Fall of Giants

“I’m glad you asked me that, because it’s a question that bothers many men and women too,” Maud said. Ethel admired the conciliatory tone of the answer, which contrasted nicely with the hostility of the questioner. “Should normal political activity go on during the war? Should you be attending a Labour Party meeting? Should trade unions continue to fight against exploitation of workers? Has the Conservative Party closed down for the duration? Have injustice and oppression been temporarily suspended? I say no, comrade. We must not permit the enemies of progress to take advantage of the war. It must not become an excuse for traditionalists to hold us back. As Mr. Lloyd George says, it’s business as usual.”

After the meeting, tea was made-by the women, of course-and Maud sat next to Ethel, taking off her gloves to hold a cup and saucer of thick blue earthenware pottery in her soft hands. Ethel felt it would be unkind to tell Maud the truth about her brother, so she gave her the latest version of her fictional saga, that “Teddy Williams” had been killed fighting in France. “I tell people we were married,” she said, touching the cheap ring she wore. “Not that anyone cares these days. When boys are going off to war, girls want to please them, married or not.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Walter.”

Maud smiled. “The most amazing thing happened. You read in the newspapers about the Christmas truce?”

“Yes, of course-British and Germans exchanging presents and playing football in no-man’s-land. It’s a shame they didn’t continue the truce, and refuse to fight on.”

“Absolutely. But Fitz met Walter!”

“Well, now, there’s marvelous.”

“Of course, Fitz doesn’t know we’re married, so Walter had to be careful what he said. But he sent a message to say he was thinking of me on Christmas Day.”

Ethel squeezed Maud’s hand. “So he’s all right!”

“He’s been in the fighting in East Prussia, and now he’s on the front line in France, but he hasn’t been wounded.”

“Thank heaven. But I don’t suppose you’ll hear from him again. Such luck doesn’t repeat itself.”

“No. My only hope is that for some reason he’ll be sent to a neutral country, such as Sweden or the United States, where he can post a letter to me. Otherwise I’ll have to wait until the war is over.”

“And what about the earl?”

“Fitz is fine. He spent the first few weeks of the war living it up in Paris.”

While I was looking for a job in a sweatshop, Ethel thought resentfully.

Maud went on: “Princess Bea had a baby boy.”

“Fitz must be happy to have an heir.”

“We’re all pleased,” Maud said, and Ethel remembered that she was an aristocrat as well as a rebel.

The meeting broke up. A cab was waiting for Maud, and they said good-bye. Bernie Leckwith got on the bus with Ethel. “She was better than I expected,” he said. “Upper-class, of course, but quite sound. And friendly, especially to you. I suppose you get to know the family quite well when you’re in service.”

You don’t know the half of it, Ethel thought.

Ethel lived on a quiet street of small terraced houses, old but well-built, mostly occupied by better-off workers, craftsmen and supervisors, and their families. Bernie walked her to her front door. He probably wanted to kiss her good night. She toyed with the idea of letting him, just because she was grateful there was one man in the world who still found her attractive. But common sense prevailed: she did not want to give him false hope. “Good night, comrade!” she said cheerfully, and she went inside.

There was no sound or light upstairs: Mildred and her children were already asleep. Ethel undressed and got into bed. She was weary, but her mind was active, and she could not fall asleep. After a while she got up and made tea.

She decided to write to her brother. She opened her writing pad and began.

My very dear young sister Libby,

In their childhood code, every third word counted, and familiar names were scrambled, so this meant simply Dear Billy.

She recalled that her method had been to write out the message she wanted to send, then fill in the spaces. She now wrote:

Sitting alone feeling proper miserable.

Then she turned it into code.

Where I’m sitting, if you’re alone you’re not feeling yourself either proper happy or miserable.

As a child she had loved this game, inventing an imaginary message to hide the real one. She and Billy had devised helpful tricks: crossed-out words counted, whereas underlined words did not.

She decided to write out the whole of her message, then go back and turn it into code.

The streets of London are not paved with gold, at least not in Aldgate.

She thought about writing a cheerful letter, making light of her troubles. Then she thought: to hell with that, I can tell my brother the truth.

I used to believe I was special, don’t ask why. She thinks she’s too good for Aberowen, they used to say, and they were right.