Dusk

by Edwards, Eve

  ‘But you would never have been unkind. You don’t have that instinct to go for the kill,’ Helen said, defending him against his own self-criticism. ‘Flora, you have to forget them. What matters is the baby – and you. We’ll make plans, find somewhere nice to live together.’

  Flora shook her head. ‘Will we, Helen? You on a nurse’s meagre salary, me no longer able to work: what exactly is going to keep the wolf from the door?’

  Helen rearranged the sugar and condiments. ‘You could go home. Mum will help.’

  Flora gave a ghastly laugh. ‘Oh yes, I can see that, can’t you? I’d be putting myself in a cage for the rest of my life. No, that’s the last thing I’ll do. It would be the death of me and ruin this child.’

  ‘I’ll get a new job – a better-paid one.’

  ‘Helen, you’re sixteen with next to no skills.’ Flora’s voice rose in pitch, strung out with tension and barely contained hysteria. ‘No employer in their right mind will pay you enough to support me and the baby. Forget it. This is not your problem. I apologize that I’ve let grief blind me to the situation.’ She got up, gathering her handbag in front of her like a shield. ‘Stay here. I’ll be back before the train.’

  Helen rose. ‘Where are you going? I’ll come with you.’

  Flora’s eyes sparked with annoyance. ‘Sit down. I’m going alone. Sebastian, keep her here. On your honour, do not follow me.’

  Sebastian nodded. With a flash of insight, he thought he could guess her intent and could understand why she did not want anyone to witness further humiliation. ‘We’ll come looking for you if you’re not back in an hour.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think it will take that long, do you?’ She gave him a hard smile, revealing the character that had allowed her successfully to make her own way in London. ‘Now I understand how the land lies, I think my attack will be more successful this time.’

  She walked out, held together by a bitter determination to survive.

  12

  THE SOMME, FORWARD MEDICAL STATION, 1 JULY 1916, 6.30 P.M.

  Ordered off duty, Helen lay fully clothed on top of her narrow bed and tried to snatch some sleep. It was so hard to do so when she could hear the unending stream of casualties being brought from the regimental aid posts, but she had been ordered to rest and be back on duty at midnight. There were so many on stretchers that they were being left in the open with only hastily rigged shelter from the sun. The groans of the sufferers reached her; in the end she put the pillow over her head to try to muffle them. The promised evacuation trains had not arrived and the station’s resources were hopelessly swamped. Helen had worked on exhausted, her nerves stretched like barbed wire between posts of duty and compassion, until she had finally been sent away. The sister-in-charge warned her that, if she collapsed, she would be another burden, not a help.

  Tossing and turning, Helen buried her head further under her pillow and resolutely closed her eyes. Images from the hours in theatre flickered past her closed eyelids. Forcing her mind to find pleasanter subjects to dwell on, she recalled the happier days she had spent in London with Sebastian a year ago. Though the time was marred by loss and Flora’s desperate situation, there had been sweet mixed with the bitter, for herself at least. Having taken the decision to sign up with his local regiment in Somerset, Sebastian had returned to see out his term at the Slade while waiting for his application for a commission to be considered. He had been prepared to go into the ranks, but his mother had insisted he try this route first. Lady Mabel was horrified that any of her sons would consider enlisting as a Tommy if they could get into the officers’ mess. Those two months between the end of March and end of May had been the real beginning to Sebastian and Helen’s relationship after the false start of the October before. Helen had enjoyed each steady step they had taken together, moving from two individuals to being a couple who wanted to share everything, every thought, mood and moment. She had never known anything like that closeness, not even with Flora.

  Her mind dwelt on the hours in his studio, Sebastian sketching or painting while she read or did a little embroidery. She liked to stitch designs of the wildflowers she collected and pressed for her diaries. They had spoken about everything – art, poetry, books, music, travel. Over time, she had even confessed to her botanical enthusiasms and been met with interest rather than the scorn she had feared, knowing she only dabbled and was no professional at what she did.

