Daughters of War

by Lizzie Page

  Being among the artists in their colourful waistcoats and tilted berets made me think of Percy Milhouse. I had no idea what he was doing now. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have met Elsie Knocker, and if it wasn’t for Elsie, I wouldn’t be here so I was grateful to him.

  Kitty and I found a wrought-iron bench to perch on while we waited. Kitty sat still as though it was her posing for a picture. She was wearing very nice gloves that showed off her small hands. Women hung out wet clothes on the balconies above us. Two people were shouting about train times. Nearby, a soldier embraced a woman.

  ‘I don’t think I’m capable of love,’ I said suddenly, staring at the pair as they kissed. ‘All that has gone, emptied out.’ The thought of George stroking my face made me feel suddenly nauseous.

  Kitty nodded sympathetically. She never said very much about herself. We got up and walked around the artists again.

  ‘How about you?’ I asked.

  ‘How about me, what?’ Kitty paused at a pencil drawing of a house wrapped in ivy. ‘This is pretty.’

  ‘Have you ever been in love?’ This was my chance to get her to admit something about Gordon.

  Just as Kitty was about to reveal all, Bonnie flew over to us, her cape flying, her grin broad. She unravelled her picture excitedly.

  ‘What do you think?’

  It looked nothing like her. Her moon-face had been slimmed down, her eyes placed closer together and her teeth had been straightened. At the bottom, there was a big scribble, the artist’s name presumably, and the date: 29 October 1915.

  I didn’t know what to say. ‘Freddie will love it,’ I decided finally. Kitty joined in, without meeting my eye. ‘Oh, what a wonderful gift for Freddie!’

  * * *

  That evening, back at the camp, Bonnie couldn’t wait to show everyone her portrait. She had no qualms: this was what the artist saw and that was that. In the canteen, amid the fug of vegetable stew, she untied her paper lovingly. She wouldn’t let anyone else touch it. ‘Mind yer grubby mitts,’ she called as she held it in front of our noses.

  ‘Who is that supposed to be?’ Gordon asked before adding, ‘I’m joking, Bonnie, it’s the very image of you!’

  Matron sniffed. ‘How much did that set you back?’

  * * *

  It rained that night and the ground outside turned into mud. I listened to the raindrops pattering the cloth roof of our tent and the distant muffled sound of explosions. Matron, the woman I perhaps liked least in the whole of France, was snoring next to me. George used to snore, so I was used to it, but Matron’s snores were more sporadic. That wasn’t a good thing. Sometimes, when they stopped, I’d think she was dead. Then would come a cacophony of uneven breaths.

  I thought about the poor men on our wards and on the streets of Paris: illness and sadness and injuries all over the place. And lice and lice bites and disinfectant. And the way they lived with fear. Then boredom. Then fear again. What a thing to ask of our fellow beings. I thought about my work: Bedpans. Dressings. Cleaning wounds. The taking and noting of temperatures. I knew I wasn’t much more than a glorified housemaid. And I was constantly damp. Everything smelled damp. My boots were too tight. My socks never seemed to dry. And I was exhausted. We yawned from morning to night.

  We now had our tea without sugar, without cream. Bread was rationed. Farmer Norest’s chickens were still refusing to lay. We called the food ‘basic’, but it was worse than that. And, even though the meals were diabolical, it still made me indignant to see that Matron seemed to get more than anyone else. And the mattresses: God help me, but they really were horrendous. Was there any point in them at all?

  I spotted a cockroach hanging from the tent pole. It scuttled off, thank goodness – the last thing I wanted was that beast running over my face. As I lay there, damp, hungry, exhausted, I thought, I have never been so content in my life. I had escaped. I had escaped twice: my parents and now George. This was liberation, this was freedom. Out there was a repulsive war, yet there were beneficiaries and I was one of them.

  Purpose, that’s what it was: I was making a contribution, stamping my place. For the first time in my life, I mattered, I belonged. It was the best feeling in the world.

  Best ways to begin a love letter for boys to send to their sweethearts back home

  My darling

  My dear

  My sweetheart

  My love

  My wife

  My beloved.

