Women's Business
The Ladies of Applethorpe
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Lord Tennyson
It was the custom of the ladies of Applethorpe to sup together upon the second Tuesday of the month. On this Tuesday the ladies would parade their latest finery and make snippy comments that were on the surface polite observations but were in reality barbed in order to wound the receiver. The recipients of these witticisms would sob, moan and weep for a week after Tuesday Tea. To refuse Tuesday’s Tea was to commit social suicide. It was to render oneself the willing victim to the most feared of the Applethorpe matriarchs. Their forgiveness could be months in the waiting.
I, Jane Smyth, as the wife of the county doctor, had to attend Tuesday Tea. It took some time to prepare myself for this grand occasion. Whiledid one need not have a new dress for Tuesday Tea, it wasimperative that one did try to their best and not reuse the same outfit too many times. I had been to London and visited my dressmaker.
The result was a new peach dress. It took Bessie, my maid, nearly thirty minutes to attire me. Between my britches, petticoats, bustle and corset we were most challenged. We were both sweaty and tired by the time the process had concluded. Rupert my husband urged me to attend such events as he believed that we were fortunate to live in this green backwater and he wished to ingratiate himself and our family at every given opportunity.
I must admit that the whole process of social acceptability was made easier through Robert, my son. He was an easy going likable young man. He was blessed with an urban wit and an evident creative streak with the pianola. Many of the young ladies sought his attentions. Thus we were invited to every event in the local social calendar. Our invites came from the hopes of the ladies that might find a means to secure a private audience with Robert.
I missed Robert greatly as he has been serving in Baklava for the glory of England. He looked so handsome heading of to war with his snappy red coat and shiny brass buttons. There was not a ladies' heart left in tact in all of Applethorpe when he was in full uniform. I remember the grand occasion of him marching through the village in his regimental uniform with his fellow troops. I would rather he had become a lawyer as was his father's want. Why, we had even secured him a place at Watkins and Sons in Derby.
However, my son informed us that it was his patriotic duty to serve. He stated that once he had done his time he would, with alacrity, return to Derby and take up his position. I understood his heated heart and the need to taste the world. His father, somewhat more parochial in nature, had greater difficulty in accepting the lad's attitude. Nether the less, Robert was doing his duty and it was time for me to do mine and bow to the Ladies of Applethorpe. It was my task to do my utmost to build and strengthen the position of our family within the minds of the local gentry. I would no more shirk my duty than my son would.
It was my turn to host the tea and I took great pains to prepare the house for the event. The servants were harassed and my Husband took mind to ensure he left early for work that day. Cucumber sandwiches, scones, clotted cream, fresh strawberries and a succulent raspberry tart were all prepared, the tea was served and everything was readied for the august company. By the afternoon, the excellent female personages of the district were gathered in my humble abode for tea had begun.
I took my gilt edged, delicate teacup and nibbled on my cucumber sandwich. Judy Elliot was the empty headed daughter of the pastor and she kept doing circuits of the parlour with Betsy Miles. Their heads were huddled and they the shrieked and twittered like two demented birds. Lord knows I have found the inane existence of these two women particularly vexing. I expected however, that once they found beaus they would calm. I was prepared to exercise due patience but it became clear that some of my guests were practically champing at the bit to admonish the young women. Mrs Harper, the fearsome lady of iron, watched them with bemusement. Suddenly the women started giggling uncontollably and Mrs Harper's eyes hardened and I knew that Judy and Betsy were about to fall.
I remember two decades ago when I was a new bride and a recent addition to the Tuesday Tea. Nothing I seemed to do pleased the old harridan, Mrs Harper. Her husband had died shortly after their marriage and as such she was a spinster. Her own situation must have caused her much unhappiness as she was determined to share whatever misery she could. When I dressed well she portrayed me as vain and flippant. Should my attire be humble she would suggest I was casual and bohemian. She was forever talking about HER doctor who lived in the neighbouring shire and how she was happy to travel there so that she could be seen by an adequate doctor. Perhaps the most painful of her barbs related to her suppositions on my reasoning for marrying Rupert.
She used to quip about how socially advantageous my marriage was as my father was only a painter. The fact that my father had several works in the National Museum was irrelevant. She cast him as itinerant street painter who probably conceived me with a nameless Gypsy. My mother was actually a school mistress prior to her marriage. It took me years to live down Mrs Harper's bitter words. There was a long time of watching people whisper about me and listening to the deafening silence as they hushed their conversations when I approached. Mrs Harper was the heartless figure of my youthful nightmares. Her presence figured so large in my imagination that I developed a near obsessional hatred of the sour old woman.
