No Place For a Lady

by Ann Harries

  A small figure with carrot-coloured hair is hunched beneath a blue gum tree. His helmet and rolled blanket lie on the ground beside him. The music appears to be coming out of his trousers. There is no sign of a harp. The trooper’s back faces Patch, the head dropped as if in sleep. The familiar melody streams out from his lap, and the little man’s shoulders convulse. Cautiously Patch approaches. The music is stirring him as well. Partly because the unsung words touch on his raw nerve. There is no home sweet home for Patrick Donnelly, never has been. He clears his throat extravagantly and the trooper swings round in alarm.

  ‘That’s nice music,’ says Patch. At which point the plangent sounds stop in mid-stream.

  ‘Needs windin’ oop.’ The man’s voice is snivelly.

  ‘What does?’

  The man holds up what looks like a silver cigarette case. ‘Music box.’

  Patch is astounded. ‘I thought music boxes were … big chappies.’

  The trooper smiles and Patch can see half his teeth are missing. He extends the box to Patch. ‘Snuff?’ Or, more like, ‘snoof’.

  The two men sniff up the lovely spicy powder and indulge in a bout of sneezing and nose-blowing. ‘The name’s Bill,’ snuffles the Tommy. ‘Bill Patterson. From Belfast. Me home sweet home, see.’

  Belfast! Patch feels his heart jump with a terror more profound than anything he felt on the battlefield. Belfast means Presbyterians trying to prevent Home Rule in Ireland; Belfast, the enemy of Dublin and the Vatican; Belfast North, Dublin South. The only geography he had ever learnt at the orphanage. How many times every day had the Sisters of Mercy not tiraded against Belfast, than which there can be no more evil place? He stares deep into Bill Patterson’s pinkish, friendly eyes.

  ‘Patrick Donnelly,’ he says. And adds, benignly, ‘Call me Patch,’ though his instinct is to shout Get thee behind me, Satan!

  ‘It’s leaving the kids behind is worst,’ Bill says. ‘A boy and a girl. And a wife, of course.’

  Now comes the moment that Patch always dreads: the photograph. But Bill has a surprise for him – not photographs but pen and ink drawings. Someone has made a pretty good picture of a smiling woman’s face with a boy’s face on one side and a girl’s on the other.

  ‘Very nice,’ says Patch politely. ‘Who’s the artist?’

  ‘I’ve always been good at likenesses,’ says Bill. ‘You married, then?’ He begins winding the box.

  ‘Me? Nah!’ Patch snorts. ‘Not ready for that yet.’ (He ignores Fancy’s outraged screech.)

  The music suddenly bursts out of the little box. The volume is astonishing. Patch clears his throat – and begins to sing without thinking. He does not look at Bill’s face for fear of tears:

  ’Mid pleasures and Palaces though we may roam

  Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home!

  He has a clear tenor voice and holds one hand up to his chest. Halfway through, Bill joins in:

  Home! Home! Sweet sweet Home!

  There’s no place like home!

  Bill’s singing voice is a melting baritone, utterly different from the pinched voice he speaks with. He harmonises with Patch, a third below to begin with, but then he meanders about in a strong counterpoint which enriches the tenor voice. The sweet mournful tones entwine with the chimes of the music box and envelop them in a protective cocoon, or so it feels. The shelling from the Boer pom-poms seems to have stopped.

  ‘Sure, there’s nothing like a good song to set the heart right,’ says Bill after a while.

  The sun is setting now, doing its trick of bleeding into the sky so you half expect to see Jesus hanging up there on his cross and a choir of angels bursting through the heavens. ‘Mmmm,’ agrees Patch, enjoying the surge of warmth brought on by the music box, the sunset, Bill’s words. Bill is telling him the story of his life in Belfast. The word is suddenly drained of its previous poison, and reverts to being a city in the north of Ireland. Patch sits down and listens. He likes the way the little man speaks, twisting the words up into an unfamiliar shape with his tongue, then sliding them out through his nose.

  It turns out that Bill is an orphan too, though at least he had known his parents for a while. An aunt took over the young family. Patch finds it easy to tell him how he was dumped at the Sisters of Mercy orphanage, and to talk about the pain of this, which he has discussed with no one else before, not even Johan (though Dr Simmonds seemed to understand without being told). Bill looks at him mischievously and grins: ‘You a Papist then?’

