Abigail’s “Lonely Sailor”
I’M sure I didn’t start my career of usefulness with any intention of
adopting a “lonely sailor.” It was Abigail who bestowed him upon me.
So far as I remember, it was something like this.
Abigail had joined “The Domestic Helpers’ Branch” of a Guild, organised
by some well-meaning souls, for the purpose of befriending those men in
the Army and Navy who are supposed to be without feminine kith or kin
of any description to take an interest in them.
She had been lured to a Guild meeting by her friend Pamela.
Pamela, it should be explained, was my parlour-maid, originally, but
when the national trumpet sounded for the reduction of one’s staff
of employees, she had moved a little further along the road, to “The
Gables,” a household that fancied they needed a parlour-maid worse than
I did.
We were mutually quite satisfied with the transference; she had
recently had a sister enter the service of a ducal family, and I had
found the effort necessary to keep pace with the duchess exceedingly
wearing. Kind hearts may be more than coronets, but they don’t always
show to such advantage, since one has to wear them inside.
As we had parted with no recriminations on either side, naturally I
begged Pamela to make my house “a home away from home” whenever she
pleased, which she accordingly did; and it was on one of her many “runs
in” that she had expatiated on the Guild in question, and induced
Abigail to sample it.
* * * * *
And thus, Abigail had returned from the meeting moved to the very core
of her kind heart by the harrowing details the speaker had related of
fine, daring, courageous, and magnificent specimens of British and
Colonial manhood, left desolate and uncared for, pining for a word of
sympathy and understanding from someone in the home-land—a word that
never came, alas!
Abigail said it had quite put her off her supper that night, thinking
of all those brave men, defending us and our homes right up to their
very last breath—and yet, never a woman to get them a clean pair of
socks or a hot meal when all was over; not a letter of sympathy, nor a
card with a line on it (here cook told her that funeral cards had quite
gone out), not so much as a word of encouragement from any relative
under the sun, every woman at home selfishly engaged with her own
concerns—— Why, it was a disgrace to the country that our heroes should
be neglected and put upon by the women of the land in any such way!
And please would I mind her sending off a cake as soon as possible?
as of course she had adopted a lonely sailor, wouldn’t have it on her
conscience not to; and cook was quite willing to make it, there was
plenty of dripping, and we still had a fair amount of carraway seeds
left, and they wouldn’t come as expensive as currants—cook’s cousins
at the Crystal Palace liked carraways _quite_ as well as currants if
plenty of spice and peel was put in. The fried potatoes had nearly
_choked_ her, when she was telling cook about it all . . . no, not
because she was talking with her mouth full; she meant that the very
thought of those poor lonely men was like eating sawdust. The speaker
at the meeting had said he was sure each one present had only to ask
her employer, and permission would be given immediately and gladly for
a cake or potted meat or some other little delicacy to be sent once a
week, as a sign of sympathy and understanding, to one of these grand
yet lonely souls.
Of course I immediately and gladly gave permission for the concrete
sympathy to be sent once a week, but stipulated that it was to be a
cake; five shillings’ worth of meat, as per my butcher’s charges, goes
positively nowhere when “potted.” I reckoned that a good dripping cake
would give the desolate one a deal more sympathy for the money.
(At the same time, to keep our rations properly balanced I cut off the
small plate of spice buns, our only cake luxury, which had been in the
habit of adorning our Sunday afternoon tea-table.)
And oh! the care with which we sewed up that first box of sympathy
in a remnant of cretonne, carefully putting it on wrong side out (to
preserve its beauty), and hoping that when he undid it he would notice
what a charming pattern of purple dahlias and blue roses was on the
inside, and how the cretonne was just a nice size to make up into a
boot bag if he chanced to be needing a new one.
* * * * *
I pass over the next few weeks while we waited anxiously for the
“lonely sailor” to materialise. He was engaged on board H.M.S. “The
North Sea,” and sailors, we know, are subject to wind and weather.
Abigail said she almost wished now that she had selected a lonely
soldier; she could have had one if she had liked; but she had chosen
a sailor because she thought he might wear better. The German sailors
didn’t seem so pigheadedly bent on fighting as the German soldiers
were.
