Dark Angel

by Sally Beauman

  He hoped he had explained it clearly enough in his note. He knew it was important not to make a mess of this—which sometimes people did, with the most horrible consequences. He did not want to blow his jaw off, or let the gun slip so he took a gut wound; his mother would be distressed by that. What he wanted to do—and he was sure he had explained it to her, very clearly—was blast his brains out of his skull with one sure clean shot, so there was nothing left. It was possible, of course, that if he went back to the trenches, the Germans would do this for him. That could not be relied upon, however, whereas this could.

  His mother would understand. Boy leaned forward. He positioned the Purdey so the shoulder of the gun was wedged and firm in a rut. He leaned it toward him and looked down the barrels. He smoothed the silver mounts, engraved with the design his father had chosen all those years before. He opened his mouth and wriggled gently, so the tips of the barrels were wedged between his teeth and the roof of his mouth.

  Constance’s dog gave a small whine. Boy thought his brothers might be close now, because they had stopped shouting. It was not really fair to make them watch. Forget the dog—he had better be quick.

  The gun tasted sour, of iron and oil. It made him gag, pressing down on his tongue. Steenie and Freddie, who had stopped short some twenty yards away, saw Boy retch. He repositioned the gun. Freddie took one step forward. He lifted his hand. Steenie found he could not move. He was sure it would be all right—even then. Boy was in such an awkward position; the gun might slip at any instant; it would be difficult to pull the trigger downward rather than back; Boy’s hand was unsteady; Boy was, always had been, a lousy shot.

  This is not happening, said a clear voice in Steenie’s mind. (It was Steenie’s first experience of shock.) He waited for Boy to drop the gun, straighten up. He will jerk at the trigger, not squeeze, Steenie thought. He always does.

  Steenie opened his mouth to say Boy’s name. It would not be pronounced. He stared at Freddie. He watched the muscles of his brother’s face move. Freddie’s mouth could not say the name either. It made an O of air. The same idea came to them, at the same moment: Steenie saw it form in Freddie’s eyes; Freddie saw it form in his.

  They both turned back to Boy at the same instant. The name that always made him alert, that had never failed to check him.

  “Francis—”

  They said it in unison. Their tone was exactly right. It was quiet, sensible, and firm.

  Boy appeared to listen. Both syllables hung in the air. Steenie could still hear them, almost see them, when Boy (well trained, if not a good shot) squeezed the trigger, and the birthday gun went off.

  VI

  UNKNOWN SOLDIERS

  From my mother’s diaries:

  General Hospital 1,

  Saint-Hilaire,

  March 21, 1917

  IT IS SIX DAYS since I lost a patient, but this evening the Canadian died. I want to write down his name. It was William Barkham. His family came from Devonshire, but sold up and went to farm in Saskatchewan, in a place called Fort Qu’Appelle. It is a very small place, and their farm’s address is a box number. I have written to his mother there.

  I knew that he would die: He had trench foot, and the doctors amputated badly. They had seared the wound with tar; he was then three days at the field station. The gangrene was advanced before he reached here. I knew there was no hope.

  He talked to me for an hour before he died. He told me about that farm at Fort Qu’Appelle. They farmed wheat. They kept two cows, some bantams, and some chickens. The farm was near a lake; in the winter mornings, when he rose early for the milking, he used to walk by the lake and watch the sun rising. The ice was three feet thick; it stayed all winter, from November to March. When he was a child his father taught him to skate on that lake, and when he was a man he skated there with his girl. Except—I suppose he was not really a man. He joined up when he was eighteen. He was nineteen yesterday.

  Each morning when he finished the milking, he walked back to the farm; his mother cooked him griddlecakes and bacon. He saw her at the end; he spoke her name when he was dying. There was something he wanted to tell her; he clasped my hand very tight; I could see the words in his eyes, but he couldn’t speak them. He was in great pain, and being silenced. It made me very angry.

  I wanted a miracle. I wanted to put my hand on him and feel the life come back. I prayed—but nothing happened. Nothing ever happens. There are no more miracles, and God does not listen to my prayers. Perhaps there is no God, and I had to come here to learn that. I think I prefer to believe that, than to believe in the God I see here every day, in the hospital wards, a God who turns his back on an only son, a boy of nineteen, a God who spares no one and never intervenes. Surely he could give some sign—is that so much to ask? Just one resurrection.

