by Emma Fraser
She rummaged in the drawer of the sideboard until she found what she was looking for. Then she went to the door and took her coat from the hook. She wasn’t going to give up on her Tommy until she knew for sure that he wasn’t coming back.
Chapter 26
Isabel was making a list of everything she would need for Serbia when there was a knock on her bedroom door and Ellie hurried in. ‘Please, Miss, there’s a woman in the kitchen who says she has to speak to you. Mrs Walker tried to send her away but she wouldn’t go.’
‘Is it someone needing my help?’ Isabel asked. ‘Doesn’t Mrs Walker know by now not to send them away?’
‘This woman isn’t hurt, Miss. She just keeps saying she needs to speak to the doctor.’
‘I’ll come down straight away.’
Downstairs, she was alarmed to see Jessie slumped at the kitchen table, with red and swollen eyes, tear tracks visible on her cheeks, despair radiating from her in waves. Isabel was filled with a sense of foreboding. ‘What’s happened, Jessie? Is it one of your mothers?’ She crouched at Jessie’s side and took her hands. Despite the heat blasting from the kitchen range, they were frozen and Isabel tried to rub some heat back into them.
Jessie took a shuddering breath. ‘No, it’s not that.’ She held out the piece of paper on which she had written Isabel’s address. ‘You said I should come to you if I needed anything.’
Puzzled, Isabel drew up a seat at the table and, ignoring the housekeeper’s disapproval, sat down. ‘And I meant it. Tell me how I can help. Take your time.’
Apart from the clashing and clanging of pots from Mrs Walker, the room was still.
‘It’s my Tommy,’ Jessie said at last. ‘He’s missing. I got a telegram. It says they think he’s dead.’
‘I’m so sorry, Jessie.’
Silent tears rolled down Jessie’s cheeks. The rattling of the pots and pans stopped, and after a few moments, a cup of tea appeared on the table in front of her.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Isabel asked, after Jessie had taken a sip or two.
Jessie looked at her. Despite the tear stains, her expression was resolute. ‘Yes, there is. You said you were going to help in the war. Well, I want to go too.’
PART THREE
FRANCE AND SERBIA, 1914–19
Chapter 27
France, December 1914
Jessie was cold. So cold that her breath froze and she had to stamp her feet to keep her circulation moving. She huddled deeper into her greatcoat. She still felt hollow inside, as if someone had scooped out her innards with a big spoon, but neither her bruised heart nor her numb fingers and frozen toes could quite banish her rising excitement.
It was hard to believe that only a month ago she’d been in Edinburgh and now she was in France, part of the Scottish Women’s Hospital. Two days earlier the unit had gathered at Victoria station in London, all of them identifiable by their grey skirts and jackets with tartan facings, their uniform. At first Jessie had thought that her ill-fitting, itchy grey suit was a hand-me-down, but when she saw the other women, equally dowdy and uncomfortable in theirs, she realised that someone must have paid a second-rate seamstress to make them. Despite their uniforms, though, there was no mistaking that most of the unit were ladies.
Jessie’s cheeks burned. When she’d been introduced to Lady Arabella, she’d curtsied before she could stop herself. Lady Arabella had whispered something to her companion and they’d laughed.
It hadn’t been long before her embarrassment had turned to irritation. The way the women had continually jumped off the smoke-belching train, as it waited to depart, with ‘Hold the train, someone, I just have to get some sweets,’ or ‘Darling, tell the nice driver we can’t possibly leave until I have some more tea,’ would have tested anybody’s patience. Every moment they were delayed made Jessie grit her teeth in an agony of frustration, although she knew it was soft-headed to believe that the sooner they got to France, the sooner she would find out what had really happened to Tommy.
Her heart ached. Was there any chance he was still alive? She wasn’t ready to stop hoping. There was so much death: so many men had been blown up and their bodies never found. How could anyone know for certain who was dead and who wasn’t?
At last, after more than a day and night of travelling, they were at Royaumont Abbey, not too many miles from Paris.