We did our best to keep the time from hanging idly on our hands by
devising as much variety as possible for future menus, discussing the
respective merits of cinnamon _versus_ cocoanut as a flavouring, and
wondering whether after all we shouldn’t be more likely to buck up his
desolate spirits (and more particularly his pen) if we sent a sultana
cake next week, rather than gingerbread.
I never before knew Abigail so prompt in her attendance upon the
postman’s knock as she was during those blank weeks that accompanied
the first half-dozen cakes. And then, when she was in a very slough of
dark despondency, and constantly wondering who _had_ eaten them, since
they had evidently never reached _him_, a letter arrived, and forthwith
Abigail trod upon air—figuratively, I mean, not literally; in reality
I never heard her so noisy; she went up and down, up and down the
stairs past my study door where I was working, as though she had lost
a step and was looking for it! Finally, when I heard her singing “Days
and moments quickly flying” as she O-cedar-mopped some neighbouring
polished boards, I knew something must have happened, and I opened the
door and asked if anything was the matter? Whereupon she produced the
letter from the bib of her apron—would have brought it before, only
knew I liked everything to be perfectly quiet when I was working—and
didn’t I think it was a lovely letter?
Though the handwriting wasn’t much to boast of, and the spelling even
worse, it was a straightforward, man-like letter; he was evidently very
pleased to have the cakes, and quite touched that the young lady should
have been so kind as to think of him. He said his people were too far
off to send him anything like that: his father and mother had gone out
to Canada when he was ten years old. No one had sent him a _parcel_ so
far, therefore it was quite a surprise packet when the first one came.
It was kind of her to ask if he would like some more; all he could say
was—“the more the merrier,” if the young lady felt like it.
And he signed himself, her faithful friend, Dick.
After that Dick’s name became so all-insistent in our midst that the
whole household appeared to exist solely for the purpose of revolving
round him. So constantly was it wafted on the four winds of heaven,
that I remarked to the Head of Affairs: it seemed for all the world as
though we had adopted a pet canary, and were everlastingly wondering if
his seed glass had been replenished.
* * * * *
There was only one slight shadow falling athwart the sunshine. Pamela
(who was a great authority on “How to tell your character by your
handwriting,” having had her own delineated by her favourite penny
weekly) had declared that Dick was anæmic and delicate; she knew,
because his handwriting sloped downwards—a sure sign; it was also
cramped and irregular, an unfailing indication of a mean and grasping
nature; while the heavy downstrokes and the absence of punctuation
proved as plain as plain could be that he was unreliable.
Poor Pamela had had her own disappointments in life, and had been
warped a little thereby.
Of course Abigail said she did not believe a word of such rubbish,
and she rather liked the funny-shaped letters, and thought the black
strokes looked particularly strong and healthy.
Nevertheless, it was surprising how that trifle of seed, carelessly
dropped, took root in our minds, and how from that date onwards we all
regarded Dick as anæmic and in need of strenuous nourishment; while if
more than a month elapsed between his communications, we couldn’t help
just wondering whether, after all, he might not be a _little_ mean and
grasping, and six weeks demonstrated with absolute certainty that he
was unreliable!
* * * * *
A month after we received his first letter, there came another, and of
course we all fluttered with excitement.
Dick still approved of the cakes, I was glad to hear; and since
the young lady had asked if there was anything else she could send,
he wasn’t one to cadge for himself, but there was his mate Mick; he
wanted to put in a word for him. Mick, it appeared, was even more
lonely, more ignored by the world of women, more in need of sympathetic
understanding than he was; and—what was more to the point—was badly in
want of a large scarf. Not that Mick would have asked for it himself,
very independent Mick was; but since he had so enjoyed half of every
cake, and the nights were very cold this time of the year, and he had
been his pal for years, why, he felt sure the young lady wouldn’t mind
his just mentioning it, as he couldn’t think of telling her how short
he was of socks himself.
_Mind!_ Why, we all regarded Dick as a public benefactor! Abigail
discovered that Dick and Mick rhymed, and as she said, you didn’t
have poetry like that brought to the door _every_ day! She suddenly
developed the airs of a society belle; she borrowed my copy of “The
Modern Knitting Book;” and, might she just run out for an hour in the
afternoon to get some wool—you needed thicker wool for scarves than for
socks—as the shops were so dark at night?
