A Potato Walk
Dona's suggestion was adopted, and she and Marjorie began a little
system of correspondence with Eric. At their request Elaine bought a
small present and left the parcel with the attendant at the refreshment
kiosk, who promised to give it to him.
"I know the child quite well by sight," she said. "A delicate little
fellow in an invalid carriage. They used to pass here two or three times
a week last summer, and sometimes they'd stop at the kiosk and the girl
would buy him an orange or some sweets. I hadn't seen him for months
till he went by a few days ago. Yes, I'll be sure to stop him when he
passes."
That the girl kept her word was evident, for a week afterwards she
handed Elaine a letter addressed to "The Fairy Ladies". Elaine
forwarded it to Marjorie and Dona. It was written in a round,
childish hand, and ran:
"DARLING BLUEBELL AND SILVERSTAR,
"I like the puzzle you sent me. I often think about you. I love
you very much. I hope I shall see you again. I played fairies
all yesterday and pretended you were here.
"With love from
"ERIC."
"Dear little man!" said Marjorie. "I expect it's taken him a long time
to write this. We'll buy him a blotter and some fancy paper and
envelopes and leave them at the kiosk for him."
"I wish we could go to the cove and see him again," said Dona.
It happened that for the next two exeats Aunt Ellinor had arranged a
tennis party or some other engagement for her nieces, so that it was not
possible to take a walk on the cliffs. They left a supply of little
presents, however, at the kiosk, so that something could be given to
Eric every time he passed. The assistant was almost as interested as
Marjorie and Dona.
"He looks out for those parcels now," she assured them. "You should just
see his face when I run out and give them to him. I believe he'd be ever
so disappointed if there was nothing. The girl that wheels him left a
message for you. His mother thanks you for your kindness; and will you
please excuse his writing, because it isn't very good for him and takes
him such a long time. He's never been able to go to school."
"Poor little chap!" laughed Dona. "I expect someone has to sit by him
and tell him how to spell every word. Never mind, he can draw fairies
on the notepaper we sent him. We'll get him a red-and-blue chalk
pencil."
"I dare say he'd like a post-card album and some cards to put in it,"
suggested Marjorie.
"Oh yes! I saw some of flower fairies at the Stores. We'll ask Elaine to
get them."
"And those funny ones of cats and dogs. I've no doubt it's anything to
amuse him when he has to lie still all the day long."
As the summer wore on, and submarines sank many of our merchant vessels
on the seas, the food question began to be an important problem at
Brackenfield. Everyone was intensely patriotic and ready to do all in
her power to help on the war. Mrs. Morrison believed in keeping the
girls well abreast of the important topics of the moment. She considered
the oldfashioned schools of fifty years ago, where the pupils never saw
a newspaper, and were utterly out of touch with the world, did not
conduce to the making of good citizens. She liked her girls to think out
questions for themselves. She had several enthusiastic spirits among the
prefects, and found that by giving them a few general hints to work upon
she could trust them to lead the others. Winifrede in particular
realized the gravity of the situation. Armed with a supply of leaflets
from the local Food Control Bureau, she convened a meeting of the entire
school in the Assembly Hall.
Winifrede was a girl whose intense love of her country and ready power
of fluent speech would probably lead her some day to a public platform.
Meantime she could always sway a Brackenfield audience. She was dramatic
in her methods, and when the girls entered the hall they were greeted by
large hand-printed posters announcing:
"THE GERMANS ARE TRYING TO STARVE US.
GERMAN SUBMARINES ARE REDUCING SUPPLIES.
YOU MUST ECONOMIZE AT HOME."
There were no teachers present on this occasion, and the platform was
occupied by the prefects. Winifrede, with an eager face and fully
convinced of the burning necessity of rationing, stood up and began her
speech.
"Girls! I think I needn't tell you that we're fighting in the most
terrible war the world has ever seen. We're matched against a foe whose
force and cunning will need every atom of strength of which we're
capable. They are not only shooting our soldiers at the front, and
bombing our towns, but by their submarine warfare they are deliberately
trying to reduce us by starvation. There is already a food crisis in our
country. There is a serious shortage of wheat, of potatoes, of sugar,
and of other food-stuffs. Perhaps you think that so long as you have
money you will be able to buy food. That is not so. As long as there is
plenty of food, money is a convenience to buy it with, but no more.
