Daughters of War

by Lizzie Page

  Some soldiers got into my carriage, overwhelming it immediately with their size and smell. They hauled their battered packs onto the shelves and trod grime into the floor. Low gruff voices. They passed their cigarettes around, murmuring about the Bosch: ‘you could smell his sauerkraut from one hundred miles away,’ etc, etc. I gathered they were stationed in Belgium. I couldn’t help but think wistfully of Elsie Knocker and wonder about the difference she was making out there.

  I hoped they couldn’t smell the contents of the lunchbox that Mrs Crawford had diligently put together. Opening it, I asked them if they wanted anything from it. It turned out they were ravenous.

  ‘Is it very hard out there?’ I asked, as they munched through Mrs Crawford’s ham and cress sandwiches and chewed on her painstakingly sliced carrots.

  ‘It’s bad,’ one of them said. Alarmingly, another man’s eyes filled with tears. I had never seen a grown man cry in public before. I felt stricken. ‘Terrible. Horrendous.’

  ‘Thank you for asking,’ the first said, handing his friend a handkerchief. ‘No one asks.’

  ‘I should do more to help,’ I mumbled. ‘Another carrot?’

  * * *

  Leona had borrowed The Wind in the Willows from the school library. She wanted us to act it out on the train home. As Leona rarely stayed still long enough to read anything, I had to encourage it. She was Mole and Joy was told to be Ratty. I was surprised Joy didn’t kick up. We didn’t know who I should play but Joy insisted, ‘Daddy is absolutely Mr Toad! You can’t be him!’, which condemned me to being Badger (a dear fellow but nothing like me). I read most of the other parts anyway. Leona said I made an excellent train driver and washerwoman, so it wasn’t like I was a complete good-for-nothing.

  Once home, my girls mooched uselessly around the house. Unforgivably, the tennis club was closed for the Christmas vacation. I know Joy wrote at least one letter to Frances Pilkington, begging her for an invitation.

  The newspaper’s lists of the dead grew like children gaining inches. One December morning, at the breakfast table, Joy paled: a girl from school’s older brother had been shot in the head in Belgium. He had been kind to her on Open Day. Joy burst into floods of hot tears, knocking over her boiled egg. George had the cheek to say: ‘Only one? Is that the first you know who has died? Oh, why the face, May? I would have thought there would have been more by now, that’s all.’

  I wrote a letter to the family to express my commiserations. I took my time over the words. It was a distressing task, but I didn’t make a pig’s ear of it.

  * * *

  Percy went down to spend Christmas in St Ives; to absorb the light there. His friends were joining up, or, as he put it, ‘dropping like flies’. He didn’t know what to do with himself.

  Before he left, he gave me a present. Actually, he didn’t give it to me, he just nodded casually over to the window seat: ‘There’s something for you there.’ He shrugged as though he himself had played no part in it. I had bought him a wallet, an impersonal gift, but it was slightly better than what I had originally thought of getting him, which was nothing. The whole idea of us exchanging gifts made me nervous, and when I saw what Percy’s was, I became very nervous indeed. It was a charcoal portrait of me. In it, I was reading the newspaper, and I looked composed, or even serene. A little melancholy maybe, like someone who had married the wrong man and perhaps, in the artist’s mind, was pining for another. Percy was watching me intently, so I kept my eyes on the paper. Oh dear, I thought. I couldn’t share this with Elizabeth.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked in a low voice. He got a washcloth and wiped his hands.

  ‘It’s very beautiful,’ I whispered. It was far more lovely than anything of his I had seen before.

  ‘You’re very beautiful!’ He was facing away from me, so I couldn’t see his expression. I laughed like he’d cracked an enormous joke.

  So, I was quite relieved he was going away for a few weeks.

