Ashford

by Melanie Rose Huff

  It was a kind of sorrow I had not known before with my comparatively sheltered view of the war, and it tore at my heart in a way I could not have imagined. There was a hospital nearby where the wounded were brought in, and my fellow rat-catchers and I took to visiting it in the evenings when our work was done. We became almost surrogate nurses, for the hospital was short-staffed and what staff they had were often overworked and exhausted. We did the things that did not require training and thus freed the trained nurses and nurse’s aids for other, more important tasks. We brought water, food, and extra blankets to the wounded. We sat beside them, held their hands when the pain became too great, and pretended not to see their tears. And then we smoothed out our worry lines and went to the pubs to cheer and encourage the new troops. It was a strange double life, but it was all we could do.

  I did not write to them at Ashford about my extra work at the hospital, for I was worried that if Gloria heard about it would throw her back into depression about her own brief stint at a hospital, which I absolutely did not want. It had been so wonderful to see her well and happy again, and I wanted to see her that way still in my mind. It was the thought of those I loved most happy and well at Ashford, and my memories, faded though they were becoming, which kept my soul strong and my courage up in those days. I would do nothing to tarnish those images, nothing that would place a blot on their lives, even if the blot was only in my own thoughts of them. They would have their sorrows. I knew, and could not change, that fact. But their sorrows should not come about because of me. So I wrote glowing letters about my life, romanticising my work and telling of our new social engagements, until Gloria wrote that she quite envied me.

  Christmas came again, and this time we were not allowed more than one free day. The war would not cease for Christmas and neither would we. No one was to go home, so it became our focus to make that one day as pleasant as effort could make it.

  We planned a Christmas party for the evening, calling on all our acquaintances to issue invitations by word of mouth due to the scarcity of writing paper. It was to be held in the common room at one of the local inns, and we were there in the morning to set up and give everything its most festive appearance before returning to the hostel to change.

  We had gone out at first light to cut boughs from a grove of holly trees which lined the East road into town not far from our hostel, and, before taking them all to the inn, had gone to the hospital to pin a sprig of holly at the head of each man’s bed. One soldier, as I stood by him, reached out and touched my arm.

  “You’re having a party tonight?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Yes,” I answered, sitting down on the edge of his bed. He had a neck wound which made it hard for him to speak. Best, I thought, to let him speak softly.

  “You have a party dress? A pretty one?”

  I nodded. I was a little embarrassed by it, for I had scraped by on a fraction of my meagre income to afford it, and it felt like such a frivolous thing.

  “You’ll come here, tonight, at some point, to show me? None of us have seen a pretty girl in a nice dress in so long.”

  I could not refuse anything so simple to a wounded man. I had always been awkward about my appearance. Not that I thought myself ugly, but I had always been hesitant to be noticed, and the uniform of a Land Girl, which I had worn nearly every day for over a year by that time, was built for function, not comeliness. But then, I had never thought of the thing from the angle this soldier presented it from before, as a gift. It did not seem a petty or frivolous thing in that light, if you made yourself attractive to cheer the eyes of a hurt or dying man; no more than setting a flower in a vase on the table beside him.

  “I will,” I said.

  Chapter 29

  It was not many hours later that I stood before the looking glass at the hostel, putting the finishing touches to my evening dress. I was inordinately proud of it, for I had never had a real evening dress before and had saved somewhat fanatically from the time we decided to have the Christmas party to be able to afford it.

  I turned in front of the mirror, enjoying the feel of the full taffeta skirt and the rustle of the petticoat beneath. It was the colour of butterscotch, warm and glowing, a bolder shade than I would have expected myself to choose, but I had known it was the one I wanted the moment I saw it. It had no sleeves, and it was taking me a while to get used to my own bare shoulders. I had no fine coat to go with it, for I would have had to save for another three months to acquire one, so my old rat-catcher’s coat would have to do the job until we arrived at the inn. It seemed strangely fitting to me that I would not unveil my finery until the last moment, and then, when the evening was over, disappear into my tatters again like Cinderella at midnight. At least the coat had been washed, so that for one evening it would not bear with it the stench of rat poison.

  The other girls were around me, for we all shared the one mirror. Ella, in a creation reminiscent of whipped cream and strawberries, twirled beside me. She had twisted her blonde hair into ringlets and looked like a happy little girl. The other two girls, Jen and Emily, were in green and black respectively -- the green of Jen’s dress very vivid and striking with her chestnut hair, and the black of Emily’s setting off her pale skin and dark hair to perfection.

  I had told them about the wounded man and his request, and we had agreed to leave the party for a little while once it was underway to pay the promised visit.

  We walked to the inn as the sun was sinking, and the brilliant golds and reds of a winter sunset were spreading across the sky. I would have loved to stop and admire it longer, but the chill was creeping in under my skirts, through my thin dress stockings. It was not a long walk, but it had been a cold day and our finery was not built for warmth, so we were very glad to leave the chill behind and enter the warm common room. A huge fire was blazing on the hearth and Mr. and Mrs. Barker, the innkeepers, were waiting for us in smiling welcome.

