Not So Quiet... by Helen Zenna Smith

Author:Helen Zenna Smith [Smith, Helen Zenna; Marcus Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781558616325
Publisher: The Feminist Press at CUNY

CHAPTER IX

THE ghostly procession at last fades and I sleep, and as I sleep I dream sweetly. I am in my soft low bed at home with its rose satin eiderdown and its fragrant-scented sheets. My head rests on downy pillows. My nightgown is soft and silken.

I awaken gradually, gently. I half open my eyes and close them quickly again. Let the dream continue, the lovely, lovely dream. In a minute Commandant’s whistle will blow, and I shall be transformed into Smith, ambulance driver.

Let the dream go on.

“A fine morning, Miss Nellie, a real touch of spring in the air.”

That was Sarah. I watch her place the dainty breakfast tray on the little bed-table where I can reach it without effort. She draws the curtains aside, the spring sun floods the room, shining on a china bowl of early daffodils and jonquils. Oh, peaceful, peaceful dream! In a minute she will vanish—fat, comfortable Sarah in her old-fashioned black frock and plain, enveloping apron. None of your flibberty-gibbert modern maids about Sarah. In a minute she will vanish as she has so often vanished.

The little enamelled clock strikes nine.

“Letters, Miss Nellie. Wake up.”

She thrusts some letters into my hand. The contact rouses me. I am awake. I am not dreaming. I am at home. I am not dreaming. I bury my face thankfully in the soft pillow so that Sarah may not see the tears in my eyes. . . .

It is three weeks since I came home, but every morning I imagine I am dreaming and weep when I am not.

“Now then, Miss Nellie, I boiled that new-laid egg myself; eat it up like a good girl and get some flesh on your bones.”

She goes out fussily, tactful Sarah, without noticing the tears.

Since ever we moved to Wimbledon Common this room has been mine, yet never till now have I loved it and revelled in its luxurious comfort. The ghostly procession still parades for me, yet nightly it is growing less vivid—soon it may fade altogether. Slowly I am becoming normal. France is far away, a foreign land separated by a tract of water wider than the Atlantic, and I am no longer Smith, ambulance driver, but Miss Smith, of Wimbledon Common, although mother is becoming restive about my prolonged sick leave. Wimbledon Common does not encourage idleness in wartime.

I open my first letter eagerly. It is from Trix, and Trix has not written since I have been home.

“Glad you’ve left that dog’s hole of a convoy, Cis . . . too tired to write much of a letter . . . fed up, utterly . . . rotten time here . . . dirty dishes get you down after a while . . . wish I could get leave. . . . Is mother still flying the British flag from every pore? . . . Rotten letter this. . . .”

What is wrong with Trix? Once she was the brightest thing on earth, now behind the most comic incident in the hospital routine I see a dreadful tiredness.

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