The Fog of War

by A. L. Lester

  She hadn’t thought of Sheila’s description for years, she’d just treasured Anna’s memory, the happy times they’d had rather than her passing. But now…she remembered.

  And Sheila’s story sounded remarkably similar to some of the things that Arthur Webber had shown her and told her.

  What if? What if Anna hadn’t died, her body mysteriously lost? What if Anna had moved through time or through space, like the people Webber said visited him?

  Sylvia drove home from the farm and sat in her lonely sitting room, the hot June day dissolving into a cool blue twilight outside the thrown-open windows.

  She stared out into space at the myriad distant stars, not thinking. Empty.

  Alone.

  Chapter 5

  “Mama, I am going truly potty, cooped up here. Can I come on your calls this morning?” Lucy helped herself to a generous spoonful of kedgeree from the warming dish on the sideboard of the breakfast room and brought her plate over to the polished walnut table where her Mama was pouring her a cup of tea.

  She’d spent the last week turning out her bedroom cupboards and the one before that organising the empty nursery simply for something to do. If she didn’t have a change of scenery soon, she was going to go spare.

  It was still raining. The July skies outside the tall Georgian windows were dark and the gusts of wind were driving drops of water down the square panes in fierce runnels. It had been raining for her whole life and it felt like it would continue to rain until she was an old lady. She wanted to get out on her beloved hunter Pettifer and ride up onto the ridge to feel the wind on her face and in her hair; but it was bucketing down so hard it was impossible, and it had been for days.

  She sat down with her plate as Mama peered into the Spode teapot and made a huffing noise. “Can you ring for more tea, please darling?” she said. “This is quite empty now and your father will be down soon.”

  Lucy rose and crossed to the bell pull by the door to do as she was asked.

  As she reseated herself, Mama continued as if she’d only just asked about accompanying her on her calls. “Yes, of course, I’d be delighted for your company. I’m only going over to Edith’s though. I’m sure she’d love to see you.”

  She took another piece of toast and started to butter it and then broke off as Mary came in and said, “You rang, Ma’am?”

  “Yes, more tea, please, Mary. And I think fresh toast. Lord Roger will be down in a moment and you know how he gets.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, more tea and toast.” She collected up the teapot and retreated silently.

  “A good girl, that,” Mama said, absently. “She’s very quick, but polite with it.”

  Lucy nodded. “Aunt Edith’s?” she prompted. Her Mama could be rather difficult to keep on track.

  “Yes. I make a point of going over once a week or so. Charles is home now, you know. Have you thought about…” She trailed off tactfully, assiduously applying marmalade and not meeting Lucy’s eye.

  After a pause she continued, “…he’s such a nice young man and that hasn’t changed one bit, despite his injury. I thought he might be different…bitter about it. It’s a terrible thing to lose an arm at that age. But he’s just the same as he always was.”

  “Oh Mama!” Lucy’s turn to make a huffing noise, putting down her knife and fork to drink some of her tepid tea. “Perhaps, before. I did think he was going to ask at one point. But not now. He’s a truly nice man. But…no. Not now. I don’t think I can go back to how it was before.” She sighed and then looked sharply at Mama. “It’s not to do with his injury, either please don’t think that?”

  Mama pulled a face back at her. “Good grief, dear! No! I wouldn’t think that of you. If you don’t want to go down that road then don’t go down it. It was just a thought. Marriage for marriage’s sake isn’t something I’d recommend; you’ll just be unhappy.”

  She looked at Lucy over her spectacles. “You could go into nursing, you know. Papa and I wouldn’t object. We talked about it. He wasn’t keen, it’s not exactly proper. But he’s persuadable if that’s what you want. You spent a long time in France, and you pushed so hard to get there. A vocation…” She trailed off again.

  Lucy sighed. “I don’t know what I want, Mama. I think that’s part of the trouble. I don’t want to get married and have babies yet. But I don’t think I want to be a nurse, either. I certainly don’t have a vocation. It was just work that needed to be done and I could do it. I don’t think I want to be a doctor, either. I considered that for a while…my friend Sylvia was very encouraging. But I don’t think it’s my mission in life. I was happy to do war work. It felt like I was contributing something. But now…I don’t think any of that is what I want.” She sighed and ate some kedgeree, thinking hard.

