Thirty-Eight

Over by Christmas? The war? That was a joke. Though nobody was laughing.

In fact, barely three weeks after war had been declared people had discovered that there was nothing to laugh about in this war, nothing to make it an adventure, or a great lark, or better than going to work. They discovered it the hard way, when news came of the retreat by the British in France after the Battle of Mons, defeated by the Germans at the cost of 1600 men. A further defeat followed, at Le Cateau, where the casualty list was huge. No more euphoria, then, even though recruitment still continued, but at least the volunteers knew now what really lay ahead; they no longer carried false hopes of a speedy victory.

Meanwhile, strange things were happening at home, as people gradually became used to the idea that they were now at war. At first, there had been the problem of panic buying of food, but when that had been resolved, real shortages began to show up, as manufacturers began to switch from goods for the home to equipment for war. Worse for some, even than the shortages, was the sudden disappearance of servants, as women took the places of men, making munitions, working in factories, and saying goodbye with a light heart to domestic work.

‘Can’t get staff now,’ the older lady members at the Primrose complained to Miss Ainslie. ‘The girls just don’t seem to exist any more.’

Just like some of my staff and our younger members, Miss Ainslie would have commented to Miss Denny, except that Miss Denny had gone to learn to drive an ambulance and would soon be leaving for France. And the younger club members? They, too, had vanished to take up voluntary work, leaving the club an echoing shadow of its former self, while Vera had deserted Mrs Petrie for the munitions factory, along with Gerda.

And when Mrs Petrie demanded how she was going to manage with only wee Sal to help, Miss Ainslie had to tell her gently that only a handful of ladies were requiring meals now, and with no country members staying overnight, the time might soon be coming when even the number of maids that remained might have to be reduced.

‘I really don’t know what is going to happen,’ Miss Ainslie admitted later to Elinor. ‘This whole thing is becoming a nightmare.’

‘It is,’ Elinor agreed, as the manageress gave her a sympathetic glance.

Everyone, of course, knew of Elinor’s own private nightmare, though she never spoke of it after her first announcement, and showed little of her inner turmoil in her strong, lovely face. For, of course, her numbness hadn’t lasted long. She’d had to suffer, and was still suffering, not only from loss of love, but also a certain humiliation that she should have offered herself as a wife to Barry and been turned down. In a way, she rather hoped that that feeling would crush out her heartache, but it hadn’t happened yet.

Nor did she know what had happened to Barry. He had turned up at the club with another note, offering to meet, but she had thrown away the note and had not contacted him. It was lucky, anyway, that he was departing, for her father was all set to seek him out and give him ‘what for’, which would have been disastrous – for Walter, rather than Barry. Yes, she thanked God that he was away, out of her life, and also that Stephen Muirhead would never know how her affair with him had ended. But what had happened to Stephen himself? She just hoped, wherever he was, that he was safe.

‘To tell you the truth,’ Miss Ainslie was saying, ‘I’m afraid now that the club will have to close. It’s what the owners believe.’

‘The Primrose? To close?’ Elinor’s eyes were filled with horror. ‘Oh, no, that couldn’t happen, Miss Ainslie, it couldn’t!’

‘I know how you feel. I feel the same. But there’s a war on, places are closing all around us. It will only be until things get back to normal.’

The two women exchanged long, sorrowful looks. Back to normal? When would that be? They knew now that trench warfare was becoming established and that battles could rage for weeks on end before being won in no decisive way and with enormous loss of life. There was no point in even talking about peace at this stage.

‘When d’you think there might be a decision?’ Elinor asked a little huskily. ‘On closing?’

‘Fairly soon.’

‘Suppose I should be thinking about some war work, anyway,’ Elinor murmured after a pause. ‘Mattie’d like to go for the munitions, but I’d rather do some sort of nursing. I’ve done a bit at the Red Cross centre and enjoyed it.’

This was true. Working at the centre on her free Thursday evenings had been the best thing Elinor had found for taking her mind off the man who’d spent other Thursdays with her. In nursing, there simply was no time to think of anything but the work in hand.

