‘Will he ever be well again?’ she asked Amy.
The sister was leaving the ward and Amy asked her if they might see a doctor to discuss Edmond’s prognosis.
Eventually they were joined by a serious-looking man in a white coat. ‘Lieutenant Derwent’s wound is healing,’ he told them, ‘but with his lung capacity reduced it’s unlikely he’ll ever completely regain his former good health. He’ll be lacking in stamina, but otherwise may manage to lead a fairly normal life.’
A tear coursed down Mrs Derwent’s face, leaving a slight trail through the powder. Amy took her hand.
‘We’re arranging for him to be transferred to a sanatorium,’ the doctor went on. ‘It’ll be in a healthy area, well away from any city, and quite possibly by the sea. He can sit outside, at least while the weather remains mild, breathing in fresh air to help his lungs heal.’
When the doctor had left Amy tried to comfort her mother-in-law. ‘We must make the best of it,’ she said.
* * *
Next day she was sitting with the others in the drawing room, completing the gloves to send to the troops. ‘I need some more tasks to fill my time,’ she said, half missing her frantic days on the wards. ‘I want to do lacemaking but my leg isn’t strong enough for me to travel easily to one of Mrs Rousseau’s classes.’
None of the others could advise her.
‘I’ve had one idea,’ she told them. ‘I can play the piano, but as you know, I never got beyond playing quite easy pieces. I’d like some more lessons.’
Beatrice looked at her, her mouth open.
‘I know I’ll never reach your level of accomplishment,’ Amy told her, ‘but I should very much like to improve, now I’ve got time to practise. Does your teacher still live nearby?’
Realising she was determined, Mr Derwent recommended Beatrice’s former teacher.
‘It would give me real pleasure to pay for the lessons from my allowance as wife of a serving officer,’ Amy said.
‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Mrs Derwent cried. ‘We don’t want the whole village to think that we can’t afford to support you.’
‘We’re happy to pay for your lessons,’ Mr Derwent assured her.
‘Thank you.’ Amy began to compose a note to the teacher.
‘Shouldn’t you be concentrating on waiting quietly for your baby to arrive?’ her mother-in-law asked her. ‘You went on working in France for longer than recommended.’
‘But at least she was there when Edmond was injured,’ Beatrice said unexpectedly. ‘He told me how it cheered him when she managed to visit him.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’ The older woman looked at her more approvingly.
She was grateful for her sister-in-law’s support and Mrs Derwent’s recognition.
‘I assure you I won’t over exert myself,’ she promised.
She had compared notes with another expectant mother at the most recent working party in the village hall. It was clear her own pregnancy had not been a typical one. For the first two months she had been uncertain of her condition, and then she had been determined to hide it from the senior nursing staff. Then Edmond’s wound had almost completely distracted her thoughts, and there had been her fall and her ankle injury too. Now she was becoming more aware of the changes to her body, and she was thrilled to feel her baby moving inside her. She made a point of resting for part of each day.
Soon afterwards, Chambers came in with a letter for her.
‘It’s from Edmond. They’ve found him a place in a sanatorium,’ she told them. ‘It’s near the sea – the nearest resort is Lymington. They’re transferring him there tomorrow.’
‘Capital,’ said his father. ‘It’s on the south coast, which is the mildest. I wouldn’t have wanted him to be on the east coast – they get the occasional bombardment there.’
‘Where’s Lymington?’ asked Beatrice.
‘Not far from Poole,’ her father told her. ‘It’s a fairly quiet part of the coast.’
‘Shame it isn’t somewhere lively,’ Beatrice said. ‘We might have stayed nearby so we could visit him.’
‘I was going to suggest Amy does that, if she cares to go there,’ Mr Derwent said, his eyes twinkling as he smiled at her. ‘Would you like to stay in a hotel for a week and visit him?’
‘Oh, I should love to be able to see him!’ she cried.