  Mama was clearly thinking, too. “What about university?” she said. “I think Papa would be persuadable about that, too, if you wanted to.”

  Lucy shook her head. “No, definitely not. I don’t have that sort of love of learning, I don’t think. I want to be useful, Mama, but I don’t know how.”

  Mary brought in more tea and fresh toast and there was a break in conversation as they refreshed their cups, and she cleared the used plates.

  “Well,” Mama said, slowly over her teacup. “What about going to visit your friend, Sylvia? From what you’ve read out from her letters, she sounds a most sensible person. Perhaps a change of scene will give you inspiration.”

  Lucy thought. That sounded like a promising idea. A change of scene would be very welcome. And it would be wonderful to see Sylvia again. They’d become good friends in their final two years in France and she missed her, although they corresponded regularly.

  “I’ll write to her today,” she said. “She and a nurse-friend have reopened her father’s surgery in Bradfield. I could help keep house whilst she concentrates on that. Yes. I’ll write and suggest it. She wrote me a standing invitation last month, so I’m sure she’ll say yes.”

  “Wonderful, that’s settled, then,” her Mama said. “And Lucy, dear. Your father and I just want you to be happy. Remember that. You did wonderful work in France and I simply cannot imagine what things you…and those poor soldiers…have seen. It’s perfectly understandable that you feel at a loose end now. Things will settle out eventually. Won’t they, Roger?” She peered over her glasses at Lucy’s father, who was pottering into the breakfast room in a well-worn tweed suit and his bedroom slippers.

  “Hmmm, what? Yes, dear, of course,” he said, poking at the kippers on the chafing plate. “They usually do. Good morning, Lucille.”

  “Morning, Papa,” Lucy said, smiling at him. She was very fond of both her parents, despite their idiosyncrasies. In fact, their idiosyncrasies were probably why she was so fond of them she thought, with an even larger inner smile.

  “Lucy isn’t going to marry Charles,” Mama said. “She’s going to go and stay with her friend Sylvia for a while, instead.”

  “Oh, good show. That’s the doctor, yes?”

  “So, you do listen, Papa.” Lucy smiled at him teasingly.

  He made a harrumphing sound. “Sometimes, sometimes,” he said, smiling back at her as he sat down. “Were you considering marrying Charles?” he asked over his kippers. “Does he know?”

  “No, never,” she said. “Mama thought I might, but he and I haven’t ever spoken about it. Perhaps if the war hadn’t happened…but not now. I’ve stretched my wings too far, I think.”

  He nodded. “Good show. Tell us about your Sylvia, then. Surgeon, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. Gas-gangrene expert. I’m not sure how she’ll settle back down to village life. I’d have thought she was more suited to a teaching hospital or a university. But her family have always been doctors in the village, and she says she always intended to go home.”

  “Married?” Mama asked.

  “No,” Lucy said. “Not married.”

  “That’s good. You don’t want to get between a man and wife when they’ve just come hom
e from four years apart,” Mama said. “Is she likely to be? Are you likely to get settled with her and then have to come home?”

  “I don’t think so, Mama,” Lucy said cautiously. “I don’t think she’s the marrying kind.”

  “Married to her work, I expect,” Papa said. “These modern girls, eh! They’d rather be at work than have a husband. And all power to them, from what we’ve heard about their war work! It’ll be the vote next!”

  Mama passed him the toast.

  “Is this fresh, my dear?” he asked.

  “Yes, Roger. Quite fresh. Mary just brought it in, didn’t she, Lucy?”

  “Yes, quite fresh, Papa,” Lucy confirmed.

  She waited until he’d organised the butter and the marmalade before she rose. “I’ll go and write to Sylvia immediately, before we go and call on Aunt Edith,” she said. “I’m so pleased you suggested it, Mama!”