‘So this is to be our hospital.’ The refined tones came from the red-headed woman beside her. She’d caused quite a stir when she’d arrived at the station, dressed not in her uniform but in a beautifully tailored dark green suit and smart shoes. She’d also brought several trunks, despite the clear instruction that they were allowed only one. However, when she’d been told to change and send the extra trunks home with her driver, she had agreed without argument.
‘It’s an impressive building,’ the red-haired woman continued.
In front of them, the cream stone of the abbey shimmered in the failing light. It was, Jessie thought, one of the most beautiful buildings she’d ever seen, with its arched lower windows of stained glass, separated at regular intervals by high columns in the same stone. A small wood shielded the abbey from the road, and in the middle of the circular driveway leading up to the entrance, there was a pond with swans and ducks.
‘Right, everyone.’ The medical officer, Dr Ludlow, a plump woman with short hair and bright blue eyes, clapped her hands for attention. ‘As you no doubt have gathered, this is to be our hospital. Let us see what we have.’ She strode into the entrance hall, followed by the group of excited women. The chatter stopped as they looked around in dismay.
There was little indication of the grandeur they had seen from outside. Every surface was festooned with cobwebs and dust, and piles of rubble lay on the dusty, straw-covered floor. Evidence of a hasty departure lay in discarded wine bottles, paper and cardboard and, curiously, a single hobnailed boot.
‘The German uhlans bivouacked here as recently as two weeks ago,’ Dr Ludlow said. ‘Needless to say, they didn’t find it necessary to clean up after themselves.’
Some of the women peered into the gloom anxiously, as if expecting the enemy to come out of the shadows.
‘There is no one here now, of course,’ Dr Ludlow added sharply.
It was even colder inside the building than it was outside and, to Dr Ludlow’s evident frustration, there was no electricity. She paused to light some lanterns to pass around and, as the women held them high to see better, their faces grew longer and their excitement dissipated.
They followed Dr Ludlow up and down several staircases peering into each room with increasing doubt. The abbey was a mishmash of different-sized rooms; the high, vaulted ceilings meant it was freezing – the antiquated stove in the kitchen seemed unlikely to give out much heat; and the beautiful stained-glass windows would be impossible to black out.
‘There is more to do than I’d thought,’ Dr Ludlow said, when they’d finished exploring. ‘I realise that most of you are here to look after the injured when they arrive, but first we’re going to have to get this place shipshape. We have to be ready to receive patients by Christmas.’
Jessie shared a glance with another nurse. At that moment it was difficult to see how they could be ready for patients so soon. Christmas was less than three weeks away.
‘I know that many of you have never had to do housework before, but everyone will have to help,’ Dr Ludlow continued, when nobody spoke.
Of the other nine nurses, two had trained at the London, three at the Edinburgh Royal and one at the Western in Glasgow. The other three, as far as Jessie could gather, had worked in private homes and had had little formal training. Even so, she suspected that they thought themselves a step or two above her. When they’d asked her where she’d trained and she’d told them, they’d raised delicate eyebrows. Most hadn’t even known that the workhouse had an infirmary.
Life would be tough, but training at a workhouse had its advantages: if anyone knew how to deal with dif
ficult living and working conditions it was her.
The next couple of days were so busy that no one had time to do anything except work, eat and fall into bed. Jessie was sleeping in one of the cells that had once accommodated monks, sharing with three of the other nurses. If they hadn’t been so physically exhausted, they wouldn’t have been able to sleep for the cold. Most had given up trying to change into nighties and slept fully dressed. Those who had them used their fur coats as extra blankets. Those who didn’t simply piled every spare item they owned on top of themselves.
The cook who, to Jessie’s amazement, turned out to be the daughter of the Earl of Strathaven, provided meals for them with only three pans, no dishes and a single knife. It secretly amused Jessie to see the ladies tucking into their dinner with no more than a spoon, but they didn’t complain and she was starting to feel a grudging respect for them.
In the mornings they had to crack the ice on their jugs of water before washing. Hot water was in short supply and had to be brought from the basement kitchen up several flights of stairs by which time it was cold.