I digress from Mrs Harper's intended slaughter of my two young luckless tea guests, Betsy and Judy. “Mrs Trip,” Mrs Harper addressed the mild mannered plump elderly woman who was hovering over the tea cakes waiting to pounce upon the sweet treats, “ I wonder what it is that the young ladies find so amusing? Could it be the spectacle they made of themselves as the troops marched through the village.” The room silenced and focused their attention upon the two fresh victims eviscerated and laid before them. Eyes were hypnotically drawn the promise of social slaughter that was about to take place.
Betsy and Judy squirmed and shrank against the damask wallpaper. Mrs Harper continued throwing her words like poisoned barbs. “ Why, I am sure that our brave men were comforted to know that they are risking their lives to defend the two silliest girls in all of England.:"
Mrs Harper's brashness was unforgivable, the girls were silly but they were also young and happy. Their joy was their crime in the eyes of the formidable Mrs Harper, she was not yet finished her diatribe " Our brave men deserve sympathy as their last sight of the female gender is two plain Janes squeezed into too small outfits adorned with rouged cheeks." Betsy and Judy raised their hands to their cheeks trying to hide the obvious rouge that decorated their faces. Mrs Harper continued "The sounds of Betsy and Judy's laughter reminded me of something. Oh yes, now I remember, their laughter replicated the snorting of pigs. Still, to be fair to you girls- You are slightly better looking then hogs." Mrs Harper had used such vivid imagery in her critique of the girls and their behaviour around the departing soldiers that many of the ladies were hiding smiles beneath their handkerchiefs. Mrs Harper however was far from finished, Mrs Trip was a willing companion to the attack. " Well not Mrs Trip's hogs, but definitely better then mine.” Mrs Harper delivered her last statement with lofty aplomb. The ladies of the Tuesday’s Tea hid their smirks and the young damsels blushed and made excuses to depart.
Mrs Harper was a pillar within the community whose exercises in power were extreme and feared by all the young ladies. She was equally an object of terror and hated yet all sort her approval. Nobody would dare to challenge her. It was as if she was protected by the hand of God and to earn her disapproval was to earn the wrath of the almighty himself. Mrs Trip was her silent companion who hoped that some of Mrs Harper's impact would osmotically seep into the skin. Reflected fear was all the impact Mrs Trip required. I had to invite both of them, be nice to them but by God I could not like either of these ladies. Despite my husband's most earnest pleading that I attempt to cross this bridge of disgust, I could not. Mrs Harper, in my mind, was little more than a petty tyrant and Mrs Trip a sycophant.
The fact that she would be so openly rude to my guests was a slap to my face and I felt a flush rise high upon my face. I felt both empathy and kinship for poor Betsy and Judy as I remembered my own time as a young lamb before the social lion of Mrs Harper.
Then I did it. I watched Mrs Harper strutting and smirking. I could not take it anymore. The risk and the ramifications of what I was about to do was extreme in measure. Nether the less today was going to be the day that this Goliath would fall. I was going to charge through the valley of social propriety. I would face the slings and arrows of Mrs Harper's words and confront my enemy. No matter what the cost, even if it meant social death in Applethorpe. I was determined to have my satisfaction fully met.
My mouth opened and I took aim on my foe then I spoke. “Mrs Harper, you are indeed a learned woman- why you not only know the qualities of a pig but also what it takes to amuse soldiers.” The room exploded with laughter.
Mrs Harper rose to her full height with intention to leave. She stalked across the room and opened the door with great drama. The assembled ladies hushed their laughter and averted their eyes. They were unwilling to inspire Mrs Harper's fury. Everyone was waiting for her to, in full huff, depart so that they could begin the dissection of the events. Following the analysis they would determine whether it was to be her or myself who would be declared victor of the day.
Mrs Harper was storming off in full aplomb, she flung open my door with great drama. Instead of marching out and roughly closing the door behind her she stopped still as a statue and stared out of the doorway with an open mouth of astonishment.
For instead of the empty day to greet her, there stood a young man with hollow eyes. He was in full dress uniform. On spying the elderly lady that had materialised in front of him he improved his carriage and stood to full height. His hand was held aloft as if ready to strike the door. The young man swallowed several times and with a firm but warm voice inquired “Is Mrs Smythe here?”
