At first Joe thought the job O.K. He was loading hay on the trucks,
along with Albert, the corporal. The two men were pleasantly billeted
in a cottage not far from the station: they were their own masters, for
Joe never thought of Albert as a master. And the little sidings of the
tiny village station was as pleasant a place as you could wish for. On
one side, beyond the line, stretched the woods: on the other, the near
side, across a green smooth field red houses were dotted among
flowering apple trees. The weather being sunny, work being easy,
Albert, a real good pal, what life could be better! After Flanders, it
was heaven itself.
Albert, the corporal, was a clean-shaven, shrewd-looking fellow of
about forty. He seemed to think his one aim in life was to be full of
fun and nonsense. In repose, his face looked a little withered, old. He
was a very good pal to Joe, steady, decent and grave under all his
“mischief”; for his mischief was only his laborious way of skirting his
own _ennui_.
Joe was much younger than Albert—only twenty-three. He was a tallish,
quiet youth, pleasant looking. He was of a slightly better class than
his corporal, more personable. Careful about his appearance, he shaved
every day. “I haven’t got much of a face,” said Albert. “If I was to
shave every day like you, Joe, I should have none.”
There was plenty of life in the little goods-yard: three porter youths,
a continual come and go of farm wagons bringing hay, wagons with timber
from the woods, coal carts loading at the trucks. The black coal seemed
to make the place sleepier, hotter. Round the big white gate the
station-master’s children played and his white chickens walked, whilst
the stationmaster himself, a young man getting too fat, helped his wife
to peg out the washing on the clothes line in the meadow.
The great boat-shaped wagons came up from Playcross with the hay. At
first the farm-men waggoned it. On the third day one of the land-girls
appeared with the first load, drawing to a standstill easily at the
head of her two great horses. She was a buxom girl, young, in linen
overalls and gaiters. Her face was ruddy, she had large blue eyes.
“Now that’s the waggoner for us, boys,” said the corporal loudly.
“Whoa!” she said to her horses; and then to the corporal: “Which boys
do you mean?”
“We are the pick of the bunch. That’s Joe, my pal. Don’t you let on
that my name’s Albert,” said the corporal to his private. “I’m the
corporal.”
“And I’m Miss Stokes,” said the land-girl coolly, “if that’s all the
boys you are.”
“You know you couldn’t want more, Miss Stokes,” said Albert politely.
Joe, who was bare-headed, whose grey flannel sleeves were rolled up to
the elbow, and whose shirt was open at the breast, looked modestly
aside as if he had no part in the affair.
“Are you on this job regular, then?” said the corporal to Miss Stokes.
“I don’t know for sure,” she said, pushing a piece of hair under her
hat, and attending to her splendid horses.
“Oh, make it a certainty,” said Albert.
She did not reply. She turned and looked over the two men coolly. She
was pretty, moderately blonde, with crisp hair, a good skin, and large
blue eyes. She was strong, too, and the work went on leisurely and
easily.
“Now!” said the corporal, stopping as usual to look round, “pleasant
company makes work a pleasure—don’t hurry it, boys.” He stood on the
truck surveying the world. That was one of his great and absorbing
occupations: to stand and look out on things in general. Joe, also
standing on the truck, also turned round to look what was to be seen.
But he could not become blankly absorbed, as Albert could.
Miss Stokes watched the two men from under her broad felt hat. She had
seen hundreds of Alberts, khaki soldiers standing in loose attitudes,
absorbed in watching nothing in particular. She had seen also a good
many Joes, quiet, good-looking young soldiers with half-averted faces.
But there was something in the turn of Joe’s head, and something in his
quiet, tender-looking form, young and fresh—which attracted her eye. As
she watched him closely from below, he turned as if he felt her, and
his dark-blue eye met her straight, light-blue gaze. He faltered and
turned aside again and looked as if he were going to fall off the
truck. A slight flush mounted under the girl’s full, ruddy face. She
liked him.
Always, after this, when she came into the sidings with her team, it
was Joe she looked for. She acknowledged to herself that she was sweet
on him. But Albert did all the talking. He was so full of fun and
nonsense. Joe was a very shy bird, very brief and remote in his
answers. Miss Stokes was driven to indulge in repartee with Albert, but
she fixed her magnetic attention on the younger fellow. Joe would talk
with Albert, and laugh at his jokes. But Miss Stokes could get little
out of him. She had to depend on her silent forces. They were more
effective than might be imagined.