Money is not value. If the food is not there, money will not make it,
and money becomes useless. Food gives money its value. We can do without
money; but we cannot do without food. People see the bakers' shops full
of bread, the butchers' shops full of meat, the grocers' shops full of
provisions, and they believe there is plenty of food. This is merely
food on the surface. The stock of food from which the shops draw the
food is low, seriously low, already. Unless we ration ourselves at once,
and carefully, there will come days when there may be no bread at all at
the baker's. There is a shortage of wheat all over the world, not only
in Europe, but also in North and South America. Millions of the men who
grew the wheat we eat are fighting, hundreds of thousands of them will
never go back to the fields they ploughed. If the present waste of bread
and wheat flour continues, there will be hardly enough to go round till
next harvest time. Great Britain only produces one-fifth of the bread it
eats. Four-fifths of the wheat comes from abroad. Hundreds of the ships
that brought it are now engaged in other work. They are carrying food
and munitions to France, Italy, and Russia. The ships that brought us
food are fewer by those hundreds.
"It is the women of the country who must see to this. By careful
rationing we can make our supplies hold out until after the harvest. Our
men are out at the front, fighting a grim battle, but, unless we do our
part of the business at home, they may fight a losing battle. It is for
us to see that our noble dead have not died in vain. With martyred
Belgium for an object lesson, it is the duty of every British girl to
make every possible sacrifice to keep those unspeakable Huns out of our
islands. I appeal to you all to use the utmost economy and abstinence,
and voluntarily to give up some of the things that you like. Remember
you will be helping to win the war. There is a rationing pledge on the
table near the door, and I ask every girl to sign it and to wear the
violet ribbon that will be given her. It is the badge of the new
temperance cause. The freedom of the world depends at the present time
on the food thrift and self-restraint of our civilians, no less than on
the courage of our soldiers. Please take some of the leaflets which you
will find on the table, and read them. They have been sent here for us
by the Food Control Bureau."
After Winifrede's speech every girl felt in honour bound to comply with
her request, and turn by turn they signed their pledges and sported
their violet ribbons.
"It'll mean knocking off buns, I suppose," sighed Sylvia mournfully.
"Certainly.
'Save a bun,
And do the Hun!'"
improvised Marjorie.
"Look here!" said Betty, studying a pamphlet; "it says: 'If a man is
working hard he needs a great deal more food than when he is resting.
There are no exceptions to this rule. It follows that workers save
energy by resting as much as they can in their spare time.' If that's
true, the less work we do the smaller our appetites will be. I vote we
petition the Empress, in the interests of patriotism, to shorten our
time-table by half."
"She'd probably suggest knocking off cricket and tennis instead, my
Betty."
"Well, at any rate, it says: 'large people need more food than small',
and I'm taller than you, so I ought to have half of your dinner bread,
old sport!"
"Ah, but look, it also says: 'people who are well covered need much less
food than thin people', so I score there, and ought to have half of your
dinner bread instead."
"We'll each stick to our own allowances, thanks!"
Mrs. Morrison, who was on the committee of the Whitecliffe Food Control
Campaign, was glad to have secured the co-operation of her girls in the
alterations which she was now obliged to make in their dietary. On the
whole, they rather liked some of the substitutes for wheat flour, and
quite enjoyed the barley-meal bread, and the oatcakes and maize-meal
biscuits that figured on the tables at tea-time.
"They're dry, but you feel so patriotic when you eat them," declared
Marjorie.
"I believe you'd chump sawdust buns if you thought you were helping on
the war," laughed Chrissie.
"I would, with pleasure."
