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There is, of course, the problem of Miss Gill and Mrs. Shaw.
Quite early on, Beverly realizes that this is no mere dalliance, but a true understanding.
And so she takes a glass of rye splashed over ice out to the porch, and watches the sun set, and wonders what in Heaven’s name she is meant to do.
If she speaks to Miss Gill, Beverly believes she could shatter something infinitely precious, infinitely fragile, that she has no right to destroy. If she speaks to Mrs. Shaw, Beverly’s equally certain that she might stifle someone who has been stifled too much in her life already.
And yet the danger exists. And it is Beverly’s job—no, it is her duty, and her burden—to protect these girls, so many of them away from home for the first time.
So many of them finding home, for the first time.
Briefly, Beverly wishes that there was someone to whom she could turn for advice. She can commiserate with Deborah about the girls’ petty wrangling over bathroom time, closet space, sleeping habits, and makeup theft—not to mention their tendency to turn a simple complaint about the chore rota into a brawl. And Beverly listens with a sympathetic ear when Deborah complains in return about Mr. Marshall’s expectations, the low pay, the long hours, the impossibility of maintaining curfew. But Deborah barely realizes that the Comets’ pitcher is out nearly every night with Lupe García! She hasn’t even noticed that all three of of the Comets' outfielders are in a very risqué relationship that shifts from love triangle to lovers’ quarrel depending on how the wind blows! So Beverly knows that she certainly can’t go to Deborah with this: that two of her girls have fallen in love.
They are so young, truly. Miss Gill would deny it; she sees herself as a sophisticated woman of the world. Mrs. Shaw is a married woman, and by any standard, the head of her household. But Beverly need only glance at them and see the stealthy, shining hope on their faces when they look at each other, and her heart sinks. They are so young.
Beverly watches them; watches over them. And wonders what she should do. What would be right to do; what could possibly be enough.
She could fine them. Each and every curfew violation. But Beverly rather suspects that should she make any attempt to wrest Mrs. Shaw away from Miss Gill, then Miss Gill would foment an unfortunately effective rebellion among the rest of the girls. And if Mrs. Shaw saw Beverly interfering, then she would set her jaw—such a stubborn jaw, Mrs. Shaw has—and tell Beverly off personally, and at length. The fire is there, in the right circumstances.
For the longest time, then, Beverly does nothing. After all, it is not ladylike to listen at doors or to peer at windows, even if that is, perhaps, what Mr. Marshall might say she was hired to do.
But then comes the day when the bus breaks down, and Beverly realizes the seriousness of what she is actually faced with.
Beverly does have to admire Mrs. Shaw’s strategic and tactical brilliance. Strategy is the art of the grand picture, the end goal; tactics are the individual acts that, each by each, may seem unimportant, but which will lead stepwise to the desired outcome. Beverly has known some generals who do not have nearly the diligence nor the foresight of Mrs. Shaw, who is more of a leader than she perhaps realizes. When she is properly…motivated, Mrs. Shaw shows no lack of either skill or subterfuge.
Mrs. Shaw stutters and blushes admirably, but Beverly can see what she has done. She wonders if Miss Gill sees the same. Because that is, by any measure, a picnic Mrs. Shaw has packed—”snacks for the team” indeed—and Beverly has no doubt as to its intended recipient. The blankets: there are enough for each girl, and yet the only two blankets that Mrs. Shaw sacrifices in crafting her little alcove at the back of the bus are hers and Miss Gill’s. As for the little inglenook itself: Mrs. Shaw waited for Miss McCready to think of changing, as anyone could have guessed would happen, only to come up with this ‘solution’ that is nothing more than a blatant move towards giving herself and Miss Gill all the privacy that Beverly should not be allowing them.
Beverly wants to bury her face in her hands. What is she supposed to do? Demand that Mrs. Shaw tear down her curtained rendezvous, that she is clearly so proud of? And then what? Beverly is no general but she’s certain of this outcome: Mrs. Shaw and Miss Gill would disappear into the cornfield at midnight, probably just as the tow truck is arriving, and Beverly’s chaperoning duties will become even more onerous than they currently are.
So she says nothing, again. Turns a blind eye to Mrs. Shaw’s blinding smile, to Miss Gill’s quieter but no less pleased expression. That almost worries her more—how Miss Gill has changed. How she is softly, radiantly happy. Does Mrs. Shaw know how successfully her strategy is unfolding? Does she think through every tactic so carefully, so as to bring that exact shade of blush to Miss Gill’s cheek?