Suddenly, on Saturday afternoon, at about two o’clock, Joe received a
bolt from the blue—a telegram: “Meet me Belbury Station 6.00 p.m.
today. M.S.” He knew at once who M.S. was. His heart melted, he felt
weak as if he had had a blow.
“What’s the trouble, boy?” asked Albert anxiously.
“No—no trouble—it’s to meet somebody.” Joe lifted his dark-blue eyes in
confusion towards his corporal.
“Meet somebody!” repeated the corporal, watching his young pal with
keen blue eyes. “It’s all right, then; nothing wrong?”
“No—nothing wrong. I’m not going,” said Joe.
Albert was old and shrewd enough to see that nothing more should be
said before the housewife. He also saw that Joe did not want to take
him into confidence. So he held his peace, though he was piqued.
The two soldiers went into town, smartened up. Albert knew a fair
number of the boys round about; there would be plenty of gossip in the
market-place, plenty of lounging in groups on the Bath Road, watching
the Saturday evening shoppers. Then a modest drink or two, and the
movies. They passed an agreeable, casual, nothing-in-particular
evening, with which Joe was quite satisfied. He thought of Belbury
Station, and of M.S. waiting there. He had not the faintest intention
of meeting her. And he had not the faintest intention of telling
Albert.
And yet, when the two men were in their bedroom, half undressed, Joe
suddenly held out the telegram to his corporal, saying: “What d’you
think of that?”
Albert was just unbuttoning his braces. He desisted, took the telegram
form, and turned towards the candle to read it.
“_Meet me Belbury Station 6.00 p.m. today. M.S._,” he read, _sotto
voce_. His face took on its fun-and-nonsense look.
“Who’s M.S.?” he asked, looking shrewdly at Joe.
“You know as well as I do,” said Joe, non-committal.
“M.S.,” repeated Albert. “Blamed if I know, boy. Is it a woman?”
The conversation was carried on in tiny voices, for fear of disturbing
the householders.
“I don’t know,” said Joe, turning. He looked full at Albert, the two
men looked straight into each other’s eyes. There was a lurking grin in
each of them.
“Well, I’m—_blamed!_” said Albert at last, throwing the telegram down
emphatically on the bed.
“Wha-at?” said Joe, grinning rather sheepishly, his eyes clouded none
the less.
Albert sat on the bed and proceeded to undress, nodding his head with
mock gravity all the while. Joe watched him foolishly.
“What?” he repeated faintly.
Albert looked up at him with a knowing look.
“If that isn’t coming it quick, boy!” he said. “What the blazes! What
ha’ you bin doing?”
“Nothing!” said Joe.
Albert slowly shook his head as he sat on the side of the bed.
“Don’t happen to me when I’ve bin doin’ nothing,” he said. And he
proceeded to pull off his stockings.
Joe turned away, looking at himself in the mirror as he unbuttoned his
tunic.
“You didn’t want to keep the appointment?” Albert asked, in a changed
voice, from the bedside.
Joe did not answer for a moment. Then he said:
“I made no appointment.”
“I’m not saying you did, boy. Don’t be nasty about it. I mean you
didn’t want to answer the—unknown person’s summons—shall I put it that
way?”
“No,” said Joe.
“What was the deterring motive?” asked Albert, who was now lying on his
back in bed.
“Oh,” said Joe, suddenly looking round rather haughtily. “I didn’t want
to.” He had a well-balanced head, and could take on a sudden distant
bearing.
“Didn’t want to—didn’t cotton on, like. Well—_they be artful, the
women_—” he mimicked his landlord. “Come on into bed, boy. Don’t loiter
about as if you’d lost something.”
Albert turned over, to sleep.
On Monday Miss Stokes turned up as usual, striding beside her team. Her
“whoa!” was resonant and challenging, she looked up at the truck as her
steeds came to a standstill. Joe had turned aside, and had his face
averted from her. She glanced him over—save for his slender succulent
tenderness she would have despised him. She sized him up in a steady
look. Then she turned to Albert, who was looking down at her and
smiling in his mischievous turn. She knew his aspects by now. She
looked straight back at him, though her eyes were hot. He saluted her.