  I thought I could not cry anymore—I could not even cry when they told me about Boy. Yet I cried tonight for William Barkham, and that made me angry too. Tears are useless. They give no comfort to the dying. Tears are an indulgence.

  Some of the nurses take laudanum, for the tears. I will not do that. Wexton says that eventually you reach a place that is not beyond the tears, but in them. Maybe he is right. I am still waiting.

  Yesterday Wexton brought me a present at the hospital. It was a haggis. He was given it by a Scotsman. We boiled it in a kettle on a primus stove, and shared it with the nurses on this ward. One slice each. I owe Wexton my life. I also owe Wexton my thanks. He has arranged for me to reach my destination after all: Next week, our transfer comes through. We leave for Étaples on Monday.

  “Étaples. Didn’t I tell you I could fix it?”

  They stood outside the railway station; the train that had brought them was already steaming away into the distance. A crowd of people, still pushing through the barriers: several other nurses, some French and Belgian soldiers, an old woman dressed in black, carrying a crate of chickens. Jane turned, and there in the distance, just as Wexton had promised her, was Étaples, her destination.

  A huge encampment, like a small city: rows and rows of Nissen huts, fields of khaki tents, a parade ground. Jane narrowed her eyes; she could just discern the figures of men, small as ants: They were drilling.

  Part of her view was blocked by a large woman standing a few feet away. She was at least six feet tall, with the shoulders of a man and a bosom like the prow of a battleship. The woman wore an unfamiliar uniform, including belted greatcoat, jacket, and tie. On her head was a hat like a basin, pulled low over her eyes and cropped hair. Evidently she had recognized them, for as Wexton spoke, she stepped forward.

  “Wexton,” she barked.

  Wexton jumped, as well he might, dropped both cases, and swung around with a beam of pleasure.

  “Winnie!” He ignored her outstretched hand and kissed her. The giantess blushed scarlet. “Winnie, you’ve come to meet us! How kind. You must meet Jane Conyngham. Jane, this is Winnie. You remember, I told you? Winnie’s a WAAC.”

  “How do you do?” Winnie extended her huge hand once more and grasped Jane’s in a painful grip. “WAAC Clerical Division, actually. And as a matter of fact, I fixed it. Welcome to Étaples. Give me her bag, Wexton. Good Lord, is this all you have? It’s as light as a feather.”

  “Winnie is a woman of influence.” Wexton regarded her with pride. “Better watch out for her. How are you, Winnie?”

  “In the pink. In the pink. Good to see you again, Wexton. Good to meet you, Jane. Do you like to be called Jane, or do you prefer surnames? I prefer surnames myself, so I’ll call you Conyngham, I expect. See how things go. See if you last the course. See if I take to you. You may call me Winnie, though. Everyone does. I’m the controller, Regimental Base Depot Two—which is officer ranking, in case you don’t know, but they don’t give us fancy titles because the men wouldn’t like it. If you need me, just ask for Winnie the WAAC—that’ll find me. I work for Colonel Hunter-Coote. One of the old brigade. An absolute sweetie. Got him well trained. Eats out of m
y hand. So, any problems, any trouble with that matron, and you come to me. She and I have crossed swords already. On a number of occasions. Right—all ready? Off we go then. It’s just over a mile. Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.”

  She turned and set off at a smart pace. Wexton and Jane exchanged glances.

  “Isn’t she wonderful?” Wexton gave a sidelong smile. “I’m mad about her. Étaples was my first posting. Winnie took me under her wing—which, as you can see, is a pretty large wing. I knew, if I wrote, that she’d fix it. Winnie can fix anything.”

  “I’ve never met a WAAC before,” Jane said in a faint voice, trying to keep pace.

  “Well, they’re new, of course. But Winnie’s not simply a WAAC. Right now, Winnie’s running the war. In my opinion. Hers too.”

  “She’s very …” Jane stopped. It was difficult to think of an adequate word.

