The Silver Locket (Choc Lit)

by Margaret James

  Alex, Freddie Lomax and the remains of their platoons crouched in a Belgian cellar, trying to forget they were afraid and to ignore the fearful racket going on outside.

  As another shell exploded, Alex flinched and dug his dirty nails into the palms of both his hands. Terrified of letting anyone see that he was scared, he told himself the time to worry was when the barrage stopped, because this meant a new attack would soon be under way.

  The battles of September and October had been fought and sometimes won. The British army had been decimated, but in spite of this the Germans had been pushed back to the Aisne. The Belgian army had then dug in north of Ypres, so for the time being the Channel ports were safe – and so was England.

  Alex’s own battalion was occupying a devastated village, holding it against the German troops who were a mere hundred yards away. In the course of a night spent on patrol, he’d killed a German sentry, and was still feeling nauseous at the memory of this. He’d never forget the sucking, gurgling sound the wound had made as he’d jerked his bayonet out of the twitching body.

  Of course, he had as good as killed before – he’d lobbed grenades, he’d shot at German snipers and he’d fired at enemy emplacements. But he still couldn’t quite believe he’d actually stuck a weapon into another human being.

  Later, he and Freddie snatched some sleep, forced down a disgusting meal of turnips and boiled horse, then started to play cards.

  Freddie dealt again, then he and Alex and a couple of NCOs began a game of whist. ‘Denham, you’re not concentrating, damn you.’ Putting down his three of clubs, Freddie trumped Alex’s ace of spades. ‘You’re thinking about the sergeant’s lovely daughter.’

  ‘Actually, Lomax, I was wondering when we’ll get our orders to pull out, and how we’ll get our casualties away.’ Alex stared around the gloomy cellar, in which the battered remnants of the company slouched or lay.

  Their captain had been killed the previous night, and lay unburied in the mud outside. They’d have to wait until it was dark before they had a chance to bring him in. Twenty or maybe thirty of the men were badly wounded, but it wasn’t possible to get them to an aid post, or for any doctor to get out to them.

  At first light that morning, the Germans had brought up heavy guns and begun to pound the village with artillery. The Royal Dorsets trying to defend it had only their rifles and a few grenades.

  ‘We’ll get our orders soon enough,’ said Freddie grimly, as he dealt again, then cut for trumps. Alex saw the tremor in Freddie’s hands, but it was no comfort to know the only other officer left alive was just as scared as him. ‘Unless those st-stinking bastards back at base decide to leave us to our fate.’

  ‘Captain Tucker said he was expecting a battalion of Black Watch.’

  ‘As indeed he might have been, but I don’t think we should count on it.’ Freddie’s grin made his face look like a skull. ‘I saw some of those bonny Highland laddies in Boulogne. Peculiar little chaps in skirts and aprons, who don’t speak any English, or not as we know it. Jesus, that was close!’

  As another shell burst overhead, flakes of plaster floated down and coated everyone with fine, white dust.

  Alex cowered and wondered if this was the end.

  Since the third battalion had been in it right from the beginning, he had not had time to marry Chloe, as he’d promised and still intended. He’d spoken to her father, who had made him feel two inches tall, and on a twenty-four hour leave before he’d sailed for Belgium he’d confessed to Henry Denham.

  Henry had been a brick, and at the old man’s instigation Alex made his will, leaving everything he owned to Chloe and the child.

  ‘Mr Denham, sir?’ As the noise intensified and the cellar shook, a corporal came to bawl in Alex’s ear. ‘I think Private Patterson must ’ave snuffed it.’

  Alex crawled across the broken floor towards the corner where the body lay. He felt the pulse and shook his head. They wrapped the soldier in his greatcoat, and Alex wrote the details in his notebook. He’d have to send a letter of condolence to the soldier’s parents – if he lived long enough.

  ‘Denham, I think we need to beat a tactical retreat!’ yelled Freddie Lomax. ‘We can’t defend this stinking place, so if we don’t get out, we’re going to die!’

  ‘But what about the wounded?’ Alex shouted. ‘We can’t carry all of them, we don’t have–’

  ‘Listen, Denham! If you want to sit and wait until the place caves in, that’s up to you. I’m going to take the able-bodied chaps, and make a run for it.’