  She had been impressed that Sebastian had toured through many of the European capitals before the war – Paris, Vienna, Rome. He seemed so sophisticated compared to her. She had only ever travelled to the Norfolk coast on holiday and once to the Isle of Wight. She had made Sebastian laugh when she claimed this counted as ‘abroad’. His laughter was a precious thing, lighting up his face; it reminded her of how the sea glittered when the sun came out unexpectedly, turning from sad grey to a flashing silver. She was pleased she had been able to amuse him in the dark days when he had to live through the sharpest grief for his brother.

  Sleep stole up on her, bringing with it dreams of her sister. They were children together, sitting in the walnut tree in the garden of the family home, and yet Flora was also grown up in the bizarre way of dreams, holding a baby upside down as she swung backwards on the branch.

  Should you be doing that? Helen asked anxiously, dropping to the ground so as to catch the child should it fall from its husk of blankets.

  ‘I had a little nut tree and nothing would it bear

  But a silver nutmeg and a golden pear,’

  sang Flora. Then she sprouted blue-feathered wings and flew off.

  THE SOMME, 1 JULY 1916, 7.30 P.M.

  ‘Here, sir, look at this!’ Bentley beckoned Sebastian over. He shook off his lethargy and stepped over Cook, glad to see the man was still alert as he smoked a Woodbine.

  ‘What is it, private?’

  ‘Jerry’s up out of his trench and holding a white board – there’s a red cross on it. I think they want a chance to get the wounded off the battlefield.’

  A good, compassionate idea, but Sebastian did not consider he had the seniority to offer a truce. ‘Take word to Captain Williams.’

  Bentley hurried off at a run for the last known position of the captain. Sebastian took over the watch of the German standing in plain view. It was possible that this was a ruse to get them to show their heads above the parapet; he had not forgotten the suspected sniper team by the gun carriage. Anyone who went to discuss a truce would be senior, so a superior bag for the marksmen. Still, it would be fiendish of the Hun to abuse the Red Cross in that way; he was inclined to think the offer genuine.

  Bentley came back a few minutes later. ‘Sorry, sir, but Captain Williams has gone. So have most of his men. Direct hit from a shell. Bloody shambles. Corporal Wilmot is doing his best, but there are wounded to evacuate.’

  Sebastian swore. Aside from the pang of grief, that left him the commanding officer in his little stretch. He grabbed a grubby handkerchief from his pocket and tied it to the end of a thin metal stake used for fixing barbed wire. ‘I’m going to see what Jerry has to say for himself.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’ Bentley moved away from the fire step to make room. ‘He looks pretty keen; been out there exposing himself to our guns. He didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘That’s what I’m relying on.’

  ‘How’s your German, sir?’

  ‘Same as yours, I would guess.’ Sebastian heaved himself up and slithered over the top, waving the flag of truce. He couldn’t help but hunch forward slightly, anticipating the bullet as he stepped across the no man’s land between the German rear trench and the one they had occup
ied. Behind him, he could feel the eyes of his men on his back, alert for any treachery. He hoped they all kept their heads. One wrong move and this situation could rapidly spin back into hostilities. Thank goodness the artillery had faded into silence having pounded the ground all day with their missiles.

  The German stepped forward smartly, weaving his way through the tangles of wire.

  ‘Guten Abend!’ he called – absurd for it was a greeting more suited to a social occasion than the field of slaughter.

  ‘Hello,’ replied Sebastian, deciding he had come far enough.

  ‘I am doctor, yes? We stop for one hour to help our Kameraden?’

  Sebastian had to admire the man’s pluck. He made an impressive character with his trim beard and blood-spattered uniform. The problem was that Sebastian had no way of getting a message back to the gun crews behind the old lines to halt their shelling. Signals had not caught up with them and he now doubted he would get access to a telephone cable that day. He gestured behind him. ‘They will not stop.’ He could not be answerable for what the men in the gunners’ observation post would decide was a legitimate target.

