It is hard to sleep in
one's clothes, week after week, to look at hands that have become
permanently filthy. One morning our chauffeur woke up, feeling grumpy.
He had slept with a visiting doctor. He said the doctor's revolver had
poked him all night long in the back. The doctor had worn his entire
equipment for warmth, like the rest of us. I suffered from cold wet
feet. I hated it that there was never a moment I could be alone. The
toothbrush was the one article of decency clung to. I seemed never to go
into the back garden to clean my teeth without bringing on shell-fire. I
got a sense of there being a connection between brushing the teeth and
the enemy's guns. You find in roughing it that a coating of dirt seems
to keep out chill. We women suffered, but we knew that the boys in
tennis shoes suffered more in that wet season, and the soldiers without
socks, just the bare feet in boots.
In the late fall, we rooted around in the deserted barns for potatoes.
Once, creeping into a farm, which was islanded by water, "Jane Pervyse,"
our homeless dog, led us up to the wrecked bedroom. A bonnet and best
dress were in the cupboard. A soldier put on the bonnet and grimaced.
Always after that, in passing the house, "Jane Pervyse" trembled and
whined as if it had been her home till the destruction came.
In our house, we cleaned vegetables. There was nothing romantic about
our work in these first days.
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