The Penguin Book of First World War Stories (29 page)

He had come in and closed the door behind him. The girls moved in their circle, to make a place for him near the fire. He took off his great-coat and pushed back his hat.

‘Who handles the teapot?' he said.

Nora Purdy silently poured him out a cup of tea.

‘Want a bit o' my bread and drippin'?' said Muriel Baggaley to him.

‘Aye, give us a bit.'

And he began to eat his piece of bread.

‘There's no place like home, girls,' he said.

They all looked at him as he uttered this piece of impudence. He seemed to be sunning himself in the presence of so many damsels.

‘Especially if you're not afraid to go home in the dark,' said Laura Sharp.

‘Me! By myself I am.'

They sat till they heard the last tram come in. In a few minutes Emma Houselay entered.

‘Come on, my old duck!' cried Polly Birkin.

‘It
is
perishing,' said Emma, holding her fingers to the fire.

‘“But – I'm afraid to, go home in, the dark,”'
⁵
sang Laura Sharp, the tune having got into her mind.

‘Who're you going with to-night, John Thomas?' asked Muriel Baggaley, coolly.

‘To-night?' said John Thomas. ‘Oh, I'm going home by myself to-night – all on my lonely-O.'

‘That's me!' said Nora Purdy, using his own ejaculation.

The girls laughed shrilly.

‘Me as well, Nora,' said John Thomas.

‘Don't know what you mean,' said Laura.

‘Yes, I'm toddling,' said he, rising and reaching for his overcoat.

‘Nay,' said Polly. ‘We're all here waiting for you.'

‘We've got to be up in good time in the morning,' he said, in the benevolent official manner.

They all laughed.

‘Nay,' said Muriel. ‘Don't leave us all lonely, John Thomas. Take one!'

‘I'll take the lot, if you like,' he responded gallantly.

‘That you won't, either,' said Muriel. ‘Two's company; seven's too much of a good thing.'

‘Nay – take one,' said Laura. ‘Fair and square, all above board, and say which.'

‘Aye,' cried Annie, speaking for the first time. ‘Pick, John Thomas; let's hear thee.'

‘Nay,' he said. ‘I'm going home quiet to-night. Feeling good, for once.'

‘Whereabouts?' said Annie. ‘Take a good 'un, then. But tha's got to take one of us!'

‘Nay, how can I take one?' he said, laughing uneasily. ‘I don't want to make enemies.'

‘You'd only make
one
,' said Annie.

‘The chosen
one
,' added Laura.

‘Oh, my! Who said girls!' exclaimed John Thomas, again turning, as if to escape. ‘Well – good-night.'

‘Nay, you've got to make your pick,' said Muriel. ‘Turn your face to the wall, and say which one touches you. Go on – we shall only just touch your back – one of us. Go on – turn your face to the wall, and don't look, and say which one touches you.'

He was uneasy, mistrusting them. Yet he had not the courage to break away. They pushed him to a wall and stood him there with his face to it. Behind his back they all grimaced, tittering. He looked so comical. He looked around uneasily.

‘Go on!' he cried.

‘You're looking – you're looking!' they shouted.

He turned his head away. And suddenly, with a movement like a swift cat, Annie went forward and fetched him a box on the side of the head that sent his cap flying and himself staggering. He started round.

But at Annie's signal they all flew at him, slapping him, pinching him, pulling his hair, though more in fun than in spite or anger. He, however, saw red. His blue eyes flamed with strange fear as well as fury, and he butted through the girls to the door. It was locked. He wrenched at it. Roused, alert, the girls stood round and looked at him. He faced them, at bay. At that moment they were rather horrifying to him, as they stood in their short uniforms. He was distinctly afraid.

‘Come on, John Thomas! Come on! Choose!' said Annie.

‘What are you after? Open the door,' he said.

‘We shan't – not till you've chosen!' said Muriel.

‘Chosen what?' he said.

‘Chosen the one you're going to marry,' she replied.

He hesitated a moment.

‘Open the blasted door,' he said, ‘and get back to your senses.' He spoke with official authority.

‘You've got to choose!' cried the girls.

‘Come on!' cried Annie, looking him in the eye. ‘Come on! Come on!'

