‘My son knows where his duty lies!’ Agnes snorted. ‘He’s not going to be backward when his country needs him.’
‘His country doesn’t need him,’ cried Mercy. ‘The recruiting offices are full.’
‘I feel I should go,’ said Peter quietly. ‘It’s hard to explain… I can’t expect some other fellow to do a job I should be doing myself. Besides, it will be over by Christmas, everyone says so.’
Mercy wanted to argue with him, to persuade him to stay, then she saw the determination in his face and knew it was no use.
‘Of course it will!’ declared Agnes vehemently. ‘Our boys will be more than a match for a lot of silly foreigners. I shall, of course, come to see you off tomorrow, Peter. You and all our other young men.’
‘And what of you? Are you coming to see me off, too?’ Peter said, after his mother had left the room.
‘Do you want me to?’ Mercy asked uncertainly.
‘Yes, I do.’ Then more vigorously. ‘I would like it very much.’
‘In that case I will certainly come.’
The scene at the railway station was a noisy one, with a brass band and cheering crowds accompanying the hundreds of young men who were heading towards Devonport to begin their service life. Agnes took one look at the throng, and withdrew to a more sedate and elegant distance. Mercy, however, stood her ground.
‘Did you see the boys?’ She had to shout to be heard above the din. ‘They did so want you to see them waving their flags. They’re with your mother. Somehow she managed to find a vantage point in the Grand Hotel, I don’t know how.’
‘Yes, I saw John and William, waving away like fury.’ Peter’s face grew serious. ‘I hate leaving them. I’m going to miss them very much, you know. Take care of them for me, and Mother, too. Oh, and Mercy…’
‘Yes?’
A whistle blew, and the guard waved his green flag.
‘Yes?’ she repeated.
‘Take good care of yourself as well, my dear.’
On an impulse Mercy raised her face to kiss him, but already the train was pulling away, and all she could manage was the briefest touch of her lips on his cheek. She had never imagined that Peter’s departure would be such a wrench. Inside her she felt the aching void increase, something she had not imagined possible, and she was aware of a terrible sense of foreboding.
Gunther and Peter, both gone to war! What if fate threw them together? What if one killed the other?
Nonsense, she told herself sternly. Gunther’s a doctor, he won’t be anywhere near the fighting. And besides, it’ll be all over by Christmas.
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked the woman next to her, whose plump body was pressed against hers in the crush.
‘I said it’ll be all over by Christmas,’ said Mercy, embarrassed to realize she must have been talking aloud. ‘That’s what everyone’s— My goodness! Queenie! What are you doing here?’
The plump woman turned towards her, her face streaked with tears. ,
‘Why, Mrs Lisburne… Mercy… I didn’t know it was you standing there beside me,’ she said.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Mercy again.
‘Why, seeing Joey off. Didn’t you know he’d joined up?’ Her words were almost drowned in a welter of sobs.
‘Joey?’ Mercy was aghast. ‘He hasn’t gone as well?’
Queenie nodded, rummaging in her pocket for a crumpled handkerchief.
‘I didn’t know— I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye to him!’ cried Mercy, hurt that he had not told her.
‘He made his mind up sudden, like. We— we went up to Fernicombe this morning. He wanted to say goodbye to his family, meaning to come to you after, but his Ma was in such a state… Poor Joey, he couldn’t take any more goodbyes… Oh, there’s not going to be any shooting, is there? He won’t be in any danger, will he?’
‘I don’t suppose he’ll hear a gun fired in anger,’ said Mercy, wishing she believed her own words. ‘But what about you? How will you cope while he’s away?’
‘I’ll manage all right, thanks. Mrs Baxter’s still with us. After her boy died she didn’t have the heart to go back to London, so she stayed on. Besides, trade’s falling off, what with the building business being slow, and lots of the men joining up. All the same, I’d better be getting back.’ Queenie scrubbed at her eyes, making them even redder.
‘Remember, if you need anything just let me know,’ said Mercy.
‘Thank you, but we’ll manage,’ said Queenie shyly. ‘Goodbye.’ And she was swallowed up by the crowd.
