“He took it very hard at first,” said Violet, becoming serious again once our first impulse of laughter had worn off. “You can imagine how it must have been, when Tristan was going, as well as other friends he’d grown up with in the country. He does what work he can in London, and goes back and forth between Ashford and town several times a month. He’s found homes for a lot of the refugees, and that’s his main work now, but sometimes I think he’s still disappointed in himself, that he couldn’t go to the front. He’s looked so much older these last few years, since it first seemed like a war might be unavoidable, and I worry about him sometimes. He’s only twenty-six you know.”
I thought of that first day in the train, when he had reminded me of my uncle Nicholas, but I only said, “Well it’s a good thing for everyone else that he couldn’t go. What would Mrs. Creeley do without him, or the family at Ashford? He makes himself indispensable, even just for keeping all of us here from ripping each other’s hair out.”
We both went downstairs again with tempers much improved by our mutual bluntness. I felt well-disposed towards everybody. Violet was becoming a good friend and I thought Perry bore his trial marvellously well. The Beauforts meant to be kind and were harmless and amusing enough, while even Mrs. Creeley probably meant well under her gruffness. As for Gloria, she had never looked so lovely to me as when Violet and I came down the stairs and into the sitting room and I saw her there (the centre of that room as of every other) enthralling her audience with an account of her voyage.
With characteristic energy Gloria went out the next day to look into the idea of nurse’s training. She came back tired but triumphant with the announcement that she was to start in three days, and we all congratulated her on the success of her enterprise, though out of the corner of my eye I saw that Violet eyed her with something akin to dislike. When Gloria was in highest spirits, Violet was lowest, and it seemed to me as if Gloria’s brightness scorched the soul of the younger, quieter girl – strange that the thing which had so drawn me to one should repel the other. Violet always maintained a careful guard over her expressions, and rarely let anything slip. If I had not been her daily companion for many months by that time I would never have seen the swiftly hidden changes of expression which passed from time to time over her countenance.
The bombings continued, but the shivers that had gone down my spine at the first eerie sound of the sirens never grew less, even when I heard them every night for days at a time. Mrs. Creeley took to stuffing large wads of cotton in her ears every evening, before the wailing of the sirens even began. She claimed that it helped to muffle the noise and calm her nerves, but since she was just as quick to hear a whisper from any of us with it as she was without it, I found myself doubting whether it really did any good at all. Mrs. Beaufort’s nightly panic began in a very systematic way a little before dinner, and was generally raised to its highest pitch just before the bombing began, after which she would subside, whimpering, in a pile of blankets. As Gloria whispered to me at dinner one night, “She’s the first person I’ve met with the ability to turn hyperventilation into an exact science.”
Mr. Beaufort would watch his wife in a helpless sort of way, not daring to approach her until she collapsed, then settle into a sitting position beside her and pat her head, looking straight ahead of him with wide, blank, staring eyes.
I had to esteem Gloria more than ever for her behaviour during the bombing raids. The noise did not seem to trouble her, and she was a comfort to everyone from the beginning. Even Violet gave her an admiring glance on the first night, when she passed out bread and cheese to the rest of us with smiling nonchalance as the sirens shrieked and the bombs exploded in the distance.
To all of us looking on it seemed that the nurse’s training was progressing well and according to plan. Gloria came home each night in great spirits, only with a little impatience to be done with the training and begin the great work of helping to save lives.
Tristan came home for a week’s leave that autumn, and it was then that Violet’s tolerance of Gloria was tested most severely. Anyone can imagine what the outcome might possibly be, putting a handsome young man straight from war and mayhem into a house inhabited by a sister, a great-aunt, and four guests, one of whom is a beautiful, self-possessed young woman. Gloria was prepared to be admired, and Tristan was equally prepared to admire her, and the new lines I had observed in his face smoothed out and his easy charm returned. The piano in the sitting room, which had grown accustomed to dust and disuse, was brought out from its corner and played every evening for the week that Tristan was home. We all loved to hear her play. For me it brought back memories of our earlier time together, travelling through France when the war was merely a hazy threat.
It was on one of those evenings, as I was sitting in a corner enjoying the picture made by Gloria’s seated figure at the piano and the tall form of Tristan leaning against it looking down at her, that I happened to glance at Violet, who sat near me, on the other side of Perry, who had fallen asleep and thus did not screen her from my sight. The light was dim. The only illumination came from the small lamp on the piano, and it showed little with clarity except the keys of the instrument and the faces bent over it, but one ray of reflected light came from the mirror over the fireplace and lit upon Violet’s face. It was the first time since Gloria’s arrival that I had seen her face unguarded. Her eyes were intent on Gloria’s face, and there was jealousy in them, jealousy marked with a kind of contempt, but also, I noted with surprise, a touch of something like pity. She blinked, as if she was trying to clear dust from her eyes, and her gaze moved to her brother as he stood looking down at the performer with her halo of brilliant hair and her smiling features. The eyes softened while they watched his profile against the lamplight, softened into a tender sadness that made her face seem suddenly lovely to me. Perhaps it is strange that I had never noticed that subtle beauty before, but I can only say in my defence that it was a beauty not suited to crowds and bright lights. Compared with Gloria’s brilliance, Violet was like a tiny alpine flower beside some exotic bloom of the tropics, a hibiscus or a bird-of-paradise. It can be easily hidden, but once truly seen it is never forgotten.
