by Jane Peart
"Please don't say anything until I have a chance to talk to Mama and Daddy, will you?"Mama and Daddy,
will "Of course not."
Cara stifled a yawn, turned back the covers, and slipped into her bed. "I'd better get some sleep. I promised Daddy I'd go riding with him in the morning. So you know how early I'll have to get up!"
Long after Cara's quiet, even breathing told Kitty that her twin was sound asleep, she lay staring into the darkness. The idea of taking nurses' training had never been far from her mind since the day Kip left. She had put it aside until after the holidays. But her experience during Lynette's illness had proved something. Certainly Dr. Rankyn had thought so. Now her resolve to carry through strengthened.
Besides, everyone she knew was now involved in the war in some way. Both Scott and Thax had joined R.O.T.C. and spent one weekend a month in military training at an army camp near the university campus. Kip, o f course, was already in the thick of things. And now Owen and Cara. She was determined not to be the last to go.
Part III
Over There
England, 1916
This England . . . this fortress built by Nature . . .
. . . this precious stone set in a silver sea. . . .
—from Shakespeare's Richard TL
The Hun is at the Gate! . . .
What stands if Freedom fall?"
—Rudyard Kipling
chapter
10
BECAUSE OF THE uncertainties of maritime travel and the security measures necessary in wartime, arrival and departures of ships were not made public, so no one was there to meet Kitty when her ship docked in Liverpool one typically foggy English morning.
After being checked through the big, drafty terminal, she took a cab to the railroad station to catch the train to London. Her father's sister, Garnet Devlin, had closed her London town house for the "duration" and was living now at her country place, Birchfields, which had been turned into a convalescent home for soldiers. Kitty planned to get in touch with her soon, but first she had to find a place to stay in the city and start the necessary procedures to gain a nursing position.
It was extremely cold in the small compartment. All the things yet to be done began to weigh upon her mind as she hunched her shoulders trying to keep warm. Until now she had been buoyed by the excitement and novelty of her adventure. Suddenly, all Kitty's dauntlessness, so carefully contrived for the benefit of her dubious family and friends, vanished, and in its place were loneliness and apprehension about the future.
It was already dark when the train pulled into London. The huge London station, crowded with uniformed soldiers, was a scene o f frenzied activity. Tired and nervous, Kitty pushed through the doors leading out onto the street. After a long wait in the chill dampness, she was able to hail a taxi. Breathless with relief, she gave the driver the first name that came to mind, remembering only that it was a hotel where some of her relatives had stayed while in the city.
In spite of the lateness of the hour, no street lamps were lighted. They crawled in thick traffic through darkened streets.
"It's because of them narsty German Zepplins, miss," said her driver in an almost unintelligible Cockney. "Don't never know when they're comin'."
This information only added to Kitty's overstimulated nervous system, and she sat straight up on the edge of the seat until the cab came to a stop in front of the Savoy Hotel.
In spite of her heightened state, Kitty was physically exhausted from all the hours of travel. She found the soft bed and down quilt in her well-appointed room welcome and soon fell asleep.
The next thing she knew, she was being awakened by the entrance of a chambermaid bringing her tea and the morning paper. With this kind of service, she suspected that this hotel was much too expensive for a prolonged stay. She'd have to look up the small but respectable family-style hotel on Trafalgar Square a fellow passenger on the ship had suggested.
Surely, as soon as she let Volunteer Aides Department—VAD—headquarters know she was here, she'd be assigned to a French hospital. A matter of days perhaps. Or a week at the most. She wouldn't be here very long, but while she was here, she would enjoy her stay.
Looking through the paper, she was pleased and amused to see that Grace Comfort's column, "Inspirational Moments," was in its usual place. She remembered the huge surprise that had become a family secret when it was learned that the real Grace Comfort was not the wise old lady who dispensed daily encouragement to thousands of readers but a sophisticated middle-aged man, Victor Ridgeway, now married to her cousin, Lenora Bondurant!
