Daughters of War

by Lizzie Page

  ‘He’s young and strong,’ I reminded Gordon. ‘And handsome…’ It was gratifying to see that my feeble humour made him smile. ‘He’s in the best place, with the best doctors – apart from you, of course.’

  * * *

  I was sitting with Gordon in the canteen, contemplating our miserable potato soup, when the second telegram came, not six hours later. Gordon rose, his expression tight.

  He read it, then shook his head at me.

  ‘He didn’t make it.’ Gordon stalked off to his tent and I didn’t see him for the next day. When I passed him a while later in theatre, he looked all right – he was as cleanly shaven and as tidy as ever – but if you looked closely, and if you knew him before, you would see that the light in his eyes had gone out.

  * * *

  It wasn’t for a little while after my illness that I realised that Matron and I had stopped bickering. In fact, we occasionally shared anecdotes or gentle looks. One night, she was so tired, I offered to brush her hair and to my surprise she agreed. Her hair was long, grey and very beautiful and I told her so. She smiled and said her mother used to tell her it was her best feature.

  ‘What’s your mother like, Matron?’ I asked.

  ‘She died when I was very young,’ she said abruptly. ‘I was brought up by my grandfather and he was very distant.’

  ‘That must have been hard.’

  Matron looked lost for words. Finally, she found them: ‘It was what it was.’

  I probably shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help but think, that explains a lot.

  38

  I was back at work: they put me in post-operative with Bonnie. There were a lot of men, but we did our best to keep everyone’s spirits up. Bonnie told me that she had a sweetheart, Billy. He’d been with us for a fever that no one had ever quite got to the bottom of and got himself sent home on sick leave.

  I felt a bit ashamed that I had no idea about this. It was like the pregnancy all over again. You wouldn’t think Bonnie was that secretive. She shrugged complacently. ‘But you were ill, May. How would you know?’

  It had started with the autograph book. Billy had written little poems to her, and then one time he wrote, ‘Would you be my girl?’ How could Bonnie resist? He regularly sent packages, the contents of which both impressed and amused us.

  ‘Billy bought Bonnie bully-beef?’ asked Gordon, one eyebrow raised. ‘Does he also sell seashells on the seashore?’

  Bonnie ignored him. ‘Me and Billy want to marry soon.’

  Kitty froze. I think it was the first she’d heard of it. ‘Why?’ she asked, her voice unsteady.

  ‘You know… so we can… you know.’

  ‘That didn’t stop you last time,’ Kitty said.

  Apparently, Billy already had a sweetheart in England, but Bonnie assured us he was going to break up with her.

  ‘It’s not like they’re properly engaged,’ she said brightly. ‘At least, she doesn’t have his ring. He can work on the machines with my pa, he’s keen to take on an apprentice.’

  Bonnie made life seem so simple, so straightforward. Did I over-complicate everything? Whatever it was, I admired Bonnie and her ability to choose happiness. I knew I could learn a lot from her, but I also knew that, as Mrs Crawford would have put it, she was a very different fish from me.

  * * *

  On our next afternoon off, one misty November morning, Bonnie stayed back at camp to clean her clothes and write to her Billy, so it was just me and Kitty wandering into town. I preferred it that way. When Bonnie wasn’t talking about Billy, she talked about baby Freddie and although I knew how desperately painful it was for her to be away from her baby, I kept thinking to myself, you only saw him a few weeks ago, and you’ll see him shortly. I haven’t seen my girls for months now! And then I hated myself for thinking like that because it wasn’t Bonnie’s fault and anyway, our situations were not alike.

  As we stomped along in our winter boots, Kitty was in contemplative mood; we talked about life before the war and life after the war.

  ‘I can’t go back to Bethnal Green,’ she said firmly.

  I was surprised. I had heard Bonnie and Kitty reminisce so many times about the games they played, the vegetables they grew and the boys who chased them that I had assumed they would both return as soon as possible.