He went forward, rather vaguely. She had taken off her belt, and swinging it, she fetched him a sharp blow over the head with the buckle end. He sprang and seized her. But immediately the other girls rushed upon him, pulling and tearing and beating him. Their blood was now thoroughly up. He was their sport now. They were going to have their own back, out of him. Strange, wild creatures, they hung on him and rushed at him to bear him down. His tunic was torn right up the back, Nora had hold at the back of his collar, and was actually strangling him. Luckily the button burst. He struggled in a wild frenzy of fury and terror, almost mad terror. His tunic was simply torn off his back, his shirt-sleeves were torn away, his arms were naked. The girls rushed at him, clenched their hands on him and pulled at him: or they rushed at him and pushed him, butted him with all their might: or they struck him wild blows. He ducked and cringed and struck sideways. They became more intense.

At last he was down. They rushed on him, kneeling on him. He had neither breath nor strength to move. His face was bleeding with a long scratch, his brow was bruised.

Annie knelt on him, the other girls knelt and hung on to him. Their faces were flushed, their hair wild, their eyes were all glittering strangely. He lay at last quite still, with face averted, as an animal lies when it is defeated and at the mercy of the captor. Sometimes his eye glanced back at the wild faces of the girls. His breast rose heavily, his wrists were torn.

‘Now, then, my fellow!' gasped Annie at length. ‘Now then–now–'

At the sound of her terrifying, cold triumph, he suddenly started to struggle as an animal might, but the girls threw themselves upon him with unnatural strength and power, forcing him down.

‘Yes – now, then!' gasped Annie at length.

And there was a dead silence, in which the thud of heart-beating was to be heard. It was a suspense of pure silence in every soul.

‘Now you know where you are,' said Annie.

The sight of his white, bare arm maddened the girls. He lay in a kind of trance of fear and antagonism. They felt themselves filled with supernatural strength.

Suddenly Polly started to laugh – to giggle wildly – helplessly – and Emma and Muriel joined in. But Annie and Nora and Laura remained the same, tense, watchful, with gleaming eyes. He winced away from these eyes.

‘Yes,' said Annie, in a curious low tone, secret and deadly. ‘Yes! You've got it now! You know what you've done, don't you? You know what you've done.'

He made no sound nor sign, but lay with bright, averted eyes, and averted, bleeding face.

‘You ought to be
killed
, that's what you ought,' said Annie, tensely. ‘You ought to be
killed
.' And there was a terrifying lust in her voice.

Polly was ceasing to laugh, and giving long-drawn Oh-h-hs and sighs as she came to herself.

‘He's got to choose,' she said vaguely.

‘Oh, yes, he has,' said Laura, with vindictive decision.

‘Do you hear – do you hear?' said Annie. And with a sharp movement, that made him wince, she turned his face to her.

‘Do you hear?' she repeated, shaking him.

But he was quite dumb. She fetched him a sharp slap on the face. He started, and his eyes widened. Then his face darkened with defiance, after all.

‘Do you hear?' she repeated.

He only looked at her with hostile eyes.

‘Speak!' she said, putting her face devilishly near his.

‘What?' he said, almost overcome.

‘You've got to
choose
!' she cried, as if it were some terrible menace, and as if it hurt her that she could not exact more.

‘What?' he said, in fear.

‘Choose your girl, Coddy. You've got to choose her now. And you'll get your neck broken if you play any more of your tricks, my boy. You're settled now.'

There was a pause. Again he averted his face. He was cunning in his overthrow. He did not give in to them really – no, not if they tore him to bits.

‘All right, then,' he said, ‘I choose Annie.' His voice was strange and full of malice. Annie let go of him as if he had been a hot coal.

‘He's chosen Annie!' said the girls in chorus.

‘Me!' cried Annie. She was still kneeling, but away from him. He was still lying prostrate, with averted face. The girls grouped uneasily around.

‘Me!' repeated Annie, with a terrible bitter accent.

Then she got up, drawing away from him with strange disgust and bitterness.

‘I wouldn't touch him,' she said.

But her face quivered with a kind of agony, she seemed as if she would fall. The other girls turned aside. He remained lying on the floor, with his torn clothes and bleeding, averted face.

‘Oh, if he's chosen –' said Polly.

‘I don't want him – he can choose again,' said Annie, with the same rather bitter hopelessness.

‘Get up,' said Polly, lifting his shoulder. ‘Get up.'

He rose slowly, a strange, ragged, dazed creature. The girls eyed him from a distance, curiously, furtively, dangerously.

