THE FIRST NIGHT IN CAMP
"Why did I leave my little back-room in Bloomsbury?"--VICTORIAN SONG.
Transformation scene.
From a London office to a Land Girls' Camp in Mid-Wales. From a
cramped, sixth-story flat looking down on slums to that big light hut
set among the woods that peeped a green "welcome" in at the many
windows.
Every window was wide open on that first evening when Elizabeth and I
got down to the camp.
Our first impressions of it? Well! I can only say we were not "out"
to be encouraged, or to like anything at all at that moment! Tired,
stiff from our journey, awkward in our unfamiliar uniform and heavy
boots, we followed the young forewoman who'd met us at the tiny
station called "Careg," and had piloted us up and down what seemed
interminable miles of lanes to this hut.
A queer, surprisingly ugly place, this long bare building!
Corrugated iron without, matchboarding within, with bare floors,
trestle tables, and kitchen-chairs. It had been intended for a
parish hall for meetings and sales of work; but the platform had been
taken away, and the whole building turned into a barracks for
girl-workers. Land Army slouch hats and brown raincoats hung from
the pegs, gay-coloured prints were pinned upon the unvarnished walls,
and flowers stood about in glass jam-jars.
The place resounded with laughter and talk. It was clustered with
Camp-ites, who wore the same rig as our own. We still felt as if we
were in fancy-dress. But these other light smocks and laced-up
leggings and hobnailed boots all bore the signs of honest wear and
tear from the work for which they were designed.
These girls had "worked themselves and their clothes in" to the new
job. On that first evening they looked to us a race apart. They
made me feel a nervous and apologetic weed! They were a bewildering
crowd.
"Now, you girls! Make a bit of room at this end of the table,"
ordered the forewoman cheerily. "Here are the two new workers for
the training depot. They're to live here."
Faces turned from each side of the long mess-table towards us. The
babel of talk died down. There was a scraping of chairs on the
scrubbed floor. A girl jumped up and fetched cups; another pushed
aside one of the glass gallipots that held sheaves of blue-bells and
marsh-yellows all down the table.
"That's right. You sit here, will you? Room for a little one!"--the
little one being Elizabeth, who seemed to have shrunk since she put
on breeches, into some small, shock-headed, pale and defensive boy.
"And you, Vic, look after this other one."
"What's your name?" from the forewoman.
"Matthews? Joan Matthews! Sit down, Joan; have your tea. There's
plenty more milk in the big jug; and pass up that bit of rhubarb pie
for them. They're all the way from London."
"London!" chorused the girls at the table in a variety of voices.
"London, fancy!"
"Eustern! All change! Stand clear o' the gates!" sang out one, in
gruff imitation. "Air-raid shelter this way! Full up, full up!
Pass along there."
"Piccadilly, theatres and shops!"
"Bond-street!"
"'Igh-street!"
"Dear old giddy London!"
"Bit of a change to Careg Camp, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," I admitted, and in the breezy laughter my voice was
drowned, also my heartfelt sigh.
For a sudden wave of regret swept over the whole of my tired being.
I wondered what had possessed me to leave London. It was going to be
awful! Why had I been so mad as to fill up those forms which that
girl had given me in Trafalgar Square, and to make those inquiries,
and to attend that Selection Committee and that Medical Board?
Why had I let Elizabeth--who was looking gloomy enough on her side of
the table--persuade me to take this silly step? Why on earth did I
join the Land Army for twelve months, agreeing to go wherever I was
sent? Here they'd sent us into the wilds of the country--hundreds of
miles away from every soul we knew, into this bare barn of a place
and this mob of strange girls!
There! Now one of them who'd finished tea sprang up--sprang as if it
were the beginning instead of the end of a working day--went to the
piano at the other end of the hall, and began to rattle out gay
music; and then two others were jumping up, too, taking each other by
the hands in a clear space of the room and swinging into a
two-step--dancing! After they'd been working on a farm-course all
day!
They were all so bursting with "go" and chattering spirits that I
felt I could never cope with them. Never should I make friends!
Never should I attain to anything they could do! Never accustom
myself to the strangeness of all this!
Here I was, a fish out of water. Even if I were miserable in London,
it's better to be wretched in a place that you're used to, and where
you're not expected to make any unwonted efforts, or to be bothered
by fresh people. Yes! Would to goodness I'd stuck it in London,
instead of rushing out of that frying-pan into this fire.