Kitty read this day's piece with special interest: "Be strong and of good courage," wrote Victor, quoting the prophet Jeremiah. "I will never leave you nor forsake you." Just what she needed to hear. The word comfort meant "to give strength," she knew. Certainly that's what Victor did, day after day, week after week.
She had often heard her mother say that Victor Ridgeway was a very unpretentious person, dismissing his talent as "minor," minimizing the significance or influence of the column. But Lenora often wrote to them, testifying to the hundreds of letters he received from people whose lives he had touched.
As soon as she got dressed, Kitty decided to see London by day. She had not been here since 1914 when she had brought Lynette to visit her Grandmother Devlin and her little sister, Bryanne. But then Garnet had met them and taken them at once to her town house for one night. The next day she had whisked them away to her country estate for the rest of the summer. Since the only other time Kitty had been here was when she and Cara were quite young—the year of Queen Victoria's Jubilee—she remembered very little about the city.
Catching a double-decker bus, Kitty climbed to the top level. From that vantage point, she viewed the London spectacle with mixed emotions. London was colorful and amazing. A panorama of people thronged its streets. All sorts of costumes reflected the variety of life lived in this great city—the stalwart policemen called "bobbies" in blue uniforms and bell-shaped hats with chin straps; boys in their school uniforms, looking as if they might have stepped out of a Dickens novel; smartly dressed businessmen in bowlers, carrying the ubiquitous umbrellas and briefcases. There were dark-bearded men in turbans, probably from some East Indian regiment or another of Britain's far-flung empire, as well as Scots in kilts and puttees.
Yet, London seemed surprisingly peaceful for a country in wartime, Kitty thought. As they passed the park, she saw riders in fashionable habits cantering their horses along the bridle paths as if there were no war at all going on just across the Channel. She remembered reading about the gallant Belgians while she was still in Virginia, and how saddened and horrified she had been at their plight. It had moved her so deeply she had been anxious to come and do her part to help just as Kip was doing his. Here, however, it began to feel like a fantasy.
Later, when she re-entered the hotel lobby, Kitty noted that, at least on the surface, the dignified elegance seemed undisturbed. Uniformed bellmen were going about their duties with quiet efficiency. The luxuriously appointed lobby was filled with well-dressed people, among them a sprinkling of British Army officers in khaki and a few of the more flamboyantly uniformed French or Belgian military. From one of the dining rooms, music was playing, and waiters could be glimpsed carrying trays of delicious food.
Where was all the deprivation, the shortages Kitty had read about? It was as though the war in France was some far-distant episode, unrelated to daily life. It was all very confusing.
Kitty wrote to her Aunt Garnet, telling of her arrival, and giving her address. She explained that she had registered both with the Red Cross and the English Volunteer Aides Department but had heard nothing from either one and would remain here until she did. She expected to hear any time now, but everything seemed to be taking so much longer than she had thought it would.
Every night before saying her prayers and trying to sleep, Kitty studied her French phrase book religiously. Sooner or later she would need to be flue
nt in the language. Yet most nights, her mind still churning, sleep evaded her.
Why hadn't she heard from someone at VAD headquarters? Especially when, almost daily, the newspapers reported the critical need for nurses.
Several days passed with still no word. Before she had sailed from America, Kitty had filled out an application, asking for an interview as soon as possible after her arrival. She had enclosed her certificate along with a letter from the Red Cross instructor who had taught the course at the Center in Mayfield, "highly recommending Katherine Maitland Cameron," stating that she had passed "all the required tests, was cooperative and meticulous in carrying out medical orders, was a skilled technician, as well as compassionate and competent."
By now, Kitty's funds were running low, so she decided to make the move to more economical quarters. Once settled in the smaller hotel, she continued her nerve-wracking waiting game.
Finally one day, frustrated with the delay, she acted on a suggestion made by her mother. Before Kitty left home, Blythe had written to Lydia Ainsley in London, telling her about her daughter's plans. She had given Kitty the Ainsleys' town address, extracting Kitty's promise to contact her English friend upon arrival. Suspecting that her mother's motive was to have someone "looking after" her, she had resisted at first, but now Kitty sent a belated note to Belvedere Square.
