Bertie frowned with distaste. ‘I’ve tried to persuade him it’s his duty to join up,’ he said. ‘If he doesn’t, people will think he’s a coward, and he could even get sent to prison. I dread to think what your in-laws will make of that.’
Her skin prickled with anxiety. She had a good deal of sympathy for her cousin but she imagined there would be recriminations, especially from Beatrice. The menfolk would question his reluctance to serve his country. Even Edmond might be critical.
‘Amy,’ Peter broke into her reverie. ‘Would you join me for a waltz?’
She tried to set aside her concerns, enjoy the evening and establish her position in the family, for Edmond’s sake. She found Peter was a good dancer.
‘You’ve been abroad so long, I suppose you haven’t got a young lady in England?’ she asked, hoping her question was not too intrusive.
‘No – to be honest, there’s a young British woman out in India who I care for.’ She was intrigued.
‘Does she return your affection?’ she asked, for he had not mentioned her before.
He dropped his voice. ‘She does, but I’d rather you didn’t mention it to my parents. There are so many difficulties. Her father has a high rank out there and I hesitate to ask for her hand.’
‘But now you’re joining the war effort,’ she said, her hand lightly on his arm as they swirled around to the music. ‘I suppose it may be a considerable time before you can be reunited with your young lady.’
‘Yes, it’s a dreadful wrench, but I felt I should enlist,’ Peter said. ‘I plan to go back to India afterwards, though Pa would prefer me to stay here and join him in the forestry business.’
She sympathised with him for all the complications in his life. ‘Does Edmond know about your young lady in India?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I told him about Patricia in a letter, and he understands. To be honest, one of my motivations for serving in the war is to improve my prospects. Promotion to a good rank would help me win my sweetheart.’
She noticed Bertie was partnering Florence again. The pair had spent most of the evening together.
Vicky bade them goodnight. Later, Charles claimed a dance with Amy. He led her confidently and was as charming as ever. ‘Has Beatrice forgiven you yet for that business about the interrupted wedding?’ he asked suddenly. He had become aware of the situation when he was best man.
‘Oh – yes, she accepts me now,’ Amy said quickly. It would have been hard to describe the reserve her sister-in-law sometimes showed, or mention her occasional hostile comment. Beatrice was clearly attracted to Charles, and Amy felt it would be mean to criticise her.
‘I’m so glad,’ Charles said.
Later, James waltzed with Amy. ‘You’re quiet tonight,’ she remarked.
‘I’m torn,’ he said. ‘I’d like to express my views on the war, but your in-laws might prefer me not to be controversial. I don’t wish to upset my host and hostess.’
‘A disagreement would be liable to spoil the festive atmosphere,’ she agreed. ‘It’s hard for you, I can see that.’
Later Bertie spared her a dance.
‘You’ve not lacked partners,’ he remarked.
‘The ball makes an agreeable diversion but no-one can fill the gap left by Edmond,’ she assured him. ‘If only he was here! Make the most of your time with Florence.’
‘I intend to do so,’ he assured her.
A year ago Amy and Edmond had been totally swept up in their blossoming love. Did Bertie and Florence feel the same? Last year they had been optimistic, she recalled, still hoping that the war would end soon.
Amy and Florence found time between dances to sit together. ‘Bertie’s changed,’ Florence said. ‘He’s become more serious. It’s the war, isn’t it?’
‘Edmond changed once he’d seen active service. I’m afraid they see distressing sights,’ Amy said. ‘It’s bound to affect them.’ Occasionally Amy would get a glimpse of Bertie’s familiar carefree expression, but then his face would cloud, as though he could not forget his imminent return to Flanders.
Towards the end of the evening, she found herself standing in a group with Florence, Bertie, Charles, Peter and Beatrice.
Peter raised his glass. ‘Here’s to 1916. May it bring peace!’
James belatedly joined their group.
‘Let’s drive the Huns back where they belong!’ Bertie seconded.
