Daughters of War

by Lizzie Page

  The man shouted at me: ‘Stay with her, I’m going after him!’ He disappeared down the road.

  Trembling, I squatted down next to the great big beast in the dust. She was on one side, stretched out and making a horrible whinnying noise. Now I saw that there was blood on her lower body. It looked like she was wearing little red boots, and her undercarriage was all torn up too. I changed my mind about a traffic accident; it had to be shrapnel, I think, but I didn’t know where from. I didn’t know what to do. Her hooves were still and therefore harmless, I supposed. I looked at her great big teeth and they didn’t frighten me like horses’ teeth usually did, even though there were bubbles coming out of her mouth. Tentatively, I laid a hand on top of her head.

  ‘I’ve got you…’ I said to that horse. I soothed it and whispered kind words. ‘You poor thing.’ I looked down the road helplessly. Wouldn’t the man please come back? He was still nowhere to be seen. ‘I’m here, you’re not alone.’ I called on my Grandma Leonora then, and she came to me, as helpful as ever:

  ‘It’s a shock,’ I told her. ‘It’s a terrible shock.’

  The horse’s black eyes were locked into mine. I knew she was terrified. I tried to convey to her with my eyes, with my voice, with my everything, not to be frightened, to be calm and to let be.

  ‘You are a lovely horse,’ I said. I meant it too. I manoeuvred her so her head was in my lap, poor dear beast, and I could stroke her quivering body with both hands.

  * * *

  Eventually, the man returned with the other horse, now safely on a rope. He moved purposefully and quickly. He tied the other horse to a tree trunk.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said brusquely as he came over to me.

  Out the corner of my eye, I saw he had something square and black in his hand. A pistol.

  ‘Hold her tight…’

  I was too stunned to do anything.

  ‘No!’ I exclaimed as he placed the gun between her eyes and pulled the trigger.

  The horse convulsed again and again, and then nothing.

  53

  There were more rumours flying around than there were mosquitos. Rumours of agreements and ceasefire. Every day we all held our breath and waited, but it was always not yet, not yet. Then, on 11 November 1918, there was a sudden nothing. A silence so unfamiliar it was almost frightening. The roar of guns, the ugly unrelenting clatter and crunch of explosions, all the backdrop of our lives out here was suddenly muted. Or had I gone deaf, maybe? When I had dreamt about this moment, I had pictured unadulterated jubilation: but when it actually happened, it was bewildering. I was comforting a poor young boy pre-surgery and he was in such a morphine fug the heavy silence seemed only to make him worse.

  ‘I’m a swimmer,’ he murmured as he writhed on the stretcher. I told him I was too. I thought of Elizabeth then, of course. ‘Will I keep my legs?’

  No one had told him yet that they were gone. Doctor Rafferty came over for him. It only took the slightest nod from him to bring tears to my eyes.

  * * *

  I hadn’t been in the convalescence tent for two weeks. New Matron had given me tasks away from Louis, and I was grateful to have been kept busy. It had been too painful to attend to him. It was not that I was actively avoiding him – although I imagine he might have thought I was – I just needed to gather my thoughts. Of course, I could have chosen to go in there on my breaks, but I did not.

  Kitty popped her head around the tent side, her eyes bright and wet.

  ‘We’re celebrating near Little Big Rock when you’re done here.’

  I was done, but I didn’t go outside; I went to find Matron then went to the convalescence tent instead. There too the routine was going on much as usual. Some patients were playing cards, some were sleeping, although Bonnie was wandering around between beds looking more wide-eyed and baffled than usual.

  ‘I can’t believe it, May!’ she said as soon as she saw me, and we clutched each other tight. She smelled of elderflower.

  ‘I’ll take over here,’ I told her.

  ‘But Matron…’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said as Bonnie skipped away. She didn’t need to be told twice.

  One patient, Patrick, was scouring the newspaper. He was a printer before the war. He was always telling me how he couldn’t wait to get back to the press – he called the machines his babies. ‘Is it true then? I’m not dreaming?’

  ‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘Want me to pinch you?’

  His eyes filled. Awkwardly, we clasped each other’s hands.

  ‘It’s been a long time coming,’ he whispered.

  Louis was lying in the same place as before but now with a damp cloth over his eyes. I approached apprehensively. When I softly said his name, he removed the flannel straight away and pulled himself upright.

  ‘Join the celebrations, May,’ he said throatily. ‘We can manage.’

  ‘It’s all right, Louis.’

  ‘You shouldn’t miss the fun. We’re all right here, go outside.’

  ‘Stop telling me what to do,’ I said, anger bubbling to the surface.

  He paused, then set down his cloth. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I want to be here,’ I told him.

  I couldn’t look at his sad face. I went to find us some whisky. There was only one cup left in the cupboard; we would have to share. As I poured, out of nowhere visions of the dying horse kept intruding. Horses were something I had always feared, yet I had done my best. I remembered the fear in the poor creature’s eyes. I had to let it go.

  I returned to Louis’ bedside. Next to us, a new patient, Horace sighed in his sleep while Patrick rhythmically turned the pages of his newspaper. I remembered waking from the darkness last year, and Louis being there and, what was it Matron had said? He’s barely left your side, May. You’re a lucky woman.

