It was spring. A wonderful English springtime, with the park covered
with crocuses, with blossoms, with sheep, a spring that sent mounted
amazons with their cavaliers, onto the bridle paths, and sent couples
rowing in the Serpentine.
Once more people were talking of the invasion. It was surely going to
take place this year, and at night all of us dreamed that we were back
in France.
We girls were being photographed in Down Street. One of the propaganda
services was making a short film about the life of the feminine
volunteers in the Free French Forces. The dining room and the
dormitories were cluttered with spotlights and cables.
Jacqueline was filmed taking a bath, dressing, making up, and getting in
the truck to go to work. The sentinels on the roof were filmed, and the
little Brittany girls, enveloped in immaculate white aprons that had
been borrowed for the occasion, were shown preparing our meals under the
smiling supervision of a Machou transformed into a tender, motherly
soul. The infirmary was decorated with tricolors for the occasion. The
nurse, a dirty girl with greasy hair, who usually left the sick ones to
take care of themselves, was photographed in the act of bringing a tray
of food to a fake invalid. Vases filled with flowers were all around the
room, and the place was hardly recognizable. In order to create an
atmosphere of evening diversion, the film-makers perched a couple of
girls on the piano and had them put their arms around each other and
sing “_Auprès de ma blonde._”
It was during the time when Down Street was revolutionized by these
motion-picture activities that a new crisis arose around Jacqueline.
Ursula was the first to learn of it. One day after we had all gone off
to our duties, she found Jacqueline crying on her bed. Ursula tried to
console Jacqueline, without quite knowing what to say.
Jacqueline raised a ravaged face to her. “I’m going to have a baby,” she
said, and she began to cry again.
Ursula looked at her mutely, not knowing whether she should believe
this, whether it was meant as playacting or as truth.
Then, realizing it was serious, she felt filled with respect for
Jacqueline, and looked at her as though the child were already in her
arms. It seemed to Ursula a thing that was strange and sacred and rather
impossible, like a miracle. It was something that could happen to
women—to real women, married, older—but here in Down Street, and to one
of the “Virgins,” it seemed to touch on the world of unreality.
“Are you sure, Jacqueline?” she said in a low voice.
Jacqueline nodded. She had seen a doctor, and he had told her that the
baby would be born in December. It was now May.
Ursula remained seated on the bed, completely incapable of offering any
advice. Jacqueline repeated, “I don’t want a baby. It mustn’t be born.
It can’t. What am I going to do?”
* * * * *
At first only a few of us knew the secret. Mickey was again consulted.
After reflection, Mickey said that she believed there was a drug that
was remarkably effective in producing abortion, but she had never heard
its name. A pharmacist would know.
Presently half the dormitory was aware of the situation, and a great
variety of advice was offered to Jacqueline. Ginette made her take a
series of baths in practically boiling water. She was induced to jump
from her bed fifty times.
After much searching, Jacqueline found a pharmacist who was willing to
co-operate, but the stuff he sold her had no effect. Neither did the hot
water or bicycle riding or jumping. And time passed.
* * * * *
Jacqueline never wrote to De Prade to tell him what was
happening—perhaps because everything then might have been too simple. De
Prade would have sent her money, would have helped, perhaps would have
been able to return. Perhaps he would have promised her to get a divorce
after the war. But Jacqueline would take only the most morbid view of
the situation. The conception of the child was entirely her own fault,
she insisted, and De Prade would never get a divorce. If she told him
what had happened, she would only make him desperate. De Prade had been
filled with remorse when he left. But he had probably gone to
confession, done penance, and promised to forget her. She was certain
that he would never write to her. On returning to France, he would
probably confess their night to his wife, begging her forgiveness, and
that would be the end of it.
Perhaps, I thought, she was right in her understanding of him. He was
from her world. She had selected him because of that. And she insisted
that she simply could not inform De Prade of what had happened. Besides
that, she had a sort of presentiment that this affair could not end for
her otherwise than in still another catastrophe. Catastrophes were the
order of her life. Therefore, in the end, she accepted her situation as
part of this established order.
After her pregnancy had become officially noted, Jacqueline once again
left Down Street. Once more her bed was taken over by a new recruit. A
welfare organization of Free France busied itself with finding a room
for Jacqueline in the suburbs of London, and providing her with
subsistence funds. It was not the first case of this sort at the
barracks, and it would certainly not be the last. But officially, no one
knew the identity of the father. For once, the few girls in our little
circle seemed capable of guarding a secret. It was of course generally
known in the barracks that Jacqueline had passed her weekends in
Kensington, but three or four officers lived in the house, and besides,
they were always changing, and Jacqueline was known to have a great
quantity of admirers.
One morning a little notice was pinned up in the hall in Down Street
among the announcements, sentences, and regulations. This stated that
Jacqueline had been “discharged for reasons of health.”