We had a cheery breakfast, and when it was over I called out, "I hope you all feel very much better and otherwise radiating? You ought to at all events!"
"Why?" they asked curiously. "Well, you've just drunk tea made out of 'radium,'" I replied. "Absolutely priceless stuff, known to a few of the first families by its original name of 'radiator water,'" and I escaped with speed to the fastnesses of my hut.
| We were smoking and absently humming |
| To anyone there who could play— |
| (We'd finished our tea in the Mess hut |
| Awaiting an ambulance train—) |
| Roasting chestnuts some were, while the rest, |
| Cut up toffee or sang a refrain. |
| Outside was a bitter wind shrieking— |
| (Thank God for a fug in the Mess!) |
| Never mind if the old stove is reeking |
| If only the cold's a bit less— |
| But one of them starts and then shivers |
| (A goose walking over her tomb) |
| Gazes out at the rain running rivers |
| And says to the group in the room: |
| "Just supposing the 'God of Surprises' |
| Appeared in the glow of a coal, |
| With a promise before he demises |
| To take us away from this hole |
| And do just whatever we long to do. |
| Tell me your perfect day." |
| Said one, "Why, to fly to an island |
| Far away in a deep blue lagoon; |
| One would never be tired in my land |
| Nor ever get up too soon." |
| "Every time," cried the girl darning stockings, |
| "We'd surf-ride and bathe in the sea, |
| We'd wear nothing but little blue smockings |
| And eat mangoes and crabs for our tea." |
| "Oh no!" said a third, "that's a rotten |
| Idea of a perfect day; |
| I long to see mountains forgotten, |
| Once more hear the bells of a sleigh. |
| I'd give all I have in hard money |
| For one day of ski-ing again, |
| And to see those white mountains all sunny |
| Would pretty well drive me insane." |
| Then a girl, as she flicked cigarette ash |
| Most carelessly on to the floor, |
| Had a feeling just then that her pet "pash" |
| Would be a nice car at the door, |
| To motor all day without fagging— |
| Not to drive nor to start up the thing. |
| Oh! the joy to see someone else dragging |
| A tow-rope or greasing a spring! |
| Then a fifth murmured, "What about fishing? |
| Fern and heather right up to your knees |
| And a big salmon rushing and swishing |
| 'Mid the smell of the red rowan trees." |
| So the train of opinions drifted |
| And thicker the atmosphere grew, |
| Till piercing the voices uplifted |
| Rang a sound I was sure I once knew. |
| A sound that set all my nerves singing |
| And ran down the length of my spine, |
| A great pack of hounds as they're flinging |
| Themselves on a new red-hot line! |
| A bit of God's country is stretching |
| As far as the hawk's eye can see, |
| The bushes are leafless, like etching, |
| As all good dream fences should be. |
| There isn't a bitter wind blowing |
| But a soft little southerly breeze, |
| And instead of the grey channel flowing |
| A covert of scrub and young trees. |
| The field of course is just dozens |
| Of people I want to meet so— |
| Old friends, to say nothing of cousins |
| Who've been killed in the war months ago. |
| Three F.A.N.Y.s are riding like fairies |
| Having drifted right into my dreams, |
| And they're riding their favourite "hairies" |
| That have been dead for years, so it seems. |
| A ditch that I've funked with precision |
| For seasons, and passed by in fear, |
| I now leap with a perfect decision |
| That never has marked my career. |
| For a dream-horse has never yet stumbled; |
| Far away hounds don't know how to flag. |
| A dream-fence would melt ere it crumbled, |
| And the dream-scent's as strong as a drag. |
| Of course the whole field I have pounded |
| Lepping high five-barred gates by the score, |
| And I don't seem the least bit astounded, |
| Though I never have done it before! |
| At last a glad chorus of yelling, |
| Proclaims my dream-fox has been viewed— |
| But somewhere some stove smoke is smelling |
| Which accounts for my feeling half stewed— |
| And somewhere the F.A.N.Y.s are talking |
| And somebody shouts through the din: |
| "What a horrible habit of snoring— |
| Hit her hard—wake her up—the train's in." |
We took turns to go out on "all-night duty"; a different thing from night guards, and meant taking any calls that came through after 9 p.m. and before 8 a.m. next morning.