  ‘If you do so, Lomax, I’ll make sure you’re court-martialled!’ Alex glared at Freddie Lomax. ‘Look, we’ve all got rifles, there’s loads of ammunition. When the Germans come, it’ll be damned hard for them to shift us–’

  ‘Denham, you’re insane!’ Freddie Lomax grabbed his rifle, then ran up the stairs. His hand was on the latch that held the flimsy wooden door when a huge explosion rocked the village, and the cellar walls came down.

  ‘Do come in, Miss Courtenay.’ The matron of the sixth or seventh hospital she’d called at offered Rose her hand. ‘Please have a seat.’

  Rose sat down gingerly.

  ‘How old are you, my dear?’ enquired the matron.

  ‘I’m twenty-four,’ lied Rose. At the first four hospitals she’d given her real age. But then she’d seen a poster for the VAD, and realised that at eighteen she was far too young to be a nurse.

  ‘Do you have any experience of nursing?’ asked the matron.

  ‘Only in the home.’ Rose had decided not to lie again – it wouldn’t take very long to catch her out.

  But there would have to be a little embroidery nonetheless. ‘I’m a children’s governess,’ she fibbed. ‘I’ve been with the same family for years. The youngest daughter went to school last month, so I shall need another situation. But I’d really like to do some war work. I make excellent water gruel,’ she added, desperately.

  ‘There’s not very much demand for gruel on a ward full of soldiers,’ said the matron. ‘They prefer rather more substantial fare. I presume you’re offering your services as a volunteer?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Rose. ‘I have some savings, and I could afford to work here for three months at least.’

  ‘By which time let’s hope this dreadful business will be over. You’re living with your parents, I assume?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, in Chelsea.’

  ‘So you’re not too far away.’ The matron smiled. ‘This is not a military hospital, but we’ve set aside half a dozen of our largest wards for wounded soldiers. We have trained nurses and male orderlies, but we do need extra people who could wash the men, feed those who cannot feed themselves, and shave them.’

  ‘I could do all that!’ beamed Rose, who’d never washed anyone but herself. She’d never seen a man without his clothes, never fed anybody water gruel or anything else, and never touched a razor in her life. ‘When shall I begin?’

  ‘As soon I have seen your references.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rose. She hadn’t thought of references. But she could forge a couple, it wouldn’t be a problem.

  ‘You’ll need some proper working clothes.’ The matron was writing on a sheet of paper. ‘Get yourself some comfortable black boots, and always wear black woollen stockings, silk won’t do at all. Go to this shop in Marshall Road and buy a plain blue dress, a plain white apron, and some caps and cuffs. I’ve written down exactly what you’ll need.’

  ‘W-when is the earliest I could start?’

  ‘On Monday morning,’ smiled the matron, standing up. ‘At six o’clock.’

  Rose bought her uniform and a pair of cheap black boots, which she knew would give her dreadful blisters until she broke them in, but she didn’t dare squander her resources.

  The hospital was in Victoria, near the railway station. The shops nearby had cards in all their windows, offering board and lodging. She knew she couldn’t stay at the hotel. It was too expensive. But could she li
ve in lodgings? Who would wash her clothes and cook her dinner? She realised she might have to learn.

  Propping her parcel up against the window of a shop, she wrote down details of rooms to let to ladies.

  The first two were in such foul-smelling courts that she didn’t even ring the bell. But the third was in a terraced house that had a whitened step and smart brass knocker on the door.

  ‘I’ve come about the room,’ she told the woman in a floury apron.

  The woman looked Rose up and down. ‘It’s fifteen shillin’ a week, all washin’ done and meals as taken,’ she said briskly. ‘You pays a month’s deposit and there’s references required.’

  ‘May I see the room?’

  ‘Come in.’

  The woman led Rose up the stairs and showed her into a small, airless room that overlooked a dismal, brick-paved yard where chickens pecked and rabbits fretted in a wooden hutch.

  But it wasn’t dirty, it didn’t smell of anything unpleasant, and there was a grate, so maybe she could have a fire?

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Rose said, firmly. ‘May I move in tomorrow?’

