1917

My annual report of our road, begins with yet another death.

Penrith Sutton Beauchamp, a good friend of Pete’s from King’s has died. He was in the 10th Battalion of the Worcesters. He was 24, and died on 25 January. His parents lived in Malvern. Pete was devastated of course.

It has often been said that boys educated in big Public Schools have a better equipment for life than they would have in a day school. In this particular instance Peter's afterlife shows that such a criticism was wrong. He has  grown up just as fine a man and as public-spirited and with as broad an outlook as his brothers, and with perhaps a deeper understanding of women, due no doubt largely to the fact that he has been brought up among them all his life.

Pete we still have with us in England, thank God. Unfortunately, however, the work he was given after his course was over was of a clerical nature in the Headquarters Office, and with that he got very bored; but he felt that it was his duty to stay in England for the time being at any rate, and stuck to it. The unattractiveness of the town and the scanty leave given to him, which when it did come was rarely long enough to allow him to get home, gave him at times fits of depression.
Here is one of the letters sent to his sister Mary, mother of Betty and Margot.

Feb 2, 1917

My dear Mary

Many thanks for your last letter, for which I was most deeply and heartily thankful. I’m sorry to hear that Betty has been indisposed, but according to today’s ‘Times’ she seems to be recovering a little. Please give her my most humble wishes for rapid convalescence. From this part of the world there is absolutely and literally no news whatsoever. We are at present at rest, in a little town which I daresay Tom dwelt in days of yore. The local attractions are nil as regards native production in days when we feel wildly frivolous there is a cinema provided by a benevolent army to visit, occasionally varied by a chow of medium quality and profuse quantity of the divisional troupe. We don’t do a great deal of work here. We parade daily before breakfast which causes us to quit our beds in the dim and early hours and in the mornings. The rest of the time we mostly get off. As a matter of fact, all the officers do not attend all the parades, therefore, I being off this morning, this letter to you.

It has been very cold here the last day or two which causes me to be extremely thankful that I am not up the line.

What news of Tom? I suppose by this time he is getting proficient in the local tongue. Has he learnt to play a barrel organ yet?

Well as I said before I have absolutely no news. So good bye.

Much love

Pete

We have had bad news about Gwenllian’s brothers. They were all stationed in Mesopotamia and saw quite a lot of each other. It says in the Bible, ‘In their deaths they were not divided.’ I suppose that could be said about Charlie and Frank from our family too.

Frank Best was the first to die in February. Hippo wrote to the family to tell them about it, but before his letter reached them, they had a telegram telling of his death. Stephen died in April. Gwenllian and Mark are supposed to be getting married this summer, but it will be a very sad occasion due to all who will be missing.

At the beginning of the June Peter wrote about Grantham, ‘This is a simply hopeless place to be in summer. There's not a vestige of a river, and I shouldn't imagine there's much chance of getting any tennis.’

Luckily, however, he did from time to time get sufficient leave to enable him to spend a brief week-end in town. He stole a week-end whenever he could, and they were all with one exception spent at ‘The Ellerdale’ in Hampstead. In the minds of all who shared them they stand out as red-letter days. Janet went to see him as often as she good, as they were very close. She has written this next part:
It is difficult to give to those who have not shared in them an understanding of what was the charm of those Hampstead days. It was due almost entirely, of course, to the personality of those two who so generously gave us the shelter of their home, and Peter and I owe them a debt of gratitude which we can never repay. It became, indeed, a kind of second home to us. That was the charm of it. Our very first week-end we felt as though the house belonged to us, and we were free to come and go just as though it were our own home. Wonderful indeed were they, those week-ends spent under that roof. The programme was nearly always the same, for it never could be improved upon. We would collect on Saturday afternoon (if we were lucky it might even be Friday).

We would all straggle in, Peter generally the last-comer. You always knew the minute he arrived, for if you did not hear his manly stride in the hall you had not to wait long for his deep base voice to sound through the drawing-room. ‘Ningy, you vexing child, why didn't you come to meet your brother?’ And then tea and idle chatter. Then to dress all in our best for the play to which we were always treated on these occasions. No early doors or pit for us, mind you, but a taxi and dress circle, and a celebrated Ellerdale dinner beforehand. The theatre over, and home regained, we discussed over milk and buns the merits of the play. Pete by no means despises milk and buns, in fact, from the quantity of both that he managed to consume, an outside observer might be forgiven if he thought them to be his favourite form of food. This, however, he once assured me was not the case, a typical English cup that cheered at bed-time was for him a whisky and soda. He confided to me the very last time we were at ‘The Ellerdale’ together that ‘Aunt Jo's week-ends want just two things to make them absolute bliss, a cup of tea on waking and a whisky and soda at night.’ The young epicure!