  The doctor pointed to Sebastian’s men, then to his. ‘But we stop, yes?’

  A groan from one of the wounded rose from a shell hole beyond Sebastian’s view. He realized that the movement by the gun carriage he had spotted was not a sniper team, but some poor soldier who had been lying there all day. God Almighty, he hated the war. ‘Yes, my men will not fire on you if you remove your casualties. One hour.’

  The doctor nodded. ‘And we will not shoot if you take your men back.’ He pointed to the exposed spread of land between their position and the trench they had left that morning. With no communication tunnel yet dug, they would be easy to pick off by a good marksman as they carried stretchers that way.

  ‘Fair enough. Good evening.’ Sebastian saluted the brave doctor and hurried back to his trench. He dropped down the side. ‘Get the wounded ready. We have an hour to evacuate them to safety.’

  Bentley touched his cap. ‘Yes, sir. Didn’t think Jerry had a merciful streak. Have to say, speaks well of them.’

  Sebastian rubbed his chest, his heart hurting. ‘If the captain’s remains can be buried, do that too. And any of the lads, if there’s time.’

  ‘Sir.’ Bentley strode off to fulfil his orders, leaving Sebastian to monitor the German stretcher party. The thought came to Sebastian that he was watching a scene as old as the hills: those left behind scouring the battlefield for survivors, pronouncing this one beyond help, that one worth moving. A lump formed in his throat as he watched the doctor pull his revolver and dispatch a horse twitching behind the gun carriage. The truncated body of a man was heaved on to a stretcher and carried off. Perhaps it would have been kinder to put a bullet in the driver of the gun carriage too.

  Cook was carried past, supported by two soldiers.

  ‘Permission to retire, lieutenant,’ Cook asked, the spark of his normal cheek still flickering.

  ‘Permission granted. Look after yourself, Cook.’

  ‘And you, sir.’

  The light was beginning to fade. Dusk was approaching and he had hardly any men left in the trench for the evening stand-to. Even so, he had to keep to the army’s routine; it would be more distressing for the infantry if he neglected to do so.

  ‘Men, at your positions!’ he shouted. ‘Stand-to.’ The soldiers, who had been waiting at ease, moved wearily to attention. He walked the line, taking note of the missing. From the expression in their eyes, he could tell they were thinking the same as he was: it should have taken him longer to make the inspection. Four were away with the wounded which left him only seven. The horrid arithmetic meant that he, in his small section, had lost over half the troops since daybreak. Fifteen men, individuals with their own sense of humour, hopes, families, absurdities, either injured or killed in twelve hours. God knew what that meant for the rest of the army fighting on the Somme; Sebastian did not even want to think about that, his own loss enough to bear at that moment.

  ‘Stand down.’ He stared out across the darkening field. A swift cut across the skies, catching its evening meal. Inside he was weeping.

  WHITECHAPEL, LONDON, 15 APRIL 1915

  Juggling her parcels, Helen knocked on the door of Mrs Glock’s boarding house. Her former landlady answered, greeting her with a fond smile, the hair straggling from her loose bun, face flushed with the exertion of cleaning the stove. ‘Hello, love, how have you been keeping?’

  ‘Well enough, thank you. How’s my sister? I went to the theatre first, but they said she hadn’t come in.’

  ‘No, poor lamb, she’s not been up to it.’ Mrs Glock stood back to let Helen enter. ‘I hope they hold her position for her.’

  Helen did not think that likely. Toots was gloomy on the subject. The management took the view that Flora was by no means the only girl to lose a loved one to the war and they could not indulge her low spirits as it would set a poor example to the rest. She was expected to buck up and carry on. ‘There’s not much anyone can do. If she can’t perform, then that’s that. Where is she?’

  ‘In her room. I’ve not seen her down in the kitchen since this morning. Took her a cuppa at one, but she’s kept to herself for the rest of the day.’ Helen frowned. ‘But she’s all right; I’ve heard her moving about, opening drawers and such like. She’s keeping active. Probably catching up on her housework, the mending and so on.’

