cried, ‘I’m more Scotch than any of you. I come from north of Inverness.’
The whole class sat up. ‘Ye’re no Scotch, you?’ one jolly-faced boy enquired incredulously. ‘Ye dinna say’t!’
‘There’s nane but English here,’ came a miserable voice from the back row.
‘Well, I’m not English anyway,’ I answered cheerily, ‘any more than you.’
‘Ye dinna speak Scotch,’ said a canny voice that had not spoken before.
‘That’s because I’ve been with English troops,’ I lied bravely. Then I told them my name – it is an old and well-known one from Bannockburn downwards.
‘Were ye at a Scotch University?’ plied my last critic.
‘I was,’ I rejoined, ‘at the best one.’ They laughed. I had got them at last. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘we’re going to make a language – what kind of word do we need first?’
‘Names o’ things,’ suggested one.
‘Not a bit of it,’ I replied, ‘that wouldn’t be much good for a grown-up person. That’s for a child.’ Volleys of answers came from all directions. Now it was awake, it was the cleverest troop class I had ever had. When it came to French in the next hour, I could hold them quite easily, textbooks and all. But with a new class – for the first hour – I never attempt to use books. We must get to know each other first.
Notes
1 . Bully beef (corned beef) and Maconochie (a thin stew of turnips and carrots) were tinned staples of First World War trench food.
2 . While the Croix de Guerre was a personal military award for bravery, the Fourragère was a braided cord decoration which was awarded to a regiment which had particularly distinguished itself.
3 . Who was ‘The Visitor’? As so often, Christina disguises identities – but she clearly thought very little of this man. There is a family story that Churchill visited and listened to one of her lectures, but she makes no reference to this in the narrative, and although it’s tempting to think that the Visitor could have been Churchill – particularly when she later refers to the cigar cases he left behind! – the details don’t really fit. Albert Braddock, sub-director of Education based at Abbeville, referred to a Mr Fox who was involved in the correspondence scheme, so this may be Christina’s Visitor, but we cannot be sure. His identity remains a mystery, just as she intended.
4 . General Headquarters was in the Hotel des Étrangers, and the Education Chief was Sir Graham Balfour.
5 . Christina’s irritation with the telephone would continue throughout her life, and she had it removed from her home in Thurso when she lived there in her latter years.
7
Officers and men
W hen I first met officers at the Base, I was greatly surprised that I did not fall in love with them. I had been quite prepared to do so. It seemed only reasonable that I should. But I did not. They were so unlike what I expected them to be – old and prosaic and often distinctly ordinary.
The oldest and fiercest was a colonel who had been a naval officer, and, too old for that, he had been given a train-ferry job soon after the War began. His table was next to mine at the Coq d’Or, and the first time that he spoke to me, he told me in withering tones that he thoroughly disapproved of Education and of Classics in particular. He had learned the latter at Eton and, though he had been round the world in all sorts of guises, he had never found Classics the slightest particle of use. But behind his gruff manner he had the Navy’s warm heart. Noticing my cough, he insisted on my trying a remedy of his own, and one night when I was hesitating at the door because the Church was crowded, he marched in with me to his own special seat.
The second disappointment was the Chaplain – a pukka padre too – who motored in from Tanks, shook hands with me with his gloves on, and then proceeded to cross-question me about my religion. He all but asked if I were saved and hoped patronisingly that I would
The whole class sat up. ‘Ye’re no Scotch, you?’ one jolly-faced boy enquired incredulously. ‘Ye dinna say’t!’
‘There’s nane but English here,’ came a miserable voice from the back row.
‘Well, I’m not English anyway,’ I answered cheerily, ‘any more than you.’
‘Ye dinna speak Scotch,’ said a canny voice that had not spoken before.
‘That’s because I’ve been with English troops,’ I lied bravely. Then I told them my name – it is an old and well-known one from Bannockburn downwards.
‘Were ye at a Scotch University?’ plied my last critic.
‘I was,’ I rejoined, ‘at the best one.’ They laughed. I had got them at last. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘we’re going to make a language – what kind of word do we need first?’
‘Names o’ things,’ suggested one.
‘Not a bit of it,’ I replied, ‘that wouldn’t be much good for a grown-up person. That’s for a child.’ Volleys of answers came from all directions. Now it was awake, it was the cleverest troop class I had ever had. When it came to French in the next hour, I could hold them quite easily, textbooks and all. But with a new class – for the first hour – I never attempt to use books. We must get to know each other first.
Notes
1 . Bully beef (corned beef) and Maconochie (a thin stew of turnips and carrots) were tinned staples of First World War trench food.
2 . While the Croix de Guerre was a personal military award for bravery, the Fourragère was a braided cord decoration which was awarded to a regiment which had particularly distinguished itself.
3 . Who was ‘The Visitor’? As so often, Christina disguises identities – but she clearly thought very little of this man. There is a family story that Churchill visited and listened to one of her lectures, but she makes no reference to this in the narrative, and although it’s tempting to think that the Visitor could have been Churchill – particularly when she later refers to the cigar cases he left behind! – the details don’t really fit. Albert Braddock, sub-director of Education based at Abbeville, referred to a Mr Fox who was involved in the correspondence scheme, so this may be Christina’s Visitor, but we cannot be sure. His identity remains a mystery, just as she intended.
4 . General Headquarters was in the Hotel des Étrangers, and the Education Chief was Sir Graham Balfour.
5 . Christina’s irritation with the telephone would continue throughout her life, and she had it removed from her home in Thurso when she lived there in her latter years.
7
Officers and men
W hen I first met officers at the Base, I was greatly surprised that I did not fall in love with them. I had been quite prepared to do so. It seemed only reasonable that I should. But I did not. They were so unlike what I expected them to be – old and prosaic and often distinctly ordinary.
The oldest and fiercest was a colonel who had been a naval officer, and, too old for that, he had been given a train-ferry job soon after the War began. His table was next to mine at the Coq d’Or, and the first time that he spoke to me, he told me in withering tones that he thoroughly disapproved of Education and of Classics in particular. He had learned the latter at Eton and, though he had been round the world in all sorts of guises, he had never found Classics the slightest particle of use. But behind his gruff manner he had the Navy’s warm heart. Noticing my cough, he insisted on my trying a remedy of his own, and one night when I was hesitating at the door because the Church was crowded, he marched in with me to his own special seat.
The second disappointment was the Chaplain – a pukka padre too – who motored in from Tanks, shook hands with me with his gloves on, and then proceeded to cross-question me about my religion. He all but asked if I were saved and hoped patronisingly that I would
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