“Beautiful morning, Miss Stokes.”
“Very!” she replied.
“Handsome is as handsome looks,” said Albert.
Which produced no response.
“Now, Joe, come on here,” said the corporal. “Don’t keep the ladies
waiting—it’s the sign of a weak heart.”
Joe turned, and the work began. Nothing more was said for the time
being. As the week went on all parties became more comfortable. Joe
remained silent, averted, neutral, a little on his dignity. Miss Stokes
was off-hand and masterful. Albert was full of mischief.
The great theme was a circus, which was coming to the market town on
the following Saturday.
“You’ll go to the circus, Miss Stokes?” said Albert.
“I may go. Are you going?”
“Certainly. Give us the pleasure of escorting you.”
“No, thanks.”
“That’s what I call a flat refusal—what, Joe? You don’t mean that you
have no liking for our company, Miss Stokes?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Miss Stokes. “How many are there of you?”
“Only me and Joe.”
“Oh, is that all?” she said, satirically.
Albert was a little nonplussed.
“Isn’t that enough for you?” he asked.
“Too many by half,” blurted out Joe, jeeringly, in a sudden fit of
uncouth rudeness that made both the others stare.
“Oh, I’ll stand out of the way, boy, if that’s it,” said Albert to Joe.
Then he turned mischievously to Miss Stokes. “He wants to know what M.
stands for,” he said, confidentially.
“Monkeys,” she replied, turning to her horses.
“What’s M.S.?” said Albert.
“Monkey-nuts,” she retorted, leading off her team.
Albert looked after her a little discomfited. Joe had flushed dark, and
cursed Albert in his heart.
On the Saturday afternoon the two soldiers took the train into town.
They would have to walk home. They had tea at six o’clock, and lounged
about till half past seven. The circus was in a meadow near the river—a
great red-and-white striped tent. Caravans stood at the side. A great
crowd of people was gathered round the ticket-caravan.
Inside the tent the lamps were lighted, shining on a ring of faces, a
great circular bank of faces round the green grassy centre. Along with
some comrades, the two soldiers packed themselves on a thin plank seat,
rather high. They were delighted with the flaring lights, the wild
effect. But the circus performance did not affect them deeply. They
admired the lady in black velvet with rose-purple legs who leapt so
neatly on to the galloping horse; they watched the feats of strength
and laughed at the clown. But they felt a little patronizing, they
missed the sensational drama of the cinema.
Half-way through the performance Joe was electrified to see the face of
Miss Stokes not very far from him. There she was, in her khaki and her
felt hat, as usual; he pretended not to see her. She was laughing at
the clown; she also pretended not to see him. It was a blow to him, and
it made him angry. He would not even mention it to Albert. Least said,
soonest mended. He liked to believe she had not seen him. But he knew,
fatally, that she had.
When they came out it was nearly eleven o’clock; a lovely night, with a
moon and tall, dark, noble trees: a magnificent May night. Joe and
Albert laughed and chaffed with the boys. Joe looked round frequently
to see if he were safe from Miss Stokes. It seemed so.
But there were six miles to walk home. At last the two soldiers set
off, swinging their canes. The road was white between tall hedges,
other stragglers were passing out of the town towards the villages; the
air was full of pleased excitement.
They were drawing near to the village when they saw a dark figure
ahead. Joe’s heart sank with pure fear. It was a figure wheeling a
bicycle; a land girl; Miss Stokes. Albert was ready with his nonsense.
Miss Stokes had a puncture.
“Let me wheel the rattler,” said Albert.
“Thank you,” said Miss Stokes. “You _are_ kind.”
“Oh, I’d be kinder than that, if you’d show me how,” said Albert.
“Are you sure?” said Miss Stokes.
“Doubt my words?” said Albert. “That’s cruel of you, Miss Stokes.”
Miss Stokes walked between them, close to Joe.
“Have you been to the circus?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he replied, mildly.
“Have _you_ been?” Albert asked her.
“Yes. I didn’t see you,” she replied.
“What!—you say so! Didn’t see us! Didn’t think us worth looking at,”
began Albert. “Aren’t I as handsome as the clown, now? And you didn’t
as much as glance in our direction? I call it a downright oversight.”