‘I’ll drive you down there when Edmond has had a couple of days to settle,’ he said. ‘Meantime I’ll contact the sanatorium and see if they can recommend somewhere suitable for you to stay.’
Beatrice was becoming envious now, and before long he was promising her and her mother a weekend in London to see a show.
* * *
Amy was wrapped up well in the car as Mr Derwent drove down to the coast.
‘It’s very kind of you to let me take this holiday,’ she said. The car was moving slowly down a road behind a herd of cattle, so it was easier than usual to talk.
‘Nonsense.’ He smiled. ‘It’ll promote Edmond’s recovery, having you nearby.’
‘I’m very disappointed my leg isn’t better,’ she told him. ‘Edmond’s been through so much, without having me as an invalid as well. One day we’ll set up house together, with the baby as well. I’d hoped we could live modestly without a servant, but now it seems I might not be able to manage everything myself.’ Generally she still needed a hand free to help her move around.
‘I don’t want you to worry about your future,’ he said gently. ‘I’m proud of everything Edmond and you have done in the war.’
The resort where they were headed was some way further, so presently they stopped for lunch at an inn.
‘Edmond will be entitled to some kind of pension as a wounded soldier, won’t he?’ she said, unable to leave the subject alone. She had the feeling that Mrs Derwent and Beatrice saw her as a liability.
‘Yes, he certainly will,’ he said as a waitress took their order. ‘I expect they’ll arrange it soon. I’m sure I can give Edmond any extra allowance he needs so the three of you can live decently.’
I must find some way to help support us, she thought. While the baby is small I could at least take in needlework to earn some money.
Soon they were heading south west again and she began to smell the fresh sea air. Her father-in-law drove her to a small hotel and waited while she was shown to a charming room.
‘Is everything to your liking?’ he asked when she came down again.
‘Yes, thank you. I even have a view of the sea. Let’s go and see Edmond.’
From the hotel they could see the sanatorium, a large building up on the hill. Visitors were welcomed in the afternoons.
‘Will you take a meal at the hotel later?’ she asked as he drove them up there.
‘No, when I’ve seen Edmond I’ll drop you there, then I’ll need to set off back to Larchbury. I’ll stop for dinner on the way. While you’re here, you’re to take a cab when you visit Edmond,’ he insisted. He had made sure she had enough money.
‘Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for me, Mr Derwent,’ she said.
‘You know, it’s high time you stopped calling me that. Can’t you just call me Pa?’
She was touched. He had supported her when his wife and Beatrice had been cold towards her. She was coming to regard him as a father figure. ‘I’d love to,’ she said.
‘And you must call my wife Ma.’
‘Yes – so long as she’s happy with that,’ she said as they arrived, wondering how her mother-in-law would react.
They went in and asked to see Edmond. An orderly took the small suitcase of clothes for him, then another led them along a corridor and out on to a veranda, Amy keeping up as best she could.
Edmond was sitting there in a wicker chair, breathing in the fresh breeze. He broke into a smile when he saw them, and got to his feet. He stepped forward and kissed her.
‘Darling!’ she said. It was the first time she had seen him out of bed since he had been wounded.
He had a blanket round his shoulders and looked thin, a little wasted even. He had not been able to take any exercise for weeks.
‘I look a wreck, don’t I?’ he said, reading her thoughts all too well.
‘You’ve shaved off your moustache!’ she said. ‘That’s what I noticed. And I do prefer the way you look without it.’
‘What’s it like here?’ his father asked.
‘We have big wards, but the other men are good chaps, determined to keep cheerful. They make us keep quiet after eight at night, so we get plenty of sleep.’
Most of the men had been brought out to the veranda, some in invalid chairs. A nurse was in attendance, stopping to speak to a patient from time to time. There was a peaceful atmosphere that had been lacking at the Front Line hospitals.
