Free War Classics by Flora Johnston Page B

pan suspended, while he looked at me. ‘D’ye mean to tell me ye’ve been vaccinated?’
    ‘Of course,’ I returned in surprise, ‘we all had to be.’
    His mouth set, ‘A don’t hold wi’ vaccination myself – it’s a perneeshus idea – in fack,’ he went on slowly, in a burst of confidence, ‘a went once in a deputation to the Pope to protest agin it.’
    I gazed in wonder. What had the Pope to do with it anyway?
    ‘But, if ye hev been vaccinated,’ he said regretfully, ‘ye’d better put this on it,’ producing a small round box. ‘A invented it masel. It’s nine times stronger than iodine,’ he finished impressively.
    ‘Good Lord,’ I cried in alarm, pushing away the box. ‘I – I daren’t take off the MO’s bandages,’ I went on, after a minute. ‘He’s trying something special with my arm, but thank you all the same.’
    ‘A sell lots of them to the men,’ he continued, ‘they’ll ask for’t at the counter.’ He was quite right – they did, often, but all the same, I did not put it on.
    We ate our breakfast in silence – he being Scotch, was no talker and I was afraid to speak for once. At the end he rose. ‘Can ye sweep a chimney?’ he enquired slowly. I’m afraid I looked blank. Pursuant to the Sergeant’s instructions, I had done up till then everything I had been told, but I didn’t even know how to begin this. ‘Weel, weel,’ he said with a sigh, ‘a doot a’ll hae to do’t masel, but ye’d better bake some shortbread for tea, a’m expectin’ the Chief.’
    My heart leapt. How nice to see the Chief again! He hadn’t asked me to sweep chimneys. But my host was speaking. ‘Ye’ll mebbe no’ ken how to make shortbread, like?’ he enquired tactfully. I did not. In self-defence, most Oxford dons don’t. ‘Tak’ off your boots and put on your overall an’ a’ll show ye.’ We didn’t make real shortbread, not having the ingredients, but a kind of Quaker Oats cake, crisp and sweet and brown – rather easier to make. At least that is the only way I can account for my being able to make them – after only spoiling two. Never have I passed a happier morning and when at 12 o’clock, I hurried to the counter to serve the first cup of tea, my cheeks were hot, my hands were floury and I expect, so was my hair. But the troops were not to be daunted. ‘You looks like a little bit o’ home, Miss,’ one said in plain tones of admiration. ‘Don’t she just,’ echoed the Quartermaster proudly from the depths of the orderly kitchen.
    ‘Ye’ll no’ be forgettin’,’ said the Hut Leader to me at lunch, an hour later, ‘that this is St Andrew’s nicht. We’ll ha’e a supper after nine o’clock in ma room.’
    It was indeed 30 November – tho’ I had forgotten it. This was, I suppose, why the chimney required to be swept. It was the quaintest St Andrew’s night supper to which I have ever sat down. To begin with there was no whisky – not that I would have drunk any in any case – but it seems to go with St Andrew. The Hut Leader and I had the honour to represent Scotland – the Chief was English but well intentioned, and so was the Quartermaster.
    We dined off chestnut soup – made from chestnut flour specially sent out from Gibson’s, Princes Street, to the Hut Leader – then roasted chickens – the pièce-de-résistance , those, and produced from somewhere by the Quartermaster. ‘However did you get them?’ I said in admiration. We usually dined off bully beef or fish, when I could get it.
    ‘Well, I points to what I wants, Miss, and then I say “ Vous blaguez , Madame ” when she sez the price and there it is.’
    Dessert was my cakes and the canteen chocolate, and then in lemonade we drank ‘Them That’s Far Awa’.
    After that the Hut Leader announced that the Camp Commandant had invited us both to lunch on the morrow – and what about my boots? The Orderly had expressed a desire to clean them. ‘But,’ I exclaimed in distress,