by Jane Peart
Kitty's expression must have registered some alarm, for Imelda giggled and quickly reassured her. "Oh, don't worry, love, you'll do fine, I'm sure. Just keep reminding yourself it's not the end of the world."
Studying the family photographs Kitty had arranged on her small bureau, Imelda pointed to one of Blythe. "Is that your mum?"
"Yes, and that's my brother Scott. And this is my sister." She held up the snapshot of Cara in her ambulance driver's uniform.
"Sure, and she's the spittin' image of you?'
"We're twins."
"No!" Imelda put her hand to her breast in mock surprise, declaring comically, "I'd never have guessed!" Then she asked, "So she's over here, too?"
"Yes, in Scotland. She's taking her training there. I'm afraid she's going to get to France before I do."
"Well, St. Albans is the test," Imelda said, suddenly serious. " If you pass muster here under Starchy, you'll be in demand by the army doctors over there. They know she'd never send an unprepared nurse to a French field hospital."
Finally Imelda yawned, pulled the afghan around her shoulders, and curled up to get "a bit of shut-eye."
The days and weeks that followed proved Kitty's first impression of Imelda Merchant correct. Besides her obvious good-natured personality, her roommate also possessed other invaluable character traits—a generous spirit and an even temper—that made her a genuine friend.
Kitty's duties started the very next morning when she reported to her ward at six o'clock to begin a twelve-hour day.
She soon discovered the routine at St. Albans was more regimented than the Army. Everything was scheduled to the minute—doctors' rounds, bedmaking, patients' baths, meals, rubdowns. All the VADs worked under the eagle-eyed head sisters on each ward. Imelda had not exaggerated. There was never a spare moment in the long, arduous day, and all Kitty's training and skills were put to the test every hour she was on duty.
During the first two weeks, Kitty was so exhausted at the end of her shift that she could barely stumble up the steps to her room to collapse onto her bed. She was even too tired to get up for meals. But Imelda would shake her awake and force her up to walk to the dining hall.
"It's not worth it," Kitty would moan, thinking of the flat, tasteless food served to the staff.
But Imelda was ruthless. "You've got to eat, Kitty. Got to keep up your strength. If your resistance is low, you could get sick. Then you'd never get to France!"
This was usually all it took to get Kitty moving again. Then she would force down the unpalatable food, crawl back upstairs to bed again, wake the next morning to another day of relentless work.
Kitty had been at St. Albans for nearly a month when she was sent out for the first time on ambulance duty to the railroad station. Here they parked to wait for the incoming trainloads of wounded men. Nurses boarded first to evaluate the injuries. Most were suffering from shrapnel wounds. Accompanied by the VADs, who carried supplies of cotton, swabs, bandages, disinfectant, and iodine, they did some initial care. But mostly they tagged which men went where.
Those requiring surgery would be sent to the better-equipped hospitals staffed with army doctors and surgeons. Others went to private hospitals, while the less seriously wounded would go to the suburbs, where many of the large residences had been turned into convalescent homes.
It was Kitty's first experience in seeing the actual results of warfare, and she was sickened and shaken. She must have successfully covered her reaction, however, for on their way back to St. Albans at the end of the day, the sister she had assisted said tersely, "Well done, Cameron."
At St. Albans, off-duty hours were equally supervised, allotted, and monitored. No one was allowed to go anywhere or see anyone outside the post without official permission obtained directly from their ward nurse, the matron, or a doctor. VADs were expected to sign in and out, stating their destination and time of check-out and return, and everyone was required to be in by ten at night. Sometimes Kitty and Imelda managed to have the same time off and went to a cinema or to a teashop as a pleasant change from their routine.
One afternoon, after Kitty had been at St. Albans for six weeks, she was summoned by her ward nurse and informed that she had a visitor in the day room and told, "You may take a fifteen-minute break."
"But who—" Kitty started to ask, but Sister Clemmons had already turned away and was busy at her charts.