  ‘I should have told you about George.’

  ‘You should have.’

  It was really going off outside. Not the panicky thudding of boots or the screeching of ambulances, it was singing. People were singing ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’. There was loud laughter, then shouts for Doctor Collins to sing ‘Danny Boy’. The war really was over. I imagined Gordon clambering up onto Little Big Rock, his stethoscope round his neck, tears rolling down his cheeks. He was never afraid of a bit of emotion.

  I could hear it now. ‘Oh, Danny boy…’

  I guessed the news would reach England soon, or maybe it already had. I imagined Joy and Leona at school, listening to the bells ringing out the same peace all over Europe. I hoped they were celebrating.

  Louis drank a little whisky, then spluttered, ‘I’m not used to it!’ Then he set down his cup and gazed at me. ‘I didn’t say anything because I knew who you would choose…’

  I knew exactly what he meant.

  ‘You know me very well.’

  ‘Alors…’ He smiled at me, that smile I would never tire of seeing. ‘And that’s why I love you.’

  I shivered with pleasure. Gordon’s voice was reaching a crescendo outside and the crowd were joining in. The patients in the corner were disagreeing with each other over whether aces were high or low, Patrick was still reading his newspaper and Major Louis Spears, my Louis, had just told me he loved me.

  ‘So, you do love me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘May Turner, you always have been and you always will be the love of my life.’

  54

  The ring had belonged to Louis’ mother. It was gold with an emerald and I wore it on my necklace, next to my locket. We’d have to wait for a wedding – I wasn’t prepared to marry without my daughters being present, but Louis understood and agreed. We might have to wait a very long time, but I knew about waiting: I was a war nurse after all.

  Over the next few days, the German troops slowly evacuated, and our forces poured into no man’s land and beyond. Barbed wire ripped down, wire fences pulled out, mortar collected, loaded high onto trucks. There were great bonfires of God-knows-what, a never-ending procession of trai
ns, some coming in with equipment, some leaving with soldiers desperate to get home. The Portuguese hospital was dismantled. We said tearful farewells to Manuela and the other friends who were leaving. We, the Old Despicables, were staying put for a while. What a change in atmosphere there was, though. Perhaps it wasn’t until the constant threat and stress had gone that you realised how all-consuming the fear had been. Everything sounded different now, everything was different. We smiled at each other in the morning, we were still smiling in the evening. We doled out the whisky willy-nilly. Word came that Farmer Norest’s hens were miraculously laying again.

  * * *

  A few days later, a familiar car pulled up. Winston sprang out of it with far more bounce than you’d expect for a man of his size. He was here to take Louis back to London.

  ‘He’s not ready,’ I told him, ‘he’s still weak.’

  He eyed me suspiciously.

  ‘Honestly, Winston,’ I responded, exasperated. ‘Do you think I’d lie just to keep him here?’

  He shrugged. ‘Love makes people behave strangely.’

  ‘Not that strangely.’

  We both laughed.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Nurse Turner.’

  ‘Likewise,’ I said. Arm in arm, we went to find Louis.

  * * *

  Later that evening, Louis, Winston, Gordon, Bonnie, Kitty and I sat drinking whisky around Louis’ bed. New Matron kindly pretended not to see us.

  Winston was pontificating as usual. I kept thinking Louis had dropped off, but occasionally, he would squeeze my fingers, or raise my hand to his lips for a kiss.

  ‘Americans are so sheltered,’ Winston was saying, sighing. ‘They think they are the saviours of the world.’

  I couldn’t help but take it personally.

  ‘We don’t, Winston.’

  ‘Oh, not you, sweetheart, the negotiators—’

  ‘Yes, but you said Americans—’

  ‘Don’t interrupt me while I’m interrupting.’

  * * *

  The next morning, Winston decided to drive Horace and Patrick to the hospital boat. As we loaded them up, he tried one last time to persuade Louis to go with him.

  ‘I’m not going to London anyway,’ Louis said.

  Winston stood with his hands on his hips, his stocky legs wide apart.

  ‘Where are you going then?’

  ‘We haven’t decided yet.’ Louis grabbed my hand.

  ‘We?’ Winston laughed. ‘“We”, is it now?’

  Louis laughed. I bit my lip, embarrassed.

  ‘I hope so,’ Louis said, smiling at me. ‘We’ve wasted enough time as it is.’

  They shook hands, the tall one and the shorter one. Or, the love of my life and his best friend.

  * * *

  The celebrations were short-lived, of course. Poor souls were still being brought into our hospital: there were horrendous accidents, building injuries, car crashes and sickness. Many areas had been booby-trapped: pick up a branch and find you’ve detonated a bomb. How I pitied those families who lost their boys now. Such injustice! And we were seeing more and more cases of fever. Everyone knew that the real work was about to begin: rebuilding Europe together.

  Sitting up in bed, reading newspapers and reports that were being sent in, Louis was even less optimistic than I was.

  ‘The French are furious at the Germans. They just want to destroy them…’

  ‘Don’t let them. It won’t be good for the future.’

  Louis’ expression said, as it often did, Honey, I know that.

