No Place For a Lady

by Ann Harries

  But I must now write in some detail of the extraordinary events of today. It all started this morning in, of all unlikely places, the Boer bread shop (I wouldn’t grace it with the name ‘bakery’). Who should be buying a packet of syrup-soaked sugar dumplings, which fat old Mrs van Reenen makes herself, but the creator of the great Sherlock Holmes, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!! I had heard, with some disbelief, that he was working as a doctor, medicine being his original profession, in one of the privately funded hospitals here in Bloemfontein. I recognised him at once from the many portraits of him that have appeared in our newspapers and journals. ‘Oh, Sir Arthur!’ I exclaimed in excitement. ‘I would so much like to tell you how much I enjoy your detective stories and how relieved I was when you brought Sherlock back to life – in fact, I was one of your many readers who wrote to you to assure us that he and Moriarty hadn’t really fallen into that cataract (my mother cancelled her subscription to Strand magazine as a result), and I believe I suggested an explanation for his survival. And I am so pleased to hear that you are writing further stories in your spare time.’ Conan Doyle clutched his dumplings to his breast as if I might snatch them away (which I was inclined to do, knowing the syrup would seep out and stain his spotless shirt.) ‘Madam, may I inform you my work here has nothing to do with that – that loathsome amateur detective and his infatuated sidekick. I am here to serve my country only. And any writing I might do concerns the chronicling of this war, which I am pleased to see will soon be over, thanks to the brilliant strategies of General Roberts. Good day to you, madam.’ ‘Oh, but Sir Arthur (I placed a restraining hand on his arm) you cannot leave without giving me your autograph. I insist. Let me find some paper and a pen.’ There followed a frantic scrabbling around by me in my overloaded reticule, but no paper could I find, though at least I could produce a rather fine fountain pen. He gave me what I can only describe as a venomous glare; then, turning to Mrs van Reenen, said to her in most familiar tones, ‘Tannie, can you rescue me from this nurse and get me a piece of paper?’ ‘I have some in my newly built water closet, sir,’ grinned the fat old monster. She shuffled off and returned with a square piece of paper, the proper function of which I did not care to determine. Sir Arthur thanked her, dashed off his signature, and fled from the bread shop, followed by me, my precious sheet of paper now safely in my reticule.

  Back at the Raadsaal I was alarmed to discover that one of my nursing colleagues from Australia, Sister Hemmings, has fallen seriously ill, with all the symptoms of enteric. Once again, it is the orderlies who are actually promoting the spread of the disease rather than hindering it, with their unwashed hands and dirty habits. They are no different from the riff-raff I worked with in Wynberg. When I once again pointed out his lack of hygiene to Mr Watson, he had the cheek to rejoin, in his thick provincial accent, ‘You’re a fine one to criticise, with your swearin’ and drinkin’ and gallivantin’ about with officers. You might be a grand lady, ma’am, but a kitchen girl’s got better manners than you.’ I was speechless with rage, of course, and thought to report him at once to Dr Chappell but decided against it in case Theodore (as he asks to be called by me) discovers that what the loathsome little orderly says is true.

  At the end of the day Sarah and I generally meet for a cup of tea in the relaxed atmosphere of a little tearoom in the centre of town, unfrequented by the khaki that surges on the pavements everywhere. Today I had much to tell her, but needless to say she had had a less eventful day. Then, just as I was showing her Sir Arthur’s sprawling signature, she signalled me with her eyes to look at the table across the room. There, leafing through a pile of newspapers, was none other than Mr Kipling, whom I have not yet quite forgiven for the bandage episode in Wynberg. ‘Why don’t you get his autograph too?’ said Sarah, a naughty look in her eyes. ‘On the same piece of paper – where did you get it from, dear?’ ‘Good idea!’ I cried, and dashed over to Kipling’s table. He, thank goodness, had no recollection of me and my scowls, but, observing my nurse’s uniform, pointed to his newspapers and asked me if any of my patients had a poem or observation to contribute for he was about to bring out the last edition of this troopers’ broadsheet before returning to England. I promised him I would check to see that my men had contributed what they could, then asked him for his autograph. Somewhat wearily he scribbled his name on the scrap of paper I laid before him. When he saw the other name he said in rueful tones, ‘If only I had his talents. All writing strives to tell a detective story of sorts, and he does it best of all of us.’