Sunday was equally delightful, but all too short. In the morning, if we felt proper, we ‘did’ a London church, though more usually we ‘took the air’ on Hampstead Heath. Then with dinner the usual weekend arguments would begin. Peter loves an argument, and he had a gift for it too; he argues with equal skill on either side of any subject. As for the most part ‘The Ellerdale’ inhabitants were pacifists, teetotallers, and free-thinkers, Peter always ardently supported militarism, brewers, and the orthodox parson, though in different company I have heard him militate freely against all three. The discussion would continue far into the afternoon, Peter reclining at full length upon the drawing-room settle, while the female section of the party would devotedly massage his lordship's arms and head. After tea we either reading aloud or charades. Peter was good at all impromptu acting, and many were the times when he reduced the audience to laughter approaching tears. Supper, and then all too swift the time of departure. We both had to leave about the same time, which made matters a bit better. Hurried adieux, the walk to the tube, a hasty good-bye, each assuring the other - depression descends upon you and leaves you pulverised and speechless.

He remained at this job till December, and then a week before Christmas he had his final leave. Only three days, but three days lived to the very full.

Sunday of that week-end we kept as Christmas Day - that is to say what Christmas dinner we had we ate on that day, and we had a Christmas tree too. It was a typical Sunday in many ways. The morning was devoted to taking Betty for a walk, and Peter was much in demand as a horse, a lion, a mouse, and an elephant in miraculous and swift succession. The afternoon was observed in the usual sacred way, those of us who did not openly retire to our beds tacitly observed the laws of silence, and each reclined in his or her arm-chair before a blazing fire and sought oblivion with varying degrees of ugliness. Peter always won at this game, he could look extraordinarily plain at full length on the sofa, with his eyes shut and his mouth wide open.

With the arrival of tea we wakened up, and each accused the other of sleeping, while loudly denying having closed one's eyes even for a second oneself. Tea over, the lights were turned down, and with all solemnity the Christmas-tree duly bedecked with candles and covered with tiny gifts was brought in, and for half an hour we imagined ourselves back in baby land, watching the delight of Betty and Margot.

Then followed the time-honoured reading of Scrooge, and this made us feel that it was Christmas indeed. The Scrooge reading was followed by perhaps the best set of charades that even our talented family have yet risen to. As if determined to give us something to remember, Peter excelled himself that night. After supper came music, and then the elders went soberly to bed, while the rest of us sat up imbibing tea and discussing the affairs of the universe far into the night. And then good night, more casual perhaps even than usual for the very thought that was in all our hearts.

Good night and good-bye. He went back to Grantham next day, and on Christmas Eve sailed for France.

Now for the news from the rest of the Crescent.

We were invited to another wedding party this year, in Brecon in Wales, but we didn’t feel like we could go to go to it as we were in mourning for Frank, but of course the Bests were in mourning for three sons.

Mark Day married Gwenllian Best. I have of course seen the pictures and heard all about it. She was a beautiful bride with her long dress and long capped veil. There were embroidered flowers along the neckline of her dress and she had the prettiest fancy shoes. Mark was in uniform of course, and this time Bobs had his on too. He acted as his brother’s best man. Caroline and JCR Day were looking smart, if somewhat older. John Duncan officiated, and Una Richmond was there, looking pretty as usual. May and Muriel were both in the picture, but none of the children. But the family dog got centre stage right in front of the bride and groom. Gwenllian’s bouquet was lilies and roses. Her bridesmaid, her sister Dorothy, wore pale yellow and had ferns and carnations. Her mother, Julia carried quite a large bouquet too and a dark dress, as of course they are still in mourning for their three sons. Mr. Best, who is called Charles William, and is a Chartered Surveyor, works as the county surveyor also looked very smart in his morning suit. Walter Best and his wife Bessy were there and as well as John officiating, Mrs. Best’s cousin Henry Church-Jones, the Vicar of Builth, near, Brecon, officiated for part of the ceremony too. The wedding reception was held at the Bests’ house, Penbryne on the Hay Road just outside Brecon.

Mark of course went back into the war, and Gwenllian will continue to live with her parents and sister until after the war, but probably will spend some time with Caroline Day with whom she gets along very well.