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Authors: Helen Humphreys
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“We could get our ration books back from the village women and you could do the necessary shopping,” says British Queen to Vittelette Noir.
“Gwen,” says Jane quietly. “How is this different from your chickens? This is just another instance of us taking control of our well-being.”
Fine, I think. Mention the chickens now. No one cared about them when I mentioned them. “Do what you have to do,” I say to Jane. I don’t look at her, keep my head down over my empty bowl. I get tangled up, trying to get on with these girls. If I order them about, try to keep them organized, then I’m being too bossy. If I try to be nice to them, they ignore me or regard me with complete suspicion. They have enjoyed days here without me, and have probably formed a united front against me. I stand up, abruptly knocking the table with my knee. The dishes jiggle.
“Where are you going?” asks Jane.
“I don’t know.” I feel very close to tears. “I was happy about the chickens,” I say too loudly, causing several of the others to look in my direction. British Queen shakes her head sadly at May Queen.
“Gwen, sit down. Please.” Jane tugs at my arm. “Think how happy you’ll be when Elspeth makes you a lovely omelette out of those eggs from your chickens. Please.” She tugs at my arm again and I fall back into my chair like a chastened child.
I still feel like crying. Nothing is going well. No one ever likes me. I’m not good with people. I’ve been too isolated most of my life. I don’t know how to get on with others. Why did I ever think that volunteering for this job was a good idea?
“Look,” says Jane. “You’ve still got tree in your hair.” She reaches up and gently removes the pieces of yew. This makes me feel even more like a child. No, worse than that, like some silly, helpless pet. But I let her do it. I feel alternately that I am vastly superior to her and that I am not worthy of her attention at all.
After supper the girls leave for one of the downstairs rooms in the west wing. A wireless has been discovered there by Golden Wonder and they’re off to listen to the nightly war broadcast. I have a dim recollection of a time when the evening broadcast was news of the world. Now it is solely news of the war. What places have been hit by the German bombs. What lies in ruins or burns to ashes.
I go into the kitchen to do the washing-up from supper. It is an excuse not to have to join the group. It is also something of a plea for sympathy. I don’t know how to make them like me. This is all I can think of at the moment. If they’ve failed to be impressed by the dance and the chickens, I don’t have much else at my disposal.
Jane has gone off to tell Mabel and Irene that we will no longer be needing them to cook for us. She comes back while I’m washing up, hops onto the kitchen worktop beside the sink, and lights a cigarette. “Done,” she says cheerfully. She unfolds a fan of ration books and waves them in front of my face. “Our destiny is in our hands.”
“It’s not just the cooking,” I say, not prepared to let go of my reservations without a bit of a fight. “She’ll have to keep the range and boiler going. There’s hot water and—”
“There’s a whole cellar full of coal,” Jane says, cutting me off. “She’s done this before. That’s the important thing. This is what she knows how to do. What she wants to do.” Jane flicks her cigarette ash into my sink full of soapy water. “Omelette,” she says. “Soufflé. Victoria sponge with cream and jam.”
I have to smile. “Why do you bother with me?” I say. “I’m not like the others.”
“Precisely. You’re infinitely more interesting than the others. You’re complicated. They are young and barely formed. They only want to please or be pleased. But you—” Jane stabs her cigarette towards my face for emphasis. “You aren’t as easily defined as that.”
I stop washing the dishes, my hands up to the
“We could get our ration books back from the village women and you could do the necessary shopping,” says British Queen to Vittelette Noir.
“Gwen,” says Jane quietly. “How is this different from your chickens? This is just another instance of us taking control of our well-being.”
Fine, I think. Mention the chickens now. No one cared about them when I mentioned them. “Do what you have to do,” I say to Jane. I don’t look at her, keep my head down over my empty bowl. I get tangled up, trying to get on with these girls. If I order them about, try to keep them organized, then I’m being too bossy. If I try to be nice to them, they ignore me or regard me with complete suspicion. They have enjoyed days here without me, and have probably formed a united front against me. I stand up, abruptly knocking the table with my knee. The dishes jiggle.
“Where are you going?” asks Jane.
“I don’t know.” I feel very close to tears. “I was happy about the chickens,” I say too loudly, causing several of the others to look in my direction. British Queen shakes her head sadly at May Queen.
“Gwen, sit down. Please.” Jane tugs at my arm. “Think how happy you’ll be when Elspeth makes you a lovely omelette out of those eggs from your chickens. Please.” She tugs at my arm again and I fall back into my chair like a chastened child.
I still feel like crying. Nothing is going well. No one ever likes me. I’m not good with people. I’ve been too isolated most of my life. I don’t know how to get on with others. Why did I ever think that volunteering for this job was a good idea?
“Look,” says Jane. “You’ve still got tree in your hair.” She reaches up and gently removes the pieces of yew. This makes me feel even more like a child. No, worse than that, like some silly, helpless pet. But I let her do it. I feel alternately that I am vastly superior to her and that I am not worthy of her attention at all.
After supper the girls leave for one of the downstairs rooms in the west wing. A wireless has been discovered there by Golden Wonder and they’re off to listen to the nightly war broadcast. I have a dim recollection of a time when the evening broadcast was news of the world. Now it is solely news of the war. What places have been hit by the German bombs. What lies in ruins or burns to ashes.
I go into the kitchen to do the washing-up from supper. It is an excuse not to have to join the group. It is also something of a plea for sympathy. I don’t know how to make them like me. This is all I can think of at the moment. If they’ve failed to be impressed by the dance and the chickens, I don’t have much else at my disposal.
Jane has gone off to tell Mabel and Irene that we will no longer be needing them to cook for us. She comes back while I’m washing up, hops onto the kitchen worktop beside the sink, and lights a cigarette. “Done,” she says cheerfully. She unfolds a fan of ration books and waves them in front of my face. “Our destiny is in our hands.”
“It’s not just the cooking,” I say, not prepared to let go of my reservations without a bit of a fight. “She’ll have to keep the range and boiler going. There’s hot water and—”
“There’s a whole cellar full of coal,” Jane says, cutting me off. “She’s done this before. That’s the important thing. This is what she knows how to do. What she wants to do.” Jane flicks her cigarette ash into my sink full of soapy water. “Omelette,” she says. “Soufflé. Victoria sponge with cream and jam.”
I have to smile. “Why do you bother with me?” I say. “I’m not like the others.”
“Precisely. You’re infinitely more interesting than the others. You’re complicated. They are young and barely formed. They only want to please or be pleased. But you—” Jane stabs her cigarette towards my face for emphasis. “You aren’t as easily defined as that.”
I stop washing the dishes, my hands up to the
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