It was just at this time that potatoes ran short. So far Brackenfield
had not suffered in that respect, but now the supply from the large
kitchen garden had given out, and the Whitecliffe greengrocers were
quite unable to meet the demands of the school. For a fortnight the
girls ate swedes instead, and tried to like them. Then Mrs. Morrison
received a message from a farmer that he had plenty of potatoes in his
fields, but lacked the labour to cart them. He would, however, be
prepared to dispose of a certain quantity on condition that they could
be fetched. Here was news indeed! The potatoes were there, and only
needed to be carried away. The Principal at once organized parties of
girls to go with baskets to the farm. Instead of sending Seniors,
Intermediates, and Juniors separately, Mrs. Morrison ordered
representatives from the three hostels to form each detachment. She
considered that lately the elder girls had been keeping too much aloof
from the younger ones, and that the spirit of unity in the school might
suffer in consequence. The expedition would be an excellent opportunity
for meeting together, and she gave a hint to the prefects that she had
noticed and deprecated their tendency to exclusiveness.
As a direct result of her suggestions, Marjorie one afternoon found
herself walking to the farm in the select company of Winifrede Mason. It
was such an overwhelming honour to be thus favoured by the head girl
that Marjorie's powers of conversation were at first rather damped, and
she replied in monosyllables to Winifrede's remarks; but the latter, who
was determined (as she had informed her fellow prefects) to "do her duty
by those Intermediates", persevered in her attempts to be pleasant,
till Marjorie, who was naturally talkative, thawed at length and found
her tongue.
There was no doubt that Winifrede, when she stepped down from her
pedestal, was a most winning companion. She had a charming, humorous,
racy, whimsical way of commenting on things, and a whole fund of amusing
stories. Marjorie, astonished and fascinated, responded eagerly to her
advances, and by the time they reached the farm had formed quite a
different estimation of the head girl. The walk in itself was
delightful. Their way lay along a road that led over the moors. On
either side stretched an expanse of gorse and whinberry bushes,
interspersed with patches of grass, where sheep were feeding. Dykes
filled with water edged the road, and in these were growing rushes, and
sedges, and crowfoot, and a few forget-me-nots and other water-loving
flowers. Larks were singing gloriously overhead, and the plovers flitted
about with their plaintive "pee-wit, pee-wit". Sometimes a stonechat or
a wheatear would pause for a moment on a gorse stump, flirting its brown
tail before it flew out of sight, or young rabbits would peep from the
whinberry bushes and whisk away into cover. Far off in the distance lay
the hazy outline of the sea. There was a great sense of space and
openness. The fresh pure air blew down from the hills, cooler and more
invigorating even than the sea breeze. Except for the sheep, and an
occasional collie dog and shepherd, they had the world to themselves.
Winifrede took long sighing breaths of air. Her eyes were shining with
enjoyment.
"I like the quiet of it all," she told Marjorie. "I can understand the
feeling that made the mediaeval hermits build their lonely little cells
in peaceful, beautiful spots. Some of the Hindoos do the same to-day,
and go and live in the forests to have time to meditate. When I'm
getting old I'd like to come and take a cottage on this moor--not
before, I think, because there's so very much I want to do in the world
first, but when I feel I'm growing past my work, then will be the time
to arrange my thoughts and slip into the spirit of the peace up here."
"What kind of work do you want to do?" asked Marjorie.
"I'm not sure yet. I'm leaving school, of course, at the end of this
term, and I can't quite decide whether to go on to College or to begin
something to help the war. Mrs. Morrison advises College. She says I
could be far more help afterwards if I were properly qualified, and I
dare say she's right, only I don't want to wait."
"I'm just yearning to leave school and be a V.A.D., or drive an
ambulance wagon," sympathized Marjorie.
"My sister is out in France at canteen work," confided Winifrede. "It
makes me fearfully envious when I have her letters and think what she's
doing for the Tommies. I've three brothers at the front, and five
cousins, and two more cousins were killed a year ago. My eldest brother
has been wounded twice, and the youngest is in hospital now. I simply
live for news of them all."
The girls had now reached the farm, a little low-built, whitewashed
house almost on the summit of a hill. Though the principal occupation of
its owner lay among sheep, he had a clearing of fields, where he grew
swedes, potatoes, and a little barley. In a sheltered place behind his
stable-yard he had a stock of last year's potatoes still left; they were
piled into a long heap, covered with straw and then with earth as a
protection. He took the girls round here, measured the potatoes in a
bushel bin, and then filled the baskets.