Absolutely "out of it all" and miserable, I expect my thoughts showed
in my face as I sat there. For a bright-eyed girl opposite, with
riotous red hair and a rounded throat starred with freckles, leaned
across, smiled, and remarked in the deep, soft contralto of Southern
Wales:
"Sure to feel strange at first! Longing for home. I was the first
ten days. Oh, I would have bought myself out and packed up. I
would, indeed----" she paused, and turned to the girl sitting beside
me. "But they won't want to get back to town after they've been here
a bit, will they, Vic?"
The big dark Land Girl "Vic," who sat next to me, showed all her
white teeth in a large and friendly grin.
"Ah, you'll be all right. You wait till you've stopped down here a
couple of weeks, Celery-face, and your own boy won't know you again!"
she assured me in a ringing Cockney accent that set all the others
laughing delightedly.
How popular she seemed! Good-natured, too. Presently I found her
taking Elizabeth and me under her wing while the other girls went on
with their various occupations.
None of them seemed to want to fling herself down and rest, doing
absolutely nothing--which was all I should feel fit for, I thought
gloomily. From the scullery-shed outside the hut came the sound of
clinking crockery and of laughter, as two of the girls washed up.
Overpoweringly cheery young women! I thought, peevish with fatigue.
Vic's Cockney voice rose above the rest of the chatter, proffering
encouragement and information.
"You'll be surprised!" she declared. "You won't want to leave,
ever----"
Chill silence from us.
"You'll see it's a fine life when you get your hand in at the work,"
she continued, undaunted by our silence. "Tomorrow morning you
start. I'll take you along to Mr. Price; he's the farmer at the
Practice place. Oh, he's all right, Mr. Price is; and her, too.
They won't be hard on you, seeing you've never worked before.... Oh!
You have worked? ... Oh, in business. Ah! that's a lady's job. This
other's all right, though. Don't you go telling 'em you know all
about farming just because you've made hay once or twice on your
holidays----"
"I wouldn't," I assured her.
"Oh! Well, I did. Talk about laugh ever since!" chuckled Vic.
"Why, you don't know how much you don't know until you start in the
Land Army! Why, one of the wounded Tommies from the hospital here
says to me on the road just now, 'Are you on the land, miss?' I said,
'Well, I'm not on the sea!'"
Much appreciative laughter from her friends greeted this repartee,
which, I believe, was then new.
"'No,' he says to me, 'but I bet you was all at sea the first time
you tried to milk the cow!' I says, 'You're right!' I was, too! You
see how you get on with it," to me. "Seven o'clock they milk."
"Seven!" I murmured, dismayed. In London I was never out of bed
before the postman knocked.
"And where," asked Elizabeth, speaking for the first time, "where is
this farm we've got to go to in the morning?"
"Mr. Holiday's? Oh, a lovely place! Great big dairy farm that
they've turned into this training centre for us. Only about a mile
off from here."
"A mile!" I echoed blankly. "How do we get there, please?"
"Get there? Well, how d'you think?" retorted Vic gaily. "We walk,
of course."
Walk! I wondered how long it was since I'd walked a whole mile
before today. Walk! A mile before the day's work began? Oh! I was
not the sort of girl who ought to dream of attempting this sort of
life! All these others were overwhelmingly fit and healthy. You
could see they were strong as horses, gay as larks! They must have
been picked girls for the job.
Well, £2 would buy me out!
The girl in the sweater and breeches, who had been ironing out her
smock, now put it on, all crisp. She also pinned a pink rose to the
breast of it with a regimental brooch.
"Boys to meet, Peggy!" called the girl at the piano. Now, her voice
was neither Cockney nor Welsh, but that of what was once called "the
governing class." What a queer mixture they were here!
Peggy looked demure and remarked:
"I'm astonished at you," and strolled forth into the evening sunlight.
"Her young gentleman's in the hospital here," Vic informed us.
"There's some real nice wounded boys there now. But for those, we
girls might forget what a young man looked like."
Here Elizabeth spoke for the second time, looking, for the first
time, a shade happier. She inquired "Ah, don't they allow men here?"
Chorus of variously accented "No's." With cheerful resignation Vic
added, "Young men's very strictly rationed in this camp. Only our
Mr. Price from the farm (o' course he's big enough to count for
three!) and Mr. Rhys--the--Forestry, as they call him. Not another
man is allowed to set his foot inside this place, so----"
She broke off as if she caught sight of something.