Who was the mystery caller? she wondered as she hurried out through the ward into the hall. She didn't know anyone in London except Lydia Ainsley. Mrs. Ainsley usually sent a written invitation rather than stopping by the hospital.
As Kitty pushed open the door into the visitors' lounge, she saw a slim woman in a dark blue uniform looking out one of the long windows.
At Kitty's entrance, the young woman whirled around and, seeing her, struck a dramatic pose. "Voila! Behold, a licensed Red Cross ambulance driver!"
"Cara!" Kitty exclaimed, and the two rushed into each other's arms.
"Oh, Kitty, it's been ages since I saw you last!"
"When did you get here, and how long can you stay?"
"Not long, I'm afraid. I'm leaving day after tomorrow for France."
"No!
"Yes! It's official. I have my papers." Cara nodded, holding her twin at arm's length. "But at least we have this evening. I don't have to be back at the hostel until ten. So see if you can get off and we can go out somewhere."
"I'm not sure I can—" Kitty hesitated. 'They're awfully strict here."
"But surely this is an exception to their rules. Your twin leaving for the war zone? Try, Kitty."
"But you don't know our matron—"
"Oh, do go on. Don't be such a mouse. Every minute counts!"
On her way to the matron's office, Kitty ran into Imelda just getting off her shift. She told her where she was headed and why.
Imelda grabbed her arm. "Come on! I'll go with you to beard the lioness in her den. And don't worry, I'll take the rest of your shift. Now, don't argue," she said, steering her firmly along. "She can't turn you down. After all, it's her patriotic duty, since your sister's on her way to serve the country."
In a matter of minutes, it was settled. Then Kitty took Cara to meet Imelda, and they all went upstairs so Kitty could get her cape and the hat VADs wore outside.
Imelda couldn't get over their striking resemblance. "Did you ever play tricks? Try to fool your boyfriends?"
The twins exchanged a look.
"Not really. But we gave people enough trouble without doing it on purpose."
"Besides, I'm married." Cara held out her left hand to show Imelda her wedding band.
"And he never got the two of you mixed up? Before the wedding, I mean?"
"He's a minister. Has special discernment," replied Cara with pretended sanctimoniousness. Then she laughed gaily, and Imelda joined in a little sheepishly.
"Well, now that I think about it, for all you look so much alike, it's easy enough to tell the two of you apart. Kitty, here, is much—"
"Sweeter, nicer!" Cara filled in for her.
"I wasn't going to say that," protested Imelda. "Just . . . different."
"Cara's a terrible tease, Imelda," Kitty said, smiling affectionately at her sister. "Don't let her get to you."
"Have a good time, you two!" Imelda called after them as the twins linked arms and went out the door.
Soon they were seated in a busy pub near the hospital. Imelda had recommended the place as "quite a respectable spot for ladies dining alone." After ordering meat pies and a pot of tea, the sisters settled down to exchange reports on their new lives.
"Now, tell me all about Scodand and your training," prompted Kitty eagerly.
"Well, I didn't see much of the fabled land of poets and authors. We were billeted at a farm in the Highlands where they've never heard of central heating!" Cara gave a demonstrative shiver. "We were up before dawn, given a breakfast of strong tea and oatmeal porridge—believe me, I felt like Oliver Twist—on
ly I didn't ask for 'more'!" She grabbed her spoon and gave a convincing performance of a small boy demanding his dinner.
"Then while it was still dark, we marched out into the cold to work on a bunch of ramshackle Ford trucks. We learned to strip engines, rebuild them, improvise repairs. All of that took days. At night, we had first-aid classes and practiced on each other, splinting broken bones and learning how to use different kinds of bandages. They even had us lilting sacks o f potatoes and meal and putting them on stretchers that two women could carry, so that we could get used to lifting heavy bodies." She grimaced and gave another shiver.
'Then on to our French lessons. We studied a kind of phonetic, conversational French that should be enough for us to get by, so we were told—"
Just then the waiter came with their order, and the two turned their attention to the succulent meat pie, a tasty change from hospital fare. As they ate, Kitty gave Cara a sketchy account of her life at St. Albans.