I must have stared too intently. Before I realised it the music was over and Violet had turned to see me watching her. She bent her head quickly to hide a faint blush, and when she raised her eyes the guarded look had returned.
Gloria was saying something to Tristan. I saw her look up at him and smile, then look grave as she said, loud enough for the rest of us to hear, “They say tomorrow will be the real test. They’re putting us in the hospital with real patients. Some girls can’t take it, I hear, and have to be sent home because they can’t stand the sight of blood.” There was a cheerful disdain in her voice, not malicious, but amused -- the disdain of someone with a good head for heights standing at the edge of a cliff and looking back at the people who have kept their distance.
Mr. Beaufort beamed at her from the depths of his armchair. “We all know that will never be you, my girl. You’ve got too much gumption for that.”
Tristan smiled down at her and said something I couldn’t quite hear. She looked up at him and laughed.
“No,” she said, “I don’t think I’d be afraid of that either.”
Chapter 15
Tristan was leaving the next day, and as Gloria had to be at the hospital in the morning he offered to accompany her and go on his own way from there. So we bid them both good-bye at once at the front door. I was glad to see that Violet and Tristan had been able to spend some time by themselves in the garden earlier, and Violet was looking better for it, even to the point of wishing Gloria good luck for her first day at the hospital. She said her good-byes to her brother without shedding tears, though when she turned away I could see them standing in her eyes.
We went out for groceries later that day, and as we passed St. Paul’s Cathedral I remembered the time when Gloria and I had climbed to the very top and looked out over London
. I asked Violet if she had ever made the climb.
“Yes.” She said it shyly, as if she were confessing something very close to her heart. “I used to go often, before you came. I came here the first time with Tristan, years ago. Then later, when Grandmother would send me out for groceries alone I would come here first and climb to the top and look out over the city and think about things. It felt wonderful, like you were so far away from everything that no trouble could reach you.”
It was just how I had felt, and after hesitating a moment I said, “Would you like to go up now?”
We climbed the long stair together, at first in company with a few others, but soon alone as those climbing with us grew tired or dizzy and stopped. At last we stood at the very top, surrounded by the golden railing, and we looked out over the city. I knew it better now. I could pick out bits of the scene with my eyes and knew their names and how to reach them on foot without getting lost.
We stood there for a long time in complete silence. It was only when all the church clocks of the city began to strike twelve that we turned and left the pinnacle to return to the world beneath.
After we had collected all the groceries, I suggested, my curiosity having been piqued, that we should take a detour to walk by the hospital where Gloria was to be working. Violet agreed, and we turned about a little in our walk so that it took us by St. Bartholomew’s, near Smithfield.
The hospital was a noble-looking building, large and solid. We walked around it, looking up at it and thinking of the poor patients inside, and then were about to turn for home when I caught a flash of red hair in the outdoor seating area of a nearby pub.
Red hair, even of that brilliance, is not an improbable thing to see on the street in London, but it always made me think of Gloria, so I turned and looked more closely at the figure.
It was Gloria. She was sitting by herself at one of the pub tables with a pint of beer in front of her, and she was crying. I stood amazed. Not only had I never seen her cry before, but I had never known her to drink anything stronger than lemonade and the mug was nearly empty. I exchanged concerned glances with Violet, who would never have wished ill on Gloria no matter how much she disliked her, and we ran across the street to the pub.
Gloria did not appear to see us until we were standing just beside the table looking down at her. When she did see us she said nothing at first, only cried harder.
I sat down beside her and put my arm around her while Violet stood by awkwardly.
“Tell me what happened,” I said. I could do nothing to help her while I had no idea what the problem was.
“I…am…so embarrassed…” she finally managed to sob out “after last night. But it wasn’t the blood. The blood was terrible, of course, but it wasn’t what made me faint. It was his leg. It was just…gone…and there was bone, just sticking out, and I felt dizzy and then he grabbed my arm and told me he needed something for the pain, and then he smiled like he was making some horrible kind of joke and told me that a kiss from me would make his leg feel like nothing and…and then I fainted.”
She coughed, took another drink, and then said, laughing a little, “Was it funny? Should I have been laughing? Why couldn’t I laugh then? It might have made him feel better. But I’m laughing now. Have you come to take me back? They won’t take me back, you know? They can’t have nurses fainting all the time. It…won’t…do.” She emphasised the last three words by banging her mug on the table.