  Mending? Unlikely. Flora had always passed that particular chore on to Helen. ‘I’ve brought her a few treats from Fortnum and Mason.’ Actually, Sebastian had bought them for Helen, but she had not felt like eating them alone. ‘I doubt even Flora’s spirits will remain so depressed after eating some of their fruit cake and a bar of Fry’s milk chocolate.’ She aimed for a bright tone, but it sounded tarnished even to her.

  Mrs Glock clucked her tongue. ‘Now, that’s a kind thought. You go on up.’

  Helen took the stairs then knocked before entering her old room.

  ‘Who is it?’ called Flora.

  ‘It’s me.’

  Silence, then – ‘Oh. I suppose you’d better come in.’

  Not the warmest of welcomes. Helen turned the handle. ‘I come bearing gifts. I know how much you like –’ She halted on the threshold. The room was in chaos, two suitcases already piled with clothes, a third half-packed. ‘You’re going somewhere?’

  Flora stood by the window, a coat hugged to her chest. ‘As you can see.’

  With that amount of luggage, this was no weekend away. ‘For how long?’

  Flora folded the garment and put it in the valise then picked up a pile of blouses and tucked them alongside.

  ‘Flora, how long?’

  ‘For good, I expect. Isn’t that a funny phrase: “for good”? It can hardly be “for bad” as it is so horrid here.’ She swept her cosmetics into a case. ‘Don’t you think that London’s such a small-minded place, so confining? And now the Zeppelins are trying to rain death on us from the skies, I’ll be pleased to put it behind me.’

  ‘Does Mrs Glock know?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll settle my rent with her. I’m quite flush, don’t you know?’ She glared at her handbag that sat like a fat cat dozing on the bed.

  Helen leaned against the jamb. ‘No, I didn’t know. Are you moving to the country then?’

  Flora gave a harsh laugh. ‘I’m moving country, darling. Booked passage on the Lusitania leaving from Liverpool on Sunday.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Helen’s voice rose.

  ‘America. New York.’

  ‘But how …? What are you going to do there?’ Hel
en came in and shut the door so Mrs Glock would not overhear this conversation.

  ‘Well, thanks to the Packenhams’ hush money, I have enough to establish myself as a respectable widow.’ Flora’s lip curled with distaste. ‘I won’t have to work for a year at least, not till I’ve had the baby. Then I’ll see what’s what.’

  ‘On your own?’ Helen dumped the packages on the bed next to the suitcases. She was trying not to feel hurt, but Flora had arranged all this without telling her a thing. Had she intended to leave without saying goodbye?

  ‘No, I’m carrying my own company, remember?’ Flora’s manner was brittle and falsely cheerful.

  ‘I … I could come too, if you want. It wouldn’t take me long to pack and there’s nothing really to keep me here.’

  ‘Nothing?’ Flora closed the lid of the suitcase. ‘What about your training?’

  ‘I could pick it up again in America – at least I expect so.’ Helen felt sore inside, like when she had skinned her knees in the playground as a child, bits of grit – regrets, complications – sticking to her offer to go.

  ‘And Sebastian? I suppose you’ll just drop him too?’

  Why did Flora sound so angry with her? This wasn’t her fault. ‘I … I don’t know. He’s half American, remember? He might even join us eventually.’

  Irritated, Flora threw a scarlet silk scarf into the air and snatched it away. ‘Oh yes? Listen to yourself, Helen: building dreams with matchsticks when the deck is burning around you. They don’t come back – he won’t come back to you. They don’t marry our sort so don’t raise your hopes too high and don’t, whatever you do, go to bed with him. One stupid Sandford girl is quite enough in our family.’

  ‘You’re not stupid.’

  ‘Oh, I beg to differ. The proof is before you. But then again, Baby bought us our ticket, so maybe I’m not such a fool after all.’