  ‘I am,’ says Patch with sinking heart.

  Bill laughs, a surprising baritone wobble, and says, ‘That makes us enemies then for I come from an Orange family.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’ asks Patch, briefly conjuring up mother, father and children all stained carroty-colour, like Bill’s hair.

  ‘Sure, man, have you never heard of the Orange Order?’

  Patch has not. This had not been mentioned by the nuns.

  ‘The marchin’? The sashes?’ Bill is incredulous. ‘The fife and drum? The glorious twelfth? King Billy on his white charger?’

  Patch looks blank.

  Bill is beginning to brighten. ‘The arches! The banners! The sashes! King Billy walking hand in hand with Queen Mary!’ He has entirely shed his melancholy. ‘The bonfires the night before, man, high as a steeple!’ He glances slyly at Patch. ‘The kick-the-Pope bands.’

  Patch is enjoying this monologue, though he can’t understand a word of it. He chuckles.

  Bill is disappointed. ‘What kind of a Papist are you then?’

  ‘I’m a Papist alright,’ growls Patch. ‘Being Irish,’ he unwisely adds.

  ‘Irish, are ye?’ cries Bill. ‘And you haven’t heard of the Orange Order? Where’ve you been living, man? There’s more Presbyterians in Ulster than Papists I can tell ye.’

  Patch can feel himself blushing under the soot. ‘I’m an Irish Catholic but not born in Ireland,’ he mumbles. ‘It’s my mother who is Irish.’

  Bill is not bothered. He has moved on to other things. ‘The strange thing is that them Boers we’re fighting are Orangemen as well. They even call this Boer republic The Orange Free State, did you know that? We’re all descendants of the House of Orange in Holland, from two hundred years back. Yet they certainly aren’t loyal to Her Majesty like us, it’s a puzzle. More snuff?’

  As he holds out the snuff music box a strange thing happens to Bill. He seems to be changing into a giant frog, he gathers his limbs together and leaps, his arms and legs splayed out, everything moves quickly and slowly at the same time, he lands on Patch who is surprised at the hardness, the power, of the little man’s body, and knocks him over not just sideways but skittering along the stony earth for a few yards. At the same time an ear-splitting explosion and a burst of yellow smoke rise from the spot where Patch had been sitting. The smell of rotten eggs permeates the already foetid air. Patch’s brain feels blown to a thousand pieces. He wonders if he has gone deaf.

  A missionary runs over, he sees they are both alive and not in need of last rites. ‘That was close!’ he says to Patch in a jolly voice. ‘Lucky your friend was there to save you.’

  Bill is looking for the music box. He finds it still tinkling under a pile of hot earth, miraculously undamaged. He offers it to Patch. ‘Snuff?’

  Patch is shaking too much to accept. He finds that nip of brandy in his pocket and takes a swig, then passes it to Bill. ‘I’d be dead now,’ he reflects, ‘if you hadn’t done that.’

  ‘Sure, we’d both be in heaven,’ grins Bill.

  Patch feels awkward. He doesn’t want to reveal to this new friend who has risked his life for him the terrible news that he has absolutely no chance whatsoever of going to heaven, for that glorious paradise is reserved strictly for Catholics, who alone belong to the one true Faith.

  Fortunately, Captain Hughes now calls his men together and orders them to bivouac for the night.

  ‘See you again, p’raps,’ says Patch. Thank-you is too small
a phrase to utter now.

  ‘You never know.’ The little man smiles broadly. ‘Anything can happen on them battlefields.’

  Rondebosch Number 3 Hospital, February

  The basket which Sarah is carrying is overflowing with blue garlands. She feels as if she has reached up into the sky and pulled down a few handfuls of its brightness. The trails of plumbago will be draped over tables and bed-ends in the hospital tents, a job the lady volunteers would have loved, had they been allowed into this hospital by the chief medical officer. The Australian nurses had assembled a number of makeshift vases from broken milk jugs and glue pots before they left; it is Sarah’s delightful task to fill these daily with fresh flowers.