  As she left the room, she heard her father say, “Well, it doesn’t matter a damn whether she gets married or not, Margaret. Most unsuited to Charles, as well, I’d have thought. He wants a wife who’ll follow him round making cow eyes at him whilst he rules the roost. That’s never going to happen there!”

  The door clicked shut behind her and she trotted up the stairs to her room to gather her writing things.

  Chapter 6

  “I’ve had a letter from Lucy,” Sylvia said to Walter, one evening in the first week of August. They were in the sitting room and had lit the fire despite it being the middle of summer. It had a been a foul day after a foul fortnight, summer rain pelting down non-stop. Walter had deigned to stay for an hour after supper before going back out to the coach-house, tempted by the offer of whisky. “She wants to come and stay.”

  “Miss Hall-Bridges?” Walter said. “How is she?”

  “Bored, I think,” said Sylvia. “I don’t know if she’ll be any less bored here, to be honest. But she says she can help with the house,” she gestured vaguely around them at the chaos, “so that’ll probably keep her busy until she’s about a hundred and ten. And it’ll be nice to have her about.”

  Walter looked at her shrewdly. “Are you sure?” he said. “She was sweet on you, wasn’t she?”

  Sylvia looked at him. “I don’t think so,” she said, arching her dark eyebrows in surprise. “Was she? We’re good friends. But nothing other than that.”

  “Humph.” Walter concentrated on packing his pipe and getting it to draw. “Well, your funeral. She’s a nice little thing though. And if she can do something with the house…” He waved vaguely as well.

  The house was starting to take on a personality of its own in both their minds. Her father had been an inveterate hoarder as well as a collector of clocks; and once she’d left home it had all got rather out of control. Sylvia very much did not want to have to sort through any of it, ever, but she supposed she’d have to at some point.

  “I’ll write back and say she’s welcome, anyway,” she said. “I suppose I’ll have to mention how much needs to be done.” She stared glumly around. Sylvia had adopted a strategy of leaving everything to gather dust. Having someone offer to take that off her hands was extremely attractive. As she’d said to Walter, Lucy was a sweet girl and a good friend. It would be nice to have her about.

  They’d become quite close last year, once Sylvia had started to get over the immediate pain of Anna being gone. Lucy had been there in the background, offering silent support as Sylvia felt herself start to come back from that dreadful numb place she’d gone to when she’d first heard the news. She’d had the summer to grieve. Then the Big Push had begun in the autumn of 1917 and no-one had time to think, let alone grieve. Or eat or sleep, sometimes.

  Now, her dealings with Arthur Webber had left her wondering what had really happened to Anna and stirred up her memories of the last eighteen months at Royaumont. She hadn’t spoken to Walter about any of the things she’d seen at Webber’s. He knew Arthur Webber was hallucinating—most of the village knew. Annie Beelock wasn’t a gossip exactly, but she liked to talk, and she liked her employer. So, she talked about her worries. But Sylvia had passed it off to concerned enquirers as the ramblings of a sick mind, a physical illness that was also affecting his brain.

  Lucy coming meant it would be harder to hide her concerns about both Webber and about Anna’s disappearance. It would be another person who knew Sylvia well living in the house. She flinched a bit, internally. She didn’t want Lucy to be sweet on her. She’d had enough of that. It only led to hurt.

  “Are you going away for Christmas?” she asked Walter, idly watching him pack his pipe. “I know it’s a long way ahead. I don’t even know whether you’ve got family anywhere. How stupid of me not to ask before.”

  They’d made fast friends at the hospital when Walter had been transferred from his medical unit to help them set up in 1915 and after Sylvia had come home, Walter had finally got his discharge and followed her. He’d said he’d had enough of the army after twenty years and was quite ready to cause scandal by being a nurse in a country village. She’d felt it would balance out the scandal of a lady doctor, so when he’d finally got his papers, he’d moved into the coach-house and begun to help her.

  Family wasn’t something he’d ever brought up, though.

  “I thought I’d go back and see Mother, actually,” he said. His pipe had gone out and he was fussing with it again. “It’s not like I’ve had much opportunity over the years and she’s getting on a bit now. She lives with my sister. There’s room for me there for a few days if you can spare me.”

