And though to collect the ever-dwindling supply of mugs (beginning with a thousand on Monday, one may safely reckon to find but 800 by Saturday night! Where they walk to no man knows—sometimes homewards, more often trenchwards, one surmises), although to collect the mugs it is a literal necessity to step over figures that lie huddled against each other in a sleep so deep, so log-like, that nothing disturbs them, one is none the less impressed by their magnificence.
The evolution of the camp canteen is a thing to note. There is the wooden roof and flooring in place of the close interior of a boardless, draughty tent; there is an augmented staff, for ever cooking and stewing, to cope with the work; and stores are conveyed regularly to the place, obviating the necessity for those spasmodic rushes to fetch substitutes for bread when the supply of everything gave out at the same moment.
To be sure, the difficulties of taking the till remain the same, and the problem of changing an English pound-note into French money at 26 francs 30 centimes—the last time we were here the rate was 25 francs—subtracting the price of a cup of tea, a packet of shag, a pencil and a shaving stick, doling out all these articles with the exception of the tea; immediately afterwards rendering a French three francs into English coin, subtracting for a bar of chocolate and a hand mirror. Continuing this process uninterruptedly and unceasingly for an hour, during which time one is assailed by a chorus of questions such as "What's the price of a 'am sandwich, Miss?" "What time does the leave boat go?" "What mayn't we put in a letter home?" etc., ad lib.; all this to the non-mathematician is bewildering in the extreme.
At the old Queen Mary Hut, where my apprenticeship had been served, the development was even more amazing. A billiard-room, with no fewer than four tables supplied by a benevolent speculator, has been built, and a row of baths for men on their way home, whilst the kitchens are so finished that they might well be envied by any efficient housewife.
But perhaps the culminating point is the cinema hall that has been opened not far off—a cinema hall to accommodate a goodly number, and worthy of the Metropolis itself.
There was a last committee meeting too; those committee meetings that were landmarks on our calendar. They were a fortnightly institution, and consisted of the lady superintendents of the different centres, who met the camp leaders—the male portion of the staff—every month. Their purport was to discuss the affairs of state, business difficulties, etc.
By one who was competent to judge they were described as the "safety valve for ladies who must grouse," and certainly there was a good deal of talk about nothing. One lady would ask how many swabs and dusters it was permissible to buy for one hut—a question which might, or might not, duly be recorded in the minutes. The next would complain of her indolent orderlies. Important questions in themselves, but not of great use to those of us who found it possible to settle these matters amongst ourselves!
The agony I had gone through during those early committee meetings will be for ever remembered, for, being the only unmarried woman under forty in a community bent on filling all vacancies with their personal friends, my position was not enviable. But for a sense of humour it would have been intolerable. Over and over again the question of age would arise as I would sit in dumb impotence whilst one inquisitor after another voiced their views.
"Miss B—— would be excellent in charge of X—— centre if she weren't so young. I know officially she is only thirty, and it would not do."
"We don't approve of young women," said another. "There, of course, is the exception," bowing to me.