  Those men who can are pressing silver leaves from the mountain trees to send home as cards. How idyllic it all seems – on the face of it. Yesterday she and Louise had walked up the lower slopes of Devil’s Peak to pick the leaves for the men. They gazed out over the long flat stretches of largely uninhabited land that ended in a ripple of misty mountains; then picked baskets full of the feathery silver leaves for the Tommies. Tiny purple flowers bloomed between the stones they walked on, and the bushes gleamed with yellow blossom. A dark fragrance rose from the mountain, intoxicating the two women with its potency. Even Louise was momentarily silenced by the power of the place, and murmured to Sarah, as they returned to their respective hospitals in Dr James’ Cape cart, ‘We must be the luckiest women in the world.’ Though she felt she should query this comment, Sarah could think of nothing more apt to say, other than a sharp retort such as ‘here for the unluckiest of reasons,’ which would have spoilt the afternoon.

  As she expertly arranges eight hibiscus heads in a tin basin, she hears the bugle call that announces Mail Day. No doubt there will be a patriotic letter from mama, and perhaps some news from Sophie, who now writes every week. She stands back and admires the effect of her floral arrangement which now resembles a pool of vivid red water lilies. The men are stirring hopefully, for Mail Day is for them a source of joy, a lifeline to their families who send such sackloads of misspelt love. Soon she will be reading and writing letters on behalf of those who cannot do so themselves. And here already is Corporal Harris with the post; the men watch him with ravenous eyes – thank God everyone gets at least one letter today and she does not have to bear any bitter disappointments.

  She herself is handed a missive from her mother, the contents of which she can predict. Nevertheless it is always pleasant to receive news of home and conjure up the comforts of the family house in Hampstead. But there is no time to read her letter now; the Tommies who are either illiterate or too ill to read themselves are gazing at her in expectation. She pockets her mail, and goes to the bedside of Private Tomkins.

  He is clutching a page of neat writing to his chest, and smiling in anticipation in spite of the agony etched on his features. Sweat pours down his cheeks; his body shudders with the torture of advanced gangrene.

  ‘Is it the baby?’ he gasps.

  Sarah scans the letter. Her heart sinks. The news could not be worse. Mrs Tomkins died in childbirth three weeks ago, together with the baby. She looks at George Tomkins’ anxious eyes. His facial skin is almost green. It is unlikely that he will survive the week.

  Sarah makes a decision. She smiles delightedly. ‘A bonny daughter!’ she exclaims. ‘Both doing well.’ Congratulations! She touches his shoulder; her hand is shaking.

  Private Tomkins sighs in relief. The furrows in his face relax. ‘Great news!’ he whispers. They will probably be the last words he utters.

  She moves on round the ward, fighting down her guilt. What if he should recover? But there is no chance of that. Look at him now, a happy man.

  Though the other troopers’ letters do not carry similar tragic news, they reveal to her the dire poverty in the homes left behind. It seems that the funds raised by The Absent-Minded Beggar are available only on production of the marriage certificate. This means that common-law wives or women who have lost their certificates cannot receive payments even though they are the families of men who are fighting the war for Britain, and they are starving.

  After reading out three letters which refer to this bureaucratic injustice Sarah says to a trooper whose family has been refused support, ‘We should write to Mr Kipling about this. That money was meant for families like yours.’

  The trooper shakes his head. ‘I don’t want to sound ungrateful, nurse. Mr Kipling is the soldiers’ friend. I wouldn’t want to worry him.’

  If he visits here I shall mention it, thinks Sarah; then attends to her mother’s letter:

  London,

  1 February 1906

  Darling Sarah,

  A quick note to let you know that Marble has given birth to seven kittens, all ginger, except one pure black! As Marble is neither ginger nor black we wonder who on earth the father can be! And on a sadder note, our beloved Striker breathed his last two days ago. He had grown blind and deaf, as you know, and could no longer enjoy his walks on the heath – so though I shed many a tear (even Father was seen to wipe his eye), in the end his departure was a blessing. We are now looking at young golden Labrador pups, but will wait till the grieving period is over before we rush into anything.

  We think of you every day, darling, but are relieved that there is no war in Cape Town and that you are actually enjoying yourself in the beauties of the Cape. You say you can understand the Dutch of the Friendly Boers – it is always agreeable to know the language of the country you visit (who would have thought our long sojourn in the Netherlands would have stood you in good stead in this way?)

