STIRRING TIMES
Atthe corner of the Grande Route de Bapaume near the square, stands the little old Estaminet of La Veuve Matifas.
It is only a humble Estaminet, where, in the old days, Pierre Lapont and old Daddy Duchesne discussed a “chope,” and talked over the failings of the younger generation, but nowadays it bears a notice on the little door leading into the back room, “For officers only.” The men have the run of the larger room, during hours, but the little parlour in rear is a spot sacred to those wearing from one star upwards.
Madame Matifas is old, and very large.
“Mais, Monsieur le Capitaine, dans ma jeunesse.... Ah! Alors!”—and she dearly loves a good hearty laugh. She also sells most excellent champagne, and—let it be murmured softly—Cointreau, Benedictine, and very rarely a bottle of “Skee” (“B. & W.” for choice). She has twinkling brown eyes, fat comfortable-looking hands, and we all callher “Mother,” while she calls those of us who please her “Mon brave garçon.”
But La Veuve Matifas is not the sole attraction of the Bon Fermier nor are even her very excellent wines and other drinks, that may inebriate. She has two children: Cécile and Marie Antoinette. The former is, strange to say, “petite” and “mignonne”—she is also very pretty and she knows all the officers of our Division; most of the young and tender ones write to her from the trenches. You may kiss Cécile on the cheek if you know her well.
Marie Antoinette is of the tall, rather rich coloured, passionate type. She was engaged to a “Little Corporal” of the 77th Infantry of the Line. Alas, he died of wounds seven months ago. She wears mourning for him, but Marie is now in love with the Senior Major, or else we are all blind! (Uneasy rests the arm that wears a crown!) However, that is neither here not there. We like the widow Matifas, and we all admire her daughters, while some of us fall in love with them, and wealwayshave a “stirring time” when we reach rest billets within walking distance of the “Estaminetdu Bon Fermier,” or even gee gee distance.
In defiance of the A.P.M. we float into town about 8 “pip emma” (the O.C. signalswillbring “shop” into every-day conversation) and stealthily creep up the little back alley which leads to the back door of the Estaminet. We gather there—four of us, as a rule—and we tap thrice. We hear a fat, uneven walk, and the heavy respiration of “Maman,” and then:
“Qui est là?”
“C’est nous, Mère Matifas!”
The door is unbolted, and we enter. Scholes invariably salutes Maman on both cheeks, and we—if we have the chance—salute her daughters. Then we carry on to the parlour. Pelham—who thinks all women love his goo-goo eyes—tries to tell Marie Antoinette, in simply rotten French, how much he loves her, and Marie gets very business-like, and wants to know if we want Moët et Chandon at 12 frcs. a bottle or “the other” at six.
So far we have never dared to try “the other,” for fear that we appear “real mean”! Maman bustles about, and calls us her braveboys, andneversays a word about the war, which is a real kindness to us war-weary people.
Cécile makes her entrance usually after the second bottle; probably to make her sister envious, because she always gets such a warm welcome. In fact there is an almost scandalous amount of competition for the honour of sitting next to her.
La Veuve Matifas stays until after the third bottle. She has tact, that woman, and a confidence in ourselves and her daughters that no man who is worthy of the name would take advantage of.
Last time we were there an incident occurred which literally took all our breaths away. We were in the middle of what Allmays calls “Close harmony” and Allmays was mixing high tenor, basso profundo, and Benedictine, when suddenly the door opened in a most impressive manner. That little plain deal doorfeltimportant, and it had the right to feel important too.
The C.O. came in.
We got up.
The C.O. turned to Cécile, who was sittingfartoo close to Pelham, in my estimation (for I was on the other side), and said, “Cécile, two more bottles please!” Then to us, “Sit down, gentlemen, carry on.” We were all fairly senior officers, but Maman nearly fainted dead away when we conveyed to her the fact that a real, live, active service Colonel was in her back parlour at 9.15 “pip emma,” ordering up the bubbly.
He stayed a whole hour, and we had to sing. And then he told us that he had been offered a Brigade, and was leaving us. We were all jolly sorry—and jolly glad too—and we said so. We told the girls. “Un Général!” cried Cécile. “Mon Dieu!” and before we could stop her she flung her arms round the C.O.’s neck and kissed him. We all expected to be shot at dawn or dismissed the service, but the C.O. took it like a real brick, and Pelham swears he kissed her back—downy old bird that he is!
After he had left we had a bully time. Marie Antoinette was peeved because she had not kissed the Colonel herself, and Cécile was sparkling because shehadkissed him. Which gave us all a chance. Mère Matifasdrank two whole glasses of champagne, and insisted on dancing a Tarantelle with Allmays, whom she called a “joli garçon,” and flirted with most shamelessly. Pelham got mixed up with a coon song, and spent half an hour trying to unmix, and Scholes consoled Marie Antoinette. As for me, well, there was nothing for it—Cécilehadto be talked to, don’t you know!
Mother “pro-duced” a bottle of “B. & W.” also. In fact we had a most stirring time!
We still go to see La Veuve Matifas. She never speaks to us without saying at least once, “Ah! Mais le brave Général, image de mon mari, où est il?”
I have a photograph of Cécile in the left-hand breast pocket of my second-best tunic. Scholes says he is going to marry Marie Antoinette, “Après la Guerre,” in spite of the Senior Major!