"Whoever's this?" she ejaculated. I, nearest the open window,
followed her look.
Two men, a little one and a tall one in khaki, were walking quickly
up the path to the camp.
A young man in khaki, wearing a Sam Browne!
This sight was hardly a rarity to Elizabeth and me, fresh from
London. So we were fairly taken aback at the reception of the
phenomenon here, in this far-away rural camp of Land Girls.
Excitedly Vic at the window reported.
"Here's our Mr. Rhys, bringing in an officer!"
Sensation!
"An officer?" cried twenty voices at once.
"An officer?"
"Sure it is an officer?"
"Some one from the hospital----"
"No officers there! Who can it be?"
"Friend of yours, Sybil!"--this to the girl who had been playing the
piano.
"Somebody's boy got a commission--don't all rush----"
But already they all had made a rush to the window, where Vic was
lifting up a corner of the white casement curtain to peep.
They crowded five deep behind her.
"It is an officer too!" announced the red-haired girl. "Captain!"
"I say, isn't he tall!"
"Doesn't he make carroty little Rhys look a shrimp?"
"Dark, isn't he? I do like dark men. A fair man always looks so
quiet."
"Huh! 'Looks'! This one looks 'quiet' enough, but I daresay----"
"Whatever's he coming here for?"
"He's not coming in; no such luck."
"Sssssh!" hissed Vic, with the noise of an engine letting off steam.
"He's coming in now!"
Instantly the crowd about the window scattered like flies before a
switch. The crochet, the ironing, the book, the washing-up, all were
resumed. It was indeed a model camp-room, full of
silently-industrious young women, that met the eyes of the two
visitors.
First the small, pink-faced man in leggings and loud checks, with an
orange moustache and a plume of amber hair that seemed to spring up
off his forehead as he took off his hat, smiled, and nodded about to
the sedate assembly of girls.
"Good evening, young ladies. Good evening, Miss Easton. Brought you
a caller," said Mr. Rhys.
Miss Easton, the forewoman, said "Good evening, Mr. Rhys," as
demurely as if she had no curiosity at all about this caller. The
tall man's shape that was darkening the doorway behind Mr. Rhys gave
a sudden abrupt movement forward.
"This," said Mr. Rhys in his pleasant Welshy voice, "is Captain
Holiday."
Mr. Rhys, putting his hat and twisty stick down on a chair, added
without further explanation, "I told Captain Holiday I thought you
wouldn't mind letting him have a bit of a look round the place."
"That's all right, Mr. Rhys," said the forewoman, with a little bow
to acknowledge the salute of the strange officer, who had now come
right into the room.
* * * * * * *
Here I would like to give my first impression of him, though every
one knows how difficult it is to recall an impression taken when one
is too dog-tired to notice clearly, or to care what any fresh person
is like.
I suppose I must have seen mechanically that this young man was of a
light and active build, and that he had what people call a "nice"
face, open, friendly, and sunburnt.
I didn't take in then the resolute set of the mouth under the
closely-hogged russet moustache, or even see what sort of eyes he'd
got. I know now that they are handsome, grey-blue eyes, set deep
behind a thick fringe of brown. Sweet eyes, with that look in them
that means, "Do like me!" A look so often contradicted in a man's
face by the obdurate line and tilt of the jaw, which would try to
proclaim, "I don't care a dash whether people like me or not."
* * * * * * *
All this was lost on me that first moment. I just noticed the gay
ribbon on Captain Holiday's well-worn khaki jacket, with two gold
stripes at the cuff.
Then I could not help noticing something rather odd about the young
man--namely, the quick, searching glance that he sent all round the
big room, taking in every Land Girl there. Was he looking for some
one? But no. After passing every girl, that searchlight glance
found me--and it held me! Yes; it was at me, who'd never seen him in
my life before, that he seemed to stare hardest of all! Why?
Then I thought it must be my imagination that this stranger was
staring at all. Possibly he was just shortsighted, and saw nothing
but what was just under his nose. I turned what attention I had to
the golden-and-white collie who trailed in behind him.
Led by the instinct these creatures have for an admirer, she sidled
up to me.
Her master was not too shortsighted, then, to see this! For he took
two hasty strides right across the room, bringing him up to where I
sat with Elizabeth; he gave a little quick soft whistle, and
instantly the collie sidled away again to her master's riding-booted
heel.