  “Certainly,” she said. “Go, see them. Mr Chedzoy will have to let me look at the contents of his trousers if it comes down to it.”

  Walter sniggered. That was the only word for it. “Poor man. He’ll come round, you know. He’s already told me he thinks you’re a good doctor.”

  “Huh. Well. It’s difficult to practice any medicine on someone who won’t actually let you look at where they say the problem is.”

  “I told you, it’s a hernia.”

  “And I trust you. But he needs to let me have a look at how bad it is.” She sighed. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I took your word for it, however much I trust you.”

  Walter puffed on his pipe. “No, I know. And I told him that. He’ll come round,” he repeated. “You’re doing a grand job, you know. You’re a good doctor, and they know it.”

  She blushed a bit and gave him a dismissive wave. “Thank you. You’re truly kind to say so.”

  “Don’t be daft. You saved so many men out there in France…not just you, but the other lady doctors too. I’m not being kind. I’m telling you the truth.”

  He stood up. “Now, I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.” He looked at her shrewdly. “Don’t stay up too long, you look like you need a night’s sleep.”

  She nodded at him with a rueful smile. “I’ll do that. Goodnight, Walt. And thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome. Goodnight, Dr Marks.”

  She heard the kitchen door click shut as he pulled it closed, and she stretched out her feet toward the hearth, laid her head on the back of the settee, and stared into the flames of the fire. The silence of the old house settled around her, familiar and friendly as a loved one’s embrace.

  Whatever she’d said to Walt, it stung a bit when people wouldn’t let her treat them. In surgery hours she didn’t think of herself so much as a woman, more as a doctor, and she forgot other people didn’t do that.

  She sipped her whisky and let the crackle of the dancing flames soothe her. She’d write to Lucy tomorrow and invite her to stay for as long as she wanted. They didn’t need to talk about the grimmer bits of France, or about Anna’s death at all. It was a whole new world now. The war was behind them and over. It would simply be lovely to have Lucy about, she was such a cheerful person. And perhaps…perhaps, Sylvia thought longingly, she could deal with finding some help in the house.

  She grimaced.

  Or perhaps not. She should
probably deal with that herself. Not least because if she left it much longer, they’d all disappear under the increasing layers of dust.

  Although she was delighted to be home, she did miss the organisation and structure of hospital life. Everyone and everything in its place and running like clockwork. She twisted her mouth. Although, it only ran like clockwork because someone at the top kept winding the clock.

  That was her now, and extremely tedious it was. She threw back the last of her drink and stood, gathering Walt’s empty glass along with her own, and taking them out to the kitchen to rinse before she locked the door and went up to bed.

  Chapter 7

  It was a beautiful late August day when Sylvia motored down to Taunton to collect Lucy from the railway station. The sun shone through the trees as she followed the lane down the hill from the village and the sky above was a beautiful summer blue. She had left the all-weather hood of the Austin down and wore a scarf and gloves against the wind, topping her practical trouser outfit off with her new hat, which she pinned firmly to the neat coil of her long hair.

  Walter had watched her fussing with her appearance in the hall mirror, stuffing his pipe. “Are you sweet on her?” he asked, somewhat acerbically.

  “It’ll be cold with the hood down,” she said, crushingly.

  “Yes, yes, so it will be.” He turned his attention back to his tobacco, face straight. “Be careful on the bends.”

  “I will,” she said. “She’s a beast to drive, smooth on the straights and handles well on the corners, but I’ve no desire to end up in the ditch.”

  She’d bought the big Austin coupe late last winter when she’d got fed up riding her motorcycle out to some of the more remote houses she was called to in the dreadful weather. It was huge, far bigger than she needed really, although the back seat was useful to transport a patient if she had to. She still preferred her ‘cycle, but it wasn’t exactly suitable as a doctor’s vehicle. Not very staid at all. The Austin wasn’t very staid either, in that it was huge and expensive; but one of the benefits of a private income was that she could afford it; and so why not be comfortable?