Cook, with her numerous cousins on H.M.S. “Crystal Palace” (a near
neighbour of ours), was given to understand that she could now take a
second place! There was no getting away from the fact that Mr. Dick
and Mr. Mick were actually engaged in the defence of the realm, while
cook’s cousins appeared to do nothing more than take joy-rides in
motor-lorries to and fro along our road.
Pamela alone was sceptical; she said she should go cautiously, you
never knew! But then, she had every reason to be a pessimist; even
her “lonely soldier” had been sent out to China, and, naturally, you
can’t sympathise so understandingly with anyone when it takes a couple
of months before you get an answer to your letter (if even he should
chance to write by return), as when he is only across the Straits of
Dover. She said she got tired of keeping copies of her letters, so that
she might know what he was talking about when he wrote back—only he
never did!
Surmising that Abigail would have her hand over-full if she took on the
wants of both men, I said to her, “I think _I_ had better adopt Mr.
Mick, as I am sure you will have enough to do to provide et-ceteras for
Mr. Dick! You can take all the credit for it, and write the letters,
but I will settle the bills.”
And having some socks and a large muffler all ready for dispatch to
some needy man, I gave them to her and said I would pay the postage, if
she would save me the trouble of doing them up and taking them to the
post office. I also added that a cake had better be sent once a week
to Mr. Mick in addition to the one sent to Mr. Dick. I know something
of the appetite of the Navy—and what is one simple cake between two
hearty men!
Abigail was effusively grateful, took it quite as a personal favour;
you might have thought I was settling an annuity on her own father!
She explained that naturally she felt more interest in Dick, and was
more anxious to spend her money on him; at the same time, she should
certainly mention my name to Mr. Mick; it wouldn’t be fair to take all
the credit to herself.
So we left it at that.
I consulted with cook on the subject of securing ample and pleasing
variety, combined with unquestionable nourishment; and judging by the
amount of information she was able to give me as to what “they” like,
you would have thought she had reared a whole family of husbands!
Forthwith, the house was steeped in a perpetual aroma of baking cakes
(of course the cousins couldn’t be neglected either), till I got
nervous lest the Food Controller should make it his business to call.
Upstairs we not only went cakeless, but in order to make sugar-ends
meet, we drank unsweetened tea and coffee, a trial to all of us! And
stewed fruit requiring sugar was also taboo.
On second consideration, I am inclined to think that it was not,
first and foremost, my benevolence that led me to adopt Mick: it
was primarily a matter of self-interest! Even in war time it is
necessary to have a _little_ work done, if only occasionally, in
the home; and if the household helpers were to take on yet another
outside responsibility, in addition to the many already on their
hands, I didn’t see where my work would come in at all—and I can’t do
_everything_ in the evening, after I get home from town. As it was, we
were already knitting morning, noon, and night, for every branch of the
Services!
* * * * *
I put the collection of figures and capital letters that represented
Mick’s address, into my pocket-book with other similar data.
Periodically I handed Abigail pairs of socks or mittens, a body-belt,
handkerchiefs, and similar utilities; and when any sea-going event,
such as a raid on a submarine base, or a “scrap” in the North Sea, or a
warship mined, brought the Navy specially to my mind, I would go into
the Stores and order a parcel to be sent to Mick, adding one for Dick
also, if the occasion happened to be a harrowing one. At such times one
feels one cannot do enough for our men; and Dick and Mick little knew
how often they benefited by the misfortunes of others.
The first time I received a letter from my devoted friend Michael
McBlaggan, I admit I was a trifle bewildered, as I couldn’t for the
moment “place” any member of the McBlaggan family; but when I read the
document through and noted how kind he considered it that my friend
Miss Abigail should have introduced us, light dawned, and I sent him
a post-card saying I hoped he would always let me know if he wanted
anything further in the way of woollens.
And thus the months wore on, punctuated by laboriously written
communications from Dick, with an occasional card from Mick, who kept
more in the background. The great attraction, undoubtedly, was Dick.
He entered into personal details, asked if the young lady had made
the cakes herself. Here I understand cook was not too absorbed in
her own relations to insist that full credit should be given to the
right person; and Abigail wrote explaining that as she was very much
occupied, and too busy to attend to the cooking, a friend who lived
with her always made the cakes. Whereupon by return post _I_ received a
sloping, heavy-downstroked letter of thanks from the dutiful Dick!