Almost by return post, Kitty received an invitation to tea.
Lydia welcomed her warmly. "How pretty you are and how grown up! My goodness, the last time I saw you, you were just a little girl!"
The charming woman took her upstairs to her sitting room at once. Seated before a glowing fire, Kitty looked about with pleasure. The room, with its rose-colored watered silk draperies, the elegant French furniture, the exquisite Chinese prints, was as softly feminine as her hostess.
"I had no idea you were already in London, dear. I only got your mother's letter two days ago. Of course, everything is so independable these days, especially mail from America." Lydia Ainsley poured fragrant scented tea from a graceful silver pot into delicate Sevres cups. " I f I had known, we certainly could have arranged to meet your ship."
Kitty took the cup and dainty napkin that Lydia handed her and selected a tiny sandwich from the plate she offered.
"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Ainsley, but we were not allowed to send cablegrams about our arrival. I suppose there are very strict restrictions about telling ship movements, with the submarine threats and all."
Lydia looked distressed. "Yes, everything about this war is so dreadful." Then she composed herself, the fine features resuming their usual serene expression. "How is your dear mother? I think of her so often. I still miss her. We were great friends, you know."
Kitty nodded and Lydia went on. "I felt for her so in her awful tragedy. And my darling Jeff. I am his godmother, you know. He was almost like my own son. To lose Faith when they were so happy, so ideally in love. Ah—" Again she struggled for composure. "I shall never forget the lovely luncheon Garnet gave before Faith and Davida left for Southampton to board the Titanic —" She sighed deeply. "Who could have known?"
Kitty, not knowing what to say to ease the awkward moment, bent her head over her cup and took a sip of tea.
"It certainly gives us pause to realize how brief our happiness, even our lives, can be. This war, horrible as it is, has made people consider what is really important. The things we used to do seem so inconsequential—driving out, paying calls, shopping— Why do we always have to learn the hard way?" She sighed again, then glancing at Kitty, she said, "Forgive me, dear. I didn't mean to be so gloomy. Tell me about yourself, your plans, and about your sister."
"Cara's in Scotland," Kitty told her. "She's taking a rigorous training course to qualify as an ambulance driver."
Lydia's shock was evident. "You modern young women amaze me! To think of that lovely girl, taking engines apart and changing motorcar tires."
"I'm hoping she'll come back to London before she's sent to France so we can have some time together." Kitty took one more of the delicious little sandwiches Lydia offered her. "Of course, I'm not sure how much longer I'll be here."
"Well, these things take time. Edward says everything is so much more complicated now."
Kitty held out her cup for a refill. "But the need for nurses is so great. At least that's what I thought when I left America. I thought they would be crying for volunteers." She sighed, realizing how weary she was of the waiting.
"Perhaps we could plan a little party. . . . Wouldn't that make a nice little distraction for you?"
"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Ainsley, but I feel sure it won't be much longer now." Kitty wondered how the woman could possibly think of such things with a war going on!
At last, feeling restless and anxious to check for any messages at the hotel, Kitty dabbed at her mouth with a dainty napkin. "I really must be going. Thank you so much for the lovely tea.
"Lydia looked troubled. "Oh, must you of your being alone in the big city, my dear. We'd love to have you stay with us. We have plenty of room. Wouldn't that be pleasanter than that impersonal hot el?"*******
"How gracious of you, Mrs. Ainsley. But I'm fine, really, and I honestly expect to hear from the Red Cross or VAD headquarters any day now."
Lydia looked dubious. "Well, do keep in touch, won't you? As I said, these things always take longer than one imagines."
Unfortunately, Mrs. Ainsley's dire prediction proved true. It was another full week before Kitty received her long-awaited summons to an interview.
