Dusk

by Edwards, Eve

  Helen smiled to herself, imagining netting him for closer inspection – if she dared. She too had done her fair share of studying him when she thought he wouldn’t notice. She hovered, uncertain whether to call him the more formal, and proper, Mr Trewby again or Sebastian: each choice seemed loaded with implications. So she said nothing.

  A few more faintly-lit streets passed before Sebastian broke the silence. ‘What are you going to do about him, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  Strangely, she did not. Unlike Des, who clearly only had thoughts for enjoying his brief time on leave, Sebastian had seemed genuinely concerned about her predicament. ‘There’s not much I can do. I’m just sixteen. He has the law on his side.’

  His eyebrows winged up. ‘Only sixteen? But I …’ He stopped himself mid-sentence, working out there was no polite way of ending that remark.

  ‘I know I might look older – and Flora is quite a bit older than me, six years in fact – so people are often surprised.’ And she felt well beyond her age, never having had a carefree childhood like she had read about in books at school. Nursery teas, gardens to play in, fussy nannies with a heart of gold – all the sentimental kinds of stories they now judged suitable for girls. Her life had always been fraught with rules that changed on a despot’s whim, sentence handed down before the verdict was given, as Alice found in Wonderland.

  ‘You’re going back with him?’

  Helen appreciated the fact that he was really listening to her, not assuming anything. ‘Well, no. I’m going to avoid him.’ She smiled at her lap.

  ‘Is that possible?’

  She shrugged. ‘I hope so. I won’t go to the theatre again until he’s left London. He doesn’t know where I’m training so, as long as Flora doesn’t give anything else away, I should be safe.’

  ‘Oh yes, your protective sister.’

  Helen understood how Flora might seem to someone like Sebastian; she had noticed his narrowed eyes and sarcastic expression as Flora had turned her full array of fluttering and sighing on the naval officer. Sebastian would scorn the surface play of emotions, not realizing that, while part of it was a show, Flora was much more complicated than the fragile blonde beauty she pretended to be. Helen had always regarded Flora’s displays as part of her instinctive behaviour as a female of the species responding to the signals of the male – so common in the natural world she had observed and recorded in her diaries – the dance, the preen, the flutter. Yet humans were more complex than birds and bees; Flora’s greatest strength, as well as her weakness, was to believe in the emotions she acted out, falling for her own illusion. She really was worth much more than Sebastian’s dismissive tone suggested. ‘Flora can be quite persuasive when she wants. She might even be able to talk our father out of taking me home, once he has got over his shock of seeing her in the show.’

  Sebastian returned to swirling his finger across the pane. ‘Not exactly something for fathers, is it?’

  ‘Or anyone with any taste,’ she joked.

  He laughed. ‘True.’

  The rest of the journey passed in silence. They were almost at her road when he suddenly spoke up again.

  ‘I wondered, Miss Sandford … Would you be interested in sitting …’ He stopped. ‘No, it was foolish of me to even think of asking.’

  Her heart beat just a little faster, wondering what that cut-off sentence had hidden. An invitation to a social event, a dinner party or theatre even? Had his courage failed before he asked her out? She would have refused of course, but it would have been nice to have been invited just this once. ‘There’s my door. By the privet hedge.’

  He got out first to open the cab door for her. Her street was one of the better ones in Whitechapel, a neat row of two-up two-downs, but even darkness could not disguise the poverty of this district, the smell of badly maintained privies and people living in close proximity. Nearly all her neighbours were Jewish immigrants, only just finding their feet in a new country, whole families crammed into tiny rooms. ‘You will be all right now?’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry to drag you all the way out here.’

  ‘No trouble.’ He shook her gloved hand – their first proper touch as she had managed to avoid taking his arm throughout the evening.

  She pressed her palm lightly against his, then quickly pulled away. His fingers were long and she could see they were only slightly roughened from the wear and tear of paint and charcoal – an artist’s hands. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He waited until she had her key in the lock of the front door then climbed back inside the cab. The vehicle puttered away, rousing the neighbour’s springer spaniels to an enthusiastic round of barking.

  Helen closed the door and leaned against it. What had he wanted to ask?

  5

  THE SOMME, 1 JULY 1916, 7.30 A.M.

  Captain Williams strode down the trench, tapping the men on the shoulder as he passed. ‘This is it: zero hour. Time, gentlemen.’ He nodded to Sebastian and then took his position at the centre of their line.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Cook, but he was the first up the fire step and on to the scaling ladder they had leaned against the wall of the trench. He slithered over the top on his belly. Sebastian followed, keeping low as the cockney had done; the decision to go over was easy now when he had men looking to him to lead. His first thought as he reached ground level was that the watery morning light seemed so much brighter out here even though it was filtered through the smoke clouds. He had a flash of memory, washing brushes, watercolours swirling through the jar in curling formations as he changed colour from pale blue to green. Then the guns started firing from the German lines, a harsh rattle like stones in a tin box. He stumbled forward a few paces, taking cover behind a slight swell of earth, the remains of an old wall. The sheer amount of metal in the sky was terrifying, like a swarm of bee-bullets, the noise unimaginable.