She sighed. "I have no idea when I'll get my orders for France."
"From what I hear, they need all the help they can get over there—doctors, nurses, and drivers." Cara poured more tea, and for a few minutes they sipped it in silence.
"What news do you have from home?" Kitty asked at last. "It seems that mail takes forever to get here."
Cara shrugged. "Only that Scott got his commission as a first lieutenant in the reserves and drills on weekends. He agrees with Owen that it's only a matter of time before America comes in officially. Even Father has taken a different attitude. Oh, yes, and Jeff has finally consented to take a commission to do a poster for the war effort."
At this bit of news, Kitty's brows lifted. Their half-brother's pacifist leanings were well known.
"Oh, not for military recruiting purposes," Cara added quickly, "but a poster supporting War Orphans' Relief."
"And Owen?"
Cara's sparkling brown eyes clouded momentarily. "He's in New Jersey at a training base assigned to a company. We had a weekend together just before I got passage. I've only had one letter from him, but he promised to write every day, so the rest just haven't caught up with me yet. In that one letter, he said his men are the best. He's very dedicated to them and concerned about the bad press America's getting abroad because of President Wilson's stand." Cara shrugged.
The sisters' time together passed all too swiftiy and, outside the pub, they hugged each other and said their good-byes.
"Be careful, and don't take any chances or do anything crazy," Kitty whispered over the lump in her throat.
"You, too, Twinny," Cara replied huskily, using the old term of endearment they resented others' using but sometimes used with each other.
"God bless!" they said simultaneously, then laughed a little.
Cara hailed a slow-moving cab back to the hostel from where she would leave with her unit the next morning. Kitty stood at the street corner, watching as it disappeared down the darkened street into the fog. She was overwhelmed with a sensation of abandonment. As had happened many times in their lives, her twin was leading the way into some new adventure while Kitty remained behind.
Walking the short distance back to St. Albans, Kitty wondered when she would see her twin sister again. Quite suddenly Kitty felt desperately homesick—for everyone at home, for the Virginia spring that would soon be blossoming, and for the little house in the woods where she had planned to live with Kip.
Kip. She missed him so much. Where was he tonight? Was he thinking of her, longing to be with her as she was with him? She hoped so, but she couldn't be sure.
chapter
12
Christmas Holiday
Heap on more wood! The wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will.
We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
Sir Walter Scott
—Sir Walter Scott
WITH THE SEVERE WINTER weather and shortages of fuel and materials for warm clothing, St. Albans was full of patients with respiratory illness. Nurses and VADs were kept quite busy. When one patient was discharged, another quickly replaced him. So when Kitty received a note from Aunt Garnet inviting her to spend the holidays at Birchfields, she did not have much hope of obtaining the time off.
To her surprise, Matron granted her a four-day leave.
"Mrs. Devlin has rendered invaluable support and service to our hospitals and outstanding effort since the war," she explained, "so go, and please give your aunt my regards."
Birchfields, several hours from London by train, had been turned into one of many convalescent homes for British officers, a halfway place where they could recuperate in comfort and seclusion. Most were ambulatory, although not yet well enough to be sent home or return to active duty.
The prospect of a few days away from the hospital sent Kitty's spirits soaring. She had not realized how much stress her daily routine of nursing had placed her under until the thought of being free of it, even for a short time, was exhilarating.
She packed her bag with a sense of anticipation, even putting in an evening dress she'd never had a chance to wear since coming to England, just on the chance there might be an opportunity to wear it.
Kitty was particularly looking forward to seeing Lynette's little sister, her small cousin Bryanne Montrose, who had remained with her grandmother at Birchfields after her mother, Garnet's daughter, Faith, was lost in the sinking of the Titanic.