The nurse began to help a patient walk slowly along the veranda. Amy noticed another one stepping out cautiously, supported by a woman she took to be a relative. I should be encouraging Edmond to take exercise, she thought. She was about to propose a walk along the veranda when she saw Pa looking at his watch and remembered he had a long drive home. She embraced and kissed Edmond, promising to return the following afternoon.
How can I help Edmond recover? she asked herself, as Pa drove her back to the hotel.
* * *
She went to bed soon after her meal that night and spent a relaxing morning sitting in the hotel lounge looking out towards the pale grey sea. She met Mrs Dixon, another guest, who had a son being treated in the sanatorium, and they arranged to share a cab up to the sanatorium for afternoon visits. ‘My neighbour’s daughter was there once, when she had tuberculosis,’ Mrs Dixon said, ‘but they’ve moved the TB patients elsewhere now, so there’s no risk of them passing on the infection to the troops.’
Edmond was out on the veranda again that day, in the faint sunshine, but this time he was wearing a jacket, which was looser than it had once been. Some of the men were chatting to one another in an optimistic mood. Edmond happily introduced her to some friends.
‘We’re not allowed to smoke here,’ he told her.
‘I should think not! Doctors believe it’s bad for your lungs.’ Not everyone agreed that smoke could damage the airways. ‘Heavy smokers often develop a nasty cough.’
‘We’ve got a gramophone so we can play music in the ward at certain times of day,’ he went on.
Mrs Dixon was speaking to her son Archie, who had been brought out on his bed. ‘He’s come from Wipers too,’ Edmond whispered to Amy. ‘His lungs are damaged from being gassed. I think he’s in worse shape than I am.’
How unfair life had been for her generation of young men, she reflected
‘I need to exercise my bad leg,’ she said presently. ‘I rest it for part of the day, but I need to use it a little as well, to strengthen it. Shall we try to walk along the veranda together and see which of us succeeds better?’
She was using a stick now instead of a crutch. She placed her free hand in his. They set out slowly, enjoying the view towards the Isle of Wight and the Channel, with a minesweeper in the distance. Seagulls wheeled around, uttering their mournful cries.
‘Remember the first time we met, as adults, when we were staying at Hove?’ he asked her. ‘We were competing for a bathing machine, weren’t we?’
She burst out laughing. ‘I’ll never forget that wonderful day.’
Before long he was slowing, short of breath. She waited patiently, noticing the strain on his face, though when he saw her looking he forced a smile. They had nearly reached the end of the veranda. As they set off back he seemed weary, so they dawdled back to his chair. For a moment they embraced, laughing at their indifferent efforts, then he sat down again.
He fingered her fair hair. ‘I’m glad you’re wearing it loose again,’ he said.
‘Most married women wear it up,’ she said, ‘but I decided to leave it loose for a change now I’m not in uniform.’
‘What do you find to do in the hotel?’ he asked her. ‘Is it boring for you?’
‘I’ve brought a book, and my knitting. I’ve stopped making gloves and socks for the troops so I can concentrate on clothes for our baby.’ She loved doing the fine, white, lacy work.
He looked at her admiringly. ‘I’m determined to get my health back, to do the best for both of you.’
‘I’m convinced you will.’ She could feel the baby kicking now. She opened her jacket a little, took his hand and laid it gently on her abdomen, so he could feel it too. His eyes moistened.
‘In another few months we’ll have our own child!’ Excitement seized her when she thought of them becoming a proper family.
‘I’m thrilled,’ he said, ‘though it’s not the ideal time to bring a child into the world.’
‘I know – I’ve sometimes thought the same. But mostly it seems like a miracle, bringing forth new life, to help make up for all we’ve lost.’
She longed to hold her baby in her arms, but Edmond’s frailty still frightened her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Larchbury and Wealdham, Autumn 1917
Soon Amy’s brief holiday was over and Mr Derwent, now known as Pa, came to take her back to The Beeches. The weather was beginning to turn cold and windy, but they agreed that Edmond looked fitter, thanks to the outdoor air and exercise.