  * * *

  I was probably more disappointed than the girls that there was no snow on either Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. Charles Dickens had led me to believe that snow was a certainty in London. Still, the sky was a beautiful blue and the trees without their leaves looked strangely romantic as we walked home across the common after church. You could smell Christmas in the air. I imagined that anyone watching us might have thought we looked the very definition of the happy family. Leona and Joy were wrapped up in their winter best, their hands locked in mine. Leona was reciting the stream of jokes she said she had been saving for us.

  ‘Knock, knock.’

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Anna Partridge.’

  ‘Anna Partridge who?’

  ‘Anna Partridge in a pear tree, of course.’

  I didn’t dare meet Joy’s eyes.

  George – whose head had hurt too much to go to church – and I exchanged presents in front of the fireplace, in front of the girls – for the sake of the girls – quietly and without affection. The fire danced and I thought of Elizabeth shivering in her room at home. She wouldn’t cheat, she told me, even if it was Christmas.

  George had got me a bracelet. It was so pretty, I found it hard to take in. George had got this for me? Perhaps he did still love me. Then I saw the tiny ‘B’ hanging from one of the links: B is for Bella. It was like being punched in the stomach. I knew immediately that it was intended for her. The ex-housemaid. The Coventry resident. It just was him all over. He used to buy me gifts with ‘M’ on them. Had he done this on purpose?

  He seemed utterly oblivious to his faux pas.

  Joy wasn’t, though. Examining it like a curator at a museum, she asked: ‘Why is the letter “B” on it, Daddy?’

  George blustered before coming up with: ‘“B” because Mummy is the bee’s knees.’

  Later, he leaned towards me: ‘Forgive me, May, I got my parcels mixed up. There is an “M” upstairs on my bed. This one was meant for my Great-Aunt Beatrice in Ireland.’

  One of my presents to George was a scarf. While my early knitting attempts had wound lopsidedly, mismatching blacks and greys, this was a treat, smooth and straight – with any luck it might strangle him.

  ‘Thank you, I think,’ George said.

  I had also got him a first edition of Treasure Island, a pair of winter gloves and a silver hip flask from the girls, which I had even had engraved. Now I wished I hadn’t plumped for Joy and Leona, but rather chosen more relevant words: Alcoholic, Philanderer or why not Adulterer? Imagine the look on the engraver’s face had I requested that!

  George unwrapped it. ‘Are you trying to say that I drink a lot?’

  I thought, we hardly need presents to say that.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ Leona asked placidly.

  ‘It’s fine!’ he declared.

  * * *

  There were just the four of us for dinner, and although four was vastly preferable to two, of course, I couldn’t help thinking: what kind of family life is this? What example am I setting my girls?

  I don’t know how Mrs Crawford did it: she deserved twice the salary we paid. And yet although the Christmas spread was delicious, nothing could disguise the bitterness in my mouth. This was such a sham, all of it. George didn’t love me. He didn’t even care about me. Why was I allowing myself to be treated in this way?

  Joy picked at the turkey – she was studying domestic science this year and thought she knew everything.

  ‘Are you sure it’s cooked?’ she asked as Mrs Crawford proudly sliced.

  ‘Of course,’ I whispered, annoyed that she would offend my main ally in the house.

  Leona ate it all, declared it yummy and, strange child, could she please have some more Brussels sprouts?

  Meanwhile, George was pouring himself drink after drink. Each glassful made him more slurry than the last.

  ‘Nice leg.’ He brandished the turkey on his fork. ‘You used to have nice legs, didn’t you, May?’ Ignoring him seemed only to agitate him f
urther. ‘And breasts,’ he said, thickly. ‘Remember those schoolgirl blouses you used to wear?’

  ‘Can’t we play a game?’ Leona asked loudly.

  ‘Charades?’ I said.

  ‘I Spy?’ said Joy heroically. I knew she didn’t want to. She hated games and jokes, but she understood when a distraction was needed.

  But before we could do anything, George roused himself. ‘Well, needs must. I have an appointment.’

  I spy a man who can’t wait to weasel out of his family life.

  ‘Not today, surely?’

  He tugged awkwardly at his cravat. (Not his new scarf.) ‘I’ll take my hip flask.’