  ‘What will you do instead?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  * * *

  It was early in the morning and I was in the canteen when I saw Louis and a man walking towards me. However, Louis was lagging behind as though he didn’t quite want to arrive. The man he was with was wearing a long black cloak like a cape, which somehow matched his long and drooping moustache. He looked entirely unlike the military men I was used to seeing, and very different from my own, dear Louis.

  My first impression was that either the man was in fancy dress, or he was a runaway from a circus. I couldn’t imagine what on earth Louis was doing with him, or why he was bringing him over to me.

  ‘I believe you two know each other?’ said Louis curtly.

  ‘I c-c-can’t believe I found you, May Turner,’ the cloaked man said. He shook my hand up and down like he was trying to extract water from a well. ‘How the devil are you?’

  ‘Good God!’ I uttered when I had finally worked out who it was. ‘I don’t believe it! Percy!’

  It seemed that the War Office had caught up with Percy, even insulated and isolated as he was, in his studio apartment overlooking the common at Battersea, and he was told he had to do something. Percy was open about it: ‘I didn’t want to fight, but I wanted to do what I could, without dying that is, and I knew I could d-draw soldiers. Thought I would glorify it a bit. Paul Nash got me in. You’ve heard of him, no? May, you still haven’t heard of anyone! The first day, the fellow I was next to went pooooooffff, flew up ten feet in the air, dead as a d-d-odo. I couldn’t draw for two weeks for the shaking. Then they drugged me up, shipped me back and here I am.’

  Louis edged away, muttering something about meetings he had to go to.

  Percy looked relieved. ‘He’s not the friendliest…’

  He took something out of his Princess Mary box and inhaled it. Sniffffff! His face was suddenly suffused with peace.

  ‘I’m feeling much better now.’

  I had still hardly said a word. Percy hadn’t noticed though.

  ‘Doing a series on stretcher-bearers, orderlies, doctors and nurses. Unsung heroes. The British public will love it.’ He surveyed me. ‘Thought, I know the v-v-very girl.’

  ‘I would have thought you’d want to draw Elsie,’ I said as soon as I could get a word in edgeways.

  ‘In her b-b-bloody cellar house? No, thank you. Blimey, it was hit-and-miss enough coming out here!’ He eyed me disappointedly. ‘Why aren’t you in uniform?’

  ‘I’m not on until later,’ I protested. ‘And anyway, I don’t want to be drawn, Percy – I was just having some tea.’

  Luckily for me, Bonnie walked in just then, and she was wearing her uniform! And very lovely she looked in it too.

  ‘Do her instead,’ I said. I called out, ‘Bonnie, over here a minute!’

  ‘I wanted you, May,’ Percy muttered awkwardly. I pretended not to hear him.

  When Bonnie came over, I explained. ‘Mr Percy Milhouse here wondered if he might sketch you? He’s, um, a very highly regarded artist.’

  Bonnie’s face lit up, as I’d expected it might.

  ‘Have you heard of me?’ asked Percy.

  ‘Who hasn’t?’ said Bonnie vaguely.

  Percy remained unenthusiastic. However, he dutifully picked up his sketch pad and his pencil and began. He looked at Bonnie with the same diligence as he did his triangles and squares. He sketched. I went to make them some coffee and, from a distance, watched Percy’s elbows and hands move in that strange rhythm as I had done hundreds of times before, back in London. Within minutes, Bonnie looked bored. She kept smoothing down her skirt, which I knew would irritate him.

&nb
sp; About ten minutes later, he unclipped the picture from his board and turned it towards her.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ said Bonnie, looking anxiously from it to me. She really was a terrible liar. ‘Can I go now?’

  As I walked her out, she whispered, ‘I preferred the one from Montmartre.’

  ‘I owe you,’ I whispered.

  I went back to Percy, who was laboriously packing his things away.