‘Why, that’s excellent, Elinor. If you’d like to have extra hours there, I could give you some time off.’ Miss Ainslie gave a tired smile. ‘As you know, we’re not so busy these days.’

Barely a week later, the blow fell. Miss Ainslie called everyone together to her office for an important announcement.

‘No’ about the suffragettes this time, eh?’ Mattie whispered, and even Elinor smiled.

Everyone knew that the women’s suffrage movement had temporarily ceased its activities, with most of its members busy with war work. When things returned to normal, they would resume their quest for the vote, but for the time being, there were other needs to be met.

‘What I have to tell you will come as a surprise,’ Miss Ainslie was saying now, at which Elinor heaved a deep sigh, believing that she knew what to expect. In fact, she didn’t, for she was as surprised as everyone else when the manageress announced in her cool, clear tones that the club had been taken over by the government.

‘Requisitioned, as they call it. The Primrose, as we know it, is to close, but will reopen, when conversion is complete, as a small convalescent hospital for soldiers. Some will be recovering from wounds, some from neurasthenia – what’s known as shell shock. This will be its role until the end of hostilities.’

Those listening exchanged glances. Requisitioned? That was a long word with an unwelcome meaning. For them, at least, as it was certain they would all be losing their jobs.

‘So we’ll all be given the sack, Miss Ainslie?’ Ada asked, to make matters clear.

‘I’m afraid so, but it’s quite possible that when the conversion is finished, there’ll be jobs going here. For domestic workers, or assistants to the Queen Alexandra’s nurses who will be looking after the patients.’

Again, glances were exchanged.

‘It’s munitions for me,’ Mattie said firmly. ‘Vera and Gerda say the wages are no’ bad and you can do overtime.’

‘I’ve always been in service,’ Ada sighed. ‘I’m no’ keen on factory work.’

‘Nor me,’ said Sal. ‘I’m going to stick to cooking.’

‘Ha!’ Mrs Petrie exclaimed. ‘And where are you going to pass yourself as a cook, may I ask?’

‘Miss Ainslie, how long will the conversion take?’ Elinor asked quietly. ‘I’d like to try for an assistant nursing post.’

‘I’m told by the owners that it should be finished by next February. All our furnishings will have to go into store, of course, and temporary fitments will be going up for the wards, but there’ll be no need for operating theatres or anything of that sort. The patients here will either be convalescing, or, as I say, shell-shock sufferers.’

Miss Ainslie, clearing her throat, looked from watching face to watching face.

‘I’d just like to say, I know it’s hard, to lose your jobs, and this has been, I hope, a happy place to work, but perhaps we should think – you know – of the club’s new role.’

‘How d’you mean?’ asked Mrs Pierce. ‘It’s no’ our role, eh? We’re leaving.’

‘That’s true, and we’re all upset about it, but at least we can take some comfort knowing that the club’s not going to be left empty. It will be providing a place where some of the war casualties can come after treatment, to rest and build up their strength, get used to injuries that can’t be healed. That’s why I say we should be glad of our club’s new purpose. To help those who’ve fought for us. So many have been killed already, it’s good that something’s being done for those still alive.’

There was a short silence, during which the maids lowered their eyes, and Mrs Pierce blew her nose.

‘Aye, that’s true,’ she admitted, after a moment. ‘You put it very well, Miss Ainslie. I wish there was something I could do, but I think I’ll just be taking a wee rest. How about you?’

‘Me?’ Miss Ainslie smiled. ‘I’m following Miss Denny’s example – I’m joining the VAD – that’s short for Voluntary Aid Detachment.’

‘Sort of nursing?’ asked Mattie.

‘Well, nursing and anything and everything. Serving where you’re needed, I suppose.’

‘Make a change from working at the Primrose Club,’ Mrs Petrie remarked, but Elinor smiled.

‘Serving where you’re needed? Sounds pretty much like working at the Primrose Club to me.’