On another occasion, Dick sent his photo (after being asked for it
times out of number, I believe). It was not as satisfactory as it might
have been, because it was an amateur snapshot group, and you know how
easy it is to decipher the features when the hand camera has stood a
quarter of a mile away (so as to include as much of the landscape as
possible), and everyone’s face is in black shadow under a hat brim that
has been tilted forward to exclude the full glare of the sun.
Unfortunately he omitted to put a =X= against himself, and as there
were a dozen men in the group all in slouch hats and farm attire (to
say nothing of the women and children), there was little to help us!
But he did say that, as Abigail had told him Canada was the one place
above all others that she longed to see, and how she was hoping to go
there as soon as the war was over, he had sent his picture taken on a
Canadian farm. It was just a little gathering photographed on someone’s
birthday.
Still, as he hadn’t given us any help in the matter, we had to decide
ourselves which was the lonely sailor (though, as Abigail commented,
she couldn’t understand how, with such a large collection of friends,
he could ever have come to be so alone in the world). We picked out a
thin, anæmic-looking young man, who was standing beside a comfortable,
matronly woman in a shady hat and a big apron; and as her age might
have been anything from thirty to sixty, we decided she was his mother,
and I remarked what a nice homely soul she looked in her checked apron,
and no wonder he was devoted to her, and how proud she must be of the
dear lad—all of which Abigail accepted as a personal compliment.
* * * * *
Winter gave way to spring, and in like rotation mince pies were
superseded by Swiss roll (to make which eggs were struck off our
breakfast menu), and marmalade replaced the figs and dates in the
parcels that went out to some unknown spot on the world’s ocean-spaces,
all of which our wonderful Navy now controls.
Likewise, cretonne gave place to unbleached calico, my remnants being
exhausted.
Existence downstairs fluctuated between heights of excitement and
depths of gloom. The Crystal Palace authorities had a most unreasonable
way of shipping men off to Mesopotamia, Salonika, Hongkong, Archangel,
or anywhere else where they thought the air would prove salubrious,
without a single word of inquiry as to whether the transfer met with
cook’s approval. Hence, there was a series of constantly recurring
blanks to mar what would otherwise have been a life of unsullied
joyousness; and at such times of depression cook darkly hinted that
punching tram tickets and ordering people to “move up a little on that
side, please,” would be a deliriously exhilarating occupation compared
with the monotony of cake-making for nobody-knows-who!
As every gift-giver is aware, there is invariably a grey hiatus
between the sending off of the gift and the arrival of the recipient’s
gratitude; hence, the bustle and excitement of getting off each parcel
of eatables and pair of socks and tin of tobacco was always followed by
a spell of wistful longing, while the postal authorities, out of sheer
perversity (we presumed), held back the letter that would have meant so
much to Abigail.
Moreover, Pamela was doing anything but contribute to the gaiety of
nations! She was often in with Abigail on her spare evenings; and
seemed to devote the time to perpetual croaks, on one occasion ending
with the assurance that, for _her_ part, she should have nothing to do
with a man who was merely a common sailor; self-respect, if nothing
else, would make her look for something better than that.
I am glad to say Abigail had sufficient spirit left to retort that
if he was good enough to fight for her, he was good enough for the
bestowal of a cake. Nevertheless, a decided coolness sprang up between
them; and for a week or two after this exchange of confidences, Abigail
appeared to be sinking in a rapid “decline” (as they used to call it),
and I felt I was positively inhuman to expect her to do a hand’s turn
in the house.
Yet life was not entirely bereft of purple patches. The gloom
consequent upon the Silence of the Navy lifted occasionally. As,
for instance, when we had a bomb drop in our road. Yes, in our very
road!—or, at any rate, it was only just round the corner; and, as
everybody knows, one affectionately appropriates as one’s own all
neighbouring roads (quite irrespective of the rentals, too) if they
chance to possess a bomb. And, in any case, it _would_ have dropped in
our road if only it had been a hundred yards nearer this way.
Ours was quite an up-to-date bomb, one of the sort that “went clean
through the wood pavement to the depth of a couple of feet, and made
a hole large enough to bury a man in, and not a sound window within a
mile radius.” That’s the kind of bomb _ours_ was! And it was trimmed
in the latest fashion, with a policeman, and a cord right round it,
and two gentlemen with pickaxes who scratched the surface of the wood
blocks occasionally in the intervals of looking important. They were
wearing them like that in London at the time.