  ‘So, whatever happened to Georgie Porgy?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘Oh, we drifted apart. Percy…’ I knew I had to say something about him being in the divorce, but he wasn’t making it easy.

  ‘Kissed the girls and made them cry, did he?’

  ‘Something like that…’

  Percy moved over to me, then suddenly he got to the floor. His knees were in the dirt and his hands were on my knees. It was excruciating. Katherine, Millicent and the other team were coming in and I saw them gazing over at us in amazement.

  ‘Percy, please get up,’ I hissed.

  ‘I heard about the divorce.’

  ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘I always thought if you ever left George, you and I would make a go of it.’ He made a grab for my hands.

  I spluttered.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Of course! I was working up to asking you…’

  I shook my head from side to side. Could I have been any clearer?

  ‘Please don’t, Percy, there’s no need for this… show.’

  Percy finally did rise. He pulled out the seat next to me. I could see Katherine’s excitement. I knew exactly what she would be thinking: I thought Nurse Turner was with the Major! Who the devil is this strange-looking guy?

  ‘But you d-d-disappeared,’ Percy continued.

  ‘I did tell you I was coming out here,’ I said, thinking back to our last meeting. The kiss that he had planted on my hand. The you are very precious to me.

  ‘I didn’t think you actually would,’ Percy said, as though that decided everything. ‘I thought it was a bluff. I thought you wanted me to propose… I’ve regretted it ever since.’

  I shook my head helplessly. Surely he knew he was blatantly rewriting history, and if he could do it, he who was employed to document it, what hope did any of us have?

  After a bit, Percy’s hands got shaky again and he went to take whatever it was in his Princess Mary box and I told him I really had to get ready for work.

  * * *

  Twenty days to go until Christmas leave. I no longer believed the war would end in time for Christmas 1916. I no longer believed the war would ever end. We decorated the wards with holly, ivy and a small twig of mistletoe. Someone brought in a tree. It wasn’t exactly a Christmas tree, but it would have to do. We decided we would buy each of the men a secret something from Santa and put them under the not exactly a Christmas tree. Everyone wants something to open on Christmas morning. The men who could sit upright made paper chains out of newspapers. My girls and I had done this once…

  Farmer Norest’s chickens were as temperamental as ever, but a huge campaign in England meant thousands of eggs were being shipped out to French hospitals daily. The Germans were bombing our ships, but those eggs kept on getting through. A nearly fresh egg from a farm in Kent or Sussex could almost put a smile on an injured soldier’s face.

  ‘Egg-citing,’ we went around saying. ‘Egg-straordinary.’

  I couldn’t wait to tell Leona the puns, I knew she would adore them.

  * * *

  A few nights after Percy’s visit, after my shift Louis and I sat in the canteen, drinking black tea from tin mugs. We both knew it would be the last time we would see each other for a while. The next time would be in 1917.

  ‘A better year for everybody, I hope,’ Louis said grimly.

  ‘It couldn’t be much worse, could it?’

  The picture of Bonnie was laid out in front of us – it was quite charming, really. Percy had said to give it to her but Bonnie was adamant she didn’t want it – why did he have to draw my nose like that? It’s not that big, is it? She refused even to send it to her Billy, so I had been landed with it and couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. Outside, the moon was full and heavy; it was the sort of night the Gotha pilots liked. Louis’ cigarette dangled from the side of his mouth.

  ‘You had a thing with that artist fella then?’ Louis asked shortly. His hands remained in his pockets like he was trying to stop himself from doing something. His disappointment was palpable

  ‘He may have had a thing for me,’ I admitted awkwardly, ‘but it wasn’t reciprocated.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Louis. He finally removed the cigarette from between his lips.

  ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’ I couldn’t help teasing.

  ‘On a scale of one to ten?’ Louis grinned.

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘I’d say a nine.’

  We both grinned.

  Louis stubbed out his cigarette then lit another. ‘I trusted you to have better taste.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not fair! Percy’s actually a very nice man.’

