He stopped talking abruptly and a thick, uncomfortable silence settled.
Agnes spoke first. ‘Jamie, I’m so sorry but it obviously can’t be helped. Orders are orders. Seems like we’re all deserting you.’
He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet but I just got my fresh orders too . . . only moments ago. I’m going to be based in one of the Red Cross hospitals in Flanders.’
‘Right at the coalface, eh?’ Bluey said.
She nodded, blushing. ‘Finally, I’ve got permission.’
Jamie knew he should congratulate her, although he couldn’t find the words. ‘You’ll be missed,’ was all he said, for he knew it was going to be a dark, potentially life-changing experience for the young, bubbly nurse.
‘I’m sorry, Wren,’ Bluey said.
‘I’ll put these in a jar by your cot,’ Agnes offered, taking the flowers from his limp hands. ‘They’ll keep her close and they’ll still be fresh for when she gets back, you’ll see. And if not, you can ask one of the other nurses to cut some more,’ she said, desperately feigning a brightness no one was feeling as she set off.
Control what you can. ‘It’s usually a three-day turnaround,’ Jamie mused, swallowing his disappointment.
Bluey agreed. ‘She said to shave again in a few days.’
‘You need a shave, mate,’ Jamie said, digging up his best cheerful voice. ‘And a sleep. Thanks for coming.’
‘I’ll bring her back, I promise.’
Jamie nodded. ‘Cheerio, then.’
Self-consciously they exchanged awkward glances as they cleared throats and said farewell.
Jamie didn’t know if he’d somehow used mind over matter to keep it at bay, but the fever, which he’d felt gnawing at him through the previous night, seemed to sense his loss and with his defences momentarily shattered by the news, it now rushed to fill the void.
By the time Agnes came out to check on him an hour or so later, the malaise had him and the nurse found him drowsy and incommunicative. Trapped within his nightmarish dreamscape, Jamie believed he was in a trench, all of his mates hit by a direct shell, dead where they hid, gunfire snapping and spitting above, explosions all around while he revolved slowly, taking in the dire scene as a hawk flew overhead and he fretted about all the events he could no longer control.
12
Claire stood on the deck of the Gascon, her features carefully schooled but thoughts inwardly bubbling like the geyser she’d seen on holiday in New Zealand as a child with her father and stepmother, Doreen Turner.
Doreen’s people were originally from Yorkshire in England but they’d settled on the other side of the world in New Zealand’s Canterbury, to ride the sheep’s back to prosperity. Doreen was one of six daughters, fourth born, largely ignored, from what Claire had gathered. The age difference between Doreen and her youngest sibling was a decade, with an elderly father who indulged his last daughter almost as a grandchild.
As Doreen had explained this to Jonathan Nightingale, twelve-year-old Claire had heard only a woman trawling for a husband and using her sob story and her dowry to attract one.
Claire blinked as she stared out to sea. Was it pure childish jealousy that had coloured her opinion and not allowed any room in her heart for Doreen? Couldn’t it be true, now that she examined the memory objectively, that Doreen was actually good for her father? Had Doreen as a child not been trapped by the same sense of abandonment that Claire had felt? Did Claire look for elements in her stepmother to criticise – the downturned mouth, the heavy lips – because she was immature and believed she was stealing her father from her?
People around them had remarked on the genuine adoration between the two. Jonathan Nightingale was tall and wiry with a flop of light brown hair and eyes the colour of the ultramarine Claire had seen on precious Italian artworks in the British Museum. It was one of the last excursions she’d taken with her father before she was shipped off to Australia and he to war. She had held his hand and listened to his narration as they’d looked at everything from Egyptian metalwork to libraries full of leathered books in enormously tall chambers.
As a child she’d not sensed his longing for her mother – indeed for any other female company but hers – and she’d built a cocoon around herself that was her father’s arms . . . his voice, his laugh, his nearness and protection. He had always managed to make her feel that she was the heart of his life. It wasn’t until she was an older child that she saw him as damaged emotionally from the war in Africa, and that was the point at which she could tell a daughter’s devotion wasn’t enough. He had changed. That brightness in his eyes had dulled and his need to blot out his experiences was likely responsible for shifting that gaze from her to Doreen Turner, a friend visiting the cousins whom Claire lived with in Sydney.
Claire watched the clouds sketched across the sky reflecting the blue of the Aegean and relented, ashamed. Yes, now she could appreciate her father’s distraction and could stand aside from her childhood pain of what felt like rejection and view it for what it was. Back then it had felt like the penultimate desertion of a father before he went all the way . . . and died.
Doreen had taken them on a holiday to New Zealand to persuade him to settle there. Her family offered land and opportunity but Jonathan wouldn’t agree to it because it was too far from all that was familiar. He did, however, propose marriage to her on their holiday. And suddenly where they lived made no difference to Doreen – for she had won her prize but she convinced him not to return to England. They settled on Tasmania, which felt like halfway between Doreen’s home and Jonathan’s adopted one in New South Wales. As far as Claire had been concerned, nearing thirteen, they might as well have chosen to live on the moon.
