by Phillip Rock
She looked at him sternly. “That’s not fair. We made a promise not to exchange gifts.”
“Okay, I welshed on the deal. But I saw this certain item in Regent Street the other day and I knew you’d like it, so I bought it for you.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Ah, but I did . . . and they won’t take it back.” He toyed with the cigar. “You’ll be going to France, won’t you?”
“Yes.” She looked down at her plate and crumbled a bit of cake between her fingers. “My group leaves on the third of January . . . number nine Stationary Hospital in Boulogne.”
He fished for a match and lit the cigar. “So soon?”
“Afraid so.”
“Will I be able to see you before you leave?”
“I doubt it. We go down to Portsmouth for an orientation course right after Christmas . . . the twenty-seventh, I believe. Sorry, Martin, but this is our last get-together. . . .”
“Date,” he said, forcing a grin.
“Yes . . . ‘date.’ I must remember that word.”
“I could come over . . . write an article or two about number nine Stationary Hospital in Boulogne and Sister Ivy Thaxton of the QA’s.”
“Please don’t. It’s going to be a difficult time for me . . . adjusting to the type of cases we’ll meet there. I would only be terribly distracted if you were hanging about.”
His grin was genuine this time. “Would you really?”
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.” She frowned at the demolished fragments of cake. “I shall miss you, Martin. Miss you very much.”
“I’ll sure as heck miss you. Funny, come to think of it. We hardly see each other—maybe once every month or so—and yet just knowing that you’re in London is a comfort to me. When I got back from France last trip, my train got shunted around a lot coming up from Folkestone and we pulled into Euston Station instead of Waterloo. I took a taxi down Gower Street, past the university, and there was All Souls. A couple of guys from the Journal-American were with me and I pointed the place out. I said, ‘There’s the best training hospital for nurses and army doctors in England.’ One of them said, ‘Jesus, looks like the biggest and oldest brickyard in the world.’ Well, it sure didn’t look like that to me because somewhere in that maze of buildings was my best girl.”
Ivy blushed and poured herself another cup of tea. “Is that what I am to you, Martin?”
“Why do you have to ask? I’ve told you enough times. Sure, you’re my best girl. Heck, you’re the only girl I know.”
“You must meet so many girls in . . . well, Paris . . . places like that.”
“I only meet generals in Paris, drinking port at the Hotel Crillon.”
“And Cairo. They say that Egyptian women are the most exotic women in the world.”
“Who told you that? You can’t even see them. They wear black sheets over their heads.” He stubbed out his cigar because the smoke was drifting into her face. “Look, you’re a daisy and my heart jumps into my throat whenever I see you. Okay? Do you believe that?”
“If you say so, yes.”
“You don’t seem very pleased about it. Anything the matter?”
“No . . . I suppose not.”
He reached across the table and touched her cheek. “You’ve got the blues because you’re leaving soon. I feel the same way about it, but it won’t be forever. After you’re used to the hospital and sure of yourself, I’ll come over. Maybe you’ll be able to get a few days’ leave and we could go to Paris and I’ll show you the sights. And anyway, I’ll be writing to you all the time, so we won’t get out of touch . . . not for a minute.”
“Perhaps it would be better if we did get out of touch . . . at least until the war’s over.”
“I don’t see any reason for that, Ivy.” He leaned back in his chair and lit his cigar again. “It seems to me that a war’s the best time to hang on to friendships, not abandon them. Why don’t you finish your tea and we’ll go over to the flat and I’ll give you your Christmas present. Okay?”
Something was troubling her and he wasn’t sure what it was. Simple anxiety and depression, he hoped. That was to be expected. She had never been out of England before and the idea of going across the channel to France—to work as a regular nurse in a huge base hospital—must be unnerving to her. He held her hand tightly as they left the restaurant, but she seemed unresponsive to his touch and barely said a word in the taxi as they drove to Soho.