  A state he recognized as his battle-readiness took over. In extreme danger, his brain played a kind of trick on him, dividing into two – one part aware of what he needed to do to survive, coolly calculating, able to take decisions in fleeting instants; the other cobweb self floated in a detached state of confusion and terror. He could sense the men coming up behind him, waiting for his signal, so he gestured for them to move forward. They started across no man’s land, head and shoulders hunched down, but keeping up a steady jog forward until they met with the first tangle of barbed wire that had not been cleared.

  ‘Feckin’ useless artillery,’ mumbled Cook. ‘Do we go on, sir?’

  ‘Have to.’ It had become quickly apparent that the plan to clear the path for the soldiers with the overnight bombardment had not worked. They were going to be rabbits caught under the gardener’s raspberry nets, picking their way through their own wire and then the enemy’s as the Germans took potshots at them. ‘Like Peter Rabbit and Mr McGregor,’ muttered Sebastian, kicking off the wire caught on his boot. ‘Murder to get through.’

  Whitworth gave a shrill laugh, getting the nursery-book reference. ‘Loved that story, sir.’ The sound was cut off abruptly as he grasped his throat, blood welling through his fingers, a look of astonishment on his face. He fell against Norton.

  They had barely advanced fifty yards.

  ‘Damn it, Whitworth, don’t you do this to us.’ Training took over. ‘Norton, take Whitworth back to our lines, make sure he gets seen to.’

  Norton nodded, slung the boy’s arm over his shoulder and half carried him back to the trench, feet bumping on the ground.

  ‘Cook, Bentley, the rest of you with me.’ Sebastian pressed on, leading his squad of fourteen while noticing that the others from his division had cre
pt ahead of his little section, threading their way through the traps they themselves had laid for defence. Right and left, soldiers fell randomly, like conkers dropping from a chestnut tree as the breeze of bullets took them. So much for the German defences being beaten by the bombardment. He barely heard the clatter of the machine guns. Could something be too loud to hear? His boots slid in the churned earth, wet from the brief shower in the night. The heat of the hidden sun hammered on the front of his helmet. There had to be several hundred yards until they reached their objective and a third of the men were down.

  Terrified, he wondered how he kept on going.

  Then the German artillery joined the party, big guns behind the lines trying to find the right range to annihilate the oncoming wave of troops. By common consent, the men scattered for cover. Sebastian, Bentley and Cook took refuge in a large shell hole, the size of a bunker on a golf course, greasy with mud and fouled by human remains.

  ‘I think us grouse might be losin’.’ Cook wiped the sweat from his brow.

  ‘Game birds always lose. What they’re bred for,’ muttered Bentley darkly.

  As much as he agreed with the sentiment, Sebastian had to keep them moving. ‘All right, it’s clear the enemy is picking us off at will. We’ll move forward in stages. As far as the next shell hole.’ He gestured to the shallow rampart thrown up some twenty yards away. ‘Cook, can you see anything?’

  Nearest to the rim, Cook gingerly peered over the top. ‘Nah, sir. Not a sign. Nothing to shoot at.’

  ‘The worst of the fire is coming from our right. Let’s make for there and take the machine-gun position.’

  A body landed in the shell hole just behind them with a thud.

  ‘Christ, Norton, you’ve taken years off my life,’ joked Cook as their comrade crawled on his stomach towards them.

  ‘Whitworth?’ asked Sebastian.

  ‘The medics have him. Bullet caught him in the side of the neck. Might live,’ Norton said tersely, his bloodstained hands wrapped round his rifle stock and barrel. ‘Orders?’

  Whitworth was lucky to have fallen so close to aid. From here on, Sebastian would have to abandon any casualties. ‘We’re going to take down that machine-gun crew. We cover the ground to the next shell hole fast, then grenades at the ready. There’s a gap in the wire at two o’clock. We’ll run for it, lob a few presents at Fritz then follow in after. Pass the word to anyone within earshot. Understood?’

  The three soldiers touched the brim of their tin helmets.

  By God, Sebastian was proud of them. They all knew the chances of beating the bullets were slim. ‘Go!’

  WHITECHAPEL, LONDON, 24 OCTOBER 1914

  Flora did not come home until the small hours. Helen had been unable to sleep, anxiety swirling with mild panic, an ugly pairing, waltzing through her consciousness every time she tried to close her eyes. She knew better than to say anything when Flora finally slid between the sheets in their shared bed. Her sister smelt of smoke and brandy, masculine scents at odds with the usual feminine atmosphere of the spartan room. Able now to relax, Helen finally dipped into sleep, confused dreams splashing about in her mind. She woke when their landlady tapped on the door.

  ‘Miss Sandford, it’s six o’clock,’ Mrs Glock whispered, knowing the elder sister did not like to be disturbed so early.

  Helen slipped out of bed and padded in bare feet to the door. ‘Thank you, Mrs Glock. I’m much obliged.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure, love.’ The motherly lady bustled back down to her rooms on the ground floor.