  ‘If you pays me the deposit now.’ The woman glanced at Rose’s parcel. ‘You a single lady, miss?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Rose. ‘I’ve just come down from Dorset. I’m going to train to be a nurse, at St Benedict’s in Walton Road.’

  ‘Well, if this Belgian business carries on, I’m sure there’ll be a lot for you to do.’ The woman’s heavy, jowly face was less unfriendly now. ‘Put your parcel down and try the bed. It’s got a new feather mattress, so it’s soft and comfortable.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be fine.’

  ‘Then that’ll be three pounds to pay – Miss?’

  ‘Courtenay.’

  ‘Mrs Pike.’ The woman took Rose’s money. ‘I’ll let you have a look around and make yourself at home. Remember to shut the door on your way out. The cat will get in else, and you don’t want dead mice under your bed.’

  When Rose walked down the stairs a minute later, she heard the woman talking to someone in the parlour.

  ‘No, she ain’t a tart,’ said Mrs Pike. ‘She reckons she’s goin’ to be a nurse. She puts it on a bit, talks all lah-di-dah an’ seems to think she owns the place. But that don’t matter if she pays her way.’

  Rose’s first shift at St Benedict’s was a hideous nightmare into which she stumbled at six o’clock the following Monday morning. Bleary-eyed and terrified, having failed to sleep on Mrs Pike’s new feather mattress, she was dreading what she might be asked to do or witness.

  ‘Come along, Miss Courtenay,’ said the sister who bustled into the lobby, then led Rose up endless stairs. ‘We’re so pleased you’ve joined us! You’ll be helping out on Kingston Ward. I understand you were a governess?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ blushed Rose.

  ‘You’ll soon settle down. I’ll show you where to put your things, then you can help the orderlies serve breakfast. After the boys have eaten or been fed, we do the round. None of our chaps can wash without assistance, and some need everything to be done for them, so we’ll keep you busy.’

  The sister glanced at Rose’s feet. ‘Those boots look rather flimsy. If you can afford it, I should get yourself a stronger pair, with higher lacing to protect your ankles.’

  Rose put on her apron, cuffs and cap, jabbing hair pins awkwardly into her mass of thick, dark, curling hair. Then she left the safety of the locker room and walked into the ward.

  Orderlies were already serving breakfast and seemed pleased to see her, so now she went scurrying round the beds, carrying loaded trays.

  Private Benson told her that although he only had one arm, he could feed himself. But Corporal Keenan was still shaky, so she’d better help him with his bacon, or he’d get it everywhere.

  ‘Chop it up all nice an’ small for ’im,’ he said to Rose, then grinned. ‘I ’spect I’ll see you later, Sister – when they does the washing. You mind you come to me!’

  Rose was dreading this. She’d never seen a naked man. ‘You start this side,’ said a staff nurse crisply, pointing to the six beds on the left. ‘Don’t touch any of their dressings, mind – just top and tail them, and don’t forget to comb their hair.’

  ‘Do Private Bannerman first,’ added the sister, who was walking past. ‘But be very careful when you shave him, because he’s got a mole on his cheek. If you happen to catch it with the razor, it bleeds like anything.’

  Rose thought she’d cut and run.

  But then she squared her shoulders and told herself she hadn’t come all this way and tried so hard to fall at the first hurdle. She owed it to herself to see it through.

  ‘Private Bannerman?’ She poured out boiling water from a jug into a bowl. ‘Good morning, I’m Miss Courtenay, the new volunteer. I’m going to wash and shave you.’

  It can’t be very difficult she thought, as she stropped the razor clumsily. After all, men do it every day.

  Private Bannerman opened one dull eye. ‘Mind me mole,’ he said.

  ‘Miss Courtenay?’ As Rose wiped soap and blood from Private Bannerman’s butchered face, a nurse came up. ‘Goodness, you took ages with that shave! I need some help with Sergeant Fowler. It takes two to turn him and he’s got nasty pressure sores, so come along with me.’

  By the end of that first week, Rose thought she had died and gone to hell. She had constant backache, her hands were red and raw, she’d somehow hurt her shoulder, and although she did her best, the nurses criticised her all the time.

