by Edwards, Eve
He glanced down. She did look like the queen of heaven in her quiet dignity. ‘I draw as I see.’
She rubbed her arms nervously which he took as a sign that she was feeling the same tension, attraction wrestling with fear of rejection. ‘I wish I felt as you see. Thank you: it’s lovely.’
A little more confident, even hopeful that they might progress to more direct discussion of feelings, Sebastian checked his watch. He just needed time to wear down her resistance. ‘If you’re not bored rigid, would you mind posing for more?’
‘I’m in your hands. I have my bribe to earn.’
‘Tea at the Ritz demands more than one sketch. Now for something less formal. Would you recline on the sofa, propped up at this end, angled towards me?’
She kicked off her sensible shoes and wriggled her toes in her stockings. ‘I feel silly.’
‘You look lovely. As ever.’
A pretty rose-blush bloomed on her cheeks, but characteristically she undercut the compliment with a joke at her own expense. His Helen was not used to accepting praise. ‘You’ve obviously not seen me at the hospital after a hard day on the wards.’
He smiled and shook his head.
Obediently, Helen took the pose he requested and he set back to work.
THE SOMME, FORWARD MEDICAL STATION, 1 JULY 1916, 4 P.M.
It was getting dark and still the casualties kept coming. Helen took a quick break for tea and a sandwich, leaning against the wall in the nurses’ tiny rest room. Mary Henderson came in, weaving on her feet. Tall and thin like one of the French poplars that lined the roads of Flanders, Mary looked close to falling. Her glasses were misted with tiny specks of blood; she took them off and cleaned them frantically.
‘I don’t know if I can stand it, Helen,’ she whispered. ‘That’s the third man in an hour to die on the table. What’s the point of putting them through all this pain?’ Her shoulders hunched. ‘God, he was only sixteen, that last one. Too young.’ She looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘He thought I was his mother. Said something – I’m not sure what – and then was gone.’
Helen bit the inside of her cheek to stop her own sobs. ‘He probably said he loved her. Most do. At the end.’
Mary managed a hoarse laugh. ‘Actually, I think he said, “Don’t wake me up so early, Mum.”’
Helen brushed her hand across her eyes. ‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’
Mary pressed her hands to her breast. ‘Like a rusty knife sawing at my ribs. I can’t go back out there.’
Helen put down her cup and straightened her shoulders. ‘Yes, you can. They are relying on you. There are those that will survive because of what you do here; and those that don’t will bless you for trying.’ She poured a cup of now very strong tea. ‘Here, get this down you. Almost as good as a shot of rum, I’ve been told.’
Mary sipped and gave a trembling smile. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Sebastian. My … my friend.’ Mary nodded; she knew about her room-mate’s soldier at the front. ‘He’s in the 1st Somersets. He wrote that tea is his second favourite drink these days, after the rum ration. Doesn’t think the army would function without it.’
‘My mother wrote to tell me that it’s getting hard to find in London and very expensive.’ They drank in silence for a moment, relieved to be contemplating something as normal as buying groceries in England. The noise and groans outside seemed to recede, leaving them in an island out of time and place. ‘Do you think they know, back home, about all this?’
Helen closed her eyes. ‘They can’t understand, no matter what tales they hear, they can’t. The men don’t tell the truth, afraid to burden their families. Every soldier is “killed instantly”, according to their commanding officer, or missing in action, rather than blown to bits.’
Grimacing, Mary bit into a slice of bread, tearing off the crust. ‘That’s a joke.’
‘I think it’s meant as a kindness.’
Mary nodded, swallowing with difficulty. It was hard to eat, but they made themselves do so. ‘Yes, I think you’re right. There are some things no one should know. And some are so badly hurt I wonder if we do them a favour patching them up. Better to give them a couple of those and let them drift off.’ She gestured to the locked medicine store with its supply of morphine capsules.
Helen had felt that temptation herself when despair had taken her in its grip like an undertow in the sea of misery in which they swam. The nurses took it in turns to hold each other’s heads out of the water. It was enough to know that one of them still believed in what they did to keep the others from drowning. This was her turn to find the right words. ‘I know what you mean, but still I’d rather not be the one to decide. Who knows what someone will make of their life, even with terrible injuries to deal with? Sometimes they’re better off than the ones whose wounds are inside.’
Mary put her cup down, relieved to hear the words she needed to patch up her shredded confidence. ‘Are you sure you’re twenty, Helen? You sound much older.’
Actually, she had just turned eighteen, but no one was to know that. ‘I’ve grown up since being here.’
‘You can say that again. I feel as if I’ve aged a decade. I thought I was coming out to mop fevered brows and carry the lamp through the wards like a latter-day Florence Nightingale, not that.’ She gestured to the horrors beyond the door.
‘So glamorous, our life, isn’t it?’ Helen straightened her scarf, ready for another bout. The cracks papered over again.
‘Oh yes, a real “aba daba honeymoon”,’ said Mary wryly, quoting the popular song everyone was enjoying back home. ‘Shall we?’ She opened the door, the sounds kicking back in at full volume.