Gunther, Peter, and now Joey! It seemed to Mercy that the wretched war had already stolen so much from her, and it had scarcely begun. She was thankful she still had her work for Ivywood to keep her occupied. Then one morning a letter arrived from the new medical director, thanking her for her valuable interest in Ivywood, but stating that her services were no longer necessary. The only reason given was that present policy at the clinic was considered to be ‘too Germanic’ and was therefore to be revised.
The injustice and the narrow-mindedness of this statement made Mercy speechless with fury. It was some time before its effect on her own life became apparent. What would she do with herself now, without Ivywood?
Agnes Lisburne had no such problem. The outbreak of war seemed to affect her like the sniff of gunpowder to an old warhorse. She was suddenly consumed with such energy it was as if she had decided that her war efforts alone were going to bring about victory. She began by drawing up a regime for the household of such austerity it provoked revolution in the kitchen before the first week was up.
‘Mrs Lisburne is very eager for us all do to our best in these difficult times, Mrs Clark,’ said Mercy soothingly to the cook. ‘I can understand your problems, and I’ll have a word with her. In the meantime, perhaps there are a few more ways you can think of to cut down. We could have more fish instead of meat perhaps, and maybe margarine as an alternative to butter on certain days?’
‘Margarine instead of butter? In my kitchen?’ The cook was horrified.
‘It would be for the upstairs table as well as the servants’ hall,’ prompted Mercy.
‘Well, if you and Mrs Lisburne are willing to make the sacrifice too, that’s different,’ said Mrs Clark, slightly mollified. ‘As for the rest, I’ll see what I can manage.’
‘I’m sure you’ll cope splendidly,’ said Mercy. She anticipated her mother-in-law’s reaction to finding margarine on her tea table with relish.
As she expected, Agnes was outraged. The idea that she would have to make sacrifices, as well as other people, had not been obvious to her.
‘Don’t you think we should show a good example?’ asked Mercy.
‘One can take things too far!’ stated Agnes, her voice full of disapproval. ‘It is all right for the servants, they are used to doing without.’
The incident marked an end to Agnes’s attempts to reorganize the domestic arrangements, instead she took up committee work. There was soon scarcely a Force’s Comfort Fund or a War Savings League that was not blessed with her presence. In this work she was encouraged by Charlotte. Mercy watched them, but could not find it in her heart to equal their energetic enthusiasm.
‘You should make more effort, you really should!’ Charlotte admonished her. ‘Anyone would think you didn’t want us to win this war.’
Conscious that, for her, there would never be any victory, no matter which side won, Mercy smiled politely and said, ‘I’ve been doing my bit, seeing to the house and the children. That’s quite enough for me.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Charlotte flatly. ‘You are capable of much, much more. Do something worthwhile.’
Mercy felt a stab of pain. Charlotte’s words were uncomfortably reminiscent of Gunther’s.
‘Feeding my family is worthwhile,’ was all she would reply, leaving Charlotte to stamp away in disgust.
Peter came home for a few days’ leave after his initial training period. Mercy was pleased to s
ee him, yet at the same time there was an awkwardness between them that was hard to dispel. She was quite glad when Agnes chose to monopolize him, revelling in the glory of having a soldier son to show off to her less fortunate acquaintances.
‘It’s a wonder Mother doesn’t fit me with a halter and parade me up and down Fleet Street like a prize horse,’ he grumbled amiably, collapsing into an armchair after a particularly exhausting outing with Agnes.
‘She’s very proud of you, and no wonder,’ said Mercy. ‘You look extremely distinguished in your uniform.’ ‘I’m glad I look the part at least. Mother seems to think this is all some gigantic pageant. Well, let her enjoy herself while she can, I suppose.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Only that this war can’t go on being an interesting pageant for much longer. The real soldiering will begin when I get back to camp tomorrow.’
‘You are being posted overseas?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know where?’
‘Not yet. All troop destinations are secret.’
‘But it’s too soon!’ she protested.