  17

  Two men were waiting at the entrance to my ward. Deep in conversation, they strode in, like they were attending a dinner party at an ambassador’s house. They were talking in French although only one, the taller one, had a native French speaker’s fluency. The other – short and tubby – I was almost certain was English.

  ‘Have you met Elsie Knocker?’ I overheard the one who was most likely English say to the other. ‘What a looker! My God, if only all the nurses looked like her, I’d make a blighty wound myself— He-llooo!’ he said hastily as he noticed me.

  ‘I’m sorry we can’t provide more lookers for you, sir,’ I said brightly.

  ‘He told me the nurses couldn’t speak French!’ he responded, grinning widely and pointing to his friend. He didn’t seem at all embarrassed to be caught out.

  ‘Some of us can,’ I snapped but at the same time, I smiled at him. It was hard not to. I turned to the tall friend. His uniform was crisp and smart and he smelled faintly of gasoline.

  This one, the tall one, the one most probably a native French speaker, looked thoroughly awkward. His pale skin flushed from his collar upwards. ‘I’m so sorry, we shouldn’t have assumed,’ he said. The reddening of his cheeks did nothing to detract from his handsomeness. He had strong, symmetrical features and his eyes were intelligent and soft. ‘Please accept my apology.’ His English was perfect too, and I quickly realised he probably wasn’t French or English but both. ‘And mine,’ said Short and Tubby quickly.

  ‘We’re here to take Sergeant Radcliffe to the ambulance train.’

  I was surprised. ‘Didn’t they tell you? Our people will transport…’

  But Tall and Slender raised his hand as though making a point in class. ‘We wanted to make sure he was comfortable.’ He looked at Short and Tubby. ‘It’s the least we could do.’

  Sergeant Radcliffe was his driver. He had been shot and was now blinded.

  ‘Three young daughters back home to support,’ murmured Tall and Slender quietly. He paused, searching for the right words. ‘A terrible shame.’

  As far as I was concerned, it was unusual for the higher orders to acknowledge not only the physical degradations their men were suffering but the financial indignities they were about to face too. I decided I liked this man – he wasn’t just an extremely handsome face.

  He introduced himself. He was Major Louis Spears and, like a fool, I thought to myself, Louis, I’ve always liked the name Louis! That’s a name fit for a king.

  ‘And I’m Winston Churchill,’ said Short and Tubby. ‘First Lord of the Admiralty.’

  ‘And I’m May Turner,’ I said. ‘I’m, er, a VAD nurse.’ It was fortunate I got it right, because in my head, ridiculously, I was trying out the sound of a brand-new name: May Spears, May Antonia Spears.

  * * *

  With great care, Major Spears – Louis – lifted the pillow and helped to raise poor Sergeant Radcliffe up. He’d been in for over a month and I had been moved by his positive attitude. Only one time, when he told me that he could only see darkness, did his voice crack. The rest of the time, he managed to smile, eat with great appetite and tease us nurses. ‘I keep going over in my head – which is worse, to lose a leg or an eye?’ he once asked me.

  ‘I don’t know. Which is worse?’

  ‘Both eyes.’

  Now they were all three laughing at something. I watched Louis and felt something I hadn’t felt for a long time – since I was sixteen, maybe – that the world was full of possibilities. Then Gordon arrived and intro
duced himself and there was discussion and more laughter.

  Gordon took them off to show them some of our new equipment. He was excited about the progress being made in blood transfusion and always keen to talk about it with anyone willing to listen. These men were the right audience. Winston was loudly asking questions; he was one of those curious souls, clearly hungry to find out everything. Louis was more measured. I saw him examine Gordon’s box of tricks and then study his face. They all looked very serious suddenly, then Winston said something else and they all nodded in agreement. I could have watched them for a long time, but Matron returned and told me that we were nearly out of name-tags for the patients: ‘Run along, Nurse Turner,’ she scolded. ‘Make up some new ones, quickly.’