The flat was tidy for a change because Jacob rarely spent any time in it. The first time he had brought Ivy there, she had been appalled by its disorder and had spent half an hour, over his protests, picking things up.
“How about a glass of sherry?”
“No, thank you.” She sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa. “Sherry makes me feel tipsy.”
“Do you good. Make you relax a bit.”
“I’m quite relaxed, thank you.”
“Well,” he said lamely, “have it your own way.” He clapped his hands and said with a forced cheerfulness, “Santa Claus has come to town . . . so close your eyes and don’t open them until I say so.”
He ducked into the hall and brought out a large package from the hall closet. It had been wrapped in bright paper and tied with a red ribbon. He placed it on the cushion next to her.
“You can open your eyes now.”
She had never received a present in her life, at least not one that came wrapped in a package. A rag doll and three pennyworth of rock candy in a Christmas stocking were the only presents she had ever been given. She looked at the parcel in awe and could do no more than touch the ribbons.
“Open it. Go on.”
She undid it carefully so as not to tear the paper. A large white box with the name of the firm embossed on the lid was revealed.
“That’s such a fine shop,” she said. “What on earth did you buy me?”
“You’ll never know until you lift the lid. It’s practical, I’m sorry to say. I wanted to buy you a whole raft of things—you know, feminine things—but I figured there was no point in getting you stuff you couldn’t use right now.”
“No,” she said, touching the crest on the lid, “that’s true.”
She opened the box gingerly and stared in awe at a large glove-leather carrying bag; IVY THAXTON was stamped in gold on one of the many flapped compartments. It was as sturdily constructed as a cavalry saddle, but amazingly light.
“Oh, my,” she whispered, stroking the leather. “It must have cost a fortune.”
“You bet it did. Nearly beggared me.” He sat next to her and put one arm about her waist. “There are all kinds of things inside: brush and comb . . . nail kit. . . . You can carry all your gear in it.”
“It’s beautiful. Just beautiful.”
He kissed the side of her neck. “So are you, Ivy.”
She half-turned and seemed about to say something, but he stopped her with his lips. She resisted at first, her mouth hard, unyielding, and then she suddenly responded with a degree of passion that left them both a little shaken.
“Oh, Ivy . . . Ivy . . .” he whispered hoarsely, his lips against her cheek, one hand lightly stroking the curve of a breast through the winter serge of her uniform.
She moved his hand away with regret. “No . . . we mustn’t. . . .”
“Marry me, Ivy.”
She drew away from him, shaking her head firmly. “No. You shouldn’t ask me.”
“Why not? You know how I feel about you . . . and you knew I’d ask. I’ve done everything but advertise in the papers that I love you.”
“And I love you, Martin . . . really I do . . . but it wouldn’t be right. You’d only regret it after a while.”
He tried to read the meaning of that remark in her violet eyes. Her eyes were usually so expressive, but they were fathomless now.
“I don’t know what you mean. Why would I regret it? Is there galloping insanity in your family or something? That doesn’t make any sense, Ivy. Only the
world’s biggest fool would regret marrying a girl like you.”
“And what would your family think?”
He sensed a bitterness in her tone as she looked away from him and stared down at the leather bag.
“My family? Boy! I know what my Uncle Paul would say if he saw you. He’d say that I’d finally done something really smart for a change.”
“And what would . . . Countess Stanmore say?”
So that was it. He understood clearly now. The upstairs maid. He put an arm about her shoulders and gave her a hug.
“Aunt Hanna would love you as much as I do. She’s a fine woman. Don’t let her English airs throw you. Underneath it all, she’s Hanna Rilke from Prairie Avenue. She wouldn’t bat an eye if I told her you were the girl for me.”
“I saw her this morning,” she said quietly. “The Duke and Duchess of Redford came to visit the convalescent ward in D wing . . . to hand out little Christmas presents to the men. There were several other people in their party . . . the baron this and the lady that . . . and Countess Stanmore. Miss Alexandra was with her. I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, but her ladyship spotted me right off.”