  Like that made up for it.

  ‘Right.’ Leona didn’t even bother to look up.

  ‘Wish I was at school,’ muttered Joy.

  I wished we were all at school. I wished we were anywhere but here.

  Once he had gone, the girls and I played a desolate I Spy for a few rounds. ‘Sill’ was Joy’s ‘S’. Leona thought ‘black crow’ was a ‘b’ and one word. Mine was ‘L’ for Leona, which infuriated Joy, so I did ‘J’ for Joy, but this just annoyed them both.

  Our fire was nearly out but I didn’t like to call Mrs Crawford, not today. She was aching to get back to her boy, James, who was home on leave.

  ‘Why don’t we go for a walk?’

  ‘We already walked to church and back,’ said Joy flatly.

  A noise from downstairs made me go over to the window. The girls followed me, and there I saw her – ‘B’. George went over to her, reached for her and embraced her. They stayed conjoined like that for one, maybe two minutes. All this in front of my house. In front of my girls. There was my proof.

  I realised suddenly what Elizabeth had meant when she said it changes nothing.

  * * *

  Two days later, an envelope arrived, postmarked Belgium. I couldn’t think who was writing to me from the continent, so opened it disinterestedly. Inside was a card, a late Christmas card. On the front was a sketch of a robin redbreast on a snowy branch, a sweet, endearing image. Somehow, it was a surprise to find it was from Percy’s friend, Elsie Knocker.

  Sweet May, I have moved to a cellar…

  ‘A cellar?’ I said aloud.

  The letter went on: I know! I had to get nearer to the wounded: the long journeys were killing them. I have founded an emergency clinic only fifty yards from the Western Front. The faster we treat them, the better: the men are coming on a treat. Don’t worry, I am not alone. I am with a wonderful wee lassie named Mairi – she and I may be crazy fools, but if you were here, and you saw what we see, I know you would understand.

  I wasn’t sure that was true.

  I bet you are wondering why I sent you this robin? It’s a reminder – you can fly…

  At the bottom was an address: If you are still ‘bored’, get in touch with these people. You do not need experience with them. I repeat, you do NOT need experience. Tell them I sent you. Oh, but May, whatever you do, don’t tell them you’re married.

  Things to do!!!

  Pack!

  Sort out the girls.

  Enquire after Mrs Crawford’s boy, James.

  Will Mrs Crawford want to stay? Emphasise that it is her decision. She is HER OWN WOMAN.

  Cheerio to Percy!

  Farewell to Elizabeth.

  Tell George!!!

  8

  Joy asked if she could see in the New Year with the adorable Pilkingtons. Apologetically, I told her she couldn’t, not this year, this year was going to be different…

  She didn’t speak to me for the entire evening.

  Everything felt as though it was happening for the last time. Even the most mundane things were suddenly meaningful and huge. The French Red Cross had called me in for an interview. Two older women asked questions in heavily accented English. I didn’t have to lie outright about anything, for they didn’t ask directly if I had a husband and daughters. I skirted around the question of commitments but told them that I absolutely must be home for the summer. They agreed that I would be entitled to two weeks’ leave. What’s more, with a bit of prior notice I could return to England any time I requested (‘Oh good heavens, yes, it’s a hospital not a prison’). The only thing that had confuddled them was that I was American, but funnily enough, it was on this topic that I could speak with the greatest fluency: ‘For me, it’s not about patriotism, it’s not about nationalism, I simply want to help those most in need.’

  I like to think it was my polemics that swung it, but most probably it was a testament to their desperation. I would be joining a Voluntary Aid Detachment. ‘Not quite nursing,’ the older of the two women said vaguely, ‘but with some nursing duties.’

  Later, I realised something else. The interview had mostly consisted of questions about my finances. Would I be self-supporting? Yes. Was I sure? Er, yes, quite sure. Would I be able to afford the uniform? ‘Certainly,’ I said before I discovered that it consisted of three dresses, sixteen aprons, a cap, sleeves, a stiff white collar, black stockings and black shoes (rubber soles only).