“I never _saw_ you,” reiterated Miss Stokes. “I didn’t know you saw
me.”
“That makes it worse,” said Albert.
The road passed through a belt of dark pine-wood. The village, and the
branch road, was very near. Miss Stokes put out her fingers and felt
for Joe’s hand as it swung at his side. To say he was staggered is to
put it mildly. Yet he allowed her softly to clasp his fingers for a few
moments. But he was a mortified youth.
At the cross-road they stopped—Miss Stokes should turn off. She had
another mile to go.
“You’ll let us see you home,” said Albert.
“Do me a kindness,” she said. “Put my bike in your shed, and take it to
Baker’s on Monday, will you?”
“I’ll sit up all night and mend it for you, if you like.”
“No thanks. And Joe and I’ll walk on.”
“Oh—ho! Oh—ho!” sang Albert. “Joe! Joe! What do you say to that, now,
boy? Aren’t you in luck’s way. And I get the bloomin’ old bike for my
pal. Consider it again, Miss Stokes.”
Joe turned aside his face, and did not speak.
“Oh, well! I wheel the grid, do I? I leave you, boy—”
“I’m not keen on going any further,” barked out Joe, in an uncouth
voice. “She hain’t my choice.”
The girl stood silent, and watched the two men.
“There now!” said Albert. “Think o’ that! If it was _me_ now—” But he
was uncomfortable. “Well, Miss Stokes, have me,” he added.
Miss Stokes stood quite still, neither moved nor spoke. And so the
three remained for some time at the lane end. At last Joe began kicking
the ground—then he suddenly lifted his face. At that moment Miss Stokes
was at his side. She put her arm delicately round his waist.
“Seems I’m the one extra, don’t you think?” Albert inquired of the high
bland moon.
Joe had dropped his head and did not answer. Miss Stokes stood with her
arm lightly round his waist. Albert bowed, saluted, and bade
good-night. He walked away, leaving the two standing.
Miss Stokes put a light pressure on Joe’s waist, and drew him down the
road. They walked in silence. The night was full of scent—wild cherry,
the first bluebells. Still they walked in silence. A nightingale was
singing. They approached nearer and nearer, till they stood close by
his dark bush. The powerful notes sounded from the cover, almost like
flashes of light—then the interval of silence—then the moaning notes,
almost like a dog faintly howling, followed by the long, rich trill,
and flashing notes. Then a short silence again.
Miss Stokes turned at last to Joe. She looked up at him, and in the
moonlight he saw her faintly smiling. He felt maddened, but helpless.
Her arm was round his waist, she drew him closely to her with a soft
pressure that made all his bones rotten.
Meanwhile Albert was waiting at home. He put on his overcoat, for the
fire was out, and he had had malarial fever. He looked fitfully at the
_Daily Mirror_ and the _Daily Sketch_, but he saw nothing. It seemed a
long time. He began to yawn widely, even to nod. At last Joe came in.
Albert looked at him keenly. The young man’s brow was black, his face
sullen.
“All right, boy?” asked Albert.
Joe merely grunted for a reply. There was nothing more to be got out of
him. So they went to bed.
Next day Joe was silent, sullen. Albert could make nothing of him. He
proposed a walk after tea.
“I’m going somewhere,” said Joe.
“Where—Monkey-nuts?” asked the corporal. But Joe’s brow only became
darker.
So the days went by. Almost every evening Joe went off alone, returning
late. He was sullen, taciturn and had a hang-dog look, a curious way of
dropping his head and looking dangerously from under his brows. And he
and Albert did not get on so well any more with one another. For all
his fun and nonsense, Albert was really irritable, soon made angry. And
Joe’s stand-offish sulkiness and complete lack of confidence riled him,
got on his nerves. His fun and nonsense took a biting, sarcastic turn,
at which Joe’s eyes glittered occasionally, though the young man turned
unheeding aside. Then again Joe would be full of odd, whimsical fun,
outshining Albert himself.
Miss Stokes still came to the station with the wain: Monkey-nuts,
Albert called her, though not to her face. For she was very clear and
good-looking, almost she seemed to gleam. And Albert was a tiny bit
afraid of her. She very rarely addressed Joe whilst the hay-loading was
going on, and that young man always turned his back to her. He seemed
thinner, and his limber figure looked more slouching. But still it had
the tender, attractive appearance, especially from behind. His tanned
face, a little thinned and darkened, took a handsome, slightly sinister
look.