“And?”
“Oh, she was very gracious . . . held out her hand and asked me how I was . . . things like that . . . how was I getting along and all and how pleased she was to see me. I don’t know what I said . . . just stammered a few words. I felt awkward, somehow. And Miss Alexandra just stood behind her mother, staring at me, not saying a word. I think perhaps she was a bit shocked to see me, Ivy Thaxton, shaking her mother’s hand. She kept on staring at me even after they moved down the row of beds. There was something in her eyes, a coldness . . . I don’t know how to explain it, Martin. You just wouldn’t understand.”
He attempted to draw her closer to him, but her body was rigid.
“Look here, Ivy. That’s got nothing to do with us. If we got married, we wouldn’t be moving into the same house with Alexandra.”
“Perhaps not, but you’d still be marrying her maid. And think how awkward it would be if we were invited to dinner. Can’t you just see Mr. Coatsworth’s face if he had to serve me at the table?”
“The butler, you mean?”
“Yes. And all those stuck-up footmen. I know one of them would trip on purpose and dump soup on my head.”
She smiled to herself and then turned to Martin and rested her head on his shoulder.
“Oh, I know I’m being silly. I really shouldn’t care about that. We’d live in America, wouldn’t we, Martin? In Chicago, Illinois . . . on Lake Michigan.”
“Anywhere you wanted to live,” he said, stroking her hair. “Anyplace in the world. The Associated Press wants me to leave the Post and work exclusively for them. They’re dangling a lot of money in front of me and I’m seriously thinking it over. AP men go all over the world . . . China . . . Japan . . . the South Seas. And anyplace they sent me, you’d be right there with me.”
She nestled closer to him and was silent for a time, content to lie against him while he stroked her hair. Then she said, “I’m going to France, Martin. I could never marry you until this horror is over.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “I know that.”
“I’ve been nursing gas cases the past five weeks. I never told you. It’s frightful working with them. There’s so little you can do. They sit propped up in bed and cough themselves to death . . . and they’re so terrified.”
“Shush,” he whispered, holding her tighter. “Don’t talk about it.”
“We lose sixty percent. And they’re not the worst ones. The really bad cases are left in Boulogne. They’re the ones my team will be nursing. They need me more than you do at the moment, Martin.”
“I understand,” he said, thinking of the stumbling, retching men he had seen at Hulluch in late September. Chlorine gas . . . the brass buttons of their uniforms turned a vivid green . . . the stark terror of death in their eyes. He held her closer. “I understand.”
She felt like walking even though it was dark and the wind was bitter. It wasn’t that far and the rain had stopped and they enjoyed striding briskly side by side along Old Compton and Charing Cross Road and Great Russell Street, past the looming black hulk of the British Museum and then up Gower to the sprawling hospital. Lights glowed from the hospital’s myriad windows—no blackouts tonight, no fear of Zep raids in this wind. The leather bag hung from Ivy’s right shoulder on its broad sheepskin-padded strap, and, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, at the smartness of it and her obvious pride of ownership, he couldn’t have felt more pleased if he had bought her a diamond ring—although he would have much preferred that expense.
“Well, here we are,” she said, facing him. The brick structure of the main building rose behind her like a cliff. “I shall write you when I get settled and give you my address.”
“Number nine Stationary . . . Boulogne.”
“Yes . . . but it might be number four in Salonika for all we know. Nothing can be relied on these days, can it?”
“No.” He wanted to embrace her, but a great many people were walking past them in and out of All Souls. He bent forward and kissed the tip of her nose. “Take care of yourself.”
He was gone. She stood for a moment watching him walk away, and then she turned and entered the building. A group of sisters passed her on their way out. A tall red-haired girl stopped and touched the bag.
“I say, Thaxton. Wherever did you get it?”
“It was a present. From my young man.”
The redhead leaned closer, swaying forward like a sapling.
“The Yank chap?” she whispered.
“Yes. Isn’t it grand?”
