry. Make a good spot for it. Just have to track down the farmer and see how much he’d want.’
He placed the kettle on the hotplate of the range. He touched the metal. It was barely tepid. ‘We’ll be lucky if that boils in time for breakfast.’ He used a cloth to open the stove’s door. ‘Send one of the men to gather some more wood, will you?’
‘Sir.’
There was a knock on the door and de Griffon walked through to answer it. When he returned his face looked glum.
‘What is it?’ Metcalf asked.
De Griffon held up the written orders. ‘I think you’d best postpone the dance. We haven’t got a week here. Apparently one of the replacement units didn’t make it. We’ve got three days at the most and we’re back on the front line.’
Metcalf stopped drying his hands as this sank in. ‘You want me to tell the men?’
De Griffon blew out his cheeks and sighed. ‘No. Leave it to me. Just as long as they get a hot bath before we turn them back around, they’ll count that as a decent result.’
‘And the wounded at the CCS?’
‘Will just have to join us when they can. If they think they can sit this one out, they’ve got another think coming. We’re all in this together, Metcalf. The Leigh Pals will live and die together.’
That, thought Metcalf, is what worries me.