Letters to Helen Part 8

Hunt has got Jezebel, Swallow, and Tank into a disused barn, where they will be warm and happy.

Out of the window I can see hens pecking in an orchard, and an old grey pony browsing. The leaves are yellow, and there's no wind.

The old man and the old lady to whom the cottage belong have brought me in some little "remedes," which Tim refuses to let me have. One is what the old man (an ex-chemist) calls "salicite de metal," and the other is what the old lady calls a "remede de bonne femme." You rub yourself with it all over every two hours!

Tick, tick, tick, tick. Lovely! The old clock is rumbling. It is about to strike twelve.

It has struck twelve--no, not struck twelve, rather it has buzzed twelve, like some old happy bee.

The hens are still pecking about in the orchard, and the grey pony is rubbing himself against a tree.

All so cosy and delicious. Now for a doze.

_November 7._

[Sidenote: DOZING]

Here's a poem. It's called

HENS.

At the end of the war (Ring, bells, merry bells!) We intend To keep hens, Me and Helen.

(Ring, bells!) Such hens!

(Merry bells!) And though all our hens' eggs be surrounded by sh.e.l.ls, We shall laugh and not care; For there won't be no war, And no h.e.l.l any more, While Helen is there With the hens.

I've just made that up, and the inspiration of so profound an epic has made me want to doze again. Such a lot of dozing!

_November 12._

In to-day's letter I enclose a couple of field post-cards which I found on a Boche dug-out bed-hole.

I've been so busy these last days, up till late hours, and writing has been "na-poo." Leave? Yes, leave will come in time. Probably the first half of December.

How maddening it is for poor old Tom! It's most d.a.m.nable hard luck being kept there without leave such a long time. And I expect that he also has rather lost interest. At first the men were a great source of interest, and the horses and everything. Then France and the front were very interesting. Lastly, being under fire was very interesting. But now that we are back in Rest, I begin to feel I shall be rather sorry to go through it again. And Tom has had so much of it. Yes, he ought to come home.

The cottage people here have those lovely pale salmon winter chrysanthemums in their gardens. Don't you like them?

Since we arrived in this wee village a week ago, I haven't been on a horse once, and have never seen anything outside the village itself, which consists of one street and a side-lane.

_November 14._

I wasn't able to write yesterday, and there may be several blank days to come.

Roger is temporarily away, and I am in charge. The thing that's happening is this: A and B are coming down to us, and others are going to relieve them. So the arrangements and correspondence are vast. All the billeting of this town is pushed on to my hands, too; and though it's only a small village, there's a good lot to do. I can't collect any thoughts to write to you. You understand, I know, and so I needn't say more. I'll write again at length when things settle down. This sounds muddled. But I count on your understanding that I've got more work to do than I can manage.

_November 16._

[Sidenote: THE OTHER SQUADRONS ARRIVE]

To-day, by some amazing fluke, there's a lull. One squadron has gone.

Sir John is on his way down. Julian starts early next week, and Gerald a few days later. So within a fortnight we shall all be together. Which will be good.

Some infantry came in from the line to-day. Oh ye G.o.ds! the British infantry! No rewards, honours, no fame, can ever be enough for them. We have not yet gone through what they have to go through, but we have been in and out amongst them all the time, and we know. Thank goodness this spell of dry weather seems to have come for a few days at least. Cold at night is nothing. It's wet at night that just kills men right and left.

Alan died yesterday morning. Died of exposure. He caught a chill while we were up in front, and then got much worse, and it finally developed into peritonitis and pneumonia. And now he, too, is dead. We were all very fond of Alan.

Death is such a little thing. A change of air--no more. Death is the last day of Term, the last day of the Year. Regret? That's because we don't understand, quite.

_November 17._

I sent you off another beastly little sc.r.a.p of paper to-day, because it was impossible to write more. Here (7 p.m.) is another moment, so I s.n.a.t.c.h it.

Listen. Of course it is true that leave has been cancelled, but we hear (Rumour) that this is only for a few days owing to submarines. _If_ leave reopens again, as seems likely therefore, I go next. I shall have to hand over Orderly Room and all current correspondence, etc. That means, with luck, I leave here on the 2nd. Don't, of course, count on this; but let's toy with the idea.

_November 23._

I am sitting in the sun, having read your letter. The valley of the ---- is below me, a mile wide, all reed-beds and half submerged willows, with the main stream lying like a blue snake amongst pale acres of sedge.

d.a.m.n! I was going to write a long and cosy letter, but was called back.

I had escaped for an hour from Orderly Room with your letter and a sketchbook, and was caught in the act. No time now.

_November 25._

[Sidenote: THE SOMME VALLEY]

A few more moments with you before you go to bed.

Yes, isn't it funny how we seem to be talking face to face! And to every question of mine you reply in three days' time and _vice versa_. It always sounds to me like this, rather:

QUESTION. ANSWER.

_Mon._ Isn't it cold? None.

_Tues._ Have you seen mother? None.

_Wed._ Are you happy? None.

_Thurs._ How are you all? Freezing.

_Fri._ When did I see you last? Only yesterday.

_Sat._ May I have a cake! Yes, very.

_Sun._ How is Queen Anne? Much better.

_Mon._ None. Last April.

_Tues._ None. I'll send one.

_Wed._ None. Dead.

Don't you find it's a bit like that? What question can I have asked a week ago to which the answer is a rabbit? So tiresome when we want to talk at very close range.