Before returning to theatre, Helen sought out the young soldier from Sebastian’s regiment. He had got through his operation and was now lying on a pallet bed in one of the wards. Once a cowshed, even under the odour of disinfectant it was possible to smell the previous inhabitants. It didn’t remind her of dirt; it recalled wholesome countryside, milkmaids and rambles on spring days. She knelt down at his side and took his hand.
‘How are you, soldier?’
He squeezed her hand. The operation had taken his voice; she hoped he might get it back eventually.
‘I see you’re from the Somersets. Do you know Lieutenant Trewby?’
The soldier’s eyes widened and he managed a nod.
She put a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t move, please. I should leave you in peace.’
He pressed her knuckles, clearly not wanting her to go.
‘It’s just that I was wondering if he’s all right.’
A flicker of a smile lit the boy’s face and he squeezed her hand once firmly.
‘Is that a “yes”?’
He repeated the gesture.
‘Thank you. I think you’ve got your Blighty wound. It’s home to family for you.’ She checked his tag. ‘You’ll be put on a transport, then a train to one of the ports.’ She made to rise, but he would not let go of her hand. He was staring at her face intently, waggling his eyebrows.
‘Oh, me? I’m Nurse Sandford. Helen Sandford.’
He closed his eyes, content now he had her answer.
She got up to find the matron standing by her.
‘Should you not be in theatre, nurse?’ Sister Richards asked.
‘I was just on my way, matron.’
She flicked through her list of patients. ‘What were you and Miss Henderson doing in the nurses’ room for so long?’
Stopping each other cracking under the strain. ‘The doctors sent us for a break as we had worked through the lunch hour.’
&nb
sp; ‘I see. You’d better get back then. I don’t know how we’re going to manage. You’ve worked two shifts already, I think?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must go off at six and get some sleep. If you work much longer, you’ll start to make mistakes, or forget your duty.’ If you haven’t already seemed to be the implicit meaning of her statement.
‘Yes, matron.’ Helen hurried back to the operating theatre, feeling the chill of the matron’s disapproval at her back. She rarely stepped out of line and it struck her as unfair to be caught where she should not be on the one occasion she let her worry for Sebastian lure her away. Still, there were far more important things to occupy her now than a slight infraction of the rules.
9
THE RITZ HOTEL, LONDON, 20 MARCH 1915, 4 P.M.
Tea at the Ritz. Helen could hardly contain herself contemplating the treat that awaited her behind the Palladian facade of the hotel. Admittedly it was showing somewhat less of its pre-war splendour, many of the clientele in khaki, no lights allowed to spill on to the street, but still the foyer was the finest place she had ever stepped inside. There was a crystalline glitter to the place – marble pillars wiped clean of any smudges, wall mirrors buffed to a state of perfect reflection, floor shining despite the dirt inevitably tracked in by the visitors.
The colours chosen for the drapery and walls in the Palm Court were light and airy like the golden sponge cake and scones topped with cream arranged on elegant stands. The tea services were all silver, the cups bone china. Since coming to the capital, Helen had come to realize that most of it was grubby and dog-eared; finally this was the London she had read about in the silver fork novels of the Victorians, the kind of place society would go to see and be seen. And Sebastian was taking it all completely in his stride, tipping the doorman smoothly, asking for a table without apology or hesitation. Grandson of an earl, indeed, and she the daughter of a solicitor’s clerk – what was she thinking?
The waiter seated them near the string quartet, palm fronds separating them from everyone else in a little jungle clearing of their own. The dance floor was sprinkled with couples moving in dreamy harmony.
Sebastian ordered tea then sat back and smiled at her. ‘I think you’ve earned your reward. I was really pleased with the sketches. I hope you were too.’
Helen’s only criticism was that she feared he had flattered her too much. ‘They were lovely. You’re very talented.’
‘Strange kind of skill to have in these days.’ His eyes followed a captain in the Guards who was squiring his companion round the floor in a neat one-step.
It was not hard to guess where his thoughts had gone. Helen felt a twinge of alarm. This parasite war was sucking up more and more men, sending home the husk of their bodies. Many were finding their way to her hospital, gentle, ordinary men who had lived through terrors that left them with nightmares. The wards were changing, common diseases replaced by serious war-related injuries. There was no hiding the full cost of this conflict from the medical staff who had to pick up the pieces. She did not want Sebastian pushed into that horror. ‘I hope that you don’t feel ashamed of something you do so well.’
Sebastian rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Not ashamed exactly. Irrelevant.’
‘Beauty and art are never pointless.’
‘Even when your country is at risk? Can I sit and let others defend it, like my brother and Des?’
She tweaked the light-brown material of her skirt straight, unsure what to say. The social pressure was building to a steamy heat and every man of military age must be feeling it; the jungle drums of newspapers, posters, even the sermons on Sunday, beat loudly and insistently, not letting them forget what was expected of them. She did not want to see Britain defeated any more than the next Englishwoman, but selfishly she wished it did not have to be done by those she knew.
Sebastian had taken her silence as agreement. ‘You must think me an awful prevaricator.’
