Seems to me, Miss Ranskill, you never die properly, not if you’re a father. Soon as you hear the first squall of the baby, you thinks to yourself, I’ve finished with sleep for a bit. Later on when the boy’s running about you thinks, ‘And I’ve done with death too.’ It’s like watching yourself grow young.
She had seen him grow young in the face of Colin and now, if she were allowed, she could add truth to the story held in the sea-shell.
‘I expect you will soon be able to take up some war-work,’ said Edith, dismissing the Carpenter’s son.
‘Yes, soon, I should think.’ Miss Ranskill’s words gave an impatient push to her dreams. ‘I’m fit enough now.’
‘By the way, Miss Hoskins asked me if I thought you’d be well enough to give a talk to the Women’s Institute. I said I’d ask.’
‘But what can I talk about – fish-drying or boat-building, or “How I Wore the Same Clothes for Four Years and Just Kept Decent”?’
‘You could touch on that, perhaps,’ said Edith, ‘not the boat-building though, except lightly. Miss Hoskins suggested “My Life on a Desert Island” would be a good subject. Do try, Nona: it would be good for you and most interesting to them.’
Good for her? To parade the torments and hardships of the past four years on the platform of a village hall? Interesting for them to rub the bloom off the frail remembered happiness with questions?
‘It would be a change from all the cake-making and bottling,’ urged Edith. ‘And it would save all the bother and expense of arranging for a lecturer from a distance and providing transport.’
When we get home, Miss Ranskill, we’ll have some tales to tell that’ll make ’em all sit up.
‘Very well,’ she agreed.
She would make them sit up. She would harden her heart against hurt, as once she had been forced to harden her body, before her hands had learned resistance to blisters, and her feet to withstand the biting of shale. She would tell them things that would make them forget the kitchen sinks and the rationing, the shortage of milk and the shortage of fat. In doing this, she would shake her own mind free of clutter and homesickness; and stop nursing her dreams in the way that demented young women of fiction hug dead babies to their breasts instead of getting supper for the older children.
Below the platform and to the left of Miss Ranskill, one of the Institute members was hammering our Parry’s ‘Jerusalem’ on a piano that needed tuning: the others were singing Blake’s miraculous words and showing no hint of zest or humour.
wavered little Miss King, who could not even manage her knitting-needles, and who had said only that morning to Edith Ranskill that an extra two ounces on the fat ration would make all the difference.
‘Bring me my chariot of fire,’ shouted Miss Bridge, whose nervousness on a bicycle was a joy to all the village boys.
Then all of them, including Miss Moffat (a most ardent persecutor of some little Jewish children, members of a Polish-Jew refugee family who lived in the cottage next door), the rather feebleminded Miss Lindsay, and Miss Staples, who would not let her evacuees play with toy soldiers, added:
The last note quivered, the last chord was thumped but no rain of arrows descended on little Miss King, who would, doubtless, have used them as hatpins if they had. Miss Staples showed no sign of minding that her shout for a fiery chariot had not been answered, and Miss Moffat turned to whisper the latest Jewish iniquity to her neighbour.
Miss Hoskins, the President, rose and addressed the Meeting, but Miss Ranskill did not hear a word she said because she was busy making little parodies of her own forthcoming speech:
‘It makes me feel very proud to see that so many of my busy co-workers have found time to spare to listen to the few dress-hints that our President thinks I may be able to give you.’ (Pause for applause.) ‘I am sure every one of you knows much more about this difficult problem of clothing in war-time than I do.’ (Pause for denial.) ‘The only excuse I have for being here is that for four years and more I have had to make do with a very insufficient wardrobe, only one suit, one pair of stockings, one pair of shoes, and one set of underclothes. There are no gentlemen present, are there?’ (Pause for laughter.) ‘You can guess, when I tell you that my one needle was made from a pierced fish-bone, my darning thread was hair, filched from my own head, and my patches were cut from the skins of wild birds, that I had to use considerable ingenuity at my little private make-and-mend classes.’ (Pause for incredulity.)
‘Yes, somehow or other, I contrived to ring the changes in my wardrobe, although I am afraid I never achieved smartness. I know you will all agree with me that variety of clothing is not a luxury but a necessity, if we women are to keep up our morale in these terrible war days. I admit, and I am ashamed to admit, that while I was on my island I did not realise there was a war.’ (Pause for sensation.) ‘So this dress problem is even more important to you than it was to me. Still we are all women together, aren’t we? My problems then are our problems now, so that is why I am going to tell you how I managed. Well, I seldom wore more than two garments at once. It is marvellous how you can ring the changes with two garments. On Sunday the suit, on Monday the jacket and knickers, on Tuesday the skirt and vest, on Wednesday (if it happened to be warm and sunny) the brassière and knickers, on Thursday (another sunny day) the slip, on Friday (cooler, perhaps) the jacket and slip. On Saturday (becoming just a little more formal) the jumper and skirt. Really, that little dress scheme worked admirably. If any of you feel doubtful, I beg you to give it a trial. I see no reason why we should not all start together on the same day. I did not happen to have a hat, but there is no reason why we should not all wear our prettiest hats with the new war-time ensembles I have suggested to you.’
Miss Penrose had nearly finished reading the Minutes by now, and Miss Ranskill was giving another imaginary talk on Desert Island Recipes:
‘When you have caught your fish (personally I had no net, but I contrived an excellent substitute for one out of my vest. By the way, if any of you ladies wish to go fishing in your vests, I must remind you that it really is important to stitch up the neck and the armholes before beginning, unless, of course, you are only fishing for sport) when, as I say, you have caught your fish, the next thing is – Oh! no, no, no, not to cook it – to clean it. Take a jack-knife or piece of sharp shell–’
Miss Ranskill, interrupted by the sound of her own name, glanced at the President, who was smiling down at her.
‘And now I will call upon the lady, who knows more about Desert Islands than anyone in this village, to give us the promised account of her experiences. Miss Ranskill!’
The President sat down and the travelled speaker stood up. There followed the usual shuffling, throat-clearing, chair-scraping and coughing. Somebody said ‘Hush!’ But there was no need.
Miss Ranskill stared at the faces before her, at Edith’s, plaintive and tense, at Mrs Phillips’, hostile and disapproving, at Miss Moffat’s, like a sea-gull, at Miss Bridge’s like another sea-gull, at Miss Lindsay (surely she was more like a sea-gull than either of the others!) Miss King was more like a seagull than any bird could be.