"They won't keep much longer," he informed Miss Norton. "I'd have carted
them down to Whitecliffe, only I've no horse now, and it's difficult to
borrow one; and I can't spare the time from the sheep either. Labour's
so scarce now. My two sons are fighting, and I've only a grandson of
fourteen and a daughter to help me."
"Everybody is feeling the same pinch," replied Miss Norton. "We're only
too glad to come and fetch the potatoes ourselves. It's a nice walk for
us."
The girls, who overheard the conversation, felt they cordially agreed.
It was fun wandering round the little farm-yard, looking at the ducks,
and chickens, and calves, or peeping inside the barns and stables.
Several of them began to register vows to work on the land when
school-days were over.
"They've got a new German camp over there," volunteered the farmer. "I
suppose their first contingent of prisoners arrived yesterday. Hadn't
you heard about it? Oh, they've been busy for weeks putting up barbed
wire! It can't be so far from your place either. You'd pass it if you
crossed the stile there and went back over the moor instead of round by
the road."
At the news of a German camp a kind of electric thrill passed round the
company. The girls were wild with curiosity to see it, and pressed Miss
Norton to allow them to return to Brackenfield by the moorland path. The
mistress herself seemed interested, and consented quite readily. It was
a much quicker way back to the school, and would save time; she was
grateful to Mr. Briggs for having pointed out so short a cut.
The camp lay on the side of a hill about half-way between the farm and
Brackenfield, near enough to distinguish the latter building quite
plainly in the distance. It was surrounded by an entanglement of barbed
wire, and there were sentries on duty. Within the circle of wire were
tents, and the girls could see washing hanging out, and a few figures
lying on the ground and apparently smoking. They would have liked to
linger and look, but Miss Norton marched them briskly past, and
discipline forbade an undue exhibition of curiosity. They had gone
perhaps only a few hundred yards when they heard the regular tramp-tramp
of footsteps, and up from the dell below came a further batch of
prisoners under an escort of soldiers. Miss Norton hastily marshalled
her flock, and made them stand aside to allow the contingent room to
pass. They were a tall, fine-looking set of men, stouter, and apparently
better fed, than their guards. They had no appearance of hard usage or
ill treatment, and were marching quite cheerily towards the camp,
probably anticipating a meal. The girls, drawn up in double line,
thrilled with excitement as they passed.
"If one tried to run away would they shoot him?" asked Betty in an awed
voice.
"Yes, the guards have their rifles all ready," replied Marjorie; "if one
tried to escape he'd have a bullet through his back in a second--and
quite right too! What's the matter, Chrissie?"
"Nothing--only it makes me feel queer."
"I feel queer when I remember how many of our own men are prisoners in
Germany," declared Winifrede.
"Quietly, girls! And don't stare!" said Miss Norton. "We ought to pity
these poor men. It is a terrible thing to be a prisoner of war."
"I don't pity them," grumbled Marjorie fiercely under her breath.
"Perhaps they're the very ones who've been fighting Leonard's regiment."
"Yes, when one thinks of one's brothers, it doesn't make one love the
Germans," whispered Winifrede.
"Love them!" flared Marjorie. "I wouldn't consciously speak to a German
for ten thousand pounds, and if I happened by mistake to shake hands
with one--well, I'd have to go and disinfect my hand afterwards!"
"Miss Norton's welcome to them if she pities them," said Betty from
behind.
"Go on, girls, now!" came the teacher's voice, as the contingent tramped
away into the camp.
"I'm disgusted with Miss Norton!" groused Marjorie. "Come along,
Chrissie! What's the matter with you, old sport? Anybody'd think you'd
seen a ghost instead of a batch of Germans. Why, you've gone quite
pale!"
"I'm only tired," snapped Chrissie rather crossly. "You're always making
remarks about something. I'm going to walk with Patricia."
"Oh, all right! Just as you please. I don't press myself on anybody.
I'll walk with Winifrede again if she'll have me."