A Rose in No-Man's Land

by Margaret Tanner

  “I don’t like the dark,” he whimpered.

  “How would you like to spend the night with me, Harry? We could buy some fish and chips.”

  He nodded his head vigorously.

  “There’s a shop that sells them not far from my place.” She took his hand as they walked along.

  Frantically she tried to think of somewhere else she could take him. It was madness letting him spend the night. If Mark ever found out… He wouldn’t understand, but what else could she do? Leaving Harry to his own devices would be criminal. People seeing them walking along holding hands would assume they were stepping out together. She giggled nervously, reminding herself that Harry was a disturbed little boy imprisoned in a man’s body.

  “We have to hurry. It’s going to rain.” She tugged at his hand.

  “Rain, rain, go away…” He chanted the nursery rhyme.

  “Harry, please, come along. We won’t be able to get the fish and chips.”

  He quickened his pace straight away. That’s how to treat him. Now she understood. Pretend he’s six years old, not a strapping young man.

  If it got really dark, it would be easier to sneak him upstairs. Mrs. St. John, miserable old biddy, never turned the hall light on unless the men were in residence. They paid the rent and would expect every facility to be laid on for their comfort, and the woman was smart enough to pander to their every whim.

  Amy didn’t know how she treated the other women, but Mrs. St. John hated her. Foreigner, she flung at her once. Australians came twelve thousand miles to fight your war, she had felt like throwing back at the old witch who considered her a harlot. She was tolerated only because Mark paid big money for their rooms.

  They ate their fish and chips in a little café. Some of Amy’s good spirits returned as she watched Harry tuck into his food with gusto. They finished off with a cup of tea and little iced cakes.

  By the time they arrived home, night had borne down on them like a black cloak. She glanced around to make sure the way was clear, grabbed Harry’s hand, and sprinted for the stairs. Fumbling in the darkness for her key, she unlocked the door, flicked on the light, and stepped inside, pulling Harry after her.

  ****

  For a split second a young man had been silhouetted in the doorway. The door slammed shut, but not before Mrs. St. John saw him. Foreign trollop! She gave a self-righteous sniff. How could a gentleman like Captain Tremayne allow himself to be fooled by the likes of her? All la-di-da, but with the morals of an alley cat. How many other men had she been fornicating with? I will not have the tone of my establishment lowered by the likes of her. I have a reputation to maintain, high class and discreet, and married men pay handsomely for it. Ah, no, some foreign harlot is not going to ruin my business.

  “Well, Harry, this is home. What do you think?”

  “He glanced around. “Nice.”

  What on earth could they do to fill in the couple of hours before bedtime? Spare blankets were stored in the wardrobe, and he could have one of the pillows from her bed. If they left early in the morning, no one would be any the wiser. Amy always tidied the rooms herself. Mrs. St. John resented this; probably it deprived her of an opportunity to snoop.

  Rain pelted against the windows, the loud staccato sounds making Harry more and more agitated. He rocked backwards and forwards on the chair. At a booming thunderclap he shook uncontrollably, his body convulsing with remembered horror. He wasn’t in England any more but back on the Somme, hearing the pounding artillery at Fromelles, where five thousand of his countrymen had been slaughtered in just a couple of days.

  “It’s all right.” She put her arms around him. “You’re safe here. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

  He moaned, a low guttural sound, but he didn’t scream, thank goodness. Please God, don’t let him yell out, she prayed desperately. If Mrs. St. John heard him, she would throw them both out into the street, rain or no rain.

  As the storm grew fiercer, Harry’s moaning became louder. Squatting down on the floor next to him, she put her arms around him and started singing softly, rocking him like a baby. He sobbed against her breast. She stroked her fingers through his straight blond hair, marveling at its softness.

  “I want my mother, I want my mother.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. How heartrending to listen to a grown man sobbing and crying out for his mother.