  ‘I’m sure he is.’ Finally, Louis looped his fingers around mine. That smile, those eyes…nothing could hold my attention like Louis could. ‘But I’m a better match for you.’

  * * *

  I dressed smartly to travel back to London and when I went to say my goodbyes to the patients, I got a few wolf whistles, which made me laugh.

  ‘You’re a tonic,’ announced one cheeky chappie and another said, ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’

  I thought guiltily of Elizabeth, who I had once said the same thing about. I would make it up to her soon.

  It was 21 December. In two days, I would have my girls.

  Five great things about Christmas with my girls

  Reading ‘The Night Before Christmas’ in bed on Christmas Eve (clever Joy knows the names of all the reindeers).

  Their faces when they wake up and see that St Nicholas has visited!

  Crossing the common after church.

  Watching Leona clear her plate and ask for more Brussels sprouts.

  Christmas pudding.

  Mistletoe.

  39

  I walked fast from Clapham Junction train station. It was cold and damp. Far too much weather, I thought. Grey skies no delight. Apparently, there had been snow at the beginning of December, a wonderful four inches of snow, but there was no sign of it now. I’d missed it all. Once again, it felt strange to be among the civilians. So many children and old people. These were the ones I had missed in France. My rucksack was full of presents. Nothing could ever compensate for my absence, but I would damn well try: sewing equipment from a stall in Amiens, little chocolate coins from a street hawker at Dover. Pens and second-hand books and black and white postcards bought from the banks of the Seine, complete with little squiggled promises, ‘I will take you here one day’. And Louis’ thoughtful gift: two pretty brooches to match mine.

  I couldn’t get back quick enough. Each step was bringing me closer to my girls. I marched where the recruits had once marched. I marched where we had returned from church. I marched away from Louis, Kitty, Bonnie and the Somme. I marched towards my daughters.

  I stood outside my house, surveying it for a moment. That this was once my home seemed incredible to me. I remembered the first time I saw this house: standing outside it, George telling me we had bought it, it was all ours. There was a bicycle chained to the railings outside. Was it Joy’s, or perhaps Leona’s? The sight of it, the possibility that it was theirs, made me smile to myself. But where was the silver birch? He couldn’t have pulled it down, could he? Surely even George wouldn’t… No, there it was, to the side of the house. Proud and strong. In my imagination, I had put it in the wrong place. I laughed to myself.

  I really had been away a long time.

  * * *

  George appeared at the door, mercifully quickly. I was relieved it wasn’t the angry replacement housekeeper again. He was sporting a differe
nt moustache. It was strange seeing him again after so long, and for a moment, I felt a weird kind of affection for his homely face. I could have put my arms around him. He was familiar. He stood for the pre-Somme, old times – actually, yes, a less topsy-turvy universe. That is, until he spoke.

  ‘I don’t know why you came, May.’

  I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. The key was to remain calm. My lips were dry.

  ‘I came for the girls.’

  ‘You’re not taking them.’

  ‘You said I could.’ I had never thought George would renege on this promise. Never.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  George was loving the power. He stood on the doorstep of our house, glaring at me, like Rasputin. The house that my grandmother’s money had paid for. People in the street were staring at us, intuiting that here was a domestic drama. The owner of the bike came over, tipped his cap at us and hastily wheeled it away.

  But I had George’s letter, his promise. I had read it and reread it a thousand times. I had not got it wrong.

  ‘Can I… can I at least see them here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You said I would see them at Christmas, you promised.’

  ‘Well, you can’t.’

  The people in the street, the women sauntering, the men strolling, all listening.

  ‘Let’s discuss this inside, please, George.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But… but George, I have it here. In writing.’ Unfolding, then fluttering the note at him, I moved closer and closer to the doorway.

  ‘Meaningless,’ he said, blocking me. A chill ran through me. This couldn’t be happening. ‘Go away, May. We don’t want you here, you’re nothing to me now.’