‘May we advance boldly and destroy the enemy divisions!’ cried Charles.
Beatrice smiled and clapped her hands.
James could not hide his dismay at these sentiments. ‘They’re young men, little different from us,’ he protested.
‘To peace!’ Amy cried. ‘An end to the fighting!’
Chapter Thirteen
London and Larchbury, Winter to Spring 1916
Amy had gained the necessary certificates now, and early in the new year she was sent to work in west London at St Luke’s hospital. It was controlled by the War Office, and received severe casualties sent home from the Front. Lavinia, who wrote to her from time to time, had warned her that army hospitals were meant only to take women over twenty-three. But they took me at twenty-two, she had written. They don’t always enquire too closely, because they need more nurses. Amy had kept quiet about being twenty-one. There were rumours of eager young men lying about their age to sign up for the army when they were little more than boys. There was a shortage of competent soldiers and of nurses too. She had informed the authorities that she had got married, and had not been asked to leave on that account.
She had to stay in a hostel now, sleeping on an iron bed in a room with Katherine, another nurse, who was plump, with curly dark hair.
Edmond’s photo was soon installed on top of her tiny chest of drawers. ‘So he’s your husband?’ Katherine asked, catching sight of her wedding band. She had left her garnet and diamond engagement ring at The Beeches.
‘Yes.’ She confided that they had enjoyed little married life together so far.
‘He looks a fine young man,’ Katherine said.
Amy would look at his photo last thing at night, before they extinguished the lamp, and first thing each morning. She yearned for the feel of his warm body close beside her, like on their wedding night. How soon would he be with her again? She read and reread his letters, trying to imagine what his life must be like, and spent much of her limited free time composing replies.
Each morning she and Katherine would put on hats and coats over their VAD uniform and set off through the chilly streets to the nearby hospital, a substantial building of dark brickwork. The wards had not been full to start with but now the fighting had begun again and fresh casualties were arriving. Compared with her last hospital, the senior nurses were less obsessed with keeping the blankets perfectly straight and more concerned with the patients, brave young men injured while serving their country. Amy was working in a ward where most of the men were making good progress and were cheerful and appreciative. Here, besides the tedious bed-making, they took round tea and Bovril for the patients, and were allowed to perform a few more responsible tasks. They prepared dressing trays, and occasionally changed dressings, usually for patients who were almost fully recovered. The hours were long, and their break some time in the middle of the day might be curtailed if they were especially busy. She could seldom get weekend leave now.
‘I’m exhausted,’ Katherine said as they returned to the nursing home one evening. She looked in dismay at the gristly meat they were served for their evening meal. ‘I never thought I’d sleep on an iron bedstead and eat food like this. Have you ever known anything like it?’
Only in jail, Amy thought, recalling for a moment the smell of overcooked cabbage which had frequently heralded a prison meal. She made a vague reply to spare her new friend this information.
‘I should take a bath and wash my hair,’ Katherine said, ‘but I don’t believe I can find the energy.’
‘There might not be any hot water,’ Amy said. There wa
s seldom enough to go round.
The next day, large numbers of ambulances arrived with new patients. Amy was forced to accept that there was no sign of a breakthrough in the war. Edmond and Bertie were over there, perhaps in the thick of it. One of the other nurses had received a letter from home recently, with news of her cousin’s death. The sight of a young man bearing a telegram struck fear into the heart of anyone with a relative at the Front.
Bertie was a poor correspondent. He hardly ever wrote to her and seldom to her parents, so she had to resign herself to receiving limited news of him.
Edmond wrote regularly but his letters could take anything up to five days to arrive.
I keep a photo of you next to my bed, he wrote, and one in the pocket of my tunic. Thinking of you helps me to bear the difficult days. They tell us we are fighting for the future of Britain, so I like to imagine I’m fighting for you. I long to be eligible for six days’ leave, so I can be with you once more.
News from him would brighten her day.