  She spent one of the worst nights of her life, didn’t go to bed, just dozed on and off in a chair while poor Harry suffered torment from his demons. For a split second she came close to hating Jake for lumbering her with his sick brother. But it wasn’t his fault. The generals at headquarters who sent mere boys to the slaughterhouse on the Somme were to blame. Mark was still there. She needed him. Oh, God, how she needed him.

  Finally the long night passed. Harry woke up and stared in puzzlement. “Where’s Jake?”

  “He went back to France. I’ve been looking after you. Come on, tidy yourself up. We’ll have breakfast. Only toast and tea, I’m afraid.”

  She lit the little stove in the scullery and put the kettle on to boil. “I’ll take you back to the convalescent hospital when we’ve eaten.”

  “I want to stay here. I like it.”

  “I’m sorry, there’s no room.”

  His lips drooped and he started trembling.

  “I’ll come over and visit you. All right?”

  Were there any other Australians at the hospital? Maybe she could visit them, too. How lonely they must feel, so far from home.

  He went to the bathroom, and when he returned his hair was damp and combed back into place. Harry ate the toast and tea with obvious enjoyment. The tremor in his hands had eased a little. Obviously, when he became upset or agitated it got worse. She knew little of psychiatry and wished she had taken more notice when Dr. Heinrich spoke about it.

  When they arrived safely back at the hospital, Amy heaved a sight of relief as she left Harry with a smiling nurse.

  “May I call in and see him again?” she asked, disentangling his hand from hers.

  “That would be nice. Some of the boys don’t get any visitors at all.”

  Harry did not move away from her, just stood there without speaking. He reminded her of a puppy waiting for a pat on the head.

  “Do you have any other Australians here?”

  “No, just Harry.”

  “Are all your patients psychiatric cases?”

  “Yes, but we get only the docile ones. The violent ones go to the asylum.”

  “It’s sad, isn’t it? I was a nurse in the Dardanelles before going to France.”

  “Really? You must have seen dreadful things.”

  “Horrific. Some nights I’m almost afraid to close my eyes in case the visions come back. I fear I’ll carry them with me to the grave. Goodbye, Harry.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll call in again and see you soon. All right?”

  “Yes.” He gave a tremulous, little boy smile as he waved his hand. Amy stood there watching as he told the nurse about the fish and chips.

  Back at the house, Mrs. St. John pointedly ignored Amy’s greeting. Her hooded eyes turned ice cold, her lips thinning until they almost disappeared. Her rigid stance sent shivers up Amy’s spine. The icicles forming a barrier between them did not disappear until the woman minced off.

  ****

  One evening, a few days after the episode with Harry, Mark arrived.

  “Mark, oh, Mark,” she shrieked, hurling herself at him, raining excited kisses all over his face.

  “How’s my lovely girl?”

  “All right. How long have you got?”

  “Just a forty-eight-hour leave.” He crushed her to him. “My God, Amy,” he said with a groan, kissing her with fierce desperation.

  Amy returned him kiss for kiss, straining herself wantonly closer, inhaling his male scent, letting it seep into the very core of her being so she would remember it forever.

  “I’ve dreamed of this for weeks. I’ve had a hell of a time ove
r the last few days. Lost a lot of good men.”

  His fingers worked frantically, loosening her blouse and pushing away her camisole so he could suckle her ripening nipple into a hard peak. Whirlpools of excitement swirled around in her stomach as he undressed her in quick, jerky movements.

  Picking her up, he carried her into the bedroom. There would be no seduction, not now. He dropped her on the bed and dragged off his uniform, still spattered with French mud. Before he joined her on the bed she saw his maleness in all its glory. Magnificent and beautifully aroused, it sprang from beneath a crown of black curls.

  He nudged her thighs apart to give his throbbing shaft access to her hot quivering womanhood. Such intensity of need, escalated by absence and war, could not be sustained for more than a few moments. Though exquisite and so all-consuming, emotional tears sprang to her eyes because it ended too soon.

