‘Even to me!’ repeated Marjorie, making her friend wonder what worse adventures than a four-years’ marooning, a death, burial, and a voyage in a home-built boat could have left that forehead so unlined and those cheeks so smooth and pink. Was Marjorie also in the habit of finding the severed heads of acquaintances lying about in gutters?
‘I expect,’ she remarked flatly, ‘I expect you’ve done much worse things than that.’
‘Never! Never when men’s lives depend on it. I’m an absolute oyster. You ought to know that, Nona. I never blabbed at school, did I?’
‘But I only said–’
‘Shut up! I’m sorry, old thing, but really you must know that we never mention convoys.’ The last word came almost as a whisper. ‘Of course, this time it doesn’t matter.’ (But it will be an order mark next time!) ‘And nothing you say to me will go any further.’ (You can imitate Miss Baynes or the Head to me, but not before the kids: that’s awfully bad form, Nona.) ‘Gosh, if I passed on everything I know, I don’t know where we’d be. The way people talk. Personally, I just won’t listen to it.’
‘No you won’t!’ whispered a little demon in Miss Ranskill’s brain.
‘As a matter of fact I did happen to know about this morning’s convoy.’
‘I simply don’t know what you’re talking about,’ interrupted Miss Ranskill despairingly. ‘I’m sorry, but–’
‘Just like you to shut the stable door after the cat’s out of the bag. Don’t you remember at school – Gosh! I mustn’t stand here gossiping or they’ll all be screaming for me downstairs.’
Marjorie went to a wardrobe, snatched a grey skirt from its hanger, pulled open a drawer and dragged at a white sweater.
‘I’m sorry to be snappy, my dear, but I’ve got into the habit now of squashing careless talk. It makes people so jittery. I do think the main danger’s over, but if we should have any little bother in the way of an invasion scare, it will be my job to stop panic.’
Marjorie waved the sweater as though it symbolised the Union Jack. ‘How I’m going to do it and fire-watch and run the paper salvage, I just don’t know.’
Her head disappeared for a moment or two, and then reappeared through the neck of her jumper.
‘Honestly, Nona, you mustn’t think another thing about it. It absolutely was my fault for asking, because obviously if you go out in convoys you must be doing some terribly hush-hush job, and I oughtn’t to have asked. I don’t generally ask asinine questions. You do believe that, don’t you, Nona?’
Miss Ranskill opened her mouth to answer, but she might just as well have saved her facial muscles.
‘I say, it must be frightfully exciting for you going out in convoys, absolutely thrilling. No, I’m not asking questions. Don’t tell me a word. Shut me up at once if I seem to be inquisitive. I suppose that accounts for the queer sort of rig you’re wearing. I do think it’s bad luck that so many people who’re doing really vital jobs aren’t allowed uniforms, don’t you?’
‘Well, really I don’t know.’ By this time Miss Ranskill felt that she knew nothing about anything – not even the job of a sexton.
‘I say, you will stay to tea, won’t you?’ Marjorie patted her skirt. ‘Or have you got to go back on duty?’
‘No, I could stay. As a matter of fact, I–’
‘That’s splendid. I’ve got to fly now and get them started on the nets. We have tea at five. Tell you what, if you want to wash or anything, don’t bother to come down till then. We only have a bun and a cup of tea. After they’ve gone I ought to have half an hour to spare. We’ll have a good old talk then.’
‘I’d been wondering–’
‘My dear, I must fly. Make yourself at home. There’s an old school mag on the table by my bed. You’ll find lots of news in that. Good old June Mathers has got the GM and Buntie’s on radio-location. I must go.’
‘Could I,’ for an idea was slowly rising in Miss Ranskill’s brain above all the clutter thrown there by Marjorie, ‘could I use the telephone?’
‘Use the kitchen stove if you like.’
The voice came from outside the door and then a series of clumps remarked on Marjorie’s descent downstairs.
A great wish to see her sister at once had suddenly possessed Nona Ranskill. She must see someone recognisable, someone through whose eyes she could learn to observe this new world, someone who could explain without being shocked by ignorance. Edith was tiresome and quite as conventional as Marjorie, but, at least, she had never suffered by her development being arrested midway through the last term in the sixth form. Miss Ranskill herself must begin at the beginning again and learn slowly. It was rather odd that she, who had always had an enquiring mind, should have waited until she was nearly forty-four to be sorry for the Sleeping Beauty. The kiss must have been a startler to even the most complacent of princesses.
‘Sleeping Beauty!’ thought Miss Ranskill grimly as she passed the mirror on her way to the telephone.
She asked for the old number in the Hampshire village. It was queer to hear it spoken again, and odd she should remember it so clearly.
How surprised Edith would be! Would she be pleased? What had Swinburne said, something about thanking ‘whatever gods there be, that no man lives forever, that dead men rise up never, that–’
‘There is up to half an hour’s delay to Lynchurch. You will be r-rung later.’
And then would there be another delay? Would Edith be out exercising Whuppet, the spaniel? Memory of those flying ears and fluffily-fringed paws roused a surge of home-sickness. Miss Ranskill was still holding the receiver, and she put it down grudgingly; for its length seemed just a dog’s lead distance to the village so far along the coast.
But even here, she looked affectionately round Marjorie’s bedroom, there was a linking homeliness.
There was the school badge with its legend Honour before Honours black against the buff of a paper magazine.
She began to turn over the pages. It was all much as it had always been. There were accounts of house-matches and exam-honours. There was an anæmic smug little poem written by ‘Joan Burgess. Upper IVb.’ This was a small world she knew, a plain stodgy safe world full of ink and blotting-paper, thick bread and butter, and stout shoes; interrupted by only an occasional stir of the heart as when a peacock butterfly brought its quivering beauty to interrupt a maths lesson, a rainbow arched over the playing-field, or a lecturer brought the tang of wine-dark seas and a riot of lovely names into the hall.
No, it was not quite the same as it had been. A few bleak little notices were sandwiched between items of school news.
owing to the petrol shortage there were no outside matches last term.
miss cummins has gone to work in a munitions factory. her place next term will be taken by miss bray.
Then, from the report by the head mistress:
Owing to our amalgamation with St Cyprian’s School when it was evacuated from the East Coast, the sixth form sitting-room had to be given up last term, and the small recreation room was turned into a dormitory…. Girls of both schools are pulling together fairly well, but there is still need for greater co-operation in the lower forms…. Less fuel was used during the term, but there is still need for great care. It has been decided that on really cold days, there shall be two ten-minute breaks during the mornings for physical drill or skipping exercises…. The Black-out Monitors are to be congratulated on their vigilance…. The Salvage Monitors are reminded to keep a keener eye on all waste next term…. All girls whose birthdays fall on or after June 10th will register during the holidays…. Parents are reminded that the Bursar still has a certain number of second-hand tunics and shirts in her store: these may be purchased coupon-free…. There was a gas-mask parade and inspection at mid-term: some of the Juniors’ masks showed signs of rough handling…. Ration books must be handed in with the health certificates on the first day of term, and every girl must surrender her Personal Points book at the same time…. ARP practices are to be more frequent in future…. Some of the older girls are learning to cut Braille. Soon they hope to send some booklets to one of the Children’s Homes for the Civilian Blind….