‘What is too soon?’ asked Agnes, coming into the room.
‘My trip abroad,’ said Peter.
‘You are going abroad? How very nice for you.’ Mercy had to bite back a cry of protest. How could Agnes be so stupid? Could she not imagine the consequences?
There was no more personal talk for Mercy and Peter that evening, thanks to Agnes’s continual presence. When Peter departed on the train next morning there was a lot left between them that was unsaid. Mercy watched him go with distress, thinking of all her lost opportunities during the recent few days. She should have reached out to him more, attempted to bridge the gulf between them. She knew she would never regret loving Gunther, nor would she ever apologize for having done so, but Peter was going into such danger. Surely there were words of understanding that could have been exchanged between her and Peter that would have gone some way to heal the rift? It was too late for spoken words now, she would have to write them.
Reading the newspaper each day became a kind of penance for Mercy. She would avidly scan the columns, knowing that for her the only good news would be the end of the war. At first the articles, particularly in the local papers, were light enough, almost trivial. The war seemed a distant inconvenience. Then, from a place in Belgium called Mons, came the first reports of casualties from the Front. By the autumn wounded soldiers were arriving in town, and more than one local family received the dreaded message informing them of the death of a loved one. The war had suddenly reached Torquay.
‘You must do something towards the war effort,’ Charlotte insisted yet again.
‘I’ve plenty to occupy me,’ Mercy replied.
‘I dare say you have. That’s not the point. Keeping house and playing with your children won’t help to win the war.’
‘I’ll do my bit, never fear.’ .
‘See you do!’ Charlotte sounded quite fierce. ‘Now I must dash. There’s a party of Belgian refugees to be met at the station, and taken to their lodgings.’
Mercy felt unsettled after her friend had departed, she knew Charlotte was right. It was no use trying to retreat into her own little world, pretending the terrible events outside were not happening. She would have to act. Next morning she called at the Recruiting Office.
‘I am afraid you have left it a bit too late to join the Voluntary Aid Detachment, Mrs Lisburne. The local requirement has already been most adequately met. If you had only come sooner.’ The woman regarding her across the desk sounded vaguely reproving.
‘Surely, with the wounded coming in, isn’t there something?’
The woman ruffled the papers in front of her officiously. ‘There are shortages in some parts of the country, of course, if you would be prepared to move.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t. I have two children.’
‘Well that’s an end to the matter!’ The woman snapped shut the file.
‘But I must do something,’ cried Mercy, unconsciously echoing Charlotte’s words, is there nothing else? Couldn’t I be a ward maid?’
‘Ward maids are usually inexperienced young girls, not mature married ladies. You would find such a post quite unsuitable.’
‘Nevertheless, I am prepared to serve in such a situation.’
‘My dear Mrs Lisburne,’ the woman replied, in the manner of one addressing a willing but none too bright child, ‘it does you great credit that you wish to do your bit, but I assure you, you would find the position of ward maid not at all to your liking.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ snapped Mercy, her patience at an end. ‘I am no stranger to scrubbing floors and similar tasks. If ward maids are also in such an overabundance I am quite prepared to tackle laundry.’
The woman regarded Mercy’s well-cut coat and her elegantly gloved hands.
‘Very well, Mrs Lisburne,’ she said, in some bewilderment. ‘Report to the Town Hall as a ward maid tomorrow.’
Torquay’s fine new Town Hall had been converted into an emergency hospital and Mercy entered nervously.
‘Are you sure you know what you’re letting yourself in for?’ asked the nurse who took charge of her.
‘No,’ said Mercy. ‘But I’m not afraid of hard work and I’ll not faint at the first bit of mess.’
‘Thank goodness for that! At least, you’re being realistic!’ The nurse gave a grin. ‘Most of the ladies who volunteer to work here expect their duties to consist of doling out arrowroot gruel and laying cool hands on fevered brows. Come on, I’ll put you with Grant. She’s a sensible soul and will show you what to do.’
Grant proved to be a quiet capable girl of about nineteen, and at first she seemed in awe of her new charge, until Mercy’s ability at cleaning earned her respect.