  “English? Isn’t she? What do you think of the voice?” Jane hesitated. The voice, indeed, was formidable. The ring of the English hunting shires, overlaid with tones of the parade ground. “It’s loud. I suppose you could say … commanding.”

  “It’s ridiculous.” Wexton gave her a delighted glance. “It’s ridiculous. And wonderful. I also love her moustache. In fact, I love everything about her. Oh, hang on …”

  Ahead of them, Winnie had come to an abrupt halt on a small rise of ground.

  “Look lively, you two.” She turned. “Now, guided tour coming up. Pay attention, Conyngham, or you’ll get lost. Right, behind us is the station …”

  “We kind of noticed that, Winnie. We got off the train there.”

  “No lip from you, Wexton.” Winnie shot him a fond glance. She pointed. “Now, there’s the village—full of Frenchies. Watch out for them, Conyngham. Lot of old lechers, and they all chew garlic. Over there’s the camp—mostly Tommies, some Aussies, a few Kiwi infantry at present. Rumors we may see the Americans, if they come in. Colonel Hunter-Coote says they will. We’re still waiting, and my girls are very impatient. That’s the hospital, over there—Conyngham, you see that big gray building beyond the perimeter? And the ambulance billets are just beyond that, so Wexton will be nice and close.” She looked from Wexton to Jane as she said this, and smiled in a meaningful way. “Now look, over there—you see that building there, just past the parade ground? That’s my depot, and that’s where you’ll find me. You’ll both need a pass for the camp, but that’s all taken care of. Meanwhile, that”—she stabbed the air with a large finger, and a note of pride entered her voice—“that little hut is our YWCA. We’re setting up our own little club there. I fixed it with Hunter-Coote. I told him, straight from the shoulder: My girls are going to need a place to go to in the evenings. ‘Cootie,’ I said—I call him Cootie, by the way—‘Cootie, my girls need a home away from home. You have the mess. What do we have?’ So he put in a chit. Tablecloths, and china cups, too—none of that tin-mug nonsense, not for my girls. They won’t stand for it. Everything tiptop quality, Army and Navy Stores, you know—I insisted. Fraternization with the men allowed.” She fixed Jane with her eyes in a stern way. “My girls wanted that, so I hope you won’t mind, Conyngham. All right by you, is it? By the way, there’s a piano.”

  “Oh, of course. How nice …”

  “We have singsongs. Of an evening. Then cocoa. Right. Off we go again. Come on, Wexton—what are you staring at?”

  “That.”

  Wexton had put down his bag and was staring in the direction of the river below. The village of Étaples was set back between the river and hills so steep they were almost cliffs; the river continued down the valley toward the sea.

  “That?” Winnie seemed reluctant to follow the direction of Wexton’s eyes. “That’s the river Canche. Over there, Conyngham, where the roofs are, that’s Le Touquet. Nice beaches. Only one stop on the train. We go down on Sundays sometimes, for a swim. Hope you brought a bathing suit, Conyngham. If not, don’t worry. I’ll put in a requisition to Stores—”

  “I didn’t mean the river, Winnie.” Wexton had not moved. “What’s that?”

  “Where those men are digging?” Wexton was now pointing, but Winnie still seemed reluctant to look in the right place. “That’s the extension to the trenches. In case of air attack. Happened once or twice.” Winnie sounded dismissive. “Didn’t do a lot of damage. But you have to think ahead. Be prepared. Another week and the trenches will go all the way from the camp to the caves—”

  “Caves?” Jane turned.

  “Over there. In the cliffs behind the village. They’re huge. Best possible shelter. It was Cootie’s idea, actually. Evacuate through the trenches and into the caves. Put up the proposal weeks ago, but of course no one did a damn thing. Red tape, as per usual. Now—”

  “I didn’t mean the trenches, Winnie. Or the caves. I know about those.” Wexton turned to face her. “I meant that. That yacht.”

  “Which yacht?” Winnie sounded irritable.

  “There is only one yacht, Winnie. The large one, moored downriver. What’s that? It wasn’t here before.”

  “Evacuation yacht.” Winnie sniffed. “Evacuation yacht, if you must know. For the VIPs. If the Allies have to evacuate northern France.”

  There was a silence.