She looked up, startled. ‘I think nothing of the sort.’
He gave a rueful laugh. ‘Then I must be thinking it then. Let’s not spoil our tea with my dilemma. It will resolve itself soon enough, I fear. Would you like to dance?’
Her gaze slid across the couples on the dance floor. ‘I’m not very good.’
‘Neither am I so that means we won’t be disappointed in each other.’ He stood and held out a hand. ‘Come.’
She let him steer her into a gap at the edge of the floor then, like swimmers waiting their turn to dive into the lagoon, they plunged in. He was not as bad as he had led her to believe, confidently guiding her, even if he did not have the flair of a truly gifted dancer. She did not disgrace herself either, so was able to enjoy the sensation of being held. Her life was so empty of human touch that the demands of the dance – the warmth of his palm on her back and the strength of his hand holding hers – felt overwhelmingly intimate. She began to notice little details, like how her head came up to his chin. If she dared, she could move forward and lay her cheek against his heart. A mad impulse to seek out the steady pulse of life seized her – a move she was sure would embarrass them both. With difficulty, she crushed the urge.
He reversed direction to avoid another couple, helping Helen to put firmly behind her that odd moment. Existence was such a strange thing. Living alone, touching others only to nurse them, it was easy to forget that she was first a girl, one who needed to feel another person’s warmth. And not just anyone; it was Sebastian she wanted.
But the middle of the dance floor at the Ritz was not the place to announce that, she admitted to herself with a frustrated sigh.
Too soon, the quartet came to the end of the piece and the dancers stopped to give them a polite round of applause. Sebastian glanced over to their table.
‘Our tea has arrived.’ He looped her hand round his elbow and led her back, stepping out of the shallows and into the refuge of their palm clearing. ‘Thank you for putting up with me as a partner.’
Helen smiled, squeezing his arm. ‘You were more than adequate – as I’m sure you know.’
‘So my mother’s lessons were not completely wasted?’
‘I’d say not.’ Helen sat down, aware that her heart was still beating faster than normal and her face was probably flushed. She could not blame the exercise; it was a mixture of nerves and excitement as she revelled in her situation. As a little girl, she had dreamed of her grown-up self in such a place: attending a tea dance with a handsome young man. She just wished she could be the fairy-tale character she had imagined for Sebastian rather than the prosaic girl dressed in brown and cream beset with random thoughts about the nature of life. Did he know, she wondered, that when he smiled, creases appeared either side of his mouth like happy brackets? His jaw was squarer than hers, neck much thicker. Why did men get that as they grew while women remained slighter, more rounded? Would life be easier facing it with a frame that could withstand a blow or two? Would she be as confident as he was if she had more angles to her, a chin that confronted the world with a blunt claim on its right to be there?
He nudged the cake stand towards her. ‘What are you thinking about? You’ve got an odd look in your eye.’
Glad he had not heard her thoughts, Helen flushed, making a show of choosing a scone and jam from the top layer of the stand. ‘I was just wondering what it would be like to draw you. Have you ever done a self-portrait?’
Sebastian tweaked his own chin. ‘More times than I can count until I’m quite sick of this old phiz. I’m the only model I can rely on to be available at all hours.’ Their eyes met through the frame made by the handle of the cake stand. ‘If the experience wasn’t too ghastly, would you be pre
pared to sit for me again?’
Yes, yes, please, she wanted to shout. Instead, she settled for a reply that did not expose her eagerness too embarrassingly. ‘I enjoyed myself, so yes.’
‘You must be busy at the hospital these days.’
‘Not too busy to spare a few hours for a friend and encourage a talented artist.’ She took a bite of scone, squashed a little cream on her nose and quickly dabbed it off. Why did that kind of thing always have to happen to her when she was trying to impress?
Though his gaze lingered on the place the cream had been, he kindly made no remark about her faux pas. ‘Thank you. I think you help bring out the best in me.’
She was thrilled he thought that. Surely he must like her, more than just a little? ‘I’m glad to be of assistance.’
They parted at the Underground, Helen going on the branch line to Highbury, Sebastian taking the train in the opposite direction down to Goodge Street. She had adamantly refused his escort home, saying she travelled around London on her own every day so did not need to change that now. He had not pushed. Instead, he spent the journey congratulating himself on managing his day with her fairly well. She had been a pleasure to sketch and she had enjoyed the Ritz, though it had daunted her at first. He had loved her shy embarrassment when she had cream on the end of her nose and had had to stop himself leaning over to kiss it away. And he had even thought up an excuse to see her again. Soon he would have to indicate that his interest in her was not just as an artist, but he sensed she would be slow to cotton on, too innocent of her own attraction.
Sebastian arrived back at his lodgings expecting to find that most of the others had gone out to their habitual Saturday haunts. Instead, he found Sammy waiting for him in the kitchen. He came out when he heard the key in the lock, hands dug deep in his trouser pockets. Even more unusual, the troglodyte’s door was shut.
‘Evening, Sammy.’ Sebastian waved, eager to go back to his studio to study his day’s work.