It was in New Zealand, during their tour of Rotorua, that the couple had sat Claire down and explained their decision to move. She had had no say in it. She’d always convinced herself that it was a relief for Doreen as much as herself when she’d later fled Australia for Britain, but they’d all been in such shock over her father’s death and she hadn’t given Doreen a chance to get closer. Claire bit her lip in memory that it wasn’t for lack of trying on her elder’s part.
Her belly rolled with the lean of the ship into the waves and Claire was once again reminded of the steamy geysers at Rotorua and had been even more entranced by the slurry of mud pools that boiled and spluttered with their sulphurous smell. That’s how it felt now – as though her insides were spluttering with that same volcanic action she could not calm. Instead of being dressed in her white lace and cotton, holding Jamie’s hand and saying ‘I will’ to his promised question, here she was anchored off Anzac Cove, standing by for the next raft of broken, damaged and dying men.
‘Nurse Nightingale?’
She turned. ‘Yes, Matron.’
‘There’s an inordinate number of seriously wounded to be attended – hundreds. The first are being loaded in the next few minutes. They’re bringing on board the shrapnel wounds first. I suspect you’ll be in theatre all day – the doctors predictably want you on the anaesthetic.’
She nodded, relieved to have something else to focus on. ‘Shall I head down now?’
‘Please. It’s going to be an ugly day. Oh, and we’re doing another swift turnaround. I’ve just told the others there will be no shore leave granted in Egypt.’
Claire blinked. ‘Of course.’
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t even asked – how is your young man?’
‘He’s recovering fast and in the best place,’ she admitted, not trusting herself to say any more. She hadn’t even told Rosie yet about Jamie’s proposal. It still felt too fresh and private. So, it could be another week or even longer before she was in Alexandria and could think of getting a ride to Cairo. ‘Thank you again. It was wonderful to see him open his eyes and smile at me.’
Matron gave her a sympathetic nod. ‘Who knows, he may even pop the question next time, although if he did, you’d lik
ely be sent home or at best to a safe hospital – England, maybe – for the rest of the war.’
‘Pardon?’
‘They don’t like married woman anywhere near the danger zones, my dear.’
Maybe a power mightier even than her own will had decided to intervene and prevent her marrying Jamie in Cairo. Claire knew she was needed; men hadn’t stopped falling from injuries simply because she’d fallen in love.
The thought of being needed comforted her as she hurried once more into the bowels of the ship to help save more lives. She took some comfort in the knowledge that none of those who may succumb today on the ship would be Jamie.
13
Jamie woke groggy and disoriented, blinking at the translucent glow from the ceiling that oddly reminded him of custard. But the hospital ceiling he remembered had been white, and the ward had dark timber beams and greyish floorboards. Familiar groans and the smell of antiseptic told him he was still under hospital care but he couldn’t work out where. It wasn’t even a building. He coughed, tasting dust.
‘Hello, there,’ said an officious but bright voice. He focused on an older woman. ‘I’m Sister Louise. I run this ward. How are you feeling?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Er, thirsty . . . um, and confused.’
‘That’s to be expected. You’ve been in and out of your fever for a few days but it’s broken now, which is excellent news. Here, let me get you a sip of water.’ She helped him to drink and as he gulped he took a moment to stare around him.
‘Where am I?’ he croaked, able to focus more now on the tented ward that covered a desert floor and shallow, makeshift cots.
‘You were moved. I know it’s disconcerting but there was a sudden influx of very badly injured men who needed beds and intensive care. We moved you less seriously wounded here, to an auxiliary hospital in Abbassia.’
He frowned, none the wiser.
‘Outside Cairo.’
‘How long have I been here?’
‘More than a week.’
‘What’s the date?’ he groaned.
‘June the first. You’ve made a pretty remarkable recovery, though, I might add. Your wounds are clean and dry and there’s no infection . . . you fought off whatever was attacking you. We think you were essentially terribly weakened from the blood loss.’
He recalled. ‘Yes. From Nurse Nightingale.’ Saying her name aloud helped to anchor him because he felt his thoughts lifting off and scattering like a flock of startled birds. He could tell she didn’t know any of the details.
‘I’m going to hand you over to Nurse Jenkins now. She’ll be looking after you.’
A short, plumpish woman arrived. ‘Trooper Wren?’ she said, matter-of-factly.
He nodded.
‘Nice to see you awake.’
He tried to smile but it wouldn’t come.
‘Nothing to worry about. It’s a tent but we run a dash good medical service here. We’ll have you up and about in no time and, I hope, back with your regiment. In fact, I think you’re going to be relocated again. We were just waiting for you to wake up.’ She urged him to keep drinking.
He came up for air, having swallowed the entire contents of the cup, eager to please. ‘Did Agnes leave any message for me?’
‘Agnes?’
‘The nurse from Cairo.’