  ‘Sixteen aprons,’ I repeated, wondering if there was not some mistake with the numbers. ‘So many!’

  They gave each other a look, and I feared the look said ‘work-shy’.

  ‘I’m not afraid to get my aprons dirty!’ I said quickly. ‘Sixteen it is. Perfect!’

  I was given a date, a chit I could exchange for a ticket to France, a further list of items I’d need and an address, and that was it: ‘toodlepip,’ as Leona liked to say.

  * * *

  Mrs Crawford had been shocked when I told her my plans, but once she got over her surprise, she said warmly, ‘I never expected this of you!’ and ‘Mrs Turner, you’re doing us proud – I can’t wait to tell my James!’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. It was such a rare thing to be praised I hardly knew what to do with it.

  ‘To think, last year, you barely got out of bed and now you’re going to be helping our boys in their hospital beds.’

  ‘Exactly so,’ I grimaced. This memory was hurtful but I don’t think Mrs Crawford intended to be. ‘And very kind you were to me then too.’

  Mrs Crawford was adamant she would help with my girls, especially if there was a hold-up or whatnot in France. I knew she would, too. She had always been there for us; she was the first person I knew in London – but it was still reassuring to hear her commitment. ‘I’ll even take them to their tennis if I must,’ she said, wincing slightly. I had ranted about that club often enough. ‘It won’t be necessary,’ I assured her. ‘I’ll always be back for the girls.’

  * * *

  January fourth was the girls’ last night at home. They still bathed together, and that night they laughed, fought and sprayed water over each other like they usually did. Then, when they came tumbling out, I wrapped them up in towels and cuddled them down. Leona liked me to brush her hair but Joy said I was ‘too pully’ and even ‘Ow, you did that on purpose!’ Leona liked to borrow my clothes and walk around the room in my grown-up shoes. (Joy did too, but she would never admit it.)

  I taught my daughters a game that Grandma Leonora and I used to play: I set out some objects on a tray, which they could look at for no more than five seconds. I took it away, then returned with the tray but with one item missing that they had to guess.

  ‘Is it Daddy’s old spectacles?’

  ‘No, they’re there.’

  ‘The thimble?’

  ‘Try again!’

  ‘Was it the magnifying glass?’

  Leona got it first. ‘It’s Mummy’s locket…’

  It was my most precious thing. A gift from my grandma when I was younger than Leona was now. I showed it to them both. A picture of each of them, one in each side. Two smiling sisters with wide eyes.

  ‘I’ll always wear it,’ I said, suddenly tearful. They looked at me nervously.

  ‘Is it my turn?’ asked Leona.

  * * *

  Packing the girls’ trunks, I
found the bits that had crept under their beds or were rolled up at the back of the drawers or, in the case of Leona’s bear, Cardinal Wolsey, had found its way into the large china wash-jug. Leona hugged me and her bear again tightly.

  ‘Daddy says you’re rubbish at everything, but you’re not. You’re very good at finding the things that are missing,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t believe everything Daddy says,’ I said as lightly as I could.

  ‘Don’t believe anything Daddy says.’ Joy looked at me slyly, then whispered, ‘Sorry.’

  * * *

  I had to tell them about my trip.

  ‘I will pick you up first day of vacation. Don’t ever think I won’t be there.’

  Joy scowled. ‘Of course, Mummy, why wouldn’t you?’ She stopped mid-brush, waiting for my answer.

  I said in my most casual voice, ‘Well, I’m going to live in France for a bit.’

  They both stared at me.

  ‘I’m going to work in a hospital. It’s about time Mummy did her bit for the war effort, don’t you think?’

  I had feared an upset, but they both took it in their stride. Joy nodded thoughtfully. ‘You’ll be here in summer though, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ I would have promised anything; I was so relieved that she, especially, hadn’t taken it badly. ‘Nothing could hold me back. And Joy, make sure you practise your backstroke as often as you can.’