I had just time to suppose that this Captain Holiday--whoever he
might be--was about to say something friendly and pleasant when he
spoke.
The voice that came out of that nice, friendly face was brusque and
deep and carrying. The words that were set to that perfectly
charming smile were unexpected enough.
He demanded, still without taking his eyes from my face:
"You're new, aren't you? How long do you imagine that you're going
to stick this?"
I looked up. For a moment I scarcely knew whether I had understood.
Had he really asked that blunt, uncivil question?
"Were you speaking to me?" I said.
He nodded.
"To you? Yes, of course I was."
Indignantly surprised, I met his look again--steady, measuring,
disconcerting. Then I felt a perfect fool, in that stiff,
new-smelling uniform for which I felt--in both senses--so unfitted.
Then I blushed. After which, naturally, I felt I should hate him for
ever.
He waited; for some reason he was obviously determined that I should
speak again. I don't know what I should have answered; I think I
just meant to reply, "I don't know," but at that moment little Mr.
Rhys came up to call his attention to the time.
"If you want to get on to the farm, Captain Holiday----"
"Righto," said this odd Captain Holiday.
He gave a last half-smiling glance at me, and something that might
have been a little gesture of taking leave.
Then he turned to say "Good-bye" to the forewoman.
A moment later I realized that he and Mr. Rhys had left the hut.
For immediately the normal noise of the place burst out afresh, like
a stream released from the dam. Down, with a bang, went the iron on
the stand. Away into corners flew the book, the blouse-mending, the
crochet, the letter-writing pad. Chattering and laughing, the Land
Girls rushed five deep to the window again.
"There they go!"
"Fancy a man about this place! First thing you could call a man
that's been in here since we started!"
"What a shame," from the deep-voiced Welsh girl. "Why couldn't you
call our nice little Mr. Rhys 'a man'?"
"Oh, him! He's in and out every day. Can't call that 'a man' about
the place. More like a husband!" from another. "Miss Easton,
whoever was the officer?"
"Couldn't tell you. You heard Mr. Rhys say he was Captain Holiday,
and that's all I know."
"'Holiday.' Wonder if that's got anything to do with the farm?"
Here, as the men passed by my window, I caught a few words, uttered
by that carrying voice. The stranger was saying: "What was the name
of that girl I spoke to?"
What, I thought, irritably, had my name got to do with him? Again I
felt the stab of anger with which I'd heard him ask me how long I
thought I was going to stand "this"--the Land Army and roughing it in
camp. Impertinence! Anyhow, I was at the end of my tether for
tonight. Aching with fatigue, I got up and approached the laughing
Vic.
"Please," I asked her, "could you show us where the bedrooms are?"
"Bedrooms?" echoed the big Land Girl, and then burst into a fresh
peal of laughter. "Bedrooms? Hear that, girls? Celery-face wants
to know where the bedrooms are!" General laughter. "No luxuries of
that sort here, dear. As you were! Here's where we all sleep."
Blankly Elizabeth and I gazed about that bleak hall.
"On the floor," added Vic cheerfully.
"Floor!" I repeated, giving an appalled glance down at those hard
scrubbed boards.
But here our Cockney friend relented.
"Ah, it's not come to that yet, even in the Land Army," she said.
"Here, I'll show you." She put a large brown hand on the arm of each
of us, led us to the further end of the hall and pulled aside a
curtain.
Behind it an alcove was piled with rolled-up mattresses.
"We drag these out, d'you see," explained Vic. "Lay 'em in a line
along the wall here. Here's two for you--here's your blankets. I'll
tuck you up in your little byes. Sleep like tops here, see if you
don't."
I was amazed to find how cosily I curled up, presently on that
mattress without sheets or pillows, set on the floor near that open
window through which the air swept sweet with the breath of growing
things. Vic tucked the khaki blankets round me with a gesture that I
hadn't seen so near me since I lost my mother.
"Sleep well," she said comfortably. "Dream of 'him'!"
And it was into the profoundest sleep that I'd known since Harry
sailed that I presently sank.
My last waking thoughts were a jumble of the train journey, the
unfamiliar country, the laughing, rosy faces of the Land Girls. Then
clearly there stood out, in front of all, the face of that strange
young man who had walked into the camp, looking as if he were
searching for somebody. That searching, disconcerting stare of his
at me--why at _me_?--that brusque demand: "How long d'you imagine
you'll stick this?" Why did he say that to _me_?