Nurses were succumbing to colds and flu, so Amy and Katherine were sent to help out on another ward. It was pandemonium as they made up beds and new arrivals filled them immediately. Some of them were groaning, though she sensed that most were trying to be brave. Doctors were moving among them, deciding if any should be rushed to the operating theatre.
On this ward the wounds generally needed urgent attention. They got their first views of gangrenous limbs, slimy and green, sometimes with the bone exposed. She tried to suppress her shudder at the smell of putrefaction. As VAD recruits they helped support limbs while the fully trained nurses tended them. Her first sight of an amputated leg had been horrifying, but she had managed to stand there resolutely helping. The trained nurses were calm and efficient, setting them an example. As the day passed, she faced more such wounds. She longed for the gramophone music and cheerful atmosphere of their old ward. Here there were cries from delirious patients, coming round after operations. She forced herself to behave in a matter-of-fact way, helping as best she could, determined she would not shirk her duty.
‘Do you think we’ll be back on our usual ward tomorrow?’ Katherine asked her when they had returned to the hostel. ‘I don’t know if I can go on seeing such mutilations. I felt faint more than once.’
‘Yes, but just think, we’ve helped some of the men begin their recovery,’ she said as they made for the canteen. ‘You should be proud of that. We must do what we can. Have you got anyone at the Front, Katherine?’
‘Only a distant cousin. My young man is at university, though he might consider enlisting when he completes his course next summer, if the war lasts that long.’
They sat down and Amy poured them some water from the jug. ‘I suppose it’s different for me. I keep thinking that my challenges are very limited, compared with what the men face in the trenches.’
‘I never would have imagined a year ago that I’d be living like this,’ Katherine said. She had just reached twenty-three and came from a small town in west Kent. ‘An old friend from school became a VAD and gave me the idea. I’d never even made my own bed before I came here. I suppose I’ve led a sheltered life.’
It was easy to tell which young women were not used to brushing their clothes, cleaning shoes or sewing on buttons, and the domestic work came as a shock to many. At first Katherine had had dainty white hands like Beatrice, but now they were becoming red and rough, for here it was impossible to avoid cleaning tasks. Such work had come as a shock for her friend, but Amy suspected many girls from the lower classes experienced worse conditions in their homes.
‘You don’t have to go on,’ she told Katherine. ‘We’re on a month’s probation, so you could decide to leave.’ She would be sorry to see her friend give up.
‘I feel I should make the effort,’ Katherine said. ‘I’ll keep going and hope I can grow accustomed to it.’
When Amy tried to sleep that night, the memory of those appalling wounds haunted her. She tried never to think of Edmond being wounded, but lately the number of casualties horrified her. He too was facing the danger of death or mutilation. She tossed feverishly through the night.
* * *
Amy went home for a weekend in May, trudging into The Beeches in the early afternoon. She had changed out of her uniform when she came off duty but had not found time to bath or wash her hair. It was only now that she realised how drab she must look, her shoes dusty from the walk from the station and her hat growing shabby. Lately, she hardly considered clothes.
Chambers, the butler, opened the door to her with a cheerful greeting. He suggested she joined Edmond’s family in the drawing room. They welcomed her politely and Mrs Derwent rang the bell for Cook and asked her to provide a meal for Amy. Beatrice, elegant in a dress of pale green and white, looked at her critically. She supposed it must be inconvenient for them when she arrived well after a mealtime. But I’ve been working long hours serving my country, she thought, indignantly, while Beatrice lives idly at home.
‘Peter’s managed to secure a position at the War Office,’ Mr Derwent told her.
‘I begin next week,’ he said proudly as she congratulated him.
She wondered whether to wash her hair before lunch, but that would only emphasize her lateness. Before long, Mr Derwent led her into the dining room, followed by Peter. Then Mrs Derwent came in, and Cook arrived with a plate of ham and salad. She was a plump middle-aged woman who had a nephew in Flanders and was well disposed towards Amy, gladly preparing meals for her even when she arrived at some unexpected hour due to wartime contingencies.
