by Edwards, Eve
‘You’ll be all right,’ Mary whispered. ‘Don’t let them beat you down.’ She gave Helen one of her particularly stern librarian looks which under normal circumstances would have succeeded in bolstering her spirits.
Helen had clung on to her colleague for a weak moment, then stood up straight. ‘Thank you, Mary. I appreciate what you’ve done for me.’ Her words lined up like tin soldiers vulnerable to being knocked over at the first careless swipe.
‘I so wish I could bang heads together – do something to reverse this appalling travesty of justice!’
Helen picked up her suitcase. ‘It helps – that you believe me, I mean.’
‘You, steal anything? The suggestion is preposterous!’ Mary’s eyes shone with angry tears. The injustice was not to be borne, but what could they do?
‘Thank you.’
Helen clutched Mary’s words to her through the flat countryside of France, a little nugget of warmth in the chill afternoon. They left the rolling river valley of the Somme behind and entered the flatter ground of Normandy. The train bisected a long road lined by sentinel poplars, an elderly cyclist in a battered black hat waiting by the level crossing for the engine to carry its load of young casualties to the coast. He saluted those passengers well enough to be propped up by the windows, a gesture that Helen found profoundly touching as it recalled to her that her suffering was only one tiny droplet in a vast ocean. She needed to bob to the surface of her depression, but could not quite manage it. Not yet.
There was something about that road that was familiar. It may not have been that very one, but she remembered a golden afternoon in spring when Sebastian had managed to get leave and came to see her in Le Havre – the first time they had managed to meet since she had waved him off at Victoria the year before. He had somehow acquired a motorbike (she now suspected the hand of Reg Cook behind that) and lured her out on her afternoon off. They had driven along roads very like the one the track had just crossed, enjoying a rare few hours of unfettered freedom. Funny how that time had firmed up her resolve to be nearer him, and that had set her on the path that had brought her to sit on the train heading back to England in disgrace. Men talked of a Blighty wound – the lucky injury that was not too serious, but meant being sent home; the false accusation had proved to be hers.
LE HAVRE COUNTRYSIDE, 7 MAY 1916
Waiting outside the little cafe near her hospital camp, Helen admired the approach of the dark green motorbike with its mud-splattered wheels, a mechanical warhorse just off the field of Agincourt with her own leather-coated knight in the saddle.
‘Sebastian Trewby: where did you get the petrol?’ She folded her arms in mock reproof as the engine died.
‘Ways and means, dear girl, ways and means.’ Sebastian lifted his goggles from his face, leaving white marks around his eyes, a reverse panda. He made a quick swipe across his cheeks with the end of his white silk scarf then swung off the bike. ‘Darling!’
She ran into his open arms, not caring if her dress would bear the marks for the rest of the day. ‘I am so, so pleased to see you!’ She linked her arms under the flaps of the coat round his waist, enveloped in the musky smell of leather, motor oil and Sebastian himself.
He lifted her up and swung her in a circle. ‘It’s been too long. How many months?’
‘Ten. Three hundred and fifteen days.’ Her anxiety that somehow, over the months of forced separation, his love for her would have cooled, evaporated like morning mist; she was left with the clear sight of him still proud to claim her as his girl. She felt so proud, so happy, she wanted to fly up like a skylark and sing.
‘I take it you’re pleased to see me?’ he asked, not letting go. He needed to re-establish closeness just as much as she did.
She nodded against his chest, letting the action speak for her.
‘Sadly, I only have four hours before I have to return the bike. Let’s not waste it. What do you say: we buy some lunch and go for a ride?’
‘Good idea.’ She pulled back, but he insisted on keeping hold of her hand, having removed one gauntlet so they could touch skin to skin. He was grinning at her like a man who had just learnt he had been left a huge inheritance by some obscure relative. Helen was delighted to be that stroke of good fortune for him, even if she could not quite believe anyone could see her that way.