“Lovely! Mine gave me a rather smallish box of sweets—but that’s a Welshman for you! Oh, by the way, Thaxton, your friend has been waiting for ages. I let her sit in the sisters’ lounge in D wing.”
“Friend? What friend?”
“Blonde lass . . . very pretty.”
“Oh,” Ivy said, momentarily stunned. “Thank you . . .”
It was the only blonde girl she could think of, but it couldn’t be, could it? Why on earth . . . ? But when she reached D wing, after hurrying along what seemed miles of corridors, and peered through the glass panel in the door of the sisters’ lounge, there she was, the Right Honorable Alexandra Greville, seated on a shabby leather couch in the empty room.
“Hello, Miss Alexandra,” Ivy said, walking up to her. She did not curtsy. Was it a slight? Her face burned. Alexandra had been staring down at her lap. She looked up and Ivy noticed how blank her eyes were. Then she smiled slightly.
“Hello, Ivy. I suppose you’re surprised to see me.”
“Yes.” She stood stiffly, not knowing what to say. “Have you been here long?”
“A couple of hours, I suppose.”
“I was off duty.”
“So I discovered.”
“I go back on at nine.”
Alexandra glanced at a wall clock. “That gives us about an hour. That is, if you can spare me the time.”
“Time for what, Miss Alexandra?”
“To talk.” She reached out and took Ivy gently by the hand. The well-manicured fingers were icy. “And please don’t keep calling me Miss Alexandra; you’re not my maid any longer.”
No, not a maid any longer, and yet she suddenly felt awkward. She could almost hear Mrs. Broome whispering over her shoulder, “Stand up straight, Ivy, and for heaven’s sake, don’t fidget or stammer. A good maid is both at ease and respectful when talking to her betters.” She felt vaguely sick to her stomach. How terribly wrong Martin was. But how could an American possibly understand?
“Do sit down, Ivy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She sat stiffly on the very edge of the couch. Alexandra still held her hand, so she couldn’t sit as far away as she would have wished.
“I was surprised to see you this morning, Ivy. I had quite forgotten that you had joined the QA’s. How smart you look in your uniform
. You’re a nursing sister now, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You must be very proud.” She released her grip and folded her hands in her lap. “I haven’t been very well and I didn’t want to visit All Souls, but Mother insisted that I come with her.”
“Not well?”
“A bit . . . under the weather.”
“I see.” She looked up at the clock. The second hand had never moved so slowly. “Are you living down at Abingdon?”
“No. We just moved to the Park Lane house.”
“That’s nice.”
“I’ve always liked being in London.”
It was not the same Alexandra Greville, Ivy was thinking, watching her. Certainly as pretty as ever, and as smartly dressed, but the manner had changed. The bubbling, talkative girl had turned into a somber, introspective woman. The eyes looked troubled. The hands were restive, fingers clenching and unclenching. Bloodless. Cold and white.
Ivy cleared her throat. “I was quite surprised to see you and her ladyship. Quite . . . happily surprised, I should say.”
“Were you? That’s nice. I was . . . happy to see you. So was Mother. She made a point of telling Mrs. Broome when we got home.”
“How is Mrs. Broome?”
“Her nephew was killed at Loos in September, which upset her very much, but she’s quite her old self again. An indomitable woman, Mrs. Broome.”
“Yes, she is.”
It felt horribly hot in the lounge, but Ivy resisted the urge to stand up and remove her heavy cape. Alexandra was wearing a coat with sable collar and cuffs. She looked cool as marble.
“Mother and the Duchess of Redford were quite upset after touring the wards. We had lunch at Claridge’s and they cried all the way through it.” She looked at Ivy and her eyes were bitter. “Odd they would be so moved. It was merely a nice ward, wasn’t it?”
“A . . . nice ward?”
“I think you know what I mean, Ivy. A show ward. All the lads so cheerful despite their wounds. And all the wounds so trivial and so neatly bandaged.”