  * * *

  I wanted to say something to Louis before he left. I felt – it sounds ridiculous – that we had what Gordon might call ‘a connection’. Kitty might have said it was ‘a chemical reaction’. She would go into the science, the biology or the hormones. Bonnie might say, ‘Come off it, May, you just fancy him rotten.’

  I didn’t dare to think what Matron would say.

  * * *

  We still had Sergeant Radcliffe to see to. I got the wheelchair and we lifted him into it, then rolled him out towards the road. Then Winston and Louis unceremoniously put him in the car. It was good to see their teamwork. Although Sergeant Radcliffe couldn’t see a thing, he was still cracking jokes. ‘You always take me away from all the lovely girls…’

  Louis and Winston thanked me, even though there was no need; I had done no more than my duty.

  ‘Well,’ I said, like a star-struck fool, ‘you know where I am.’

  Winston laughed. ‘I try to avoid hospitals as much as I can.’

  ‘Except where the nurses look like Elsie Knocker?’

  ‘Ah well… what’s a rule without an exception?’ He smiled at me, and I think if we had been in a different place – at a dinner party at an ambassador’s house, perhaps – he might have pinched my cheek. ‘You’re not so bad yourself, Nurse Turner.’

  Silly to be so flattered but I was.

  ‘Anyway, it wasn’t you I was talking to!’ I grinned. He laughed – we both knew that.

  Louis blushed, then, for some reason, saluted me. I found myself saluting back and then looking straight into his clear, bright eyes. He took my breath away.

  ‘You’re very close to the front line here,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t it worry you?’

  ‘It does worry me,’ I admitted. I thought of Nurse Elle Harcourt. ‘But I won’t let it stop me.’

  He chewed his lip thoughtfully.

  ‘You’re braver than I.’

  Before I could deny it, he said, ‘I’m out to the Near East tonight. Eight weeks.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said regretfully. ‘Oh. Good luck.’

  ‘Thank you. Perhaps I might see you when I’m back?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I repeated, but because this sounded a little flat, I added, ‘definitely’ and straight away regretted it because that sounded too keen.

  * * *

  I couldn’t concentrate at all that afternoon. How ridiculous of me. What kind of catch was I, a separated woman with two children? I was as weighed down as any stretcher-bearer. I could not have looked more dowdy. And yet, those blue eyes alighting on mine transported me to a place of hope.

  I started a wash of clothes that were already clean. Sterilising scissors, knives and strange instruments. More name-tags. You’re braver than I, he had said.

  Kitty sidled over to me. ‘What is going on with you today, May? You’re away with the fairies.’

  Eight weeks? I thought to myself. Eight weeks is nothing!

  ‘Eggs for tea,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you hear? Farmer Norest’s chickens laid yesterday.’

  Kitty squinted at me playfully. ‘Hmmm… I’m watching you, May Turner.’

  18

  The war wasn’t over by Christmas 1915. Instead, I had one week’s leave. I had offered to accompany some patients back, but was told I wasn’t needed, so from the moment I left our hospital I was free to dream without interruption about being reunited with my girls. I had scheduled every hour of the winter break, nothing had been left to chance. My action girls liked to be busy and, I suppose, I was afraid of what might come up if they weren’t.

  Gordon, Kitty and Matron were staying behind. Bonnie had already left to see her Freddie and to show her family her ‘Paris picture’.

  ‘No one can say I’m not sophisticated,’ she said proudly as she waved us goodbye, portrait in hand, in case anyone wanted a last admire.

  ‘No one dare say it,’ laughed Gordon, patting her head affectionately.

  Kitty hugged me goodbye, whispering: ‘We don’t want another Somme baby, May!’

  ‘That’s the very last thing on my mind.’

  Kitty hugged me again.

  ‘Shame Matron is staying,’ I ventured daringly. ‘She’s determined to chaperone you and Gordon, isn’t she?’

  Kitty looked at me, her wide eyes wider than ever. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing!’ I said. Two could play at this game.