  At this, a man at a table near us leant over and asked, ‘Is it possible that I have the honour to speak to the author of The Absent-Minded Beggar?’ ‘Yes,’ replied Mr Kipling, quick as a flash. ‘I have heard that piece played on the barrel organ and I would shoot the man who wrote it, if it would not be suicide.’ I suspect he has said this many times before, it all came out too pat. The man laughed in rather a startled fashion and I quickly said, ‘I do think Sir Arthur Sullivan could have done better with the music he wrote for your verses. You would not think the same man composed The Gondoliers.’ ‘At least it has raised the money needed,’ said Kipling, turning back to his papers.

  To my surprise, Sarah was suddenly at our table. In a strong, clear voice, quite unlike her usual low murmur, she demanded, rather than asked, ‘Did you know, Mr Kipling, that the funds raised by your absent-minded beggar are not awarded to the common-law wives of troopers, nor to soldiers’ wives who cannot for some reason present their marriage certificate? The forsaken families live in abject poverty in Britain while the breadwinner fights for his country.’ Mr Kipling blinked his eyes rapidly behind his thick glasses. He opened his mouth to speak – and I could have sworn from the way he puffed himself that he was about to make some self-righteous pronouncement but thought better of it. He looked up at Sarah and seemed to warm to her. ‘Thank you, Sister, I did not know about this. I shall look into the matter,’ he said, frowning, then returned once more to his papers, this time with an air of finality that we could not ignore.

  ‘Well really, Sarah Palmer,’ I said to my companion as we returned to our table. Her cheeks were blazing crimson. ‘Since when do you heckle great men, pray? I thought you were the shy retiring violet.’

  ‘Oh, I am, I am,’ stammered she. ‘But this is a topic that has worried me for some time through reading out the soldiers’ letters, and when I heard mention of the absent-minded beggar I seized the opportunity. I could never have done it if you had not gone over first.’ Even though her chest was heaving, she had a determined look about her.

  Quite a change has come over Sarah since arriving in South Africa, apart from the fact that she has cheered up so con siderably. Is she turning into one of those rights-for-women campaigners who shout at powerful men at every opportunity? Next she will be shaking her fist and demanding the vote.

  I have suggested to her that we hold a small tea party in our bell tent and invite a couple of medical officers from our wards, but she feels it would be too cramped (all to the good, in my opinion …) There is a firmness in her voice which somehow prevents me from arguing.

  Telegram from Mr Chamberlain to Sir Alfred Milner

  03/04/1900 The Queen regrets to observe the large number of ladies now visiting and remaining in South Africa, often without imperative reasons, and strongly disapproves of the hysterical spirit which seems to have influenced some of them to go where they are not wanted. I conclude their presence interferes with work of civil and military officers, and they must largely occupy best Hotel accommodation required for wounded and invalid officers.

  Can you send telegram, with or without concurrence of Roberts, representing that number of lady visitors is now so considerable as to encroach materially on Hotel and Railway accommodation etc, and otherwise impede business, and suggesting that some notice might be issued here calling attention to inconvenience of this unusual number of ladies visiting seat of war.

  This I would submit to the Queen and Her Majesty would instruct
me to publish.

  Sarah’s Diary

  8 April 1900

  Ever since I recognised the desperately ill man in my ward I have been overwhelmed by a sense of destiny. That the man who stirred my heart to music three months ago should have arrived in my tin hut ward when there are so many improvised wards all over Bloemfontein suggests to me that there are greater forces at work than we poor mortals can ever understand. I feel that in some extraordinary way, beyond anyone’s control, Patrick Donnelly has been delivered into my hands. Fate has decreed that we are to come together. He lay comatose in his bed for several days before I recognised him, so changed was his appearance. Gone altogether was that bronzed, flirtatious face: instead, his features were stamped with the greyness of a man tussling with death, like so many of the men here.