The starchy "sister," the matron at the headquarters of the Volunteer Aides Department to which she had applied, seemed singularly unimpressed by her favorable recommendations. She questioned Kittly closely, adding a somber note by saying, "Of course, you will have to undergo a period of training with us. Our methods are quite different from—" Here she glanced down at the portfolio of certificates and personal references, running her index finger down along the pages as if to check the name of the hospital nursing school where Kitty had trained—"from that of the States." Even that, Kitty thought, was said with a rather disdainful intonation.
Kitty bit back a retort. She was almost tempted to say something staunchly American but changed her mind. She was too anxious to put her nursing abilities to the supreme test to jeopardize her chances of being accepted. She longed to be where the action was or, to be truthful, where the chance of seeing Kip was more likely. So she kept quiet, not wanting to say or do anything that might negatively influence the matron's approval of her assignment to France.
Still, she waited, wondering if the war would be over before she was ever issued her orders or a sailing date.
Not expecting to be assigned to a hospital in England first, she was at first surprised and dismayed, then resigned when she received a notice to report to St. Albans Hospice.
chapter
11
UPON ARRIVAL at St. Albans, Kitty was given directions to the nurses' hostel across the courtyard from the hospital where she was to share quarters with another VAD. Entering the grimly austere red brick building, she was handed a key and told to go up the stairs to the second floor, Room 8B.
Kitty mounted the uncarpeted stairs, then walked down a long, gray linoleum-covered corridor and tapped once on the door. Since there was no answer, she used her key. The door opened into a narrow room with furnishings as sparse and as spartan as a monk's cell.
One side was already spoken for, as evidenced by a colorful hand-crocheted afghan folded neatly at the bottom of one of the iron cots and some photographs placed on the small chest of drawers. On one side of the closet hung a few garments other than the VAD uniform—a cape, sturdy boots on the floor, some boxes on the shelf above.
Kitty fought a fleeting wave of nostalgia, thinking of her pretty room at Cameron Hall and the luxurious one at the Savoy she had so recently vacated. But quickly she thrust aside such feelings. She was embarking on her great adventure, and this was part of it. With renewed ex
citement, she began to put her own things away. She was just hanging up her coat when the door burst open and a girl in a VAD uniform entered.
"Hello!" she greeted Kitty cheerfully, displaying deep dimples on either side of a deeply smiling mouth. "You must be my new roomie. Fm Imelda, Imelda Merchant. I'm glad you've come. It's been ever so dreary with no one to chat with since Gladys shipped out."
Almost at once Kitty knew she would like her roommate. Imelda was plump and rosy-cheeked with the kind of openness one could not help warming to, and an irrepressible sense of humor.
"You've met with 'Starchy,' I take it?" Imelda asked, flopping down on the bed opposite Kitty and starting to unlace her high, black shoes. She rolled her bright blue eyes. "She's a ticket, isn't she? Don't let her get you down. She rides all the new ones hard. She has it in for Americans. Thinks you jolly well should come in and help us out of this mess. Gave me a hard time, too. Coming from the North like I do, seems I don't have a proper accent, if you can feature that!" Imelda stuck out her feet and wiggled her toes. "Oooh, that feels good! Been on me feet for the last ten hours."
Bursting with questions about VAD life, Kitty asked them and listened to Imelda's frank answers.
"Well, you might as well know at the start that this place is run like a reformatory," Imelda told her with a wry face. "You've heard the expression: 'Cleanliness is next to godliness,' I'm sure, but Starchy truly lives by it. No self-respecting germ would be caught in St. Albans. Floors and walls are scrubbed down twice daily with disinfectant. The air fairly reeks with the stuff. And you can hardly get the smell off your hands, no matter how hard you try!" Imelda wrinkled her nose.
"Besides Matron, you've got to look out for the ward nurses, called 'sisters,'and don't make the mistake of callin' them anything else, though I can't say why it's so important. It's not as though they were Lady Somebody or a duchess or something! They're tartars and keep you hopping. I f you ever look like you've nothing to do, they'll make good and sure you do, and that will usually be the dirtiest job of the lot!"