“Come on, Joe!” the corporal urged sharply one day. “What’re you doing,
boy? Looking for beetles on the bank?”
Joe turned round swiftly, almost menacing, to work.
“He’s a different fellow these days, Miss Stokes,” said Albert to the
young woman. “What’s got him? Is it Monkey-nuts that don’t suit him, do
you think?”
“Choked with chaff, more like,” she retorted. “It’s as bad as feeding a
threshing machine, to have to listen to some folks.”
“As bad as what?” said Albert. “You don’t mean me, do you, Miss
Stokes?”
“No,” she cried. “I don’t mean you.”
Joe’s face became dark red during these sallies, but he said nothing.
He would eye the young woman curiously, as she swung so easily at the
work, and he had some of the look of a dog which is going to bite.
Albert, with his nerves on edge, began to find the strain rather
severe. The next Saturday evening, when Joe came in more black-browed
than ever, he watched him, determined to have it out with him.
When the boy went upstairs to bed, the corporal followed him. He closed
the door behind him carefully, sat on the bed and watched the younger
man undressing. And for once he spoke in a natural voice, neither
chaffing nor commanding.
“What’s gone wrong, boy?”
Joe stopped a moment as if he had been shot. Then he went on unwinding
his puttees, and did not answer or look up.
“You can hear, can’t you?” said Albert, nettled.
“Yes, I can hear,” said Joe, stooping over his puttees till his face
was purple.
“Then why don’t you answer?”
Joe sat up. He gave a long, sideways look at the corporal. Then he
lifted his eyes and stared at a crack in the ceiling.
The corporal watched these movements shrewdly.
“And _then_ what?” he asked, ironically.
Again Joe turned and stared him in the face. The corporal smiled very
slightly, but kindly.
“There’ll be murder done one of these days,” said Joe, in a quiet,
unimpassioned voice.
“So long as it’s by daylight—” replied Albert. Then he went over, sat
down by Joe, put his hand on his shoulder affectionately, and
continued, “What is it, boy? What’s gone wrong? You can trust me, can’t
you?”
Joe turned and looked curiously at the face so near to his.
“It’s nothing, that’s all,” he said laconically.
Albert frowned.
“Then who’s going to be murdered?—and who’s going to do the
murdering?—me or you—which is it, boy?” He smiled gently at the stupid
youth, looking straight at him all the while, into his eyes. Gradually
the stupid, hunted, glowering look died out of Joe’s eyes. He turned
his head aside, gently, as one rousing from a spell.
“I don’t want her,” he said, with fierce resentment.
“Then you needn’t have her,” said Albert. “What do you go for, boy?”
But it wasn’t as simple as all that. Joe made no remark.
“She’s a smart-looking girl. What’s wrong with her, my boy? I should
have thought you were a lucky chap, myself.”
“I don’t want ’er,” Joe barked, with ferocity and resentment.
“Then tell her so and have done,” said Albert. He waited awhile. There
was no response. “Why don’t you?” he added.
“Because I don’t,” confessed Joe, sulkily.
Albert pondered—rubbed his head.
“You’re too soft-hearted, that’s where it is, boy. You want your mettle
dipping in cold water, to temper it. You’re too soft-hearted—”
He laid his arm affectionately across the shoulders of the younger man.
Joe seemed to yield a little towards him.
“When are you going to see her again?” Albert asked. For a long time
there was no answer.
“When is it, boy?” persisted the softened voice of the corporal.
“Tomorrow,” confessed Joe.
“Then let me go,” said Albert. “Let me go, will you?”
The morrow was Sunday, a sunny day, but a cold evening. The sky was
grey, the new foliage very green, but the air was chill and depressing.
Albert walked briskly down the white road towards Beeley. He crossed a
larch plantation, and followed a narrow by-road, where blue speedwell
flowers fell from the banks into the dust. He walked swinging his cane,
with mixed sensations. Then having gone a certain length, he turned and
began to walk in the opposite direction.