She shook her head, took his pulse and put a finger to her lips. ‘I’m sorry, I have no idea who that is. It all had to happen very fast that day. There was no official handover. We only had some hastily scribbled notes pinned to your uniform. You don’t even seem to have an ID tag.’ He remembered giving it to Claire, but didn’t bother explaining. If they didn’t know Agnes, they certainly weren’t going to know a nurse from a hospital ship based out of Alexandria.
‘Anyway,’ she rushed on. ‘They needed your cot and have probably turned it over several times already to different men. You have nothing to worry about; you seem to be making an enviable recovery.’ She stuck a thermometer into his mouth. ‘I don’t get to say that to as many soldiers as I’d like to.’
Nurse Jenkins busied herself around him, checking his dressings and making encouraging noises. ‘That’s all looking very nice indeed. We might get you exercising that left arm. Stitches can come out soon. The right shoulder needs a few more days.’ She reached for the thermometer and concentrated on it momentarily before looking back at him. ‘Perfect,’ she said, flicking the mercury back down before putting it into a jar of antiseptic. ‘I’ll be back.’ She smiled and left him staring at dozens of other men on the floor in rows.
He wanted to ask for pen and paper but then realised with his injuries he couldn’t write and all the nurses seemed understandably too preoccupied to scribe for him. Claire would understand. He would pen something as soon as his right arm was well enough and he began to construct a letter in his mind.
Dear Claire . . .
No, he started again.
My darling Claire,
I don’t know when or how this will reach you, but the nurse in a tented hospital at somewhere called Abassa, which I do not know how to spell but I am told is outside Cairo, seems happy with my progress. They are going to move me again but I do not know where yet. There is talk of sending me back to the regiment, which I would be glad about because I will not feel as far away from you as I do now and might even catch a glance at the hospital ship while I carry water rations up to the ridge . . .
Sister Louise was back and he came out of his thoughts. ‘I’ve just been told that the Light Horse soldiers here will be returned to barracks in Cairo. Apparently you have new orders.’
He blinked. ‘Where are we being sent?’
‘I’m sorry, I have no idea.’ She smiled. ‘You just worry about getting well. I doubt you’re headed back to that hellhole at Gallipoli.’
Jamie nodded but felt a sense of anxiety creeping into his thoughts now. Claire wouldn’t know where he was and he couldn’t tell her yet. His mind helplessly returned to the letter he had begun constructing.
I will never change my mind regarding how I feel about you. I love you, darling Claire, and you are the reason I will promise to stay alive and try not to catch another bomb or bullet. Wherever they send me – I’ve just heard it’s probably unlikely to be Gallipoli – I won’t die because I have to see you again before I let that happen.
And when this war is done I will keep my two promises. The first is to meet you in London at your happy place as we agreed on the first day of April and ask you to marry me again, if you will have me. And then I shall take you home to Australia and on the way we can stop in Istanbul and return the prayer book of the Turkish soldier I think of as my friend. His father sounds a little like mine but I do not believe for a minute that Shahin’s father does not care about him. I shall make sure he knows that his son died thinking about him. I can do that much for a friend.
Jamie imagined himself drawing a little stick man with a big grin on his face next to his cryptic admission.
I love you and the pain of injury is nothing in comparison to the pain of not being with you. Do not worry about me. I am in good hands, which I wish were yours, but we shall be in each other’s arms some time soon. I shall hold that thought close until I next see you.
Yes, he would write it exactly like that. Just as soon as he was well enough . . .
________
It was nearly a month before Claire could get a pass for one day’s leave and together with Rosie they cadged a lift into Cairo. It was a dusty ride of monotonous level plains of sand in searing heat. The road was filled with potholes that the jeep crunched and bumped over to jar Claire’s teeth. She bit her tongue once so fiercely it made her eyes water. The Arabs had it right, she thought, glad she’d taken their lead by wearing a long voile scarf as a veil that she’d wound around her head and mouth to keep the sand out.
The landscape trembled in the distance, punctuated rarely by a glimpse of a camel train of the brightly garbed Bedouin folk, moving so slowly it looked as
if they were a still-life image, only shifting because of the heat thermals that distorted her vision of them. She wondered absently how the war affected their primitive lives and whether in fact they were the clever ones with their unchanging and isolated lifestyle that moved to the rhythm of the desert and its seasons and watering holes.
‘You look gorgeous, Claire. I told you that dress is a winner. I’m going to have to borrow it sometime.’
She smiled. ‘I feel like a bride in it,’ she admitted, as excitement gathered in the pit of her belly.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were so hooked on this bloke?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Rosie. Don’t take this the wrong way, but it felt as though if I shared it, I might spoil it.’
‘I’d be screaming it from the top of the pyramids. I want to be in love. I envy you.’
‘Don’t.’ Claire sighed. ‘All I do is worry.’
‘You’re really going to marry him?’
Claire knew Rosie was right to advocate caution – there was nothing sensible about her decision. She had to rely on her primitive responses when it came to something as untried as love. She had to trust that the tumult of emotion she now lived with and the way even thinking about Jamie’s touch could provoke such a strong yearning meant that this was indeed the real thing.
She smiled confidently. ‘I am, dear Rosie, but I think we should wait until there’s peace.’
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