No, certainly, it was not the same. Miss Ranskill remembered her terms at school during the last war, and the excitement of that day in the summer holidays when war was declared and was no longer a thing to be read of in history books but a glory to be lived through – a thin red line rioting across Belgium. A dullness had followed: there had been knitting parties but the balaclavas and scarves had been more fun to make than flannel petticoats. The brothers of two or three girls had been killed and their names emblazoned on a Roll of Honour in the school chapel.
She remembered Marjorie’s comment:
‘It’s lucky we’ll have left before they can make new history books. Gosh! fancy having to swot up all the dates of this war as well. I’m going to write and beg Mummy to let me give up German. I’m going to say I think it’s absolutely disloyal to learn a word of it. We’ll never speak it after this. Why, there won’t be any Germans left.’
‘It might be useful if there was another war. People who know German might easily help to catch spies.’
‘There won’t be another war ever, you silly chump. This is a War to end Wars absolutely; everyone says so.’
Miss Ranskill recalled Marjorie’s earnest face as she flicked over the pages, till she came to the ones that gave ‘News of old girls’.
There, in repudiation of her mother’s cock-a-hoop statement, was a little notice:
‘Daphne Mallison (Hillrise, Hartmouth) has joined the WRNS and is enjoying her new life very much!’
Miss Ranskill read other news slowly as a child mouthing through its first story-book, missing out some words and symbols, guessing at the meaning of others. Her contemporaries seemed to be doing remarkable things.
Her finger was checked by a small obituary notice.
‘Mary, infant daughter of Molly Henderson (née Matthews), by enemy action.’
The shocking little statement sent Miss Ranskill’s mind harking back – Molly Matthews, of course, that small red-headed second-former with the snuffle and the squeaky voice. Always in trouble for something or other, she remembered. She felt angry as she remembered how frequently Molly had been held up to ridicule.
‘The untidiest girl I have ever known. You are always losing something. First your hat, then your gym shoes, then your hockey-stick and now your drawing-board!’
Poor Molly, well, she had lost more than a drawing-board now.
The telephone bell rang.
Miss Ranskill held the receiver in a grip that whitened her knuckles.
‘Are you Hartmouth two-five-eight-?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Your call to Lynchurch is through. Go ahead, please.’
‘Hullo! Hullo!’
She could almost smell the furniture polish in the home drawing-room now.
‘Hullo!’ the voice came faintly.
‘Is that you, Edith?’
‘Who?’
‘Edith, is that you?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t hear you very well.’
‘Is that you, Edith?’ Miss Ranskill was almost bellowing by now. ‘Who is that speaking? Is Miss Ranskill in?’
‘No, this is Mrs Wilson speaking.’ The voice sounded exasperated. ‘There is nobody of the name of Ranskill here.’
‘But aren’t you Lynchurch five-five-eight?’
‘Yes, this is Lynchurch five-five-eight.’
‘I wanted to speak to my sister, Miss Edith Ranskill.’
‘This is Mrs Wilson speaking,’ repeated the plaintive voice. ‘I’m afraid you must have got the wrong number.’
‘Please,’ Miss Ranskill spoke chokingly. She was afraid of hearing that Edith was dead, so afraid that she dared not ask the direct question: ‘Please, are you speaking from a house called The White Cottage?’
‘The White Cottage, yes.’
‘Is it, is it your house?’
‘We are the present tenants.’
Miss Ranskill felt sure that eyebrows were being raised in Hampshire, and she continued pleadingly:
‘I’m not asking out of curiosity–’
An incredulous pip sounded in her ear, followed by another and another.
‘I’m asking because I’ve just come, I mean, I have been away for some time and I used to live in – in your house. I thought my sister was there now. If you could possibly help me.’
She would hear the truth now and braced herself to receive it. Nervousness dulled her brain so that, at first, she scarcely took in the meaning of the words that seemed to come dimly and from a far country.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about your sister. We took over the house furnished from my husband’s predecessor about six months ago.’
‘Oh!’
‘I’m afraid I must–’
Miss Ranskill’s brain jumped to alertness again.
‘Don’t cut me off for a minute, please don’t cut me off. Could you tell me is there a white rug in front of the drawing-room fireplace and a Queen Anne bureau in the corner, and –?’ She suddenly realised the absurdity of the questions and said, ‘I’m only trying to find out if my sister let the house furnished or if–’
‘I see. Yes, there is a white rug and a Queen Anne bureau.’
‘And a Welsh dresser in the dining-room?’
‘Yes – a black oak dresser.’
Hope came back and with it more acuteness.
‘Did you keep the maids on? Is old Emma with you because–’
‘No, we’ve only got my husband’s batman. I should think it is quite likely that your sister went away, like so many other people, when we became a prohibited area.’
‘Prohibited area?’ Miss Ranskill repeated the unfamiliar words.
‘Yes, well, I’m so sorry not to be more helpful. Perhaps the post office here would have an address. I daresay they’d forward a letter.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Miss Ranskill flatly. ‘I wonder–’
‘I wish I could help. I must go now or the kettle will be boiling over. Goodbye.’
The click of a receiver in Hampshire left Miss Ranskill lonely and homesick.
Now, at this very moment, the copper kettle in her own kitchen was bubbling its readiness to make tea for a stranger. The stove was taking the reflection of a stranger’s skirt and the rag hearth-rug was soft beneath a tenant’s foot. She could almost hear the tinkle of the spoon against the teapot.
Meanwhile she had no foothold in England except for an hour or so. Presently, she supposed, she would have to say goodbye to Marjorie, thank her for the nice tea-party, promise to be ‘certain to look her up again’ next time she was in the neighbourhood, and go. Where? Could she take a room in some hotel while a bank got in touch with her bank and a post office in Lynchurch forwarded a letter? Would any hotel proprietor take her in these clothes and without luggage, and could she bear the publicity of the public rooms, supposing one did? Would the mysterious thing called a coupon be her only passport to the hotel?
Up to now she had always thought the Saracen maid, with her bleat of ‘London-Gilbert, Gilbert-London’ rather an idiot, but ‘Edith-England’ was an even vaguer address.