Back with her in-laws she could only write to him regularly and wait for his replies. He seemed in good spirits.
Pa had encouraged her to call his wife Ma, though her mother-in-law was sometimes slow replying.
Beatrice’s former piano teacher came to give Amy her first weekly lesson. She was glad of the opportunity to improve, but aware that she was depriving the others of the use of the drawing room during her lesson. Soon after she had finished, Beatrice took over the piano and played a Chopin étude with her usual flair, as though to emphasize Amy’s lack of skill.
Three days later she walked slowly over to Sebastopol Terrace, where Mother greeted her delightedly.
‘I hope you’re not overdoing the walking,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
‘I’ve brought my piano exercises,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I practise here?’
‘Of course you may,’ Mother said, ‘though it’s not such a fine piano as the one at The Beeches.’
‘I feel embarrassed to practise there,’ she admitted. ‘Beatrice is so gifted. It doesn’t seem fair to disturb them in their drawing room with my amateurish attempts.’
Mother frowned. ‘I wish they’d be more encouraging.’
‘So do I, but it’ll help if they see I’m improving.’ The previous day she had managed to practise on the piano while Beatrice and her mother had gone shopping.
The weather was poor now, and after Edmond had spent three weeks at the sanatorium, they went back to bring him home. Amy could scarcely wait to see him again.
‘We weren’t allowed to stay outside for long after the first week,’ he told her. ‘It was too cold.’
‘At last we can be together all the time!’ she said as his father tucked blankets over them in the back of his car.
Edmond smiled, but said, ‘This isn’t how I imagined it would be.’
As the reunited family took dinner, Ma and Beatrice chattered constantly. When they discussed food shortages or fashions Edmond began to look bored. ‘I’m afraid I’m quite out of touch with female company,’ he admitted, when they noticed his lack of interest.
When they went to bed Amy watched him undress, horrified at his scars and skin discolouration, and the depression in his chest left from the lost ribs and lung tissue. His breathing was still shallow.
He noticed her expression. ‘I like to think I used to be a good-looking young man,’ he said.
‘You certainly were,’ she said, remembering their encounter at the seaside when she had noticed his strong swimming, and how fit he had looked earlier in their marriage. ‘And you’re recovering your looks a little each day.’
‘I’ll never be the man I was before I
got hit.’
She enclosed him in her arms. ‘You’re still my Edmond, that’s what matters. And we’re all so proud of you.’
That night at last he was able to cuddle up to her increasingly bulky body. Soon he was asleep, but she lay awake, still shaken by the extent of his wounds.
Two nights later, she was woken by him calling out in his sleep. ‘Keep going, men!’ she heard him say, then he screamed and woke up shaking.
She held him in her arms. She had heard men call out in the hospital when the horrors revisited them in the night. ‘It’s all right, Edmond,’ she said. ‘You’re out of danger now.’
His shaking subsided and he clutched her arm. ‘I really am safe now, aren’t I? I’m with you, my angel. I used to long for you when I was there in the trenches.’
They both flitted between wakefulness and sleep for the remainder of the night. It’s not entirely over, she thought. How could he ever be the same as before?
By day they would spend some time with his family. Sometimes her parents visited, relieved to see Edmond on the mend. If the day was fine, Amy would take him for a walk round the grounds in the warmest part of the day. Sometimes he winced with pain or she glimpsed an anxious expression on his face, before he noticed her gaze and smiled to please her. Neither of them had much energy, but each short walk was a small victory.
At other times they retreated to their own room, simply content to be together. ‘You sit in the easy chair, darling,’ he told her. ‘I’ll perch on the bed.’
‘It would be lovely to have a little sofa in here,’ she said, worried she might sound demanding.
‘You’re right, we should get one,’ he agreed.
Another piece of furniture would make their room a little cluttered, though, she thought.
* * *
‘My brother George is home on leave,’ Joe the young gardener told them one afternoon as they went for a short walk in the chilly garden.
Until We Meet Again Page 26