  “Don’t cry, my darling,” he whispered, licking the tears away. “I’m going to really seduce you now. I’m going to deny us both, to build up our need, hold back until we’re almost demented with desire, before I take you to paradise.”

  “Oh, yes, Mark, I love you so much, a little part of me dies each time you leave.”

  Finally exhausted and satiated, they slept, woke, made love, and slept some more. By the time they were up and dressed, it was midmorning.

  “I’ll see Mrs. St. John to give her some money,” Mark said. “We’ll go to the Savoy for lunch, and after that to Harrods so you can do some shopping.”

  “I don’t need anything more. You’ve bought me enough already.”

  “I need a couple of items myself, but I want to buy some pretty things for you. Let me do this, darling, I want to spoil you. Nothing is too good for my precious Amy.”

  Mark strode off. He did not particularly like Mrs. St. John, and he knew the woman hated Amy for some strange reason.

  A forty-eight-hour leave was not long, but it would temporarily wipe the carnage of Pozieres, Mouquet Farm, and Thiepval from his memory. The names were a litany of savagery and bloodletting on a scale unimaginable before the Somme offensive began. Thank God Amy was out of it.

  “Captain Tremayne, I hoped I might see you.” Mrs. St. John met him at the foot of the stairs.

  “How are you, Mrs. St. John? I think I might owe you some money by now.”

  “Yes, I’ve written it all down here.” She handed him a slip of paper.

  Mark produced his wallet and counted out the notes. What was wrong with the woman? She looked as savage as a meat axe.

  “Captain, I know it’s none of my business, but you being a gentleman and away fighting, I’d be failing in my Christian duty if I didn’t tell you this. Last Tuesday she let a man stay overnight.”

  “What!” He felt pole-axed. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

  “No, I’m not. I saw them going into your suite. It was dark in the hallway, but when she turned the light on I saw a tall young soldier.”

  The blood in his veins turned to ice.

  “Slouch hat, blue hospital uniform, Australian like her.”

  The chisel-like words chipped away chunks of his heart piece by piece.

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  She scurried away. He stood motionless, frozen with grief and pain. Amy, the first woman he’d trusted in years, had betrayed him. He didn’t know how long he stood there, but feeling finally returned to his limbs, and the blood pumped through his veins once more.

  Lying bitch. Just like all the others, only worse. He had exposed every vulnerable part of his being to her, had loved her with his body, his heart, his very soul. She greedily took everything he offered, then betrayed him.

  Anger raged through him, quickly followed by a cold fury that shivered like icicles along his spine. He turned and took the stairs two at a time, wondering why he wasn’t screaming.

  He pushed the door open and entered the sitting room.

  “I wondered what…” Amy trailed off. “What is it?” She went toward him, and he backed away.

  “How…how could you do this to me?” he asked brokenly.

  “What’s happened?”

  Her question acted as a catalyst and he completely lost control.

  “You dirty, lying trollop,” he snarled. “I ought to kill you for what you’ve done to me. Have I lain on the same sheets as your lover?” he raged. “Or did you change them?”

  She reeled back. “Please, it’s not what you think. Harry slept on the couch. He was a wounded soldier.”

  “Don’t come near me, you immoral slut!” Venom loaded his tone. “I’m going out for a while. Don’t be here when I get back.” He turned and marched off.

  Amy collapsed on the floor and lay there sobbing. How could he have found out about Harry? Mrs. St. John, the horrible old witch, must have seen them.

  Trembling, she staggered to her feet. He had left to stop himself from doing her physical harm. He wouldn’t listen to reason while he was so enraged.

  She felt ill. The blood pounded in her ears while her stomach churned over sickeningly because Mark had called her such shocking names. To know he believed them nearly destroyed her.

  She put on her coat and hat, grabbed some underwear and a couple of changes of clothes, and shoved them into a small case, not caring whether they got creased or not. Don’t go to pieces now. You have to get away. Snatching up a blanket on the spur of the moment, she laid it on top before closing the lid. She picked up her handbag, took one last look around their little love nest, and then, feeling about a hundred years old, crept down the stairs.