  A chilly morning, Helen dressed quickly, then braided her long hair in a tight coronet as required by matron. She enjoyed the simplicity at the heart of nursing. There were rules which, if you obeyed them, earned you praise; make a mistake and you were sharply corrected, but it was always fair. You never had to guess what was coming your way. Her delight in observing the minute regulations had made her one of Sister Hardwick’s favourites. Strange that she felt no guilt at breaking one of the more important rules concerning the age of trainees, but there it was: Helen never experienced a moment’s regret for her choice to lie about that.

  ‘Off already?’ mumbled Flora, face buried in a pillow, a shield against the grey morning light, a daisy with petals folded.

  ‘Yes. I’ll have to run for my train.’

  ‘See you later then?’

  Helen sat on the side of the bed to pull up her stockings, her last good pair, clipping them to her garter belt. ‘I won’t come to the theatre again. I daren’t risk it.’

  Flora turned her head, eyes peeking out of her fall of golden curls. ‘I’m sorry, Sandy. You won’t be too lonely?’

  Helen smiled. ‘No. I’ve plenty of books to study.’ She brushed the locks off Flora’s cheek, noticing a red mark on her sister’s neck, but made no comment. Her sister did not like being quizzed about her evenings with her beaux.

  ‘Ask Mrs Glock to feed you,’ murmured Flora. They normally dined together near the theatre with the other girls.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I can look after myself, you know.’

  Flora shifted her hand from under her head to brush Helen’s arm. ‘I do know, but that won’t stop me worrying. I’ll talk with Dad if he turns up again.’

  Helen nodded, biting her lip. ‘I’m not going back.’

  ‘Of course you aren’t.’

  ‘Will you be out again tonight?’

  Flora stretched languorously, a cat-got-the-cream smile on her lips. ‘I think I might. Des has invited me to a dance at the club of an acquaintance of his.’

  Helen leaned forward and placed a light kiss on Flora’s cheek. ‘Have fun.’

  ‘I will. Love you, Sandy.’

  ‘Love you too, Flopsie.’

  Flora giggled. ‘You haven’t called me that in an age!’ Her expression clouded. ‘Don’t let anyone else hear you: it sounds so childish.’

  Helen buckled her sensible shoes, slipped into her coat and picked up her handbag, sad that the door back to one of the few pleasant memories of her childhood had closed behind her. She did not feel ready to grow up. ‘I won’t. Your secret’s safe with me.’

  She had her hand on the latch when Flora thought of a last question. ‘You got home safely? Des’s friend looked after you?’

  Studying eyes, thick red-brown hair, a natural wonder. Helen cleared her throat. ‘Yes, he was a perfect gentleman.’

  Flora smiled sleepily. ‘Good. I thought he might be a little bit smitten with you. He kept looking at you.’

  ‘He was very kind, but I don’t think there was anything more than that.’ Used to quelling hopes for her own prospects, Helen did not dare mention she had thought that maybe there had been something special in the way he regarded her.

  Flora turned over with an amused hum.

  ‘Sleep well.’ Helen closed the door softly.

  On arrival at the hospital, Helen was instructed to report to the sister in charge of the men’s ward. Most trainees hated working there, complaining that the old, broken-down fellows who made up the majority of the patients were dirty and smelly. Modesty was frequently challenged and there were no longer any surprises left for Helen when it came to the male anatomy. Yet she enjoyed nursing the men. She found them without exception polite, however much pain they were in. They tended to treat the nurses like angels, unlike the female patients who erred on the side of regarding the younger ones as servants or daughters at their beck and call.

  Sister Hardwick greeted Helen with her usual measured smile, which turned swiftly to a frown. An older woman with iron-grey hair and skin lined like an apple left over from autumn, the nurses whispered that she had trained unde
r the great Florence Nightingale herself. Helen doubted that: even Sister Hardwick wasn’t that old. ‘Miss Sandford, you look exhausted. I will not have my nurses too tired to do their job.’

  Helen rubbed self-consciously at the shadows under her eyes. ‘I … I was not well – had a stomach ache last night. I apologize if I look tired.’

  The matron now looked concerned. ‘If you are ill, my dear, you must stay at home and send word.’

  ‘No, no, it was merely a monthly trouble that has passed.’ Helen dared not breathe a word about her father. For a naturally truthful girl, her predicament was winding her in an uncomfortable maze of lies. She would have to remember her claim when her real monthly arrived; Sister Hardwick had a memory like a mousetrap, snicking closed on the least irregularity.

  ‘Very well. We’d better get to it then. Today I will be teaching you girls how to change a dressing. We have a coalman with a nasty leg ulcer. It has been lanced, but we must keep the incision clean and prevent infection. The doctor ordered strict bed rest and he has to keep the limb elevated. First, please give the patients in beds three and four their baths and then change the sheets. Let me know when you are done.’ She gestured to the right-hand side of the ward, to the arched windows set high in the wall.

  ‘Yes, matron.’

  Sister Hardwick checked her watch. ‘Where’s Miss Juniper got to? I swear that girl can never arrive on time. She will be scrubbing the bedpans.’ As she dropped her pocket watch so it swung back on its chain, Molly Juniper burst into the ward, already gabbling her excuses, hobbling with dramatic flair.