Of course we, in common with the whole parish, swelled with pride; for
a while all social distinction was waived, rich and poor alike took
the same interest in the bomb, or at least in the hole it had made;
the bomb itself was removed so quickly that no local eye save that of
the police and the pickaxe gentlemen ever saw it; though the milkman
averred that, as he was driving to the station in the early dawn, he
saw a van going in the opposite direction; he couldn’t see what was in
it, hence it certainly was carrying away the bomb.
For the rest of us, however, we had to be content with a brave effort
to get as near to the cord as we could, and crane our heads above our
shorter brethren in order to catch a glimpse of the gaping void, while
a thrill went down every spine, irrespective of bank balances.
And we might have remained in that splendidly democratic frame of back
unto this day (no one being anxious to have any closer acquaintance
than his neighbour with the bomb), had it not been that a piece of
shrapnel was discovered in the garden next us. Whereupon the owner
developed much upliftedness, and his servants bragged amain.
My own staff took it even more to heart than I did; and it was amazing
how much time it was necessary for all hands to spend in the garden
in order to cut a cabbage or gather three sprigs of parsley. Between
them they didn’t leave an inch of the garden unexplored, and it is a
fair-sized one.
Then the following morning Abigail rushed in excitedly with the news
that she had discovered a piece of shrapnel in the bonfire débris. I
went down to inspect, and was shown an oblong piece of curved iron,
wider at one end than the other, and with a sharp spike at the wider
end. I confess that to me it was wonderfully reminiscent of the old
trowel that had lost its wooden handle and had lain unhonoured and
unsung for a year in the leaf-heap; but I said nothing about _that_.
Whatever its origin, it was crumpled up a bit with heat, one could
see—not surprising either, as we had had a roaring bonfire two days
running and burnt up all the pile of dead leaves.
When I was devising plans for its removal, they said, Hadn’t it better
wait there till the master came home?
But the Head of Affairs is celebrated for his truthfulness; and he
and that old trowel had lived on terms of unalloyed friendship for
years (till the split came over the handle), and—well, I merely said I
thought we would deal with it at once; no need to add to the master’s
many worries.
Cook said: Oughtn’t it to be immersed in a pail of water? Her cousin at
the Crystal Palace had told her that——, etc.
So we got a pail of water; I bade them stand well out of harm’s way,
while I put it in. Of course they feebly offered to do it for me, but
seemed relieved when I insisted on taking all risks; one ran to one
side of the garden and one to the other, and then decided they should
feel safer if they both stood close together.
Just as I was about to pick it up, cook shrieked out to me not to touch
it with my hands, as it might be poisoned. I said I would take it up
with a pair of tongs; but she said she thought it ought to be insulated
with china. It might be electrified with the shock; you never knew what
inventions those fiends were up to, and one of her cousins who was in
the electricians’ corp (or something like that) had told her that——,
etc.
So we compromised with a large china soup ladle and a big wooden spoon,
which I used like chop sticks, and at last got the shrapnel into the
water. Of course it was disappointing when it dropped heavily to the
bottom without so much as a sizzle, much less a bang. Still—we had the
comfortable feeling that we were on the safe side now.
Eventually I had it in my study. I said it would be safer there. But
though the neighbourhood was thus debarred from seeing and handling
it, the fame of it spread with amazing rapidity; and the lady across
the road arrived quite early in the afternoon, having heard from her
housemaid, who had heard it from her gardener, who had heard it from
the road-sweeper, who had heard it from the grocer’s man, who had heard
it from my cook, that I had a huge shell weighing half-a-hundredweight,
covered with venomous spikes, all deadly poison, that had dropped down
the chimney right into the centre of the kitchen fire, where it had
been found, still hissing, when they went to rake out the ashes in the
morning.
I didn’t display the fragment to my neighbour, nor to subsequent
callers; it is such a pity to rob people of happiness. I merely said I
thought it better to keep it well away from all vibration, as so far
it hadn’t exploded. And one and all assured me I was very wise, and
remembered pressing engagements elsewhere.