  Like an avenging angel Mrs. St. John hovered in the hall, with a pious, holier-than-thou look on her face. “I warned you, didn’t I?”

  “Get out of my way you, you, hideous old witch, or I’ll scratch your eyes out.” Amy didn’t know how she stopped herself from attacking this vicious woman whose spite had ruined her life.

  Mrs. St. John jumped aside as Amy stormed past, but her bravado was stone dead before she turned the corner. With her heart weighted down with granite, her eyes streaming with tears, she forced herself to drag one foot after the other. Never before had she felt so devastated or alone. Mark had broken her heart, ruthlessly smashing it into a million pieces with a few vicious words.

  After a while she came to a cemetery in the grounds of a church and pushed open a lichen-covered gate. At the far side of the church, under the overhang of a huge stained-glass window, stood a large tombstone. Squeezing into the gap between it and the church wall, she sat with her head resting on her drawn-up knees and sobbed.

  “You’re on your own now,” she finally whispered, feeling weak and spent. “You’re in a strange country with nowhere to live, no job, and little money. What are you going to do about it, Smithfield?”

  This would have to be her darkest hour. Would she let heartache and Mark’s desertion overwhelm her, or would she fight to survive?

  Crawling out from behind the tombstone, she brushed the leaves from her coat, picked up her case, and, with her head held high, marched off. She would walk into London and check Australian headquarters to see if her records had arrived from France. After this, she would buy a paper and see what jobs and accommodation were on offer. It was imperative to quickly find somewhere to stay. It didn’t have to be flash, just clean and cheap.

  Chapter 13

  Mark’s anger finally burned itself out and he came to his senses, leaving him with a feeling of disgust over the filthy words he had hurled at Amy. Would she forgive him? Surely she would realize he was out of his mind with jealous grief. I can’t bear to think of another man even looking at her, let alone touching her. The honesty pared his heart wide open.

  He strode into Mrs. St. John’s house, taking the stairs two at a time. If it takes me a lifetime, I’ll make it up to her. He rapped his knuckles against the door and waited. When it remained shut, he called out, “Amy, open up, please.”

  “She’s gone.”

  “What!” He spun around to face Mrs
. St. John, who hovered in the passage.

  “Left the house not long after you did. Carrying a case.”

  “Do you know where she went?” He pushed the words out past a lump in his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets so she would not see them shaking. God, Amy had taken him at his word and left. Where the hell would she go? He took several steadying breaths trying to regain control. “Do you know where the soldier came from?”

  “No.”

  “Please, Mrs. St. John, think. I have to find her.”

  “Well, he wore one of those blue hospital uniforms.”

  Another one of Amy’s wounded strays. Mark hated himself anew.

  “The hospital can’t be too far away. I happened to notice them walking off,” Mrs. St. John continued, “but she returned in less than an hour.”

  “So there’s a hospital near here?”

  The only one I know of is an old mansion in Clovelly Avenue, but it’s…”

  “How do I get there?” Mark cut her off. He listened to her instructions, then hurried to the room he and Amy had shared.

  He searched through the wardrobe. As far as he could tell, she had taken none of the clothes he’d bought her. She did not intend coming back. He had driven her away with his volatile temper; if he wanted her back, he would have to find her. As he rifled through the drawers in the dresser, he found the note he had written introducing her to his bank. Except for whatever money she had in her purse, she was penniless.

  Sick dread washed over him. His lovely Amy would have no idea of the danger waiting to befall her on the mean streets of London. In a strange country, not knowing anyone, where would she go? What would she do? Would the soldier called Harry know of any place she might go?

  A fifteen-minute walk found him outside high wrought-iron gates. The mansion had seen better days, but the grounds appeared well kept. His boots crunched on the gravel path.