The room silenced, all eyes turned toward the man at the door. He was an intruder from the world beyond Applethorpe. This interloper was an unknown man in uniform, there was very little chance that his errand was one of a convivial nature. All breaths were held and all eyes bore into the young man's face. My mind flew across the planet and focused on my missing son, his uniform was identical to that of the young man perched currently upon my door step. A war a world away made it's presence known here in the peace of Applethorpe.
The world stopped and went askew. My breath was held. I wanted that moment to freeze forever so that the next moment would not arrive. I knew but did not want to know the nature of the blow that was about to be delivered to my soul. That young man was about to give life to my nightmares and secret fears. I could not move. The moment was stretched beyond the point of comfort and the soldier at the door was looking nervous and unsure. His eyes kept scanning across the multitude of women before him as he tried to locate the woman he was here to see. I hid amongst that multitude fearing to step toward him as one would fear stepping off a high cliff. I felt dizzy and I began to faint.
I felt an arm of iorn placed around my waist, it was not until much later I realised that the critical gift of support belonged to none other than Mrs Harper. She held me as she moved me toward the door. She told the young man to quickly say what he must.
The soldier cleared his throat and delivered his well rehearsed speech, “Mrs Smythe, I have the grim duty to inform you that your son of The Light Brigade, although he served with duty, fell in battle." The room erupted with a collective gasp of horror and sympathetic eyes bore into the back of my skull. " I want you to know that he and his men made a valiant charge toward the Russian cannons armed only with their sabres. They faced certain death and they did so with such bravery that God himself would open the gate for these valiant men to enter heaven. Your son served his country with honour and pride. It is my honour to meet the mother of such a man. You have my sympathy for your loss, I shall leave my card with you and when you are ready you can contact me any time and let me know how I might serve you.”
The man turned to leave. I felt my emotion choke me. I wanted to sink into despair but I am a lady and even in this moment, I must not crumble in such a setting. I turned to face the women. From around the room came an assorted expressions of regret and sympathy. To me it was all static muffle. Their faces swam in a pond of tears, my knees gave way and in my hand I felt the pressure of my dead son’s three year old hand pressed into mine. In this the age of Victoria, public was a place for the stoic and to crumble would be to shame my family and my dead son's memory.
I tried to speak but then the ghost of my son appeared in the confines of my mind. He did not appear as the young man that I sent to war with a wave of my handkerchief, he appeared as a seven year old. I saw his innocent velvet chocolate eyes that would well with tears when he feared he had disappointed us. I remembered the dimple that flickered across his face whenever he had a secret. I remembered his pudgy hand encased in my own and the irrepressible giggle of his when his spirits were high.
I looked out the window at the world anew, a world with out Robert. The birds twittered, the clouds floated and the sun shone. It was in all ways a perfect day. It was in all ways the most hideous day and somewhere on this planet my son was dead and he was alone. I would never see him and his grave would lie forever in a foreign land. There would be none to farewell him or kiss his cold dead check. The Empire he laid his life down for would stop for a minute to record his name on a list for the dead and then it would forget him.
Mrs Harper stroked my hand. She then took charge.
I heard Mrs Harper say “Ladies, we shall depart now, this is not the place or the time for us." Mrs Harper commanded the women to depart at once with rapidity. She frowned at any who would approach me with their words of sympathy.
Once they had all left she drew my head toward her aged shoulder and I threw my arms around her and sobbed on her shoulder. She said nothing as I heaved and wept upon her, she just gently stroked the back of head like my mother did when I was a little girl.
After an age I released my grasp and she then said to me' Mrs Smythe I shall wait in your garden till your husband comes home. Should you have further need me just call.” She then gave me a priceless gift for she provided me with the desperately needed solitude. I wanted to grieve away from society, loved ones. I have never wanted to be more alone in my life. The second I was by myself, I screamed and shrieked and cried. The whole time the dreaded Mrs Harper stood a sentinel's duty at my door and guarded the force of my grief against a well meaning but intruding world. In that moment her heart was one with my own.
From that day forth I never allowed Lord Tennyson's poem 'The Charge of the Light Brigade" to ever be recited within my hearing. For not reasoning the 'Why' and accepting the right of the Empire to doom our sons 'To do or die' was the proclaimation of my eternal and unremitting guilt. Mrs Harper and I would battle time and time again yet the venom was gone. Sometimes it would be me who would taste defeat, other times it was her. On that terrible day she was my ally, my saviour and my angel of mercy. Never again did we have a pleasant exchange of words or a moment of empathy. That single moment of unity that we shared was enough to declare that the greatest friend I have ever had and will ever have is none other than my fiercest foe.
