Song of Songs

by Beverley Hughesdon

  ‘Oh, poor, poor Conan.’ I put my hand up to his face, then found myself stroking his uninjured cheek – it felt warm and alive, and my fingers slid down to caress the rougher skin of his jaw – he had such a nice jaw, I wanted to kiss it so I moved closer and before I knew what I was doing, my arms were around his slim firm body and I was clinging to him, my head buried in his neck. And I felt the forgotten sweetness rise in the pit of my belly, and began to quiver against the throbbing beat of his heart.

  He slid his arm round me and held me clamped to his chest, then leant forward, rapped on the glass and called, ‘Change that, driver – Cavendish Mansions, Langham Street.’ I raised my head in surprise and saw his mouth curve up in the dim light of a street lamp as the driver reversed, then he checked that the glass was closed and said, ‘It’s not just drink that’s the matter with you, is it, Hellie? No wonder that Yank was putting up such a fight – I feel rather sorry for the bastard now. Anyway, I can’t take you back to that nunnery in this state – it’s lucky Russell lent me his rooms.’ He laughed and lifted me so that I was lying across his lap with my head on his shoulders; I clung to him mindlessly for the rest of the short journey.

  Conan had to half-carry me out of the cab, and he bundled me quickly into the lift before the porter could reach us. In the small box I sank to the floor in a heap and gazed up at him. He leant against the panelled side and hummed tunelessly; he did not once look down at me. He held the lift door open with one foot and hauled me up. ‘Come on, my girl – you’ll have to try and walk, my gammy leg’s still playing me up.’ I stumbled into his rooms and stood swaying in the bright light. Conan went over to a standard lamp and switched it on, then the centre light mercifully went out.

  ‘Conan?’

  ‘I’m here, Hellie, don’t worry. Come on, let’s have you on the sofa.’ He steered me over and I collapsed into the cushions. He stood looking down at me for a long time, his face inscrutable, then he straightened up and turned away.

  ‘Conan, please don’t leave me!’

  ‘I’m not leaving you, Hellie.’ He spoke shortly. In a minute he came back in his shirtsleeves and breeches. ‘Now, let’s have some of this rigging off.’

  I kept trying to cling to him as he undressed me, but he turned me briskly from side to side, dealing quickly with buttons and tapes until I was down to my camisole and drawers. Then, at last, he knelt down beside the sofa and put his arms round me and kissed me. At the feel of his lips on mine, my body caught fire, but then he drew back, until I writhed and pulled him hard against me – I knew I was moaning aloud but I did not care. His hand moved over the thin cotton of my camisole and came to rest on my belly, low down where the delicious sweetness was – he began to caress me there, and the pressure mounted until I was sobbing with the exquisite unbearable torment of it. Then, quickly, his lips came down on mine again and I felt the quick darting probe of his tongue in my mouth just as his hand pressed down, hard and I exploded in an ecstasy of release. As I felt the slippery wetness between my legs I began to cry with relief.

  He wrenched my clinging hands from his neck, jumped up and strode away from me. I heard the door slam and I lay still, limp and lost. But he was soon back – he came and stood over me. ‘I suppose I’d better put you to bed now, Hellie.’ He pulled me up and just managed to carry me into his bedroom; he was panting as he rolled me between the sheets.

  I lay there, looking up at him, and at last I whispered, timidly, ‘Don’t you – that is…’ I turned and hid my face in his pillow.

  He said roughly, ‘There wouldn’t be much point in my stopping that Yankee swine sending you to France with a bastard in your belly if I went and did it myself.’ I began to cry and his voice softened a fraction. ‘Don’t worry, little cousin – I’ve seen to myself – since by now Mona is no doubt tucked up with your erstwhile suitor. I’d spent good money on that girl, too.’ He sounded aggrieved, so I murmured, ‘I’m sorry, Conan,’ and fell suddenly asleep.

  I woke with a raging thirst and a splitting head; it was already light. I could not think where I was at first, then I suddenly remembered and jumped out of bed. My head bounced painfully, and I staggered a little, then my stomach heaved and I stumbled out in search of the bathroom.

  I was retching over the bowl of the WC when a voice behind me said, ‘Well, well – so retribution has struck.’ Conan stood in the doorway, a cigarette in his hand, watching me. I huddled back against the wall, trying to pull my camisole round me. He grinned sardonically. ‘It’s a bit late for modesty now, fair Coz – you’d better get back to bed – my bed – and sleep it off.’

  I swallowed, then asked, ‘What time is it?’

  He took out his watch. ‘Nearly a quarter to seven – why?’

  I dragged myself up by the edge of the bath, and stood swaying. ‘I’m on at half-past.’