‘Who wants him?' cried Laura, roughly.

‘Nobody,' they answered, with contempt. Yet each one of them waited for him to look at her, hoped he would look at her. All except Annie, and something was broken in her.

He, however, kept his face closed and averted from them all. There was a silence of the end. He picked up the torn pieces of his tunic, without knowing what to do with them. The girls stood about uneasily, flushed, panting, tidying their hair and their dress unconsciously, and watching him. He looked at none of them. He espied his cap in a corner, and went and picked it up. He put it on his head, and one of the girls burst into a shrill, hysteric laugh at the sight he presented. He, however, took no heed, but went straight to where his overcoat hung on a peg. The girls moved away from contact with him as if he had been an electric wire. He put on his coat and buttoned it down. Then he rolled his tunic-rags into a bundle, and stood before the locked door, dumbly.

‘Open the door, somebody,' said Laura.

‘Annie's got the key,' said one.

Annie silently offered the key to the girls. Nora unlocked the door.

‘Tit for tat, old man,' she said. ‘Show yourself a man, and don't bear a grudge.'

But without a word or sign he had opened the door and gone, his face closed, his head dropped.

‘That'll learn him,' said Laura.

‘Coddy!' said Nora.

‘Shut up, for God's sake!' cried Annie fiercely, as if in torture.

‘Well, I'm about ready to go, Polly. Look sharp!' said Muriel.

The girls were all anxious to be off. They were tidying themselves hurriedly, with mute, stupefied faces.

Miss Ogilvy's thin, pale lips were set sternly and her forehead was puckered in an effort of attention, in an effort to memorize every small detail of every old war-weary battered motor on whose side still appeared the merciful emblem that had set Miss Ogilvy free.

Miss Ogilvy's mind was jerking a little, trying to regain its accustomed balance, trying to readjust itself quickly to this sudden and paralysing change. Her tall, awkward body with its queer look of strength, its broad, flat bosom and thick legs and ankles, as though in response to her jerking mind, moved uneasily, rocking backwards and forwards. She had this trick of rocking on her feet in moments of controlled agitation. As usual, her hands were thrust deep into her pockets, they seldom seemed to come out of her pockets unless it were to light a cigarette, and as though she were still standing firm under fire while the wounded were placed in her ambulances, she suddenly straddled her legs very slightly and lifted her head and listened. She was standing firm under fire at that moment, the fire of a desperate regret.

Some girls came towards her, young, tired-looking creatures whose eyes were too bright from long strain and excitement. They had all been members of that glorious Unit, and they still wore the queer little forage-caps and the short, clumsy tunics of the French Militaire. They still slouched in walking and
smoked Caporals
¹
in emulation of the Poilus. Like their founder and leader these girls were all English, but like her they had chosen to serve England's ally, fearlessly thrusting right up to the trenches in search of the wounded and dying. They had seen some fine things in the course of three years, not the least fine of which was the cold, hard-faced woman who commanding, domineering, even hectoring at times, had yet been possessed of so dauntless a courage and of so insistent a vitality that it vitalized the whole Unit.

‘It's rotten!' Miss Ogilvy heard someone saying. ‘It's rotten, this breaking up of our Unit!' And the high, rather childish voice of the speaker sounded perilously near to tears.

Miss Ogilvy looked at the girl almost gently, and it seemed, for a moment, as though some deep feeling were about to find expression in words. But Miss Ogilvy's feelings had been held in abeyance so long that they seldom dared become vocal, so she merely said, ‘Oh?' on a rising inflection – her method of checking emotion.

They were swinging the ambulance cars in mid-air, those of them that were destined to go back to England, swinging them up like sacks of potatoes, then lowering them with much clanging of chains to the deck of the waiting steamer. The porters were shoving and shouting and quarrelling, pausing now and again to make meaningless gestures; while a pompous official was becoming quite angry as he pointed at Miss Ogilvy's own special car – it annoyed him, it was bulky and difficult to move.

‘
Bon Dieu! Mais dêpechez-vous donc
!'
²
he bawled, as though he were bullying the motor.

Then Miss Ogilvy's heart gave a sudden, thick thud to see this undignified, pitiful ending; and she turned and patted the gallant old car as though she were patting a well-beloved horse, as though she would say: ‘Yes, I know how it feels – never mind, we'll go down together.'