Dusk

by Edwards, Eve

  Voulez-vous de l’eau, monsieur?

  So hot, so hot.

  Si, monsieur, je le sais. Le train arrive.

  ‘You promise you’ll write from France?’

  ‘Of course. Every day if I can.’

  ‘When will you get leave?’

  ‘I don’t know, darling. I have to wait my turn. It won’t be for months.’

  ‘Oh, Sebastian, I … please, please keep yourself safe.’

  ‘I told you that you shouldn’t have come to see me off. I knew you’d get more upset.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t. I’ll buck up. Stiff upper lip and all that.’

  ‘That’s foolishness, as well you know, and I like your lips just as they are – not all stiff like a colonel. There – that’s to remember me by.’

  ‘That’s the whistle. Oh God. Did I tell you that I think you look very dashing in your uniform?’

  ‘My brave girl. No, but I’m pleased. I had it made by a tailor.’

  ‘You didn’t! Why, Mr Trewby, you are quite the knut!’

  ‘Where did you learn that phrase?’

  ‘From Steven. He says it means a dandified officer.’

  ‘Well, knut or not, army-issue stuff is perfectly ghastly and never fits.’

  ‘The whistle again. This is it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, my darling Helen. For the present.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too. You’d better let go of my hand. The train’s moving.’

  ‘I can’t. I’ll run. To the end … of the platform.’

  ‘Helen, write to me.’

  ‘I will. I’m going to … apply … overseas service.’

  ‘No! Stay in London.’

  ‘Can’t … keep … up. Love … you!’

  Dearest Helen, you can’t be serious about accepting the position with the army medical service. You are doing good work in London! I forbid you to take such a risk in the hope of being near me. You are right: it is brutal out here and I can only bear it knowing that you and my family are safe …

  You don’t understand: I have to do this. I accepted the position today. Is a woman’s contribution to the war effort any less than a man’s?

  Darling, please don’t write such rot! War is vile, not suited for men, let alone women and boys. Some of the lads have lied about their age (remind you of someone?). I swear there are fifteen-year-olds seeing sights that make veterans sick. Stay in London. If you love me, stay in London.

  This one – yes, that’s right. His medical notes are attached. Possibly a bullet still left in the wound – make sure they understand that.

  1st Somerset Light Infantry. Second Lieutenant Sebastian Trewby. His battalion will have sent a telegram to his family by now. God, what a mess.

  Part Three

  LETTERS

  15

  GREEN PARK, LONDON, 23 MAY 1915

  ‘I think this might be our last outing before I go to the West Country to begin training,’ Sebastian said, spreading out the rug on the grass.

  Helen did not want that news to cast a cloud over the glorious spring day. They could not change things, but they could ignore them. ‘Let’s not think about that now. I want to make the most of this sunshine.’

  ‘Very wise.’ He sat down on the rug and patted the space beside him. ‘Plenty of room.’

  ‘I should hope so.’ She thought he looked so handsome sitting there smiling up at her. His hair curled back from his forehead in what the barber called a cowlick, forming a natural little wave, leaving his forehead and dark eyebrows clear. His jaw was nicely square, just a little shadowed from his early-morning shave. Her fingers itched to trace it, but they were in a public place so she had to behave and content herself with looking. He had not grown a moustache yet as so many men did and she was rather pleased by that fact. The army would probably make him have one as it seemed to be the fashion these days, something to mark the British officer out from his foreign counterparts.

  He started to laugh. ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘You.’ She tugged her skirts to one side so she could sit down without getting caught up in the fabric.

  He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Do I pass muster?’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘For that answer, you get one of these.’ He took up her hand and kissed the back. He then placed her palm against his cheek, fulfilling one of her wishes to explore his face. ‘I don’t want to leave you.’

  ‘Don’t tell me: “But you think you have to go.”’

  ‘I hate that song.’

  ‘So do I.’

  He placed a thrilling kiss on her palm. She could feel the brush of his lips all the way to her toes. ‘Helen Sandford, you are worth fighting for.’

  Their sweet moment was interrupted by two women in elegant walking dresses, one in rose-pink trimmed with grey, the other in blue and yellow – a chaffinch and a blue tit flapping to the garden feeder in a billow of skirts. They approached the blanket with a purposeful step. Sebastian dropped Helen’s hand to his side, but did not let go.

  ‘Ladies, can we help you?’ he asked politely when it became clear they had something they wanted to say.

  The older of the ladies, white-haired and determined, studied him with distaste. Helen wondered if their behaviour had been somehow shocking, but they had only been holding hands.

  ‘Young man, you are not in uniform I see.’ Her voice was as clipped as a box hedge.

  Sebastian’s sunny smile dimmed. ‘No, not yet.’

  The lady looked to her companion as if gathering courage, her tone becoming shrill. ‘My sons are all serving in France. It is a disgrace that able-bodied boys like you are sitting enjoying the sunshine while they risk their lives to keep you safe.’ She held out a white feather that she had already in her hand. It quivered in the breeze, a little exclamation mark of fluff. The badge of a coward.