I reached the zenith of my fame when a police inspector, accompanied by
a subordinate, rang the front door bell, and understood that I had in
my possession a portion of a Zeppelin that had foundered on my lawn.
It appeared that he had been up all night, and had worn out miles of
shoe leather, hunting for the missing half of that Zeppelin; and had I
the gondola as well? He seemed to suspect that I might be holding that
back in order to have it stuffed and put under a glass shade in the
drawing-room.
He looked disappointed when I showed him the fragment of iron; said
they had plenty of bits that size; but he admitted that none of them
had a spike like that at one end, and darkly hinted that it might
be just the missing link they were looking for. Then he and the
subordinate tenderly carried it away between them.
We all intend to visit the War Museum later on. Personally, I’m very
keen to see what they ticket it.
* * * * *
Nevertheless, when each little excitement subsided, reaction set in,
and Abigail’s spirits promptly dropped to zero. But at length a post
card arrived in time to save her (and us) from utter collapse, and the
bath-taps were once more polished to the tune of “Days and moments
quickly flying.”
Thus, as I have already stated, winter merged into spring; and then
spring made way for early summer (as I’ve known it do before), and we
racked our brains to find a suitable substitute for pork pie.
Oh, yes, we had departed months ago from the “nothing but cake”
rule. We decided that a thin, anæmic-looking young man (as per the
photographic group) needed still more feeding up, and there wasn’t a
sufficiency of body-building material in modern cake, as everyone knows
who has sampled war-flour, even with currants _as well_ as carraways.
So the Head of Affairs and I stoically relinquished the one thin slice
of breakfast bacon that we had shared between us each morning, and
devoted the proceeds to pork pies for the Navy—in accordance with the
highest ideals of the Food Controller.
But, as every good housewife knows, you mustn’t feed your family—let
alone your friends—on pork pie when there isn’t an R in the month;
and with April nearing its end, and May looming, what was to take its
place? As cook said, you are so dreadfully handicapped when you have to
sew up your parcel in calico; you can’t send soused mackerel, or Welsh
rabbit with Red Tape tied round you like that!
Abigail suggested potted shrimps; but cook scornfully reminded her that
seafaring men, living in the midst of shrimps and salt fish all their
days, weren’t likely to hanker after it at meal times. We compromised
on savoury cheese patties—a come-down after the pork pie, we admitted;
only we could think of nothing else equally nutritive and seasonable.
Unfortunately, when I ordered extra cheese to be sent weekly to meet
the naval demands (and up to that time I hadn’t seen any rules for
rationing cheese), the Stores “greatly regretted,” etc., but there was
a scarcity at the moment; they could let me have a tin of golden syrup,
however, or, they had a fair stock of candles.
So we removed cheese from our upstairs dietary, consoling ourselves
with the thought that, at best, it was only half a course.
Meanwhile it was pleasant to know that the fleet had voted the cheese
patties “A 1,” due, so cook said, to the fact that she had told Dick
to put the patties into a _slow_ oven for ten or twelve minutes before
eating, as “it made all the difference.”
* * * * *
I was beginning to get nervy with the strain of it all. You see, if a
letter delayed in coming, then the question arose: Did they like the
last parcel? or, had we sent, by chance, something they didn’t care
for? And then my household assistants looked darkly at me; _I_ was to
blame for ever having suggested lemon curd tartlets. As Abigail said,
probably lemon didn’t agree with Dick, it didn’t always with thin
people.
Cook acquiesced, adding that you never can tell! There was her eldest
sister’s husband, a perfect terror for temper; yet look what he saved
her in doctor’s bills—he might have had epileptic fits instead!
On the other hand, there was her uncle (no relation to her really, only
her aunt’s husband, and second husband at that), do what you would, you
couldn’t rouse him to take an interest in his food or anything else.
Her poor aunt had spent a little fortune on medicine; and as bright a
house as you could want, not shut off with a whole lot of garden like
my house, but nice and close on to the pavement, with heaps of traffic
going by. And exactly opposite, the broken railings that the motor-van
ran into and killed the driver; heaps of people came to look at the
place Sunday afternoons. But her uncle never took a bit of notice of it.
No, you _never_ can tell!