  ‘You’re surely not going back in that state?’

  ‘I must, Conan – there was a convoy due in last night.’

  He leant across me and turned on the shower jets. ‘Get under that then - I’ll fetch your clothes.’

  I pulled off my camisole and drawers and scrambled into the bath; I yelped as the jets hit me, the water was icy cold – but I knew he was right, so I stood shivering and let them wash over me. A hand came round the door and my clothes were unceremoniously dumped on the floor. I reached for the towel. As soon as I began to struggle into my clothes I realized that he had forgotten my corset – but I was too embarrassed to call out for it, and besides there was no time, so I knotted my stocking tops and hoped for the best. I ran through the doorway still jabbing in hairpins; Conan was waiting in the hall. He held out my hat and ran to open the door. ‘There’s a cab waiting downstairs.’ I fell into the lift.

  I told the driver to stop round the corner from the hostel, with a prayer of thankfulness that my room was in the basement. I swayed as I climbed over the railings – but others had done it and so could I. There was no time to look for a clean corset as I threw on my uniform – I tied elastic above my knee and flew out of the bedroom. The housekeeper was at her desk; I cried through the open door, ‘I’m sorry – I overslept,’ and ran to the waiting cab.

  I felt sick and shaken all day – I could scarcely keep up with my routine. Johnnie Lambert caught hold of my hand but I snatched it away – ‘Don’t be so silly!’ – then waves of shame engulfed me as I saw the look on his face. But somehow I got through the day, and pulled myself up the hill to the hostel by the railings.

  A carelessly wrapped brown paper parcel had been left for me – I knew what was in it as soon as I saw Conan’s scrawling handwriting. I picked up the note which fell out.

  Helena, my pet,

  This gets a trifle monotonous. Why don’t you just throw the damn things away? With your figure nobody’ll notice.

  Your loving cousin,

  Conan.

  He was right, nobody had noticed. I picked up my abandoned corsets and rammed them into the waste-paper basket. Then I looked back at Conan’s note there was a P.S.:

  If you can’t hold your liquor like a gentleman, my sweet, keep off it.

  Then he had added a second PS:

  The medical board passed me fit this morning, but I’m sick of slogging it out on the ground, so I’ve applied to transfer to the RFC.

  I sat down on my narrow bed and began to cry - for Eddie, for Lance, for all who had died and all who would die. And painfully, rackingly, and in shame I wept for Gerald - Gerald, my pure strong lover.

  I bought a sateen band with suspenders hanging from it to keep my stockings up - it was much cooler. Conan came to see me, before he went off to learn to fly; he was just the same as ever. We had tea together and walked on the common, then he kissed my cheek, just as my brothers always did, and waved to me as I went back to the hospital. The next day I looked at the notice- board as usual and saw my name was down for an overseas posting. Just two days after my twenty-third birthday I left for France.

  Part IV


  SEPTEMBER 1916 to MARCH 1919

  Chapter One

  Two sleek destroyers raced beside us, their sterns cutting the green water in a froth of curling foam. I stood at the rail in my unwieldy lifejacket, watching them. It was difficult to believe that we on the Channel steamer needed them, to protect us from the swift secret launch of a torpedo. I turned quickly away, and looked down instead at the deck – but there was no escape there. Excited youngsters, obviously going out for the first time, laughed and joked alongside groups of dull-eyed men huddled into their lifejackets in weary resignation as they returned from leave. I remembered the last time I had made this journey, happily anticipating the welcome awaiting me from my friends in Munich – my friends who had become my enemies, who would destroy me if they could.

  I was part of the British Army now. Although I had moved away from the other VADs and come to stand by the rail I, like them, carried an army identity certificate in my pocket. It bore my unsmiling photograph, and recorded my name, age, army rank and the number of my detachment. It was only that number, repeated in brass on my shoulder straps, which singled any one of us out from her fellows. Otherwise we were all alike: all labelled by our white shirts and black ties, our ugly hats and dark-blue coats and skirts, and the wide Red Cross brassard encircling our arms as VAD nurses going on active service.

  Twenty of us had left that morning in a group from Victoria. Alice had come with me to the station in a cab, ready to wave me off, just as she had waved goodbye to her husband the week before, at the end of his leave.

  Dear Hugh: I had been off at five the day after he came home, and Alice had invited me to dinner. I had gone straight up to Eaton Terrace in my uniform – I would change later – and Hugh and Alice were in the drawing room. Hugh’s face was tanned and his chest had seemed broader then ever, stretching the leather strap of his Sam Browne belt; but otherwise he was the same as always, my warm friendly brother-in-law. He held out his hand in greeting, but I ran to him and threw my arms round his neck, and he gave me a great bear hug in return. When he had kissed me, he set me back a little and looked me over, smiling. ‘You’re looking as lovely as ever, Helena – just as beautiful as your sister!’ I knew my face was too pale and my hair was lank, but I smiled back gratefully. ‘And what’s this – your first stripe, eh? Well done.’ He patted the white stripe on my sleeve.