I felt helpless. My grandmother thought all alcohol was of the devil, thus I had never had much experience with drunk people before and I had no idea what to do for her. On top of that, when I looked around I could see nothing of Violet. Why had she left me here like this? I tightened my hold around Gloria’s shoulders and patted her hand with my free one.
“It’s going to be all right,” I told her, hardly knowing what I said. “Everyone will understand.”
“But what about Tristan?” she sobbed, taking another drink, though I had tried to move her mug some distance away on the table. “He told me last night that I was the pluckiest girl he’d ever met. But it’s not true, and he’ll find out eventually. Then what will he think of me?”
She swayed in her seat and I did my best to support her with my arm while I wracked my brains for something comforting to say in reply. After several minutes of this mental anguish I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Violet standing there.
“There’s a cab waiting,” she whispered. “We can use what is left of the grocery money to pay for it. Even Grandmother will understand when it’s something like this.”
Between the two of us we tried to support Gloria to the cab, but she really was very far gone and gave us no assistance. I wondered how much she'd had before we arrived. However, before we had gone very far I heard a voice at my elbow say, “Come to collect your friend at last, have you? Move aside and let me give her my arm. Things are bad indeed when a pretty lass drinks alone and has to be picked up by her friends before the sun’s even begun to set.”
He was an older man, in his sixties or seventies, but tall and strong, and once he had motioned Violet and myself out of the way he picked Gloria up in his arms as if she was a baby and carried her to the waiting cab. I stopped just long enough to pay the pub keeper before I hurried after them.
We got her into the house easily enough, and up the stairs to our bedroom, where she immediately went to sleep. Without too much explanation, but enough to stop the endless flow of questions, we got Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort and Mrs. Creeley to understand a little about the nature of the case. Then Mrs. Creeley took over, and it was a marvel indeed to see her work.
“My husband was a good man,” she said, “but he did like his drink now and then, and he did take too much once in a while. We can make her more comfortable now, but she’ll have a little bit of a headache when she wakes up.”
At first we intended to leave her in our room to rest, but it was getting later, and if the bombing began none of us wanted to carry her downstairs again with the sirens going off and mayhem all around us. So we carried her down then and there and laid her on a pile of blankets in the corner of the cellar which we had begun to refer to with daring fondness as “The Drop Zone”.
Violet and I had dreaded questions about Gloria’s state and her expulsion from the hospital, but our fears were unfounded. The bombings did continue that night, and in the morning we had things to think about which put the events of that day entirely in the background.
Chapter 16
I woke up after an even more restless night than usual to find Mrs. Beaufort shaking me. The air of the cellar was close and oppressive. At first I thought it must still be night, for the shaft of light which usually came through from under the door at the top of the stairs was gone, and all was dark and still. But the stillness did not have the feel of night, and one glance at the clock near my blanket nest told me that it was nearly six in the morning.
Gloria was fast asleep beside me, and I thought it would take some work to wake her – more work than I was ready to put in just then, anyway.
“What’s happened?” I asked Mrs. Beaufort, though the look on her face told me plainly that she could hardly know more about it than I did.
“I don’t know,” she whimpered. “Beaufort thinks something may have collapsed at the top of the stairs.” I got up and walked to the foot of the stairway. Her voice followed me. “What do you think, Anna?”
When had I become chaperone? I looked curiously up the stairs. The door itself looked solid enough at the top, only there was no light coming from underneath it.
Mrs. Beaufort quavered, “What if the doorway is blocked?”
Now was not a good time for her to panic. I heard Mr. Beaufort whisper, “Hush, my love. At the worst we’ll just have to wait here until someone comes to dig us out.” I wished he would keep his words of comfort to himself. I started climbing.
“Be careful dear.” They had followed me as far as the foot of the stairs. I was not feeling li
ke anybody’s dear.
I reached the door. I could hear more motion from below, as Violet and Mrs. Creeley awoke. I hesitated. Then the ridiculous side of the situation occurred to me. Why did I hesitate? Wouldn’t it be better just to know the worst? Our boys went into battle face to face with death in the form of armed German soldiers, and I was afraid to open a door. I turned the handle.
The door opened easily. I turned triumphantly to call back, “The door is open.” Then the sight on the other side of the door struck me like a hard slap in the face with a wet towel, knocking the breath out of me.
My first thought was that this place was no longer Mrs. Creeley’s house. It was a pile of debris which slightly resembled a place where we had all lived long ago, but it was not that place. My second thought was that we had been lucky, so lucky.
The house had not been hit directly, as it turned out, but had been shaken like a tree in a high wind by a nearby explosion. A beam had fallen from the ceiling, crashing down on the lintel of the cellar door. I thanked God that Mrs. Creeley’s house had been well-built. The lintel was a great piece of oak, weathered with age but still strong, and though it sagged and splintered under the weight of the beam, it still held, if barely. The rest of the house was a mess, and the absence of light was explained by the tumble of plaster and furnishings obscuring the spaces where there had once been windows, but I thought I saw an opening through which we might pass to the outside world.
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