The cafe where they had met was a popular spot: a terrace covered with a clownish striped awning, window boxes full of orange-red geraniums, merry gatherings of green tables and chairs. Sebastian towed her through the crowds of service personnel sitting at a Sunday morning breakfast of coffee and fresh bread.
‘Monsieur, some bread, cheese, ham and wine, please?’
The Frenchman gave a surly nod, his rosy cheeks bearing false witness to a cheerful disposition; in truth, he was famous in the town for treating his patrons with outrageous contempt. Instead of turning customers away, it perversely encouraged them to come back and bait him in one of his moods (and his wine was excellent so a little pain was worth enduring). He scraped together the requirements for a portable lunch, banging about in the kitchen with much dark muttering as if Sebastian were tearing the last crust out of the mouths of his infants. He proceeded to charge them an exorbitant price for the admittedly fine picnic.
‘Voilà, monsieur, et merci!’ Sebastian exclaimed, throwing the coins on the counter with a flourish. He would pay any price to be alone with Helen and did not even think to challenge the sum charged. His lack of complaint disappointed the proprietor, depriving him of a chance to defend his prices. ‘Come on, darling: the open road awaits!’
On the pavement outside the cafe, Helen realized that his scheme had a hitch. ‘I don’t have the right kind of clothes for motorcycling. Aren’t ladies supposed to wear special trouser-skirts?’
Sebastian whistled between his teeth. ‘By George, you’re right. I fear this is going to be very risqué!’ The prospect quite delighted him. He shrugged out of his long coat. ‘Here, this is designed for riding, divided at the back but long side flaps to protect legs and hide any … um … unfortunate glimpse of calf and ankle.’ He wiggled his eyebrows at her in a theatrical manner like the villain in the melodrama about to tie the maiden to the railway track.
She batted his arm. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’
‘Every moment. Now, no more excuses. Once we’re out of town, we needn’t worry who will get a look at the legs of the most beautiful nurse in France.’ He got on the bike, kicked it off its stand and waited for Helen to settle herself behind him, arranging the flaps of the coat as he had suggested. They were attracting quite a few remarks from the men at their breakfasts, most suggesting Sebastian was a lucky dog to have both a bike and a female companion with which to enjoy the sunshine. With a smile to herself, Helen wondered which they hankered after most; she suspected the motorbike.
The vehicle shuddered into life, sending vibrations from her seat to the top of her head. Even her teeth felt like they were rattling.
‘Gracious!’ she shouted in Sebastian’s ear, clinging to his waist. ‘I didn’t know it was like this!’
‘Hold on tight!’ he called back. ‘Now comes the good bit!’ He revved and released the clutch. The bike began to pick up speed, the wind catching on clothes and trying to remove Helen’s violet gauze headscarf which was securing her hat in place. Using one hand to tug the brim back, another to keep a grip on Sebastian, she could do nothing to stop the flaps of the coat doing just that: flapping. A cheer from the terrace told her that she had revealed more leg than was seemly.
‘You didn’t warn me!’ She hid her blushes against his shoulder blades.
He laughed. ‘I to
ld you it was the good bit. Poor boys – out here risking life and limb for their country; don’t you think it only fair to brighten their day?’
‘Oh, you!’ Helen kept her face concealed until they had escaped the town, hoping she wasn’t spotted by anyone she knew.
Sebastian had no plan, being content to let the road lead them where it would. They passed quickly down the long roads, the shadows of poplar trunks painlessly strafing them. He turned the bike north and eventually they reached the cliffs on the coast above Le Havre where he slowed down.
‘Here?’
‘Yes.’
He parked by a gate and helped Helen clamber over. Hampered by the coat, she paused on the top bar, slid out of it and handed it back.
‘You look like a butterfly emerging from her cocoon!’ Sebastian laughed.
‘I’ve always thought myself more of a moth. But I’ve already flown – on the back of the bike. We’re getting this all in the wrong order.’