  ‘What do you think will happen?’

  ‘I fear they will go too punitive: the German economy will gradually collapse. Once there are food and fuel shortages, the people will look for a scapegoat; they may blame the foreigners, and it will be very ugly indeed.’

  I shivered.

  ‘What’s the British stance?’

  ‘Depends who you’re speaking to.’ He sighed. ‘Some of them just want to wash their hands of Europe. Some of them think closer ties are the answer.’ He readjusted himself in his chair. ‘I can’t wait to get back to work.’

  ‘What do you think, Louis?’

  ‘I’m half-British, half-French, I was cured in Switzerland, schooled in Germany. And I’m in love with an American woman. What do you think I think?’

  Things I am today

  Mother

  Girlfriend

  Ex-wife

  Daughter

  Granddaughter

  Artist muse

  Poet

  Knitter

  Lover

  Friend

  War nurse.

  55

  We chose Paris. I wanted to start again – I needed a clean slate. I was still afflicted by the melancholy sometimes, but I did my best to get up, to get out. Louis was a great help.

  What a place Paris was in those crazy months after the war ended. It was reopening, reawakening, a city resuscitated, back from the brink. The artist Rodin returned to great fanfare, bountifully holding parties in his wonderful house and gardens. Louis and I wandered the grounds, hand in hand. It was beautiful in whichever light there was. Sculptors and artists who had been hidden away during the war now opened their doors wide. Others who had been doing service, or ambulance driving, or truck driving, came back full of fire for their next projects, for peace. Picasso. Montparnasse. There were plenty of my co-patriots around to complain about the weather too: Man Ray, other photographers, writers. It was thrilling to have a social circle, to be part of a team in peacetime as in war. I thrived in company and Louis did too. And when people asked him about his wartime experiences, overlooking me, he would push me forward: ‘Oh, didn’t you know? May also served.’ And if anyone asked what he was working on, he would say, ‘Oh, May has published poems.’ He was so proud of me. What a truly novel sensation that was!

  My profile was low, compared to those of the soldier poets, and always would be, but this was the world we lived in. I knew that. We women had boxed our way out to become war nurses, tram drivers, factory workers and surgeons. And although I feared there would be attempts to return us to our boxes (I was not deluded about power struggles), I hoped for the best. Things were changing and perhaps, for my daughters, there would be more opportunities.

  I missed Joy and Leona so desperately that I had to not think about them else I would have returned to the dark road, the melancholy. I didn’t want to go back to that place, especially now there was no Elizabeth to pull me out.

  I missed Elizabeth too.

  Another sad thing: there were insane people everywhere. I had never seen streets quite like these. Mild ones, harmless ones, ones you didn’t want to go near, ones you wanted to wrap up and put somewhere safe. And then there were the homeless people, unemployed people, mediums and ventriloquists, con artists and thieves. Or, as Louis said, ‘Just people just trying to do their best.’

  If I kept myself whirling, if I kept myself socialising, nursing, writing and madly romancing, then I could just about manage to survive on the occasional censored letter from my daughters, who were goodness knows where. There was succour in those notes but little pleasure: it was as though they were telegrams, payment by the word. I guessed that the girls wrote them but that they didn’t believe I would receive them or welcome them. How long can you write to a spectre?

  I wrote to them, of course I wrote to them. I wrote three, four times a week, but I never knew if they would receive my letters or not. It shouldn’t have, but it did colour my stories, it affected my tone – how could it not? I went back to London but the house had been sold and a new family with a new housekeeper lived there. Mrs Crawford was very poorly and had moved north. I learnt the Pilkingtons’ golden boy, the son at Cambridge, was missing in Verdun. Not even a grave to visit. I waited outside the tennis club and caught up with the Framptons’ oldest boy. Once again, we had a long and warm conversation, and it wasn’t until he walked off, his racquet swinging behind him, that I realised that he had retur
ned from Gallipoli with a missing arm.

  No one knew where my girls were. People were too busy or in too much grief for me to press them for more information. How could I keep on at them about mine when they had properly lost their own? Even Winston admitted his hands were tied. A divorced woman, I had no rights to my children, not legal rights anyway. The headmistress at Leamington had retired and the new one declared she had no notes. I began telephoning all the boarding schools in the country, but several put the phone down on me. When Louis did it, they were slightly politer, but still no leads. The same with the tennis clubs. ‘No, sorry. We can’t give out names.’ I insisted they took my details, just in case, but I imagine they crumpled the paper into an abandoned drawer; that’s if they even wrote down anything at all.

  I knew men in similar positions to me – did they call it estrangement? – but it was easier for fathers. Not so strange as it was for mothers. Society did not look down on them like I knew it looked down on me. I had lost my girls and didn’t know where to find them. ‘Leave them alone and they will come home dragging their tails behind them.’ Joy used to love that rhyme when she was a little girl. It was about the only thing that would calm her at night. I wasn’t going to leave them alone, but I guess to the outside world it looked as though I had.

  Maybe even to you, it looks as though I gave up.

  * * *

  Louis told me Mr Bertram was the best picture-framer in all of France. ‘He’ll know if they’re real or not.’