A.Sims
RETURN HOME
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Lord Tennyson
It was the custom of the ladies of Applethorpe to sup together upon the second Tuesday of the month. On this Tuesday the ladies would parade their latest finery and make snippy comments that were on the surface polite observations but were in reality barbed in order to wound the receiver. The recipients of these witticisms would sob, moan and weep for a week after Tuesday Tea. To refuse Tuesday’s Tea was to commit social suicide. It was to render oneself the willing victim to the most feared of the Applethorpe matriarchs. Their forgiveness could be months in the waiting.
I, Jane Smyth, as the wife of the county doctor, had to attend Tuesday Tea. It took some time to prepare myself for this grand occasion. Whiledid one need not have a new dress for Tuesday Tea, it wasimperative that one did try to their best and not reuse the same outfit too many times. I had been to London and visited my dressmaker.
The result was a new peach dress. It took Bessie, my maid, nearly thirty minutes to attire me. Between my britches, petticoats, bustle and corset we were most challenged. We were both sweaty and tired by the time the process had concluded. Rupert my husband urged me to attend such events as he believed that we were fortunate to live in this green backwater and he wished to ingratiate himself and our family at every given opportunity.
I must admit that the whole process of social acceptability was made easier through Robert, my son. He was an easy going likable young man. He was blessed with an urban wit and an evident creative streak with the pianola. Many of the young ladies sought his attentions. Thus we were invited to every event in the local social calendar. Our invites came from the hopes of the ladies that might find a means to secure a private audience with Robert.
I missed Robert greatly as he has been serving in Baklava for the glory of England. He looked so handsome heading of to war with his snappy red coat and shiny brass buttons. There was not a ladies' heart left in tact in all of Applethorpe when he was in full uniform. I remember the grand occasion of him marching through the village in his regimental uniform with his fellow troops. I would rather he had become a lawyer as was his father's want. Why, we had even secured him a place at Watkins and Sons in Derby.
However, my son informed us that it was his patriotic duty to serve. He stated that once he had done his time he would, with alacrity, return to Derby and take up his position. I understood his heated heart and the need to taste the world. His father, somewhat more parochial in nature, had greater difficulty in accepting the lad's attitude. Nether the less, Robert was doing his duty and it was time for me to do mine and bow to the Ladies of Applethorpe. It was my task to do my utmost to build and strengthen the position of our family within the minds of the local gentry. I would no more shirk my duty than my son would.
It was my turn to host the tea and I took great pains to prepare the house for the event. The servants were harassed and my Husband took mind to ensure he left early for work that day. Cucumber sandwiches, scones, clotted cream, fresh strawberries and a succulent raspberry tart were all prepared, the tea was served and everything was readied for the august company. By the afternoon, the excellent female personages of the district were gathered in my humble abode for tea had begun.
I took my gilt edged, delicate teacup and nibbled on my cucumber sandwich. Judy Elliot was the empty headed daughter of the pastor and she kept doing circuits of the parlour with Betsy Miles. Their heads were huddled and they the shrieked and twittered like two demented birds. Lord knows I have found the inane existence of these two women particularly vexing. I expected however, that once they found beaus they would calm. I was prepared to exercise due patience but it became clear that some of my guests were practically champing at the bit to admonish the young women. Mrs Harper, the fearsome lady of iron, watched them with bemusement. Suddenly the women started giggling uncontollably and Mrs Harper's eyes hardened and I knew that Judy and Betsy were about to fall.
I remember two decades ago when I was a new bride and a recent addition to the Tuesday Tea. Nothing I seemed to do pleased the old harridan, Mrs Harper. Her husband had died shortly after their marriage and as such she was a spinster. Her own situation must have caused her much unhappiness as she was determined to share whatever misery she could. When I dressed well she portrayed me as vain and flippant. Should my attire be humble she would suggest I was casual and bohemian. She was forever talking about HER doctor who lived in the neighbouring shire and how she was happy to travel there so that she could be seen by an adequate doctor. Perhaps the most painful of her barbs related to her suppositions on my reasoning for marrying Rupert.
She used to quip about how socially advantageous my marriage was as my father was only a painter. The fact that my father had several works in the National Museum was irrelevant. She cast him as itinerant street painter who probably conceived me with a nameless Gypsy. My mother was actually a school mistress prior to her marriage. It took me years to live down Mrs Harper's bitter words. There was a long time of watching people whisper about me and listening to the deafening silence as they hushed their conversations when I approached. Mrs Harper was the heartless figure of my youthful nightmares. Her presence figured so large in my imagination that I developed a near obsessional hatred of the sour old woman.