  I had argued with the others for turning off the electric lights and using candles, and had won. I said it was because it would create a pleasant atmosphere, but I admit it was more of a nod to Ashford far away, where they would be having their Christmas chicken by the light of the traditional Ashford candles. There would be fresh holly, and there would be candles, and those two things would bring us that much closer in spirit.

  Everything was ready long before it was time for anyone else to arrive, so the four of us rested at the bar with the first samples of Mrs. Barker’s famous wassail punch, surveying our handiwork with pleasure. The arched rafters were hung with numerous holly boughs tied with red ribbons, and there were candles down the length of every table. It seemed to me like an image pulled out of history from several hundred years ago, when the old inn had been new-built. I could just imagine it, with some local lord presiding over the board, and a troupe of minstrels ready with their instruments. There was no lord now, but there was Mr. Barker beaming at us with his round cheerful face, and Mrs. Barker for his lady. There were no minstrels, but soon the soldiers would arrive, and some would bring their instruments and tonight we would have laughter and carol-singing enough to wake the spirits of the lord and lady and minstrels of old.

  The first of the guests began to arrive, and soon the room filled. I was happier in this position than I generally was in crowds, for as one of the hostesses I had a great deal to do, and was not simply standing in a corner wanting the nerve to speak to someone. I wandered the room, keeping everyone supplied with punch and bestowing smiles. Smiles were simple and took little effort, and one soldier paid me the compliment of saying that I looked radiant. He was very young indeed, and had already had a great deal of punch for the time, yet that did not prevent me from feeling flattered by his attention.

  When I was sure that nobody would be wanting more punch for a while, and that all was merry, I slipped into a corner by the fire and stood watching the festivities, thinking of the family at Ashford and wishing they could be there with me. It is embarrassing to admit, but I did ha
ve a small secret wish that they could see me like this, for one evening the princess of Jerry’s imagination. It was with an idea of showing it to them all on my next visit that I agreed to pose for a photograph with the other girls and some of the soldiers, along with some of the nurses from the hospital who had managed to get the night off.

  It was some hours before I remembered my promise to the soldiers, and the other girls were evasive when I mentioned walking to the hospital. It was too cold, Jen said, and we would already be walking back to the hostel in the dead of night. We would show them the photograph. Ella, who I had counted on most, was being thoroughly romanced by a dashing young Captain and had stars in her eyes.

  After hesitating for a time I slipped back to the kitchen to say a quiet word to Mrs. Barker about where I was going, took down my rat-catcher’s coat from its hook and wrapped my warm scarf around my neck. As an afterthought I pinned a sprig of holly in my hair and asked Mrs. Barker for a bottle or two of wassail punch.

  Mrs. Barker, being a worthy and compassionate woman, loaded me up with three large bottles of the punch and a loaf of dark fruitcake studded with golden raisins. Then she patted my cheek in a motherly way and sent me off with a compassionate smile, saying,

  “Make those poor boys forget their injuries for a little while, love.”

  I walked as quickly as I could through the frozen streets with my burdens, but even so my fingers were freezing by the time I reached the hospital. The head nurse received me kindly but hurriedly, as they were even more short-staffed than usual due to the absence of the nurses who had the night off. She had no objection to the punch or the fruitcake as long as it was spread evenly among the patients, and even allowed me to heat the punch on the stove in the hospital kitchen. Leaving my coat and scarf behind at the door I set about preparing the punch and fruitcake before making a few last-minute adjustments to my dress and, feeling slightly flushed, walking slowly into the main ward with a tray in one hand and a pitcher of punch in the other.

  It was as I was passing between the beds, pouring a glass of punch here, handing out fruitcake there, that I realised the key to it all, the reason this thing was important. I, myself, had nothing to do with it. To these men, even those I had sat beside and comforted, I was not myself tonight but a symbol of something else, something larger and much more powerful. It was as an embodiment of what they fought for that I was important. It was an idea which I found encouraging and humbling at the same time. It took me out of the question entirely, a curious release. Stepping out of myself I was able to do what I would never before have thought possible, smile at these men with holiday cheer, show off my dress, and accept their admiration and expressions of gratitude with grace. It was not me. It was the greater symbol which had taken me over for that one evening.

  I was still in the throes of this feeling of Something Greater, when the head nurse approached me a little apologetically.

  “I wouldn’t ask you under normal circumstances,” she said, “but Private Simkins is going fast. He’s been asking to see you. Calls you, ‘The girl with the rough hands and the shy smile’.”

  Private Simkins was the man I had spoken with earlier that day, who had asked me to come. I had looked for him among the patients and had not seen him. So he was dying. Of course he would be in a different ward. I looked down at my hands. They were rough, most recently from handling the chemicals of our trade, but even from before, from the work I had done in gardens and orchards. I had scrubbed them well for the evening though. At least they were clean, not that it mattered.

  I looked up at the head nurse, who was watching me anxiously.

  “I will come,” I said.

  She took me down the hall and into another ward. It was quiet there, and still, but I thought the stillness had a chill in it.

  The head nurse took me between the rows of beds to one by a window on the far side of the room. Private Simkins was watching for us, and his eyes brightened as we came towards him.