  She had to admit she was no good. Even laying breakfast trays was far beyond her skill. She could not remember which of the patients needed cups or beakers, who liked scrambled egg, who wanted fried tomatoes or who had just toast.

  ‘They’ll be sacking you,’ observed a sour-faced staff nurse, at the end of yet another awful, muddled and exhausting day. ‘Girls like you are nothing but a nuisance. Sister Fraser nearly had a fit when she saw how you’d put away the linen, up on Bentley Ward.’

  But Rose did not get sacked, for the wards were filling up with yet more wounded soldiers and she could see that even her haphazard help was needed desperately.

  By copying the others and secretly consulting a notebook she kept in her apron pocket, she somehow got through those first awful weeks.

  ‘You’re doin’ all right, Sister,’ Private Benson told her, as she combed his hair one Friday morning. ‘You ain’t so nervous now, an’ you got a lovely gentle touch, not like some people I could mention.’ He glanced towards the staff nurse who was constantly berating Rose. ‘Don’t take no notice when certain people grumbles. They’re only jealous ’cos you’re a looker an’ they ain’t.’

  Rose blushed, but was encouraged. She told herself she would stick it out.

  Later that same day, towards the end of what had turned out to be a gruelling shift, she heard somebody call her name. She turned to see what she’d done wrong.

  But Staff Nurse Gower wasn’t glaring angrily, and Rose breathed again. She liked Maria Gower, who never nagged or scolded. The men all liked her too, for she was pretty. She had soft, fair hair and mild, grey eyes.

  ‘I know you’re due to go off duty soon,’ said Staff Nurse Gower, ‘but before you leave, I’d like some things brought up to Stafford Ward.’ She pointed to a tray, piled high with kidney bowls and shaving mugs and a jugful of thermometers.

  Rose picked it up, then followed Staff Nurse Gower. She was so very tired, and her feet and ankles ached so much she could have cried. But after she had taken up this tray, she could go home to Heston Terrace, where Mrs Pike would have her dinner waiting, and she tried to concentrate on that.

  She turned the corner into Stafford Ward, and then disaster struck. She didn’t know how it happened, for her boots had rubber soles and usually kept their grip, even on these highly-polished floors. But she had still lost her balance. The contents of the tray flew up like missiles, and she was sitting sobbing amidst a heap of broken glass
and china.

  The staff nurse was ahead of her, and when she heard the crash she came to help Rose to her feet. Then they began to gather up the broken crockery.

  ‘Be careful with the glass, you’ll cut your hands,’ the staff nurse warned. ‘Go and fetch a broom. There’s one in the ward cupboard.’

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ Rose began to brush the mess into a dusty heap. ‘I just seemed to slip–’

  ‘Don’t worry, these things happen. That wretched floor’s a menace.’ Staff Nurse Gower handed Rose a clean white handkerchief. ‘Come along, dry your eyes.’

  But Rose could not stop crying, even though the men could see her through the open doors of Stafford Ward, even though she knew she’d be sent home and told not to come back.

  ‘Come in here, Miss Courtenay.’ Staff Nurse Gower led Rose into the ward sister’s office and shut the door behind them. ‘Do sit down,’ she said.

  Rose sat on the edge of a hard chair.

  Maria poured her a small brandy, then made her choke it down. When Rose was merely gulping as opposed to sobbing as if her heart was going to burst, she fixed her with grey eyes in which Rose could see a hint of steel.

  ‘Let’s have the truth,’ she said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You’re no more a governess than I’m the Queen of England. So who and what are you? A German spy?’

  Chapter Four

  ‘I was only joking,’ said Maria, as Rose stared in horror. ‘But I’ve been watching you. It’s obvious that before you came to work here at St Benedict’s, you had never fed an invalid. You’d never washed anybody in your life. I don’t suppose you’d even washed yourself. You had a maid to do it.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong!’ Panic-stricken, Rose gaped at Maria with wide, scared eyes. ‘I know I’m sometimes clumsy. But that’s because I’m nervous. Some of the men have dreadful wounds, and I’m afraid of hurting them.’

  ‘This kind of nursing is new to all of us. We’re all seeing terrible things we’ve never seen before. But you can’t slice the top off a boiled egg. So unless you’ve come from somewhere where they don’t have eggs?’