I digress from Mrs Harper's intended slaughter of my two young luckless tea guests, Betsy and Judy. “Mrs Trip,” Mrs Harper addressed the mild mannered plump elderly woman who was hovering over the tea cakes waiting to pounce upon the sweet treats, “ I wonder what it is that the young ladies find so amusing? Could it be the spectacle they made of themselves as the troops marched through the village.” The room silenced and focused their attention upon the two fresh victims eviscerated and laid before them. Eyes were hypnotically drawn the promise of social slaughter that was about to take place.
Betsy and Judy squirmed and shrank against the damask wallpaper. Mrs Harper continued throwing her words like poisoned barbs. “ Why, I am sure that our brave men were comforted to know that they are risking their lives to defend the two silliest girls in all of England.:"
Mrs Harper's brashness was unforgivable, the girls were silly but they were also young and happy. Their joy was their crime in the eyes of the formidable Mrs Harper, she was not yet finished her diatribe " Our brave men deserve sympathy as their last sight of the female gender is two plain Janes squeezed into too small outfits adorned with rouged cheeks." Betsy and Judy raised their hands to their cheeks trying to hide the obvious rouge that decorated their faces. Mrs Harper continued "The sounds of Betsy and Judy's laughter reminded me of something. Oh yes, now I remember, their laughter replicated the snorting of pigs. Still, to be fair to you girls- You are slightly better looking then hogs." Mrs Harper had used such vivid imagery in her critique of the girls and their behaviour around the departing soldiers that many of the ladies were hiding smiles beneath their handkerchiefs. Mrs Harper however was far from finished, Mrs Trip was a willing companion to the attack. " Well not Mrs Trip's hogs, but definitely better then mine.” Mrs Harper delivered her last statement with lofty aplomb. The ladies of the Tuesday’s Tea hid their smirks and the young damsels blushed and made excuses to depart.
Mrs Harper was a pillar within the community whose exercises in power were extreme and feared by all the young ladies. She was equally an object of terror and hated yet all sort her approval. Nobody would dare to challenge her. It was as if she was protected by the hand of God and to earn her disapproval was to earn the wrath of the almighty himself. Mrs Trip was her silent companion who hoped that some of Mrs Harper's impact would osmotically seep into the skin. Reflected fear was all the impact Mrs Trip required. I had to invite both of them, be nice to them but by God I could not like either of these ladies. Despite my husband's most earnest pleading that I attempt to cross this bridge of disgust, I could not. Mrs Harper, in my mind, was little more than a petty tyrant and Mrs Trip a sycophant.
The fact that she would be so openly rude to my guests was a slap to my face and I felt a flush rise high upon my face. I felt both empathy and kinship for poor Betsy and Judy as I remembered my own time as a young lamb before the social lion of Mrs Harper.
Then I did it. I watched Mrs Harper strutting and smirking. I could not take it anymore. The risk and the ramifications of what I was about to do was extreme in measure. Nether the less today was going to be the day that this Goliath would fall. I was going to charge through the valley of social propriety. I would face the slings and arrows of Mrs Harper's words and confront my enemy. No matter what the cost, even if it meant social death in Applethorpe. I was determined to have my satisfaction fully met.
My mouth opened and I took aim on my foe then I spoke. “Mrs Harper, you are indeed a learned woman- why you not only know the qualities of a pig but also what it takes to amuse soldiers.” The room exploded with laughter.
Mrs Harper rose to her full height with intention to leave. She stalked across the room and opened the door with great drama. The assembled ladies hushed their laughter and averted their eyes. They were unwilling to inspire Mrs Harper's fury. Everyone was waiting for her to, in full huff, depart so that they could begin the dissection of the events. Following the analysis they would determine whether it was to be her or myself who would be declared victor of the day.
Mrs Harper was storming off in full aplomb, she flung open my door with great drama. Instead of marching out and roughly closing the door behind her she stopped still as a statue and stared out of the doorway with an open mouth of astonishment.
For instead of the empty day to greet her, there stood a young man with hollow eyes. He was in full dress uniform. On spying the elderly lady that had materialised in front of him he improved his carriage and stood to full height. His hand was held aloft as if ready to strike the door. The young man swallowed several times and with a firm but warm voice inquired “Is Mrs Smythe here?”