‘Then we’ll have to fly to the cliff edge.’ He vaulted the gate, slung the net bag that contained their picnic across his back, took her hand and began to run. Holding her hat with one hand, she tried to keep up, blushingly aware that she was not sufficiently corseted for such strenuous activity. Sheep scattered in front of them, dirty white tails jiggling as they dashed to a gap in the hedge to escape the two humans.
Sebastian slowed as they came to the fence preventing the livestock getting too close to the edge. Not as high as the white ones on the other side of the Channel, the cliffs still made a pleasant vantage point from which to survey the shipping passing across the blue-grey waters. A little further along, the brown concrete block of an army lookout post stuck to the precipice, binoculars trained on the surface of the sea, seeking the sleek, silver shark U-boats coming among the shoals of hospital ships. The breeze smelt fresh and salty, carrying the faintest tang of the ranker shore smells below of seaweed and fish.
‘Perfect!’ Sebastian declared, gathering Helen to his side so they could admire the view together. ‘If we put our backs to the lookout post, we can pretend the war isn’t even happening.’
‘Except you’re in khaki.’
‘Well, we can’t help that.’ He unbuttoned his jacket, showing the top of his high-waisted trousers, held up by braces over a dark green shirt, standard issue for an officer. ‘I’m rather disappointed you aren’t in your nurse’s uniform.’ He tapped her nose in reproof. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dressed for duty.’
‘I’d look silly going around with my white scarf and apron for a picnic.’
‘No, you’d look like an angel.’
‘The men call us that sometimes.’
‘Good job they don’t know about your temper then.’
‘Oh, you!’ She scowled at him. ‘You’ll never let me forget how I told those two harpies off for trying to give you a white feather.’
‘No, I won’t. It’s one of my fondest memories.’
The breeze played in his hair, making it fall over one eye. She brushed it back. ‘I think this day is going to be one of mine.’
He moved forward and kissed her, his fingertips tracing the line of her jaw and neck, playing havoc with her tingling nerves when he found the sensitive spot just below her ear. ‘Mine too.’ He held her close to his chest so she could hear his steady heartbeat under the coarse cotton of his shirt. ‘Do you know what we’ve got here, darling?’
‘What do you mean?’ She traced the fastenings down the centre of his chest, fingers doing a teasing walk from button to button until he made her stop by the simple expedient of covering her hand with his.
‘I haven’t been very clear with you, have I? Never told you exactly how I feel.’
‘I … I think it’s hard to put these things into words without sounding like you’re in a bad play.’
He kissed the top of her head. ‘Agreed, but I’ll risk it anyway. I love you. You are everything good and beautiful to me, everything worth fighting for. I knew I had to tell you – I’ve been too close to death to waste another moment.’
Helen was lost for words, almost scared of being so much to him when she knew she was really not a beauty, not even very nice if anyone lifted the lid on her secret thoughts.
‘And I want you,’ he continued, ‘to say if you agree that we have an understanding. I don’t want to rush you – we’ve not had the luxury of much time together – so I’m not pushing for an engagement or anything like that …’
No, he should not tie himself to her, not when she feared she was essentially unlovable once people came to know her well. Her father had taught her that. ‘I see, not an engagement but an understanding. What are we understanding exactly?’
He laughed. ‘I’m making a hash of this, aren’t I? We are understanding that I’m for you and you are for me: we’re going to stand against this mad, sad world together.’
‘I’d like that. Yes, we have an understanding, Mr Trewby.’
‘Thank you, Miss Sandford.’ He pulled her to sit beside him on the tough, broad-bladed grass that kept the earth from sliding down to the beach below. It was dotted with yellow and purple flowers, prickly gorse and common mallow. A black and orange beetle hung bobbing from one stem.
Helen looked towards England, thinking of all the problems she had left behind there, the broken state of relations with her parents, her lack of roots. Few people would even notice if she disappeared. Only Sebastian offered any hope of her life actually holding on to an anchor, but she did not want to cling on to him for the wrong reasons. She regretted the fact that he was independently wealthy; perhaps it would have been easier to meet as impoverished equals.