Kitty traveled to the country by train. Upon alighting from her compartment onto the platform, she looked around with interest. The small village showed signs of change brought about by the war. The flowerbeds surrounding the brick station house were neglected. And a lone, elderly man, who under ordinary circumstances would have long been retired, was seeing to tickets as well as luggage. There were no buggies or motorcars waiting for passengers. Noticing that the handful of people who got off when she did were leaving on foot, Kitty set out to walk the mile and a half to the Devlins' manor house.
It was clear and cold, but her VAD cape and brisk pace kept her warm enough. Walking along the winding road brought back memories of the summer she had been here as a child—of going on picnics in a pony cart and of one special day when they'd gone to a village fair, accompanied by Jonathan Montrose and Phoebe, then a governess. Kip hadn't been here that summer. Instead, his mother, Davida, had taken him and his sister, Meredith, to Cape Cod to visit their grandfather. Strange, but Birchfields was the one experience in her entire life that Kip had not shared.
The gates at the end of the drive were open when she arrived at the rambling stone and timbered Tudor mansion. The last time Kitty had been here, it had been summertime. The lawns and meadows had been a velvety green, the old-fashioned formal gardens abloom with primroses and pink and blue hydrangeas. Even now, although the grounds were winter-bare, there was a peaceful serenity here that made the war seem distant and unreal, in drastic contrast to the London she had just left.
There, the winter of 1916 seemed to go on forever. It had become the winter of the world in all its unremitting bleakness. The grim faces of its citizens spoke of the pervasive dread of the nighdy threat of German Zeppelins, the wailing of warning signals, the whine of sirens tearing through the darkened streets, and most of all, the long line o f ambulances moving toward Charing Cross Station to wait for the incoming trainloads of wounded.
Kitty thrust aside her gloomy thoughts. She had four wonderful free days ahead. It would be foolish to spoil them by dwelling on the harsh realities of her daily life as a nurse. Aunt Garnet had written, "I want this to be a joyous time for you, a few days away from the everyday grind." Kitty was determined that her visit would be just that.
Even so, when she entered the house and saw men on crutches and with canes, or with bandaged eyes, being led about by crisply uniformed nurses, she couldn't help thinking of the cruel irony of it all. That these luxurious surroundings should be ministering to the victims of the unspeakable horrors of war. Within walls where once gala balls and elaborate dinner
parties had been given, where even a prince had been entertained, now men with broken bodies and shattered dreams were attempting to put their lives back together.
But maybe, by turning Birchfields into a convalescent home, Aunt Garnet was doing something invaluable for the men sent here to recuperate. By extending to them the gracious hospitality that prevailed here before the war, she was giving them a promise of hope.
While Kitty stood in what was known as the Great Hall, her aunt came rushing to meet her. "Oh, honey, it's so good to see you!"
"You, too, Auntie," Kitty said, thinking Garnet was as handsome and chic as ever, with hardly a wrinkle to show for her years.
"Ever since I heard you were in England, I've been longing to have you down. You're just what's needed around here. What a treat you'll be for these poor souls." She lowered her voice, still soft with a trace of her Virginia accent, as a man in a wheelchair was pushed across the hallway. "But," she went on, regarding Kitty with a frown, "you must get out of that ugly outfit at once!"
Kitty bristled automatically. She was prouder of her VAD uniform than anything she had ever worn in her entire life. But she overlooked her aunt's remark as Garnet rattled on.
"I do hope you've brought something feminine and pretty with you, dear. But, if not, never mind." She patted Kitty's arm. "You may have noticed I've put on a few pounds. It's the wartime diet, you know—too many potatoes! So I have some lovely Paris gowns I can no longer get into. You can take your pick and share some of your beauty with these poor boys who need cheering up." Taking Kitty's arm, she led her toward the stairs. "Come along, I'll show you to your room."
"Wait, Auntie. I'd like to see Bryanne. How is she?"
"Oh, she's fine. I'll take you out to see her in a while. Things have been rearranged, as you'll see. She's staying in the estate manager's house with her governess. Well, actually her nursemaid. There are simply no suitable young women available these days. They're all working for the government in some capacity or as volunteers like you and Cara."