‘It’s good news about Peter,’ Amy said.
Mrs Derwent looked jubilant. ‘Having both sons in France would be simply unbearable,’ she said.
Mr Derwent sat down with Amy as she began her lunch. His wife and Peter went to leave, then Peter looked embarrassed and joined them at the table, as though anxious she should feel welcome.
‘Do you get Zeppelin raids in your area of London?’ he asked.
‘Not many. They mainly plague East London, round the docks.’ Sometimes they caught sight of one of the sinister German airships in the distance. ‘There was one about three weeks ago and next morning we had to dodge round the broken glass in the street as we walked to the hospital.’
After the meal they joined the family on the terrace, at the sunny end where they could look down towards the town. Beatrice was merry as she and Peter were invited to a party that evening, held by a local family whose son was on leave. Such occasions were rare now.
Peter went to the stables and reappeared riding a chestnut horse. He paused by the terrace. ‘Edmond and I used to ride Wanderer when we were younger,’ he told Amy, ‘though perhaps now we should learn to drive the motor car.’ He smiled at her. ‘Do you ride at all?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid I never have,’ she said. ‘Are you planning to go far?’ It was a mild, breezy afternoon.
He patted the animal’s flank. ‘Perhaps to the forestry plantation and back,’ he said. ‘Wanderer is older now. Henry, the gardener, takes him out for a trot sometimes, and Pa does too, but most of the time he just grazes in the paddock. Gee up, old friend.’ The horse trotted off towards the side of the house.
As the shadows began to lengthen, Beatrice retired to her room so Janet, the maid, could arrange her hair.
Amy tried to pay attention to her mother-in-law’s complaints about her shortage of servants. After her own experiences nursing injured soldiers, domestic concerns at The Beeches seemed trivial.
Just then there were noises and raised voices from a distance, round the corner of the house. Mr Derwent got up to investigate while his wife and Amy exchanged anxious glances.
Soon he was back with Peter, who was walking a little awkwardly and holding his arm, below his torn sleeve.
Mrs Derwent stood up. ‘Whatever’s happened?’
‘I fell off Wanderer. It wasn’t his fault – a swarm of bees flew in front of us suddenly and startled him so he rear
ed up.’
‘Come and sit down,’ his father said.
‘Thank heavens you’re not hurt any worse,’ Mrs Derwent said. ‘Dear me, where are my smelling salts?’ She went looking for them.
‘Let me look at your arm,’ Amy told him. She took hold of it gently. It was badly grazed and bleeding, grimy with earth and what looked like lichen.
‘This needs cleaning up and dressing,’ she said. ‘Are you uninjured apart from your arm?’
‘I’m a bit shaken, and I’ll have bruises. I managed to break my fall by reaching for a tree,’ he told her. He was grinning and making light of the accident. ‘Actually, I could do with a cigarette.’
His father produced his case and lit him one. ‘I hope the horse will be all right,’ he said.
‘Wanderer galloped off, away from the bees. Henry’s gone after him.’
At that moment the young gardener came round the corner of the house, leading Wanderer, who looked only slightly agitated.
‘I think he’s none the worse for the incident,’ Henry said. ‘The bees seem to have all flown away now.’
Mrs Derwent came back and there was a pungent aroma as she sniffed from her small bottle of salts.
‘The wound probably isn’t serious,’ Amy said to Peter, ‘though it’ll hurt for a while. But it’s important to disinfect it. Let’s go through to the kitchen and see if Cook has any iodine.’ At the hospital the fully trained nurses generally tended the most severely injured patients, but Amy was becoming confident at dealing with lesser wounds.
In the kitchen, Cook was fetching down pans for the evening meal and Janet was washing cabbage leaves. Mrs Derwent followed Amy and Peter and watched as Cook examined a cupboard for first aid items.
‘Do you think you’ll be all right to go to the party?’ Mrs Derwent asked. ‘You need to set off soon if you’re to get there on time.’
Until We Meet Again Page 13