  * * *

  On the boat was a young nurse who seemed to be struggling with her patients so, although I didn’t know her, I went over to see if I could assist. She was in charge of six, I think, and some didn’t look too healthy. Up close, she appeared even younger and her features were freckly and fresh. She briskly turned down my offers of assistance. One of her patients told me she worked in Belgium, and I was going to ask where exactly she was based, but she was so stony-faced that I didn’t dare. I could only assume that, like so many people, she had recently had some bad news. And so I put her out of my mind. I would be with my daughters soon, I should concentrate on that.

  * * *

  There were fewer taxis at Waterloo than I had imagined there would be; another thing they were running out of in London, perhaps. Still, I had only to wait thirty minutes or so and it wasn’t too cold for December. Changing into my civilian clothes had felt like shedding an old skin. I was looking forward to taking a bath – the showers at the hospital weren’t too terrible but a bath in privacy would be a treat.

  On the common, children were play-fighting the Bosch. It reminded me of how we used to pretend to be cowboys, back in Chicago. It seemed to me that children everywhere enjoyed a good battle with sticks. (If only they just used sticks on the Western Front…)

  I was nearly home when I thought the day-to-day conversations I have with Kitty, Bonnie and Gordon would not be appropriate here. Back in civilisation, I had to put on a veneer of decorum. It was not that our talk was crude, it was just that we were straightforward out of necessity. I suppose there was also a darkness in our conversations, a black humour that probably wouldn’t go down too well in London, even if it was now nearly 1916. (How time had flown!)

  By the time I reached the house, I was aching to see my daughters. The longing almost felt like a physical pain. Through the window the lights were golden and welcoming, but when I rang the doorbell, no one came. I rapped firmly. Finally, I heard unhurried footsteps in the hall: Mrs Crawford was coming at last. I couldn’t wait to sink into her arms, to tell her all my news. She had been proud of me, after all – but the door swung open and to my shock, I saw it wasn’t Mrs Crawford. It was a much older woman with white hair and tiny yellow teeth like corn on the cob. She looked even less pleased to see me than I was to see her.

  ‘Much obliged,’ she said, trying to push the door shut. I had put my boot there though. She smelled of cleaning fluid. I thought longingly of the bath upstairs. Not long now.

  ‘Who are you?’

  This displeased her further.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I…’ I thought I’d try a different tack. ‘Is Mrs Crawford available?’

  ‘Gone.’ I hadn’t heard a word of this and I didn’t see how it was possible – Mrs Crawford was as much a fixture of the house as the Silver Birch or the hat stand was.<
br />
  ‘Gone? Gone where?’

  ‘Doing her bit, I ’spect,’ scowled the interloper, while trying to push the door shut again.

  I told the woman who I was. Her mouth fell open; she wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  ‘Oh! No! But… you’re… you’re not allowed in, Mrs Turner.’

  I was so bewildered, I almost burst out laughing. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Mr Turner says he don’t want you here no more.’ She looked behind her, then leaned forward to whisper, ‘He says if you turn up, to call the police.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said firmly, but I was shocked. ‘This is my home.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Where are my girls?’ I asked quietly.

  She hesitated. I fixed my eyes on her, squinting, until she answered. ‘Still at school. He’s not getting them ‘til tomorrow.’

  ‘But they finished today, they are supposed to be here now.’

  ‘He was too poorly to go. Under the circumstances, the headmistress agreed to put them up for one extra night.’

  ‘Poorly? You mean he was drunk?’

  She shook her head at me meaningfully.

  ‘They’ll definitely be here tomorrow? You see, I wrote George. He knows I’m coming.’

  She paused. ‘Not until tomorrow night.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Master won’t be up until after midday. He likes to sleep in.’ I sighed. For goodness’ sake. ‘But you mustn’t come, Mrs Turner. He won’t let you see them.’

  * * *

  I needed to get to the school as quickly as I could, this much was clear. I had to get there before George. There were no motorised taxis available, so I had to swallow my fears and take a horse-drawn carriage back to the station. I hated every neigh and whinny that beast made, but I did it. Once at the station, though, I found my intrepidness had not paid off and luck was not on my side – there were no trains until late the following morning.