Peg the pacifist

Peg was used to being shunned by the neighbours in the rather ordinary middle-class street where she lived. Her inheritance had paid for a secure life if lived modestly, but she had not a single thing in common with the people who surrounded her. James and Peg were happy to use their house as a location for meetings, and suffragettes (militant and otherwise), communists, and liberals of all sorts were frequent visitors. The front parlour no doubt designed for lady-like teas and formal entertaining instead echoed with the raised voices of passionate debate. While the neighbours tutted and sighed they did little else. But the War had changed that. James and Peg had incorporated pacifism into their other liberal views, and their attitude towards the War was no-one else’s business. But in May the Military Service Act was extended to married men and by June the first letter had arrived for James.

Among their group of friends other husbands had been called up, then at a Military Service Tribunal had been allowed to perform what they called ‘alternative civilian service’. James had anticipated that he would end up on a farm somewhere, and he rather liked that idea. But it had all gone horribly wrong. The tribunal was full of red-faced patriots who had decided that James some kind of criminal. They could easily have recommended him for some form of civilian work, or even for non-combatant duties, but they didn’t – instead he was forced into the Army. This had only solidified his pacifist views and as an ‘unconditionalist’ his refusal to fight had now lead to internment in a prison. That had been 8 weeks ago. Peg had not heard from him for a month and she was getting horribly worried.

Her own life had changed too. There had been white feathers pushed through the door almost on a daily basis. As she passed people on the street they averted their eyes, sometimes muttering under their breath too. The local shops had continued to serve her, but only begrudgingly. The grocer would no longer allow her to buy things on account, but would take cash if she had it.

Last week feathers started to arrive by post – with letters, sometimes furiously eloquent, sometimes crudely written incoherent ramblings in block capitals. The flower pots in the front garden had been smashed but the Police maintained that there was nothing to investigate, nothing they could do. Peg was alone in the house, and she was afraid.