The room silenced, all eyes turned toward the man at the door. He was an intruder from the world beyond Applethorpe. This interloper was an unknown man in uniform, there was very little chance that his errand was one of a convivial nature. All breaths were held and all eyes bore into the young man's face. My mind flew across the planet and focused on my missing son, his uniform was identical to that of the young man perched currently upon my door step. A war a world away made it's presence known here in the peace of Applethorpe.
The world stopped and went askew. My breath was held. I wanted that moment to freeze forever so that the next moment would not arrive. I knew but did not want to know the nature of the blow that was about to be delivered to my soul. That young man was about to give life to my nightmares and secret fears. I could not move. The moment was stretched beyond the point of comfort and the soldier at the door was looking nervous and unsure. His eyes kept scanning across the multitude of women before him as he tried to locate the woman he was here to see. I hid amongst that multitude fearing to step toward him as one would fear stepping off a high cliff. I felt dizzy and I began to faint.
I felt an arm of iorn placed around my waist, it was not until much later I realised that the critical gift of support belonged to none other than Mrs Harper. She held me as she moved me toward the door. She told the young man to quickly say what he must.
The soldier cleared his throat and delivered his well rehearsed speech, “Mrs Smythe, I have the grim duty to inform you that your son of The Light Brigade, although he served with duty, fell in battle." The room erupted with a collective gasp of horror and sympathetic eyes bore into the back of my skull. " I want you to know that he and his men made a valiant charge toward the Russian cannons armed only with their sabres. They faced certain death and they did so with such bravery that God himself would open the gate for these valiant men to enter heaven. Your son served his country with honour and pride. It is my honour to meet the mother of such a man. You have my sympathy for your loss, I shall leave my card with you and when you are ready you can contact me any time and let me know how I might serve you.”
The man turned to leave. I felt my emotion choke me. I wanted to sink into despair but I am a lady and even in this moment, I must not crumble in such a setting. I turned to face the women. From around the room came an assorted expressions of regret and sympathy. To me it was all static muffle. Their faces swam in a pond of tears, my knees gave way and in my hand I felt the pressure of my dead son’s three year old hand pressed into mine. In this the age of Victoria, public was a place for the stoic and to crumble would be to shame my family and my dead son's memory.
I tried to speak but then the ghost of my son appeared in the confines of my mind. He did not appear as the young man that I sent to war with a wave of my handkerchief, he appeared as a seven year old. I saw his innocent velvet chocolate eyes that would well with tears when he feared he had disappointed us. I remembered the dimple that flickered across his face whenever he had a secret. I remembered his pudgy hand encased in my own and the irrepressible giggle of his when his spirits were high.
I looked out the window at the world anew, a world with out Robert. The birds twittered, the clouds floated and the sun shone. It was in all ways a perfect day. It was in all ways the most hideous day and somewhere on this planet my son was dead and he was alone. I would never see him and his grave would lie forever in a foreign land. There would be none to farewell him or kiss his cold dead check. The Empire he laid his life down for would stop for a minute to record his name on a list for the dead and then it would forget him.
Mrs Harper stroked my hand. She then took charge.
I heard Mrs Harper say “Ladies, we shall depart now, this is not the place or the time for us." Mrs Harper commanded the women to depart at once with rapidity. She frowned at any who would approach me with their words of sympathy.
Once they had all left she drew my head toward her aged shoulder and I threw my arms around her and sobbed on her shoulder. She said nothing as I heaved and wept upon her, she just gently stroked the back of head like my mother did when I was a little girl.
After an age I released my grasp and she then said to me' Mrs Smythe I shall wait in your garden till your husband comes home. Should you have further need me just call.” She then gave me a priceless gift for she provided me with the desperately needed solitude. I wanted to grieve away from society, loved ones. I have never wanted to be more alone in my life. The second I was by myself, I screamed and shrieked and cried. The whole time the dreaded Mrs Harper stood a sentinel's duty at my door and guarded the force of my grief against a well meaning but intruding world. In that moment her heart was one with my own.
From that day forth I never allowed Lord Tennyson's poem 'The Charge of the Light Brigade" to ever be recited within my hearing. For not reasoning the 'Why' and accepting the right of the Empire to doom our sons 'To do or die' was the proclaimation of my eternal and unremitting guilt. Mrs Harper and I would battle time and time again yet the venom was gone. Sometimes it would be me who would taste defeat, other times it was her. On that terrible day she was my ally, my saviour and my angel of mercy. Never again did we have a pleasant exchange of words or a moment of empathy. That single moment of unity that we shared was enough to declare that the greatest friend I have ever had and will ever have is none other than my fiercest foe.
A.Sims
RETURN HOME