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Updated: May 28, 2025
It was Miss Nelly Davis, youngest and merriest of Miss Willmot's helpers, who suggested the sugar, when the powdered glass ordered from England failed to arrive. "There can't be any harm in using it," she said. "What we're getting now isn't sugar at all, it is fine gravel. A stone of it wouldn't sweeten a single urn of tea."
Christmas carols have been sung, and we may suppose practised beforehand, in odd places, amid curious surroundings. But it is doubtful whether even the records of missionaries in heathen lands tell of a choir practice so unconventional as that held on Christmas Eve in the kitchen of Miss Willmot's canteen. The rain beat a tattoo on the corrugated iron roof.
Behind them, rising to the height of five steps, was a long staircase made of packets of cigarettes. "Sure, it's grand," said Sergeant O'Rorke; "and there isn't one only yourself, miss, who'd do all you be doing for the men." Miss Willmot's eyes softened. They were keen, grey eyes, not often given to expressing tender feeling.
Digby had a fine faith in Miss Willmot's power to do "something" under any circumstances. Experience strengthened his faith instead of shattering it. Had not Miss Willmot on one occasion faced and routed a medical board which tried to seize the men's recreation-room for its own purposes? And in the whole hierarchy of the Army there is no power more unassailable than that of a medical board.
Later on, not even Miss Willmot had time to be thoughtful. There was a pause in the festivities for an hour or two after dinner. The men smoked, slept, or kicked at a football with spasmodic fits of energy. Then the canteen was opened. Miss Willmot's great cake was cut The men passed in a long file in front of the counter. Miss Willmot handed each man a slice of cake.
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