see her.’
She took another sandwich from a tray and left the hall, takinga path into the trees to see if conscientious objectors were really working in the woods. She found them quickly, a group of long-faced men with dark beards and the martyred look of the misunderstood, dressed in prison garb, thin and gaunt, chopping logs and clearing undergrowth. A guard stood smoking, watching them from a distance.
Not one of the men lifted his head from his work when she strolled past along the sawdust-strewn track. They hid their faces from her, and she wondered if they thought she might be there to offer them white feathers for their cowardice.
There was the sound of arguing behind her, voices raised in anger, and she turned to see a group of soldiers talking to the prisoners. One soldier had his head bandaged. Another walked with a stick. A third had his shoulder and arm bandaged and wore an eye patch. Nellie had to pass them to get back out onto the road.
‘You should be in France, fighting like real men,’ said the soldier with the eye patch. ‘You’re a bunch of cowards. Worse than the bloody enemy.’
The other soldiers were pulling him away.
‘Curb your language, man. Look, there’s a lady present.’
‘Don’t hold back on my account,’ said Nellie. Her hat had slipped sideways and she tried to organize it back into place. ‘But you should think on a bit. These pacifists are scrimshankers and shirkers, but I do believe they might be right. If every man in the country refused to fight, the generals would have to do it themselves. In which case the war would be over by now.’
Nellie hadn’t meant to be so outspoken. She felt cheered by the look of surprise she received, and walked away with a spring in her step, a triumphant smile creasing her face.
As she cycled home past the Parish Rooms, the vicar called out to her. An army chap had come by looking for a cook for a military hospital. The wages would be good. They needed somebody straight away.
‘You could attend an interview today. I think you might know the house. A place not far from here called Hymes Court.’
It was September and the cold weather was already setting in. A season working indoors would be better than harvesting sugar beet. She would go there now. For the first time in many months, Nellie felt good fortune coming her way. A sense that something might happen. That luck might be on her side for once.
Vivian opened her eyes. The eiderdown felt silky against her skin. She could hear Frank snoring in the other bed. Birds sang at the window and there were street noises outside, voices, cars, horses and carts.
She got out of bed and dressed behind a screen, putting on her roll-on corset, a slip and a flowered tea dress in crêpe de Chine. Soft wool stockings and red leather T-bar shoes with a small heel.
In the bathroom down the hall, she washed and checked her appearance in the mirror. She still marvelled at the indoor bathroom with its ceramic bath and a sink with shiny metal taps for hot and cold water. In the mirror her eyes looked calm. Pale grey with a thin blue rim to them. Her hair had recently been salon-waved. She drew a sweep of blonde across her forehead and fixed it with a hair clasp. She did not look like a countrywoman any more, and she was glad.
Vivian tucked a stray curl behind her ear and powdered her nose. It had been a sensible decision to marry Frank. She was fond of him, but she didn’t love him. If she didn’t love him, she was sure he could never break her heart. She applied red lipstick and blotted it with a tissue, just as she had read how to in a magazine. She used a little block of coloured wax and a small brush to paint her eyes. Another magazine article on feminine beauty, written by a man, had said it was off-putting to see women too brightly painted. Vivian read avidly these days, borrowing books from the town library. Books on manners and etiquette,housekeeping and homemaking.
The Young Woman’s
She took another sandwich from a tray and left the hall, takinga path into the trees to see if conscientious objectors were really working in the woods. She found them quickly, a group of long-faced men with dark beards and the martyred look of the misunderstood, dressed in prison garb, thin and gaunt, chopping logs and clearing undergrowth. A guard stood smoking, watching them from a distance.
Not one of the men lifted his head from his work when she strolled past along the sawdust-strewn track. They hid their faces from her, and she wondered if they thought she might be there to offer them white feathers for their cowardice.
There was the sound of arguing behind her, voices raised in anger, and she turned to see a group of soldiers talking to the prisoners. One soldier had his head bandaged. Another walked with a stick. A third had his shoulder and arm bandaged and wore an eye patch. Nellie had to pass them to get back out onto the road.
‘You should be in France, fighting like real men,’ said the soldier with the eye patch. ‘You’re a bunch of cowards. Worse than the bloody enemy.’
The other soldiers were pulling him away.
‘Curb your language, man. Look, there’s a lady present.’
‘Don’t hold back on my account,’ said Nellie. Her hat had slipped sideways and she tried to organize it back into place. ‘But you should think on a bit. These pacifists are scrimshankers and shirkers, but I do believe they might be right. If every man in the country refused to fight, the generals would have to do it themselves. In which case the war would be over by now.’
Nellie hadn’t meant to be so outspoken. She felt cheered by the look of surprise she received, and walked away with a spring in her step, a triumphant smile creasing her face.
As she cycled home past the Parish Rooms, the vicar called out to her. An army chap had come by looking for a cook for a military hospital. The wages would be good. They needed somebody straight away.
‘You could attend an interview today. I think you might know the house. A place not far from here called Hymes Court.’
It was September and the cold weather was already setting in. A season working indoors would be better than harvesting sugar beet. She would go there now. For the first time in many months, Nellie felt good fortune coming her way. A sense that something might happen. That luck might be on her side for once.
Vivian opened her eyes. The eiderdown felt silky against her skin. She could hear Frank snoring in the other bed. Birds sang at the window and there were street noises outside, voices, cars, horses and carts.
She got out of bed and dressed behind a screen, putting on her roll-on corset, a slip and a flowered tea dress in crêpe de Chine. Soft wool stockings and red leather T-bar shoes with a small heel.
In the bathroom down the hall, she washed and checked her appearance in the mirror. She still marvelled at the indoor bathroom with its ceramic bath and a sink with shiny metal taps for hot and cold water. In the mirror her eyes looked calm. Pale grey with a thin blue rim to them. Her hair had recently been salon-waved. She drew a sweep of blonde across her forehead and fixed it with a hair clasp. She did not look like a countrywoman any more, and she was glad.
Vivian tucked a stray curl behind her ear and powdered her nose. It had been a sensible decision to marry Frank. She was fond of him, but she didn’t love him. If she didn’t love him, she was sure he could never break her heart. She applied red lipstick and blotted it with a tissue, just as she had read how to in a magazine. She used a little block of coloured wax and a small brush to paint her eyes. Another magazine article on feminine beauty, written by a man, had said it was off-putting to see women too brightly painted. Vivian read avidly these days, borrowing books from the town library. Books on manners and etiquette,housekeeping and homemaking.
The Young Woman’s
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