  Even when he opened his eyes a little after his crisis was passed, I could see no Patrick Donnelly there, no flickering greenness that reminds me of English country lanes in the depths of summer; only that dull grey of a man who is drained of life but whose heart yet beats feebly. Can I still have feelings for such a man?

  My mind has been in such a state of turmoil since my discovery that I have been unable to write coherently in this diary. Till today I wondered if he would survive – in which case, why had malignant fate brought us together? – but something has now happened which I think has helped him to take an important step forward: today Patch Donnelly received a letter.

  At first I felt a stab of jealousy in case it was from a lover – though of course I have no right to feel any such thing – but soon realised from the markings on the envelope it was from another trooper. I knew it must be something special as, unlike the other troopers who receive several letters from home on every mail day, he receives no post at all. I showed it to him at once and he motioned to me, with the faintest nod of his head, that he would like me to open and read it.

  I looked quickly at the name signed at the end of the letter. ‘It’s from a friend of yours called Bill,’ I said. There was another sheet of paper attached. ‘He’s drawn you a picture.’

  Patch’s face lit up with joy. It was pathetic to see how his dry, cracked lips longed to stretch into a smile. Still, he managed to clench his lips together and somehow puff out the first letter of his friend’s name, B. The effort of this exhausted him, so I placed the beaker of water against his lips and waited for him to swallow. ‘Are you ready for the letter?’ I asked cautiously. Once again, he gave the smallest nod of assent, but with a look of excited anticipation on his emaciated features:

  17 March

  To my dear Fenian friend, Patch, (I read).

  As it is St Patrick’s day I thought I would draw you a picture of the old boy driving the Protestant snakes out of Olde Ireland where you come from. Look at what he is holding – a four-leaved shamrock, to bring you good luck wherever you are.

  I am grateful to you old chap for giving me that orange flag from Cronjay’s laager. You didn’t look too good when we parted but who did? My brigade is still in the Orange land. We have to stay here because so many of our men are down with enteric. I hope you have escaped this dreadful disease; so far I am all right.

  Yours truly

  Bill

  PS how is the music box?

  Accompanying this strange missive was an extremely colourful and quite skilful representation of St Patrick, complete with a vicious-looking snake which the saint is prodding violently with his gilded crook.

  ‘I’m sorry it has taken so long to get to you,’ said I. ‘St Patrick’s day was a good three weeks ago. In any case, you’d have been in no condition to read it.’

  He stared at me blankly. For the first time since his arrival I met his gaze – and went racing giddily down those green lanes and mossy paths that open up in his eyes. He opened his lips and I thought, joy of joys, he was about to speak – but no words came.

  It was indeed hard to drag my eyes away, but at that moment Sergeant Watkins helped me by leaping out of bed and cavorting about like a maddened scarecrow. I have never seen anything like it: he performs a kind of Zulu war dance, then collapses to the ground. They say he has been eating the gunpowder in his bullets, and swallowing it down with brandy.

  Bloemfontein Hospital, April

  Patch keeps having visions. First, the nun who turned into a nurse gives him drinks and moistens his lips; next, St Patrick, surrounded by coils of snakes, hovers shakily before him. The nurse seems to be saying something about Bill, and next thing the little orange-haired Irishman is prancing around in his head as well. Like a leprechaun, perhaps. There are long passages of darkness too. When Patch emerges from them he is soaking wet and dizzy.

  Then one day he wakes up and understands where he is and what’s going on. His head feels astonishingly clear as if someone has scrubbed and dusted and polished his brain. He wants to leap out of bed and run cheering down the central aisle of the marquee. But when he tries to lift his legs he finds they aren’t there. Dear God, he hasn’t lost them, has he? Had them chopped off by an army surgeon because of gangrene, like that screaming soldier in Rondebosch?