  What a contrast is your experience with those who are besieged in Mafeking and Ladysmith! We hear Col. Baden-Powell keeps up the spirits of the citizens of Mafeking wonderfully with all kinds of entertainments, but to starve in the midst of constant bombardment from Boer artillery must be agony indeed (I believe they are reduced to eating dogs and horses – I shudder to think of it). Of course, the pro-Boers here have no sympathy for the besieged and probably rejoice that both towns have been surrounded for over a hundred days!

  Father sends his love and asks me to tell you that his study of The Exotic Tulip in a Puritan Society will be published in Nature before long. He hopes to create quite a storm!

  All our love, darling,

  Mother

  Paardeberg, 27 February 1900

  When the white flags had rippled above the trenches, four thousand (is that all?) Boer burghers had staggered out of them, looking like a nightmarish army of bedraggled tramps, with their unkempt beards, and their tattered trousers and waistcoats and moleskin jackets, not a sign of a uniform. Behind them trailed large numbers of unsmiling women and children, surprisingly clean considering they’d spent the last two weeks crouched in muddy caves; then hundreds of kaffir servants herding thousands of cattle and horses. On the procession went, and on, till finally out came Cronje himself, sluggish and plump as an uprooted queen ant, the reins of his not-so-white horse in one hand, the fingers of his frozen-faced wife entwined in the other. Amazing that so many had survived the pounding of the laager with shells and lyddite as ordered by Bobs when he eventually appeared on the scene.

  Now Colonel Pretyman is leading Cronje and his off-white horse to the awaiting Bobs while the vanquished Boer commando is packed into ox wagons heading for the prisoner-of-war camp in Cape Town. Cronje is surprisingly small – no bigger than Bobs, whose height is only just five foot. Pretyman introduces the midget generals. Patch, watching with the troops, feels he could tuck one under each arm. Cronje’s shoulders are slumped. His famed and feared sjambok dangles in his left hand. Roberts, erect and dapper, extends a firm arm. His turbaned sepoy hovers discreetly behind with folded arms. The two generals shake hands.

  ‘You have fought a fine battle, sir,’ barks little Bobs. ‘Will you join me for breakfast?’

  Cronje stares at him, baffled. He can’t speak a word of English. He cannot comprehend his defeat. He does not appreciate the fine B
ritish breakfast laid before him on porcelain plates with solid silver cutlery. Through an interpreter he growls out a demand to keep his wife and servants with him. Bobs agrees. Harmless old git now. (In fact, two years after the war Cronje will horrify his people by re-enacting the Last Stand of Paardeberg at the St Louis World Fair, with a team of willing Boers and American acrobats. His remarriage to an American woman will complete his treachery.)

  While the generals breakfast, a handful of men, Patch among them, are sent in to clear up the laager and retrieve the five Boer cannons.

  Carcasses of one species or another are decomposing in the Modder River as the men wade through a shallow ford. Mud River: more like a swamp by now. On being disturbed, the putrid waters shove a fist of leper-stink down the men’s throats, straight through the useless kerchiefs tied beneath their eyes. This stench is going into my body thinks Patch, in a panic as the putrid smell gnaws through his skin, into his blood, into his lungs, through his eardrums into his brain; his whole body is seething with stink, like the river. He feels nauseous; he must vomit his guts out into the bubbling Modder brew.

  Yet by the time they reach the trenches their nostrils have hardened and their empty stomachs have settled again and the excrement and filth, buzzing with flies in the Boer hideouts, has lost its power to disgust. In fact, a stir of amazement runs through the men as they scrutinise the deep, narrow trenches in which a rifleman can crouch with a minimum of danger from shells. To think less than two hundred casualties emerged after ten days of bombardment, while the British dead and wounded numbered over a thousand – thanks to K of Chaos on the day Bobs caught a cold.

  ‘If ever there is a lesson to be learned by the British Army, this is it!’ cries an officer-engineer, pointing to the festering cesspits with undisguised admiration. ‘Today it is the defence who have the advantage, not the attack.’ And ‘Hear! Hear!’ murmur the men, thinking of Hannay and the others.

  But no one is prepared for what lies beyond the trenches.