‘Sophia, you’re late for breakfast, again. The eggs are cold. The coffee’s cold. There is a war on, you know, we must be disciplined like the soldiers. Punctuality is the least we can offer.’ Lady Benson ate her last piece of toast, efficiently crunching each mouthful, and opened her notebook that listed things to be done, a wartime initiative. She’d contemplated a further initiative – accommodating Belgian refugees – but decided it would exhaust the servants.
Sophia sat down crossly at the table. ‘I don’t want breakfast.’ Really, her mother was the end.
Her father looked over the top of The Times and said, ‘Good morning, Sophia.’
‘What does it matter if I’m late for breakfast, when I don’t have anything to do, except knit scarves for soldiers?’
‘It was your decision not to go up to Cambridge this term,’ said her father mildly.
‘But I can’t, don’t you see? I can’t sit in lectures while all the young men I know are going off to the war.’
‘We understand, you’ve explained often enough. But we wish you’d find something else. No doubt there’ll be a great demand for women, in all sorts of occupations, if the war goes on. At the club, we have waitresses now that almost all the younger men have gone. Not that I’m suggesting you become a waitress.’ Her father gestured at the front page of The Times, with its lists of casualties. ‘It’s been a bad week, but at least we’re told we scored military successes.’ He sighed deeply.
Her mother was clashing plates. ‘Don’t just sit there, Sophia, eat your breakfast. The toast is cold, I can’t ask Cook to make any more.’
‘I don’t want any bloody toast,’ said Sophia.
‘Sophia, never use that word!’ from her mother; and from her father, ‘Sophia, swearing shows a limited, vulgar mind.’
It was him she addressed. ‘Here we are with thousands being killed, and all she worries about is cold toast and bad language.’ She poured out some dregs of coffee.
‘That’s all there is,’ said her mother with satisfaction. ‘And please don’t speak about me as though I weren’t in the room. I need to get on, I am going to the canteen for my shift.’ Lady Benson sat on committees to support the war effort, and worked at Lady Belfield’s canteen providing cheap nutritious meals for working women. She’d suggested Sophia should help there, but her daughter said that ladies being gracious to the workers was more than she could stand. ‘It’s a pity you won’t come to the canteen, the atmosphere is uplifting, people from all classes work together in cheerful co-operation.’
Sophia banged down her cup. ‘I want to work in a hospital, and I want to go to France.’
‘Oh Sophia,’ her mother cried. ‘To work in a hospital, why ever? And France, why France?’
‘I want to serve as a VAD in an army hospital.’ She fixed her eyes on her father. ‘I’ve volunteered already. I went to the Voluntary Aid Detachment headquarters at Devonshire House last week.’ She stood up. She was very nervous.
‘I forbid it,’ said her mother. ‘It’s out of the question.’
‘But I must do something.’
‘Well, if you’re really serious. . .’ said her father.
‘I am really serious. In any case,’ and she clenched her fists, ‘if you are worried about the “young lady” aspect, lots of “ladies” go out there.’
‘Married ladies, yes.’
‘What difference does that make? D’you mean I’d need a chaperone? Chaperones are finished, Mother.’
‘You’d be exposed to danger.’
‘Why not? Our men are exposed to much more danger. Look at cousin Peter, and Andrew Beaumont. . . Why not women?’
‘You might get ill, there’d be such germs around. And all those men. . .’
In spite of herself, Sophia laughed. ‘Men are better than germs, I suppose.’
‘The war will soon end, and a woman’s reputation will always be important.’
‘I don’t care about bloody reputation.’
‘Sophia!’
‘I’m sorry. Anyway, in the hospitals the men would be wounded or dead. Or doctors or chaplains, who don’t interest me.’
Sir William intervened. ‘Sophia, if you can find out what you need to do. . .’
‘I told you, I have. I’ve been accepted, I’m waiting to hear when they want me. But I don’t want to quarrel with you, I want. . . I want your blessing, I suppose. I’ve been waiting for days for the right moment to tell you.’
There was a knock. It was Wilson. ‘May I clear, my lady?’
‘Would you mind waiting just a minute, Wilson?’ said Lady Benson. Wilson looked exasperated.
‘Do clear, dear Wilson,’ said Sophia. ‘I’ve no secrets from you. The thing is, I’ve volunteered to be a VAD in France.’
‘Have you indeed, Miss Sophia? Well, if I may venture an opinion. . .’ The family steeled themselves for one of Wilson’s bracing remarks. ‘All of us need to do our bit.’
Lady Benson looked annoyed. ‘Thank you, Wilson. Will you clear the table? Anyway, my darling, I want you here. What am I to do without you?’
‘One thing must be clear,’ said Sophia, and she stood up. ‘If you think I am devoting my life to staying at home and looking after Mother, I won’t do it. I tell you, I will not do it!’ She looked extremely firm, and her father regarded her with affectionate interest.
‘Well, my dear,’ he said, ‘I think that’s quite clear.’