  Something horrid squirmed in the pit of Helen’s stomach. She realized it was anger.

  ‘How dare you!’ she exclaimed, rising to her feet.

  The woman looked shocked to receive such a reception. ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘It is his pardon you should beg.’

  ‘Helen.’ Sebastian tugged at the hem of her skirt, his voice weary.

  Helen ignored him. ‘You march up to strangers you know nothing about and demand they go and get themselves killed for you. If you are so keen, why don’t you sign up yourself?’

  ‘Don’t be preposterous!’

  The woman’s companion muttered something about disgraceful chits.

  ‘No, I’m perfectly serious.’ She plucked the white feather from the woman’s hand and thrust it at her. ‘There. I’m in medical service, nursing wounded men. What are you doing for the war effort? Your country needs you too.’

  ‘Helen, it’s all right. I don’t need you to defend me.’ Sebastian got up and buttoned his jacket. ‘I have just received my commission, madam, so I will soon be in uniform. You should have asked more before making your assumption that I was shirking my duty.’

  The woman flushed. ‘You should have said at once.’

  Helen let go of the feather. They all watched it twirl to the ground then tumble away in the direction of the pond, running away in disgust to have been so used.

  ‘Why should he tell you anything? What business is it of yours?’ Helen couldn’t get a grip on her temper. All her rage at the poor boys dying by inches in the beds at her hospital now irrationally seemed this woman’s fault.

  ‘The women of this country must encourage our men to do their duty,’ the l
ady replied, reaching for the argument that had been repeated too many times like a stamp when the ink wears off.

  Helen linked her arm through Sebastian’s. ‘He is not yours, he’s mine. Now go away and take your poisonous words with you.’

  The women turned, backs stiff, and walked quickly off towards St James’s Park.

  ‘Oh, I could slap the pair of them!’ fumed Helen.

  Sebastian pressed her to him and hugged her. ‘Calm down, darling. They’ve gone.’ He paused, stroking along the line of her spine, then added, ‘I’ve never seen you like this. You have a temper.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’ She let out her tension with a huff. ‘I behaved badly, didn’t I?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe a little. They didn’t mean it personally.’

  ‘I can’t bear these whippers-in for the government, self-appointed judges over those who have to decide for themselves if they’re going to fight or not!’

  ‘Somehow I could tell they weren’t your favourite people in the world.’

  ‘Were you embarrassed?’

  ‘No!’

  Helen tapped his chest, demanding the truth.

  ‘Well, yes. I can fight my own battles, you know.’

  ‘Strangely I feel the need to defend you.’

  He caressed her nape. ‘So it would seem. As long as I’m allowed to return the compliment. Now, where were we?’

  ‘I can’t remember; the moment has quite passed.’

  ‘I refuse to let two harpies spoil our day. We were sitting on the blanket.’ He eased her down. ‘You were about to tell me what a splendid chap I am.’

  ‘I was?’ A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Or words to that effect. I was about to stretch out beside you in a decadent manner, enjoying my last few hours of true freedom.’ He matched his actions to his words. Helen ran her fingers through his hair. He snuggled closer, laying his head on her lap to allow her to sift through the strands. ‘There, does that feel more like it? Has the moment returned?’

  She traced the whorl of his ear, the stiff hair of his neat sideburn. ‘It’s perfect.’

  He turned his head to kiss her fingers. ‘And so are you.’

  ‘Even with a foul temper?’

  ‘Especially with a foul temper.’

  THE SOMME, FORWARD MEDICAL STATION, 17 SEPTEMBER 1916

  ‘What on earth are they?’ Tugging on the reins, Helen pulled over to the verge. She had just made a supply run into Albert with Lance-Corporal Cook in the pony trap, but had been forced off the road by an enormous … well, something.

  ‘That, me darlin’, is what they’re calling a tank.’ Cook got down from the seat to steady the jittery pony. Solid under fire, the little creature was spooked by the armoured vehicles rumbling down the track towards them. ‘Hush now, it’ll be gone soon.’ The pony threw its head up in alarm as the growling grew louder. ‘There now, nuffin’ to worry about.’

  Helen felt her sympathies on the issue lay entirely with the pony. The tanks looked like something from The War of the Worlds, an invasion from Mars of outlandish spacecraft. A long, fat, cigar-shaped vehicle with two wide belts rather than wheels, it churned up the already pitted road, crushing anything foolish enough to remain in its way. A discarded tin got caught up by the nearest one, travelled round the belt, squashed flat like the flowers Helen used to press in the family bible. Her alarm was only lessened by the crew walking alongside, taking the air and leaving the steering to the driver. One gave her a wolf whistle. She did not take it personally: any female in the combat zone was regarded as worthy of male attention as the competition was so sparse.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to be the Germans when that lot come calling,’ Cook said cheerfully.

  ‘I hope it makes a difference,’ Helen said wearily. The recent rain had wetted down the summer’s dust; the tank only carved the road into new ruts like a huge pastry cutter running round the rim of a pie. Extraordinary. Sebastian would have been fascinated by these new war-beasts. His attention was always caught by anything new, particularly machines.