‘What are you thinking, darling?’ He flicked at the beetle, helping it on its way. It tumbled happily into a new tussock.
‘That I wish we were more equal; you have so much and I so little.’
He looped his arm over her shoulders. ‘It’s true that I’m blessed with a family who have more money than we know what to do with, but that only means I want to share it with you. You mustn’t see it as a drawback. I want to make up for all that life has withheld from you. It’s a pleasure for me. Besides, you have so much to give me.’ He pulled her back so they lay looking at the sky together, her head resting on his arm.
‘Like what?’
‘I only ask for love – because that contains everything else I need. I am complete with you – more of an artist, more of a person.’
Fine speeches were all very well … ‘But I worry it won’t last – that you’ll discover I’m not enough, that I’m not this … this muse you seem to think I am.’
‘Poor darling.’ He turned to face her. ‘Your father’s really knocked the confidence out of you, hasn’t he? Please, start to see yourself through my eyes, not his.’
She closed hers for a second. ‘I’ll try. But have you ever wondered what happens after the “They all lived happily ever after”? What if the prince decides Cinderella is embarrassingly low-born or the princess thinks the frog was much more fun than the man he turned into?’
He chuckled. ‘You have the most extraordinary mind.’
‘Don’t dodge my question – I’m serious!’
‘In that case, I’ll tell you that I don’t see either of us as a fairy-tale character. We are certainly not living in a fairy-tale world. “Happy ever after” is a work in progress, not an end point to our story.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m spoiling our day.’ Helen felt angry with herself for marring with her doubts the moment when he declared his love.
‘Don’t, darling. You’re right to ask. I’ve seen enough horror in the trenches to ask the same ques
tions myself. So far, I’ve always come through thinking that, despite the insanity, love does survive. My family – you – are more important, not less so, when the bullets start flying.’
His words comforted. They made sense: if everything were stripped from her, the last thing Helen would want to let go was her love for others, for him. It was time she admitted this to him; war meant that such things should not be delayed.
‘I love you, Lieutenant Trewby.’
He turned his head to hold her gaze, eyes glistening. ‘And I love you too, Nurse Sandford. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have found you.’
‘Oh, Sebastian.’ She blinked her own tears away. ‘Thank you.’
He tapped the corner of her mouth, reminding her to smile. ‘Now, enough serious stuff! I have the most expensive picnic in Christendom in my bag, a sunny day, a beautiful girl with whom I have an understanding –’ they shared a look – ‘and I’m going to enjoy all of them for the next two hours and forget the Kaiser and his armies for a while.’
‘Yes, let’s do that. There are only us two in the world. Everything else has disappeared.’
A sheep bleated loudly from behind the hedge.
‘Almost everything else has gone,’ Sebastian teased.
‘Us and the sheep then. Perfect picnic companions.’
19
BEWLEY HOUSE, NEAR TAUNTON, 21 OCTOBER 1916
Sebastian had been avoiding his mother’s family since his accident, but the hunt ball was to be held as usual in his grandfather’s home so that self-imposed isolation would have to end. Bewley House sat on a rise at the foot of the Quantock Hills commanding a view of a wooded valley, a secret place where the traditions of previous generations could hang on in defiance of the railway world that whizzed by with new ways and ideas down on the Somerset Levels. No one would dare speak the blasphemy of women’s suffrage near the earl, or whisper the name of a trade union. The house itself was the epitome of a stately pile: crumbling grey walls held up by ivy and a moss-covered slate roof that should have been replaced fifty years ago, but was ignored. Buckets in the attic had served the Earl of Bessick’s father so damned if they wouldn’t work for him too. The best part of the estate was the gardens, but since the war had taken away most of the hands needed to keep such a vast area in check, this too was becoming a wilderness. It reminded Sebastian of an illustration from a book of fairy tales: Beast’s castle disappearing under rampant rose bushes. He had always thought his grandfather something of an old monster, so the image was apt.