* * * * *
All the same, I felt guilty, and began to wonder how long I should be
able to hold out! And then——
It was a lovely Saturday in May. We had just got up from a late lunch
when there came a violent ring at the door bell. The Head of Affairs
was in the hall at the moment, and he opened the door—to find two big
sailor-men on the doorstep, each carrying a parcel. They inquired for
me.
Now, like most other households, khaki and navy blue always find a
welcome at our door for the sake of our own who are away, serving their
country, and those who have already laid down their lives in the cause
of Right and Justice.
So the Head of Affairs walked them straight in upon me, without waiting
to ask for their birth certificates.
Did I say they were big? That isn’t the word for it! They were
more than that, they were massive; tall, broad, well-made, and
tough-looking, with beaming, round, red faces; they ought to have been
pictured, just as they were, for a naval recruiting poster.
They looked a little confused, for the moment, at finding themselves
precipitated into an unexpected drawing room; but they made straight
for me, with that large, rolling stride inseparable from the British
sailor. Fortunately the room isn’t beset in the orthodox fashion with
a multitude of bric-à-brac obstacles in the way of small chairs and
tables, for they seemed to sweep the decks fore and aft as they strode
over the carpet, and I thought I should never find my hand again after
they had both given it a hearty shake.
As I looked at the big, burly fellows, both of them well on to
forty I should say, I knew instinctively that these were our two
forlorn sailor-lads—our poor anæmic, lonely Dick, and desolate,
unsympathised-with Mick. And I must say I never saw two men bear
neglect more bravely!
At first, conversation seemed all on my side: they sat stiffly on the
extreme edge of their chairs, while Dick answered in monosyllables,
Mick seeming permanently tongue-tied! But the Head of Affairs produced
cigars warranted to banish all nervous embarrassment and to induce a
man to sit comfortably anywhere; and soon they were giving us details
of their homes and relatives—small things, perhaps, that are apparently
the same the world over, but mean so much to each individual. It was
still Dick who did most of the talking. He was undoubtedly the more
attractive of the two.
As they were constantly making wild clutches at their parcels which
threatened to tumble off their knees without the slightest provocation,
we offered to put them on the table. But Dick explained, with almost
child-like confusion, that they were presents for me and the other
lady. And would I mind taking them? He made Mick open his bundle first.
There came to light an anchor, the like of which I had never seen
before, though I had heard of their existence. It was about eighteen
inches long, made of red velvet stuffed with sawdust so as to form an
immense pin cushion. This was most elaborately decorated with beads—as
I thought at first—but it proved to be pins with coloured glass heads.
Lengthwise down the anchor was this inscription, carried out in large
white-headed pins,
“AFFECTION’S OFFERING.”
There were various ribbon bows, and ends and tags finished off with
beads, and a cord for hanging it on the wall; altogether, it was a most
ornate, glittering creation!
Keeping company with the anchor was a wooden rolling pin, that had been
enamelled a delicate pink, with hand-painted sprays of forget-me-nots
at intervals. This also had bows and ends and a ribbon to hang it on
the wall; it likewise bore an inscription:
“TO GREET YOU.”
While I praised the colouring, and the workmanship of both, I promptly
chose the rolling pin.
Mick looked a trifle disappointed, and explained that he had really
intended the anchor for me; and thought the rolling pin would be nice
for the lady who had sent the cakes.
But I clung to the rolling pin; even though it wasn’t quite in line
with my ideas of decorative art, its sentiment was so non-committal!
Besides, I wanted Abigail to have the anchor. Even though it be but a
passing incident, it is pleasant to receive an “affection’s offering”
occasionally, when we are young.
Dick’s parcel contained a large box covered with shells, and very
pretty it was. In a smaller packet he had a coral necklace. I chose—and
praised—the box with a perfectly clear conscience this time. You have
to go to a great deal of trouble before you can vulgarise a sea-shell;
and, fortunately, the box-maker hadn’t taken any trouble at all; he had
merely stuck them haphazard over the cardboard lid, with a border of
small ones round the edges, and the effect was lovely. I also knew that
Abigail would much prefer the necklace. You can’t carry a big box about
with you, to display it casually to your friends.
My genuine pleasure over the presents thawed them to such an extent,
that Dick then explained they had come round with the intention
of taking us out to a picture palace; Mick wanted to take me, and
he, Dick, would take Miss Abigail. But, he added hesitatingly, that
perhaps, after all, that wasn’t the sort of thing I would care about;
and he looked rather beseechingly at the Head of Affairs, hoping we
should understand what he couldn’t manage to put very clearly into
words.