But Jessie couldn’t regret coming. The work left her little time to dwell on the past. Coming to the abbey and living within its walls was settling something inside her. For the first time since Seamus had died and Tommy had gone missing, she had come to believe that she could, one day, if not be happy, at least find a way to live. Perhaps here, where the monks had once worshipped, she would even find her way back to God.
This afternoon she was scrubbing stairs. The beautiful red-haired woman from the first day was kneeling next to her, her usually immaculate tresses falling in wisps around her face. With still only the promise of electricity, they had to work by candlelight.
‘How many more, Sister?’ Her companion groaned, as she sat back on her haunches.
‘About fifteen, I think,’ Jessie replied. It still felt awkward to work alongside women who were used to being pampered by servants and, judging by the way this one was dabbing at the steps, they’d be here for the rest of the morning.
Jessie dipped her cloth into the water and wrung it out. ‘Tell you what, Maxwell,’ she said, ‘I’ll do the first scrub, then you give it a final going-over.’ It still felt strange to be addressing these aristocratic women by their surnames.
Her companion tucked her hair behind her ears and grinned. ‘Are you suggesting, Sister, that I’m no good at this?’
Jessie smiled back. ‘It would take less time if I was to do it on my own. No offence, Maxwell.’
‘None taken. Nevertheless, I came here to help and help I shall.’ She eyed her fingernails with dismay. ‘If Lord Livingston could see me now, I doubt he’d still be so keen to marry me.’ She dropped her cloth into the water, wrung it out and started again. Jessie had to admire her perseverance, even if she couldn’t find a good word to say about her technique.
‘Your voice reminds me of the way the servants spoke in our house on Skye,’ Maxwell continued. ‘Are you from there?’
The question took Jessie so much by surprise that she stopped mid-scrub. Maxwell. From Skye? Dear Lord, the only female Maxwell she knew who had a house on Skye was Lady Dorothea Maxwell, daughter of the earl and sister of the man whose disappearance they wanted to question Archie about. She had to prevent her making the connection.
‘I – I was there when I was much younger,’ Jessie said, ‘but I’ve lived in Edinburgh these last years. That was where I trained as a nurse.’
Thankfully, Lady Dorothea seemed content with her answer and didn’t pursue that line of questioning. Jessie was known only as Sister Stuart so there was no reason for anyone to link her to Archie MacCorquodale.
They worked in silence for a while, Jessie’s heart still beating a tattoo against her ribs. Why, oh why did she have to be working with this woman of all people?
‘Did you leave anyone special behind, Sister?’ Lady Dorothea asked eventually.
Jessie sucked in a breath. ‘No, my lady. My husband was with the Seaforth Highlanders and went missing in the battle at Mons.’
‘Forget that “my lady” nonsense, Sister. Remember, you’re supposed to call me Maxwell, at least while we’re here, even if it does sound too ridiculous.’ She glanced at Jessie. ‘I’m sorry about your husband. So many men dead already.’
‘I haven’t given up hope he might still be alive. He’s only presumed dead.’
Lady Dorothea’s eyes were soft. ‘You could be right, Sister. There’s nothing wrong with hoping.’
‘What about you, Maxwell? Do you have anyone in the war?’
A shadow crossed Lady Dorothea’s face. ‘My brothers. Richard and Simon. Simon’s a pilot with the Royal Flying Corps and Richard is with the Scots Guards.’
‘Are they all right?’ Jessie bit her lip. ‘I mean – have you heard from them recently?’
‘They write. Mostly to Mama and Papa. They were both alive ten days ago.’
Jessie hauled the tin bucket up a few more steps. ‘You must worry.’
‘I do, but not as much as Mama and Papa. You see, they’ve already lost one child – my eldest brother Charles – and are frightened they’ll lose another.’
Jessie was glad that Lady Dorothea was now behind her and couldn’t see her face. She was sure it must be blood-red.
‘I’m the only daughter,’ she continued. She gathered her skirts and came to join Jessie on the next step. ‘Sometimes I wish I were a man. I’d like to be flying planes too.’