  So instead of trying to get out of bed he, less ambitiously, curls his toes. Yes, they are there, unless he’s got that phantom limb thing where you lose an arm or leg but they still ache. Patch progresses through his whole leg, first one, then the other, foot upwards, clenching and unclenching batches of feeble muscles. The effort exhausts him, but his brain is still clear.

  Or is it? Because here comes that nurse again, smiling dreamily. By the time she has reached his bedside he has recognised her – but cannot tell if she is another phantom. Patch attempts speech.

  ‘Good morning, Sister,’ he whispers. His vocal cords are covered in cobwebs but he manages to infuse a suggestive inflection into these neutral words. Normally he would accompany such an overture with a twitch of the eyebrows and the lopsided smile, but he can only do one thing at a time for now.

  She stares at him with an odd expression on her face. She is listening to something. In fact, she is listening carefully to the three words he has spoken, sifting them through her brain until she pigeonholes them. She is definitely that Rondebosch nurse now, and he feels his heart stir with wonder.

  ‘Say that again,’ she says, to make sure.

  Has she misunderstood him? He repeats his greeting, more clearly this time. He cannot take his eyes off her.

  ‘So,’ she says at length. ‘I thought you were Irish.’

  With some difficulty – at least the eyebrows are still there – Patch frowns. ‘I am,’ he croaks. What’s she on about? He feels the familiar fatigue creeping into his limbs, his head, his eyes.

  ‘You don’t sound Irish, that’s all,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s wonderful that you’re talking. Tomorrow you’ll be walking.’

  She swings off with a briskness that suggests displeasure. His brain is too tired, too empty to work out what the problem is. He sinks back into the comfort of sleep.

  The next day she tells him it is time to get out of bed and walk to a chair outside the marquee. It seems an impossible journey. He breaks out in a sweat at the mere thought of it, but she helps him swing his legs round the side of the bed so that he can put his feet on the floor. Meekly, he tries to stand up. His muscles liquefy. His knees collapse. But she stands on one side of him with that smelly orderly on the other and they hold him up, like a puppet, by his elbows. She pushes his bare foot forwards with her nurse’s boot, and his legs remember how to walk. A cheer goes up from some of the bedridden patients as the three of them totter down the central aisle.

  Outside, in the brimming sunlight, a row of wicker chairs has been arranged for convalescing troopers. He collapses into one of them, panting with exhaustion.

  ‘Sit there for a while and get your strength back,’ she says. The orderly has already returned to the tent, leaving a trail of old cigarette smoke behind him. The smell ignites a dormant desire.

  ‘Some baccy,’ he wheezes. ‘Any chanc
e of?’

  ‘I’ll bring you a block in a minute,’ she says. ‘I’ve something for you better than baccy.’ She produces an opened envelope addressed to him. Then off she goes.

  This is the first letter Patch has ever received. He trembles. There is St Patrick, drawn by Bill. He reads the words over and over. And there is his sainted namesake, cheerfully offering him a shamrock, above fleeing snakes. He feels better just looking at it. Good old Bill.

  He becomes aware that the trooper in the chair next to him is speaking. ‘Nice bit of arse there, I said.’

  Patch glares at the poor botched-up trooper. ‘Different class from the likes of you,’ he growls, and folds away the sheets of paper.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry Mr High an’ Mighty,’ says the trooper. He begins to roll himself a cigarette.

  Patch looks at the baccy longingly. ‘The name’s Patrick Donnelly. I need a smoke, man, that’s my problem.’

  And the trooper takes pity.

  Rossetti Mansions, London, April 1900

  ‘Hooray!’ cried Emily as she replaced the telephone mouthpiece on its hook. ‘Mrs Scott has agreed to propose at least one of the resolutions. That will give us even more credibility. When a woman of her stature agrees to address the meeting, Britain will recognise the seriousness of our intention. I think she should propose the first resolution, don’t you, Griffy dear? Read it out to me, there’s a love.’