We did understand. Gratitude is none too plentiful in these days
that we could afford to flout it because it chanced to appear in
unconventional guise. We appreciated all that they had planned to do by
way of saying thank you for what we had done for them—and it was little
enough we had done, when one considers our debt to such men as these!
I explained that though _I_ was engaged that evening, Abigail was not;
and they must now show her those parcels.
She had no knowledge that they were in the house; and you should have
seen her face when she answered the bell and I introduced Mr. Dick and
Mr. Mick.
In reply to my inquiries as to what she could do in the way of
hospitality, she was certain that cook could get a really nice meal
ready for them in a few minutes; and if even cook couldn’t she,
Abigail, could, and Pamela had just come in, and she would help; it
wasn’t the slightest trouble—and she looked positively radiant as she
took the two in tow.
Having told them that we would wait on ourselves for the rest of the
day, and no one need stay in, I was not surprised to hear a gay party
setting off a little later on; but I _was_ surprised to see that it was
Pamela, and not cook, who made the fourth in the quartette!
Pamela and Abigail hadn’t spoken since the episode previously
mentioned. It was curious that she should have chanced to call for the
purpose of burying the hatchet, the very afternoon that the “common
sailors,” as she had called them, should be there!
For the time of the sailors’ leave I cut the housework down to the
minimum and arranged a week of cold dinners, Spartan-like in their
simplicity, for ourselves, so that “evenings out” could be taken as
often as my household assistants pleased.
I hoped to find the kitchen radiating sunshine in consequence. Picture
my consternation, therefore, when I came upon Abigail weeping her
eyes out in their sitting-room one afternoon (when only half of the
leave had expired too!), the coral necklace flung into one corner, and
“affection’s offering” lying face downwards under the table.
To give her opportunity to pull herself together, I picked up the coral
necklace and inquired what Mr. Dick would be likely to think if he saw
it there. She sobbed that she didn’t know and she didn’t care.
“That Pamela——” Then I saw it all in a flash!
Well, to make a long story short, Pamela, whom I had long known to be
as unscrupulous as she was good-looking, had stepped in and carried
off Dick right from under Abigail’s nose! She had seen the two men
arrive on the previous Saturday afternoon, and that accounted for her
unexpected call. She had appropriated Dick from the first minute she
saw him.
“And now,” said Abigail into her handkerchief, “just ten minutes ago,
when I ran out to post some letters, who should I see coming out of The
Gables, but Dick and that creature, starting off together for all the
world as though they had known each other all their lives. Only last
night she had the sauce to say _she_ was going out to Canada when the
war was over!”
I felt truly sorry for the girl, and it was some satisfaction to me to
reflect that Pamela wasn’t quite as successful as she imagined!
“I don’t think she will see much of Dick even if she does go out to
Canada,” I said; “I don’t think his wife would have a room to spare
to invite her there—with seven children. I daresay Dick told you that
the lady in the checked apron was Mrs. Dick?” I stooped to pick up
the forlorn anchor, and dusted it most carefully, to give her time to
recover.
“No!” she gasped, and then went on bitterly, “he hasn’t had a chance
to tell me a _thing_, with Pamela talking to him the whole time! But,
of course, I guessed all along he was married.” She meant to take her
disappointment bravely. “_I_ don’t want to marry anyone; men are all
alike. But it does make you wild, when——”
I was facing the window, but Abigail had her back to it. Therefore she
did not see what I saw coming along the road—a large bunch of flowers,
surmounted by Mick’s round, jovial face.
“I think I should hang this up,” I interrupted her, having thoroughly
dusted the anchor; “after all, Mick has no wall of his own to hang it
on; he isn’t like Dick, with a home and wife and family—and one doesn’t
get ‘affection’s offering’ every day!”
“Oh, but that wasn’t really meant for me,” and Abigail’s grief
threatened to break out afresh. “Mick was so taken with the lovely
parcels you sent, and he thought as you lived with me you were a widow,
and——”
Fortunately, I was spared the rest, for the downstairs door bell rang
with a vehemence that was now most familiar, and Abigail, patting her
hair and her cap into shape, went smilingly down the passage to answer
the side door.