Despite the nerves fluttering in her stomach, Jessie had to smile at the thought of this elegant woman, with her slim fingers, flying a plane.
‘When do you think we’ll get our first patients?’ Lady Dorothea asked.
‘Dr Ludlow said we have to be inspected by the French authorities first. Then they’ll decide whether we’re ready to take patients.’
Lady Dorothea wiped a hand across her brow. ‘I wish they’d hurry up. I suspect I shall be better at looking after the wounded than I am at scrubbing. At least, I hope so.’ She rubbed her shoulders and grimaced. ‘My body already feels worse than it ever did after a day’s hunting. Much worse.’
They had reached the top step. Although Jessie didn’t feel tired, they’d been hard at work since seven this morning and she knew Lady Dorothea couldn’t have done much physical work before now. And supper wasn’t for another three hours. ‘Why don’t we stop for a cup of tea?’ she suggested. It was pointless, and possibly dangerous, to work these well-bred women too hard – at least until they became used to it.
Lady Dorothea dropped her cloth and rose stiffly to her feet. ‘What an excellent idea,’ she said. ‘A cup of tea is exactly what we need.’
Jessie wrung her cloth out and picked up the pail.
‘I’ll wait in the sitting room, shall I?’ Lady Dorothea said, smoothing down her crumpled skirt.
Jessie paused. It was clear Lady Dorothea expected her to make the tea. But here Jessie was senior to her. As an orderly it was her job to make it, not Jessie’s. She knew if she didn’t stamp her authority now, she would never regain it. She looked Lady Dorothea in the eye, hoping her nervousness wasn’t showing, and raised an eyebrow.
Lady Dorothea stared back, puzzled. Then, to Jessie’s relief, she laughed. ‘Oh, forgive me, Sister. It’s I who should make the tea! Of course. I wasn’t thinking.’ She took the pail from Jessie’s hand. ‘I’ll refill this while I’m doing it, shall I?’
Jessie wondered if Lady Dorothea had ever made a cup of tea in her life. If not, it was time she found out how. But right now the woman was exhausted.
‘Tell you what, Maxwell,’ Jessie said, resisting Lady Dorothea’s attempts to tug the pail from her. ‘I’ll get rid of this while you make the tea. Then I’ll join you in the kitchen for a cup before we get started again.’
When she grinned at her, Jessie had the not entirely welcome notion that she was going to like Lady Dorothea Maxwell.
Chapter 28
France, January 1915
Despite
their optimism, it was after Christmas before the abbey was finally passed fit to receive casualties. The women had worked tirelessly, stopping only for Christmas Day. Although everyone had done their best to make it festive, hanging garlands of holly over the stair banisters, and cook had surprised them with a full Christmas dinner, Jessie had tried to pretend it was just another day. She was glad she hadn’t had to face it alone in Edinburgh: it would have been unbearable without Tommy and Seamus.
At last the abbey looked like a hospital. Electricity had been installed, the X-ray room equipped – albeit with an old soup kettle for developing the films, coal stoves found for every ward, and every bed perfectly made with grey blankets and scarlet coverlets. They had also created an operating theatre upstairs and a receiving room close to the front entrance. Every instrument, trolley and shower room gleamed so brightly it was almost possible to use the surfaces as mirrors – which was as well because mirrors were rare and highly sought after.
However, nothing could have prepared them for the state of the wounded soldiers. Covered with mud, it was difficult to distinguish individual features or even the colour of their uniform trousers. Blood had soaked through their makeshift dressings turning them brown until it was impossible to know what was a wound and what was mud.
Each patient was taken into the receiving room where his uniform was gently removed and placed in a bag to be fumigated. Their soaking puttees had contracted and had to be cut off, revealing blue and red marbled feet or, worse, they were black with gangrene. The men didn’t complain. Not once. Not even when the removal of their frozen puttees must have been agony. When the rancid smell of faeces filled the room, Jessie knew instantly that frostbite and dysentery – not shrapnel – were going to be their first challenge.