wards.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, yes, you’d know all about that, I suppose. Bit rum getting you girls to paint, isn’t it?’
Mrs Gregson rolled her eyes.
He looked at the bag of lime and the two buckets at their feet. ‘But you must mix the lime in at the right proportion, you know. Over-thickening is very common. And you must give it a good old stir.’
‘Must we?’ asked Mrs Gregson.
‘Yes.’ He examined the wall and pointed to the mould. ‘And you’ll have to scrape—’
‘Can you fetch us a stick?’ Mrs Gregson asked, not wanting another lecture. ‘To stir the mix.’
‘Oh. Right-o.’ He began to look around ineffectually.
‘Unless you want to loan us that one.’ She pointed at his swagger stick.
‘I . . . no . . . I’ll be right back. My name’s Metcalf, by the way. James Metcalf.’
As soon as he had gone, Miss Pippery spoke. ‘He’s after something.’
Mrs Gregson agreed. ‘You can’t usually get an officer to fetch sticks quite so easily. Usually takes a few sessions.’
Metcalf returned with a broken broom handle and, as Mrs Gregson poured in the lime, he proceeded to rotate it in the pot with a practised vigour, mixing the contents without spilling or flicking.
‘The thing is, ladies, I am here to see some of the men. Wounded men.’
‘You’ve come to the right place,’ said Mrs Gregson. ‘We’ve got hundreds.’
‘No,’ he corrected solemnly, speaking as if the VADs were particularly dim-witted. ‘These are men, you see, under my command. They were hurt in some shelling. The thing is, I have been asked by some of the officers in my battalion to set about organizing a dance. We’ll be in the area off and on for the foreseeable future, you see. And we thought, while we are out of the line . . . To be honest, I thought I might kill two birds with one stone.’
The women exchanged glances.
‘I mean, while I am here visiting the men, I could ask some of the nurses if they would enjoy the company of officers.’
‘We have plenty of officers here, Lieutenant. Whole ones for a change, do you mean?’ Mrs Gregson asked.
‘I suppose I do, after a fashion. Golly, that sounded cruel.’
‘We’ll think about it,’ said Miss Pippery. Mrs Gregson nodded her agreement. ‘On one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
Miss Pippery flashed a coy smile. ‘You help us paint this wall.’
Mrs Gregson shot her friend an admiring glance. She couldn’t have put it better herself.
‘What? When?’
‘Now.’
He looked down at his once pristine uniform, now lightly floured with lime dust. He brushed at it ineffectually.
Mrs Gregson tutted. ‘Oh, I’m sure we can find you something to cover that. You
can
paint?’
‘I’ve done my share,’ Metcalf said cautiously, wondering how much manual work a gentleman should admit to. ‘And you’ll think about it? The dance? Perhaps ask some of your chums.’
‘We said we would. And Miss Pippery here, Alice, is the very best fox-trotter you have ever seen.’
Metcalf’s face brightened at the thought. ‘Really?’
‘She was taught by Harry Fox himself.’
Miss Pippery’s eyes dropped to the floor, in what could have been mistaken for bashfulness.
‘Good Lord. Really?’
‘At the
Jardin de Danse
on the roof of the New York Theatre.’
As Metcalf began to unbutton his tunic, ready to roll up his sleeves, Mrs Gregson and Miss Pippery were careful not to catch each other’s eyes, for fear of collapsing into giggles.
It was shortly after they had finished the wall and were about to move on to the greenhouse that they heard the sound of a man sobbing.
Watson passed through the curtain from the officers’ ward and into a small passageway that opened up into another high-ceilinged room, but with larger windows and more natural light. A former refectory, perhaps, although a porous one: metal buckets caught drips from the leaking roof, pinging and plopping in an almost musical sequence. The arrangement was much the same
‘Really?’
‘Well, yes, you’d know all about that, I suppose. Bit rum getting you girls to paint, isn’t it?’
Mrs Gregson rolled her eyes.
He looked at the bag of lime and the two buckets at their feet. ‘But you must mix the lime in at the right proportion, you know. Over-thickening is very common. And you must give it a good old stir.’
‘Must we?’ asked Mrs Gregson.
‘Yes.’ He examined the wall and pointed to the mould. ‘And you’ll have to scrape—’
‘Can you fetch us a stick?’ Mrs Gregson asked, not wanting another lecture. ‘To stir the mix.’
‘Oh. Right-o.’ He began to look around ineffectually.
‘Unless you want to loan us that one.’ She pointed at his swagger stick.
‘I . . . no . . . I’ll be right back. My name’s Metcalf, by the way. James Metcalf.’
As soon as he had gone, Miss Pippery spoke. ‘He’s after something.’
Mrs Gregson agreed. ‘You can’t usually get an officer to fetch sticks quite so easily. Usually takes a few sessions.’
Metcalf returned with a broken broom handle and, as Mrs Gregson poured in the lime, he proceeded to rotate it in the pot with a practised vigour, mixing the contents without spilling or flicking.
‘The thing is, ladies, I am here to see some of the men. Wounded men.’
‘You’ve come to the right place,’ said Mrs Gregson. ‘We’ve got hundreds.’
‘No,’ he corrected solemnly, speaking as if the VADs were particularly dim-witted. ‘These are men, you see, under my command. They were hurt in some shelling. The thing is, I have been asked by some of the officers in my battalion to set about organizing a dance. We’ll be in the area off and on for the foreseeable future, you see. And we thought, while we are out of the line . . . To be honest, I thought I might kill two birds with one stone.’
The women exchanged glances.
‘I mean, while I am here visiting the men, I could ask some of the nurses if they would enjoy the company of officers.’
‘We have plenty of officers here, Lieutenant. Whole ones for a change, do you mean?’ Mrs Gregson asked.
‘I suppose I do, after a fashion. Golly, that sounded cruel.’
‘We’ll think about it,’ said Miss Pippery. Mrs Gregson nodded her agreement. ‘On one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
Miss Pippery flashed a coy smile. ‘You help us paint this wall.’
Mrs Gregson shot her friend an admiring glance. She couldn’t have put it better herself.
‘What? When?’
‘Now.’
He looked down at his once pristine uniform, now lightly floured with lime dust. He brushed at it ineffectually.
Mrs Gregson tutted. ‘Oh, I’m sure we can find you something to cover that. You
can
paint?’
‘I’ve done my share,’ Metcalf said cautiously, wondering how much manual work a gentleman should admit to. ‘And you’ll think about it? The dance? Perhaps ask some of your chums.’
‘We said we would. And Miss Pippery here, Alice, is the very best fox-trotter you have ever seen.’
Metcalf’s face brightened at the thought. ‘Really?’
‘She was taught by Harry Fox himself.’
Miss Pippery’s eyes dropped to the floor, in what could have been mistaken for bashfulness.
‘Good Lord. Really?’
‘At the
Jardin de Danse
on the roof of the New York Theatre.’
As Metcalf began to unbutton his tunic, ready to roll up his sleeves, Mrs Gregson and Miss Pippery were careful not to catch each other’s eyes, for fear of collapsing into giggles.
It was shortly after they had finished the wall and were about to move on to the greenhouse that they heard the sound of a man sobbing.
Watson passed through the curtain from the officers’ ward and into a small passageway that opened up into another high-ceilinged room, but with larger windows and more natural light. A former refectory, perhaps, although a porous one: metal buckets caught drips from the leaking roof, pinging and plopping in an almost musical sequence. The arrangement was much the same
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