So he saw a young woman approaching him. She was wearing a wide hat of
grey straw, and a loose, swinging dress of nigger-grey velvet. She
walked with slow inevitability. Albert faltered a little as he
approached her. Then he saluted her, and his roguish, slightly withered
skin flushed. She was staring straight into his face.
He fell in by her side, saying impudently:
“Not so nice for a walk as it was, is it?”
She only stared at him. He looked back at her.
“You’ve seen me before, you know,” he said, grinning slightly. “Perhaps
you never noticed me. Oh, I’m quite nice looking, in a quiet way, you
know. What—?”
But Miss Stokes did not speak: she only stared with large, icy blue
eyes at him. He became self-conscious, lifted up his chin, walked with
his nose in the air, and whistled at random. So they went down the
quiet, deserted grey lane. He was whistling the air: “I’m Gilbert, the
filbert, the colonel of the nuts.”
At last she found her voice:
“Where’s Joe?”
“He thought you’d like a change: they say variety’s the salt of
life—that’s why I’m mostly in pickle.”
“Where is he?”
“Am I my brother’s keeper? He’s gone his own ways.”
“Where?”
“Nay, how am I to know? Not so far but he’ll be back for supper.”
She stopped in the middle of the lane. He stopped facing her.
“Where’s Joe?” she asked.
He struck a careless attitude, looked down the road this way and that,
lifted his eyebrows, pushed his khaki cap on one side, and answered:
“He is not conducting the service tonight: he asked me if I’d
officiate.”
“Why hasn’t he come?”
“Didn’t want to, I expect. _I_ wanted to.”
She stared him up and down, and he felt uncomfortable in his spine, but
maintained his air of nonchalance. Then she turned slowly on her heel,
and started to walk back. The corporal went at her side.
“You’re not going back, are you?” he pleaded. “Why, me and you, we
should get on like a house on fire.”
She took no heed, but walked on. He went uncomfortably at her side,
making his funny remarks from time to time. But she was as if stone
deaf. He glanced at her, and to his dismay saw the tears running down
her cheeks. He stopped suddenly, and pushed back his cap.
“I say, you know—” he began.
But she was walking on like an automaton, and he had to hurry after
her.
She never spoke to him. At the gate of her farm she walked straight in,
as if he were not there. He watched her disappear. Then he turned on
his heel, cursing silently, puzzled, lifting off his cap to scratch his
head.
That night, when they were in bed, he remarked: “Say, Joe, boy; strikes
me you’re well-off without Monkey-nuts. Gord love us, beans ain’t in
it.”
So they slept in amity. But they waited with some anxiety for the
morrow.
It was a cold morning, a grey sky shifting in a cold wind, and
threatening rain. They watched the wagon come up the road and through
the yard gates. Miss Stokes was with her team as usual; her “Whoa!”
rang out like a war-whoop.
She faced up at the truck where the two men stood.
“Joe!” she called, to the averted figure which stood up in the wind.
“What?” he turned unwillingly.
She made a queer movement, lifting her head slightly in a sipping,
half-inviting, half-commanding gesture. And Joe was crouching already
to jump off the truck to obey her, when Albert put his hand on his
shoulder.
“Half a minute, boy! Where are you off? Work’s work, and nuts is nuts.
You stop here.”
Joe slowly straightened himself.
“Joe!” came the woman’s clear call from below.
Again Joe looked at her. But Albert’s hand was on his shoulder,
detaining him. He stood half averted, with his tail between his legs.
“Take your hand off him, you!” said Miss Stokes.
“Yes, Major,” retorted Albert satirically.
She stood and watched.
“Joe!” Her voice rang for the third time.
Joe turned and looked at her, and a slow, jeering smile gathered on his
face.
“Monkey-nuts!” he replied, in a tone mocking her call.
She turned white—dead white. The men thought she would fall. Albert
began yelling to the porters up the line to come and help with the
load. He could yell like any non-commissioned officer upon occasion.
Some way or other the wagon was unloaded, the girl was gone. Joe and
his corporal looked at one another and smiled slowly. But they had a
weight on their minds, they were afraid.
They were reassured, however, when they found that Miss Stokes came no
more with the hay. As far as they were concerned, she had vanished into
oblivion. And Joe felt more relieved even than he had felt when he
heard the firing cease, after the news had come that the armistice was
signed.