  “You came,” he said weakly, smiling a little, “and you have holly in your hair. My mother always told me that holly kept evil away. Perhaps I won’t be afraid to go if you are here.”

  I couldn’t speak, but I sat beside him and he seemed to think that was enough. I don’t know how the time passed, but it was in the wee hours of the morning that he opened his eyes for the last time and looked at me in silence. On a sudden impulse I reached out and gently touched the wound on his neck. There had been complications with it and it had begun to bleed afresh. I don’t know why I did it, it only seemed the right thing to do at the time, but it appeared to calm him, and I left my hand there until the nurse, checking his pulse, informed me that he was gone.

  Very slowly, feeling as though I was not in command of my own limbs, I took the holly sprig out of my hair and put it between the fingers of the dead man, ignoring his blood hardening on my hand.

  I stood up and moved to the window while the nurses took care of the body, not seeing anything of the dark shadows without or the reflection of the scene within. I was still standing there twenty minutes later when I heard a voice from behind me pronounce my name. Shaking myself out of my trance, I turned, and to my surprise saw Mr. Beaufort.

  He was staring at me as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. I certainly must have been a sight, at the bedside of a dead man in an evening gown with blood on my hand, my hair in disarray and my face white with fatigue and tragedy, but the look was not all for me. His red face had a grief-stricken expression that I had never thought it could wear, and he approached me with a gentleness I had not known he possessed, and took my hand -- the clean one.

  “Tristan is dead.”

  Chapter 30

  I wished I could faint. I wished I could cry. But I could do neither. I think my lack of an emotional response frightened Mr. Beaufort more than anything else, used as he was to the exaggerated feelings of his wife, and he gripped my hand tighter and led me to a chair which the head nurse kindly set ready. Once there he remained standing beside me with his hand on my shoulder, as if he was afraid to let go lest I should fade away.

  “He was flying a mission over Germany,” Mr. Beaufort told me “when his plane was shot down. They determined that no one could have survived.” He paused for a moment, as if waiting for me to answer him. I didn’t. He went on. “I stopped at the hostel to find you but you weren’t there. The other girls said you hadn’t come back from a party last night and I started to worry, but then one of them said you might still be here.”

  I nodded slowly, acknowledging his worry, but my mind was far away, at Ashford with Violet and Gloria, Mr. Bertram and Lilly, Jerry and the twins, and Perry. What must they all be feeling? Theirs was a pain I could not imagine, for though I had known and liked Tristan, I had not been sister or cousin or lover to him. It made it worse somehow that they had not found the body. Worse because of the false hope that would rise up only to be crushed by common sense. His plane had been shot down and its pieces scattered over Germany. No one could have survived. No one.

  There was silence again. I wanted to know how the family was, how Gloria bore the news. I wanted to know the answers to my questions without having to ask. I wished, rather unreasonably, for Mr. Beaufort was doing his best, that Perry had come to tell me. He would have known what I was waiting to hear, would have known how to tell me, and I would not have had to go through the agony of dragging the words out.

  Then remorse seized me. After all, Mr. Beaufort had come all the way from Ashford to tell me, had obviously taken the night train and had little sleep. There were dark shadows under his eyes, what remained of his hair was tousled, his usually red face pale. Why could I be a help and a symbol to a hospital full of wounded strangers and not to this familiar, inoffensive man beside me? I noticed for the first time how much older he looked than he had when we first set out on our tour of Europe. It seemed so long ago, so much longer than the three and a half years of its reality, and the whole of it, the time, the fear, the anxious waitin
g, had aged us all. I looked up from my lap and met the eyes of the man I had regarded with amusement and contempt for so long, and I found myself looking into the eyes of a comrade. The comedic element was still there, underneath, but the humanity and the need were uppermost.

  I stood up and smoothed my dress.

  “Come back to the hostel,” I said, endeavouring to keep my voice from shaking. “You look like you could use a cup of coffee. They’ll let me take a day off since you are here, and you can tell me more once we’re both more comfortable.”

  Once we were outside Mr. Beaufort gave me his arm. I took it, not so much at first for the support it offered as for the comfort it would give him to believe that he was assisting me, but I found myself leaning on it more as we went along and I began to realise my own weariness.

  Once we were back at the hostel and I had washed my hands and changed into my everyday clothes, I made coffee and Mr. Beaufort and I sat down at the kitchen table to drink it, accompanied by some muffins spread with a little marmalade. It seemed poor fare to me after the meals at Ashford, which old Mrs. Bertram and Lilly had made delicious by virtue of their great skill in spite of rationing, but it was all that I could find in the cupboard.

  At last I put the question which had been haunting me.

  “How is everyone at home?”

  Mr. Beaufort did not answer at once. He sat for a moment staring at his coffee as he swirled it about in his cup, cleared his throat, looked at me, then looked down again.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Bertram and Mr. Bertram’s mother took it pretty hard at first, and poor Jerry didn’t know what to think. It’s impossible to tell what old Mrs. Creeley felt. I never know what she’s thinking. It was very hard for everyone.”