  “Evacuate? Surely not?” Jane said in a small tight voice.

  “Lot of damn nonsense.” Winnie shouldered Jane’s case once more. “Alarmists in Whitehall. Now, shall we get a move on?” She set off; Jane and Wexton looked at each other.

  “Oh, great.” He bent and picked up his case. “That’s the VIPs taken care of.”

  “It’s just a precaution, Wexton.” Jane looked back at the yacht. It was large and stately. For the first time it occurred to Jane that the Allies could lose this war. She began to walk, then quickened her pace; after some minutes Wexton caught up with her. Winnie, marching ahead, occasionally looked back. She appeared to have recovered her temper, for several times she gave them an approving nod.

  “Why is she looking at us like that, Wexton?” Jane said when this had happened for the third time.

  “She thinks you’re my girlfriend.” Wexton sounded nonchalant.

  “She thinks what?”

  “Well, I didn’t actually say so. Not in so many words. She just kind of jumped to that conclusion. When I wrote. I didn’t want to disappoint her. After all, you did want to come here. Of course, Winnie doesn’t know about me. And I don’t think she would understand if I explained. Winnie’s led a very sheltered life—and besides, she’s a romantic. She’s madly in love herself.”

  “Winnie?”

  “With Cootie. Didn’t you gather that? And he with her. That’s why she wouldn’t look at the yacht, you see, and didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if the balloon goes up, Cootie will be on the yacht and Winnie won’t. Hunter-Coote is a VIP. Winnie, who damn near runs this place, isn’t.”

  “I see.”

  Jane stopped, one last time. They had almost reached the camp. A group of men in Australian uniform were laying sheets of corrugated iron over the newly dug sections of the trenches.

  Étaples. Acland had been here. He had stood, perhaps, where she stood now.

  “So. If the balloon does go up”—she began to walk again—“if it does, where will Winnie be?”

  Wexton gave her a gentle and ironic smile.

  “Winnie? In the caves, I guess. Along with you and me and about a thousand others.”

  Wexton and my mother arrived at Étaples in late March 1917. It was the beginning of spring, after the most notorious winter of the first war.

  Shortly after they reached Étaples, America declared war on Germany. Not long after that, Canadian troops, including the survivors of William Barkham’s regiment, took Vimy Ridge. The third battle of Ypres, and Passchendaele, lay some months ahead.

  Terrible battles, a year that marked the turning point in the war. I grew up with those names. They would come to me from the murmurings of grow
n-ups, when Wexton visited Winterscombe, or Winnie (who had by then married Colonel Hunter-Coote). It was years before I understood that these graceful, mysterious foreign words referred to battles. Passchendaele: I thought the word was Passion Dale, and I imagined a valley like Winterscombe, through which flowed the River Passion.

  Wexton and my mother were to stay at Étaples only one month. It was there that Wexton completed the poems Shells, which he would dedicate to Steenie. It was from there that he wrote to Steenie, letter after patient letter to someone he still loved but was already losing.

  Those letters haunted Steenie. Half a century later, when he was dying at Winterscombe, he would wait for a day when Wexton was absent; then he would read them aloud to me.

  “Look,” he would say at the end of a letter. “Look what I lost. Look what I threw away. Don’t you ever do that, Victoria.”

  To two of those letters in particular, Steenie returned again and again. One concerned the caves at Étaples, and the curious event that would take place there. The other (with an earlier date) described the day in April when Wexton and my mother finally gave in to Winnie’s invitations. They joined her and Colonel Hunter-Coote on an expedition to the beaches at Le Touquet—or, as they called it then, Paris-Plage.

  It was a Sunday when they went by train to Paris-Plage. They had lunch outside, on the terrasse fleurie of the café Belvedere. Wexton sat at a round table under a striped awning, overlooking the sea; it was the first warm day of spring; the sea glinted.

  Next to him sat Colonel Hunter-Coote. Across the table, wearing civilian clothes that day, and a straw hat that shaded her eyes, was Jane. The air was a dusty gold. Wexton felt warm and well fed; he had the pleasant sensation that he had strayed into an Impressionist painting, and that the joie de vivre he experienced was not his but Renoir’s. The war felt far away.