‘You’re awfully good, Lisburne,’ she commented shyly.
‘It’s not the first time I’ve done messy jobs,’ admitted Mercy, then she eased her aching back and admitted ruefully. ‘Though not for a long time, I’m sadly out of practice.’
‘I wonder you didn’t train straight away to be a VAD. You’d be absolutely splendid.’
‘I did try. I left my application too late.’
‘So did I, but we’ll get our chance soon enough. Half of the VADs here won’t last the course.’
Mercy soon discovered that she knew a good few of the VADs. Dignified ladies who had graced many of Charlotte’s charity functions, they had volunteered their services in the first flush of patriotic fervour.
It was as well she did not expect Agnes to approve of her new occupation, for she would have been disappointed.
‘A ward maid!’ Her mother-in-law gave a shudder of horror. ‘Have you no regard for your standing in society?’
‘Some of the other ward maids are from very good families,’ said Mercy. ‘Like me, they’re waiting their turn to train as VADs.’
‘And do you think it will come?’ asked Agnes. ‘There seems to be more than enough volunteer nurses about, as far as I can see.’
‘Oh yes, it will come.’ Mercy spoke quietly. ‘We’ve a long way to go in this war yet.’ .
This defeatist comment earned her a reproving look from Agnes.
At first Mercy found her new duties exhausting, she was surprised and ashamed at the way her recent years of easy living had softened her. Gradually, though, her protesting muscles and aching feet grew accustomed to the rigours of being a ward maid and she found herself enjoying her work. Not all of the newly trained volunteers were so fortunate. Some of the VADs, who had signed up in a cloud of rosy idealism found the reality far too distasteful and began to drop out.
A new batch of casualties had arrived at the Town Hall straight from field hospitals at the Front. As they were being brought into the ward Mercy was busy refilling one of the great urns that had to be kept boiling day and night to supply essential hot water. She paused in her work, thinking how pathetic the poor men looked, so dirty and dishevelled,
many with the Flanders mud still on them.
‘This lot would arrive today of all days!’ declared Nurse Chapman, who was in charge. ‘When we’re short-handed! The doctor’ll be on his rounds in a minute, so get these lads cleaned up and comfortable as soon as possible,’ she ordered a group of VADs. ‘It’s going to be a bit of a scramble. Do your best.’
Working in pairs, they began attending to the wounded. Mercy was just resuming her own work when she heard a disturbance behind her. Turning round she saw two VADs standing beside one of the beds.
‘Oh come on, Simpson,’ one was saying to the other. ‘Hasn’t this poor soul suffered enough without you taking your time over him?’
‘Surely you can see? He’s crawling with lice!’ The other woman spoke in terms of horrified disgust. ‘I can’t take any more of this awful dirt. They shouldn’t be sent to us in this state, really they shouldn’t!’
‘Stop being so stupid, Simpson!’ the other VAD sounded stern. ‘You know I can’t manage on my own.’ But she was talking to thin air, Simpson had fled.
Mercy did not think twice. She stepped forward.
‘Tell me what to do,’ she said.
The VAD, who was a small middle-aged woman, looked at her in surprise for a brief second, then smiled.
‘Who says the age of miracles is past?’ she said. ‘Let’s begin by cutting away his uniform.’
‘Sorry… I’m a bit… mucky.’ The soldier was too weak to open his eyes as he spoke, and his voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘Forgot… to take… my loofah!’
The VAD and Mercy exchanged glances over the man’s bed. They had not realized he was conscious, let alone capable of speech, not with the massive wound in his thigh that was seeping blood through the field-dressing.
‘Never mind,’ said Mercy. ‘Matron’ll be along in a minute to see whether you prefer Pear’s toilet soap or Castile.’
A faint smile twitched at the man’s lips. ‘You can… scrub my… back…’ he whispered.
‘We’re going to have to watch out for you,’ the VAD addressed the soldier cheerily. But for the second time within minutes she was talking to herself. The man had slipped into unconsciousness.
To Dream Again Page 31