Mrs. Shaw stays outside, late into the night, while the rest of the girls settle. With one of her chicks missing from the nest, Beverly can’t close her eyes, even as she knows the reason behind Mrs. Shaw’s tardiness. Beverly is meant to fall asleep. One less obstacle for Mrs. Shaw’s stratagems. And—
And can she deny them this moment? She can, clearly, but ought she? Does she even want to? Aren’t there enough people in this narrow-minded world for the two of them to fear, without adding Beverly’s unwilling censure to the list?
So Beverly closes her eyes when she hears Mrs. Shaw stepping aboard the bus.
She is glad Mrs. Shaw waited until nearly everyone was asleep; she hopes if anyone, like her, is feigning then they are just as discreet when awake. There’s a slide of light as Mrs Shaw draws the blanket open, then darkness again. For all that Beverly is trying not to hear, she does catch the low murmur of voices—no words, for which she is grateful—and there is a pause. A quiet which is all the more breathless for being expectant. Then, the slip and rustle of fabric; the sound of movement, of breath. Beverly tries to think of other things: of women she’s known, of drinks she tasted for the first time in Paris, of the night she met a girl who took her for une nuit blanche; how she never saw that girl again.
These women. Ball players! Beverly never could have known what they’d mean to her. Of course they all think that they know best. That they are invincible, much like all those boys who lost more than their lives in the mud and ice of France. Beverly envies her girls, and hurts for them, in equal measure. They will not listen to her. She is the Boot, the wall, the authority. They have no idea how she turns her head and works not to see. And they’re living for the first time. That first taste of life, like the apple Miss McCready offered her this evening from a summer tree.
Beverly tries to think of other things, but her mind will insist on dwelling on danger. On those images she believed she had banished to her nightmares. It’s only when her heart tightens like this, when she worries, that those sights play behind her eyelids again. Her throat closes and she can barely breathe. The tatters of a boy’s uniform, rippling on the barbed wire like a bloody flag. The wet, icy clay of the officers’ trenches, the ground trembling above them with the impact of mortars.
And so perhaps it is better to listen; better to be here, in this time. The world has changed, has eased, even as the War continues. Beverly opens her eyes and looks out the window. She can hear a saw-whet owl calling, somewhere in the darkness, and another one answering, each to each. We do need to find each other, she thinks. I think we deserve that, after all.
And she can hear them—not because they have grown careless, but because there is such longing in them, too much to be contained. The rhythm of their need quickens. Should Beverly judge them for that? For their urgency, their desire? Beverly thinks of that Parisienne girl again; she tasted of bourbon, and cigarettes, and hunger. What was her name?
The peak comes quickly, and then there is an easing, a gentler silence. Beverly sighs. Émmeline, she thinks. The girl’s name. Beverly was out on a 48-hour pass, and she knew she was going back to the tunnels beneath the Somme. She truly believed, then, that it was her last night. Her last time. Maybe these girls all believe the same. A single summer, to live a lifetime.
And so, minutes later, when Mrs. Shaw emerges, Beverly knows what she will do. She can’t let them believe they are safe; but she wants them to know that they are safe with her. Whatever small protection she can offer, she will give to them.
Even in the darkness, she can see Mrs. Shaw’s lovelorn smile, the lightness in her step. Beverly wishes she didn’t have to shatter this moment for her. But she must.
She meets Mrs. Shaw’s eyes. The colour drains from Mrs. Shaw’s face. Her breath stops. Beverly keeps her stare level. She is not the enemy, but as much as she wishes otherwise, she is not a reliable ally, either. They all have their rules that they must follow. Miss Gill’s rules, what Beverly knows of them, are sadly not sufficient. Mrs. Shaw will need her own rules, in the days to come.
Mrs. Shaw, she wants to say. Carson. Be careful. You need to be careful, my dear.
But she won’t speak. So she nods; and after a moment, Mrs Shaw relaxes, and nods back. She slides into her seat with a sigh. The night’s quiet fills the bus.
If only, Beverly thinks, if only Mrs. Shaw was capable of subtlety. But subtlety is not where her talents lie. And there is nothing subtle in her love. Love shines in her. Love has made her both softer, and stronger.
And so Beverly hopes that Mrs. Shaw’s campaign will succeed, all its tactics and its grandest strategy. That she will always love wholly and entirely. That Miss Gill will allow herself to be so loved. That they will find a place of rest, of safety. That when Mrs. Shaw—when Carson tells Greta at last, that they will find each other, truly.
And with that hope, Beverly closes her eyes.