  ‘You and me both, love. I want this blinking business over before I’m pronounced fit.’ He patted the pony’s neck and whispered secrets into her ear to calm her.

  Helen prayed that it would be so. Cook had washed up in the medical station, overlooked during the evacuation of the most injured on the first day of the Somme. He had managed to bag himself a comfortable berth in one of the overflow tents and slept for a week. When he revived, he was on the mend and so decided to put in for light duty around the station, exploiting the few areas not so tightly caught up in military discipline: the uncertain ground of convalescence. The doctors were happy to have the man around as he proved an inimitable fixer, able to get hold of supplies others swore were not available. Dr Cameron carried on signing him fit only for ‘light duty’. Seeing the state he had been when he first arrived – head bloodied, arm broken, concussion – the consensus was he deserved the rest.

  Helen felt a special bond with Cook when he disclosed his connection to Sebastian. He had been with him during that first day on the Somme, though not at the end. I’d’ve bleedin’ well made sure ’e wasn’t shot by our own side if I’d been there – pardon my French, he had assured her. He went on to tell her all about Sebastian’s bravery, his steadiness, the trust he engendered in the men. She suspected he might have elaborated a little to please his audience, but that was fine by her.

  The tanks rumbled over the ridge and out of sight. Helen picked up the reins as Cook jumped up to the seat, rocking the old cart.

  ‘The way I see it,’ Cook continued, fired up by his subject, ‘is we all have our turn then we should be allowed to go ’ome and let some other chap or –’ he glanced at her, his square, hollow-cheeked face dimpling into a smile – ‘chap-ess risk their neck.’

  ‘And you’ve done your share?’

  ‘I think so. Eighteen months is a long enough stretch at the front; blooming miracle I survived. I now deserve a nice cushy number at a desk or guarding the supply train or somefink. I get fed up with seeing the red tabs come out here and tell us what a wonderful job we’re doing. “If it’s so wonderful, why don’t you get out of your staff car and swap?” I want to ask ’em.’

  ‘I can see how you might think that.’ Helen nudged the pony round the rim of a shell hole. They had taken the trap because it was the only vehicle small enough to negotiate the pitted road.

  ‘Then I sees a little lady like you being braver than half the soldiers in France and I think I should really get back to my regiment.’ He puffed out smoke to one side so it did not bother her. ‘But some’ow, I just don’t ’ave the balls for it any more. I think they’ve gone and rationed courage and I’ve spent all me stamps.’

  Helen swallowed against the lump in her throat. It was rare to hear one of the fighting men actually admit to such a thing, though many of them felt it: you could see it in their eyes. There lurked a fear of disgracing themselves in front of their companions. Sometimes the only thing that made them take the risks they did was the shame of being called a coward. ‘You haven’t lost your courage, Cookie. It takes an uncommon amount to admit that you’re afraid.’

  The cockney turned away again, but not before she glimpsed that he had – no, surely not – tears in his eyes. ‘I ’ave this reputation, you see, darling. Cheeky chap, the fixer, good in a tight spot. But what ’appens when that cheeky soldier goes on his hols and leaves plain old Reginald Cook behind, eh? I’m not much good to anyone then. Not a fighter, me. If I ’ad me way, we’d get Fritz to the table and sort this business out like a couple of market boys haggling over a job lot of veg.’


  Helen chuckled as she knew he wanted. Tears were not to be acknowledged. They were too terrible – like a fatal wound. ‘I wish you were in charge. You’d soon sort this out.’

  ‘That I would. But I’m not sure I can face the trenches again. Not knowing what I know.’

  If only she had the power to give him a medical discharge, send him home to his large family and his beloved East End. ‘You’re a survivor, Cookie. That’s what’s left when Reginald remains.’ The pony tossed its head as if agreeing.

  ‘My wife calls me Reg. No one out ’ere does.’

  She understood that to be an invitation to step behind the scenery and meet the real man. ‘Well, Reg, let’s hope those tanks are as good as they look then.’

  Later, as Helen changed dressings on the newest influx of casualties to the medical station, she thought about what Cook had said. He was a brave man whatever his fears to the contrary. Sebastian had always said so in his letters. But had they both done to Cook what everyone else did: seen only the surface and not wondered what was going on behind those shrewd grey eyes of his? She feared she might have been yet another to underestimate him.

  ‘Nurse, nurse, I can’t see!’ whispered the boy in the bed before her.

  ‘It’s the bandages, soldier. You were gassed, remember?’ She patted his hand.

  ‘It’s so dark. I can’t see!’ The patient had been muttering this ever since he had been brought in.

  ‘We don’t know that yet. It may be only temporary. Have faith, private. We’re doing our best for you.’

  ‘Nurse, nurse, I can’t see!’ His lost, confused voice broke her heart. His mind was unable to take in her words of comfort.

  ‘There now. Sleep if you can.’ She sat holding his hand, hoping this would work where speech did not.

  He subsided, his head tossing for a few more minutes before he dipped back into merciful unconsciousness.