  ‘Why Hellie – so they’ve made you a lance-corporal at last!’ Alice was laughing.

  Hugh said seriously, ‘No, Alice – nurses count as officers, you know.’

  I had laughed at that. ‘I’m afraid I’ll never make an officer, Hugh. I’m hopeless at bullying the orderlies – I leave all that to Sister. No, this is just a service stripe – everyone gets it after a year as long as they keep going and behave themselves.’

  As she lit her cigarette Alice winked at me. ‘I’m so glad to hear you’ve been behaving yourself, Hellie.’

  My face flamed. I looked desperately round for distraction – and caught sight of the two stars on my brother-in-law’s cuff. ‘Oh Hugh – you’ve got your second pip up – I am so pleased. Alice didn’t tell me.’

  My sister broke in. ‘I’m only going to start boasting when he gets those pretty little red tabs on his collar – first lieutenant is nothing.’

  Hugh’s face reddened, and I flushed again, for him. But he said firmly, ‘I wouldn’t accept them if they were offered to me, Alice. I’d rather stay at the front with the men. Staff officers are good for nothing but saving their own skins and sending a fine bunch of fellows out on useless raids.’

  I felt the blood drain from my face, and Hugh saw and looked stricken. He reached for my hand and patted it clumsily as I whispered, ‘Like Eddie, like they did to Eddie.’

  Hugh muttered gruffly, ‘Poor old Eddie – God, I was cut up when I heard. It seemed worse somehow – I mean, if anything happened to me, I’ve had some good years – and there’s been Alice and the boys – but these youngsters…’

  Alice stubbed out her cigarette; her voice was angry. ‘He was twenty, just twenty.’

  My eyes blurred with tears. I stared out to sea and prayed that none of the other VADs in the draft would come and try to speak to me now. I glanced quickly sideways – none of them were near – but a young Flying Corps officer was looking straight at me. He caught my eye and began to edge forward, his mouth curving in a tentative smile. I swung round and fixed my eyes on the grey destroyers.

  But seeing his uniform had made me think of Conan. Hugh had talked of my cousin, saying how much he had missed him after he had been wounded – they had been subalterns in the same company for several months. ‘Come to that, the whole battalion must miss him – the Colonel made him billeting officer and we’ve never lived so well out of the line, before or since. That famous Finlay charm – the most obdurate Frenchwoman was putty in his hands – and it’s the women who count in France now, with all their men at the front.’

  Alice smiled and blew a smoke ring. ‘But I seem to remember he spoke the most atrocious French!’

  Hugh replied seriously, ‘Oh, he knew enough to do the trick. I remember one occasion – we’d been warned by the battalion before us that this spinster schoolmistress ran the village and she hated the English, she’d made life bloody uncomfortable for these poor devils.

  She had a chest like a washboard and the moustache of a Grenadier – yet Conan went straight up to her, clicked his spurs, bowed – and then kissed her hand.’ Hugh shuddered. ‘Then he announced: “Irlandais, nous sommes officiers Irlandais, les anciens alliés de France. Mais nous n’aimons pas les Anglais, Madame.” His eyes flashed as he said that, then they went all mooning and he whispered, “Ah, les belles dames de France – elles sont ravissant, et si charmantes – madame, nous sont dans ta mains, nous prieons ta secours.” I don’t know about his grammar but his delivery was impeccable. She nearly swooned at his feet. We lived in the lap of luxury for the next two weeks. The schoolmistress insisted on giving up the best bedroom to us, then waited on us hand and foot. Conan was very decent – he never forgot I was his cousin-in-law – that time he persuaded her to borrow another bed, so I could share with him and Bron Nichols.’

  I interrupted. ‘I remember Bron Nichols, I used to dance with him before the war – he has that lovely curly blond hair, and such a sweet face. He used to go around with Conan a lot.’

  ‘That’s right – they’d been in the same house together at school. They were inseparable in France – but those baby-blue eyes were deceptive, Hellie, old Bron was as much of a young devil as Conan when they were together – the japes they got up to, the pair of them!’

  I said, ‘Conan will miss Bron Nichols – I’m surprised he’s transferred.’

  Hugh looked up. ‘That’s why he did transfer, Hellie.’ I saw the expression on my brother-in-law’s face, and shivered, although the room was quite warm. Hugh stared at the empty grate. ‘We were due to be relieved that night, we’d had a quiet time, only a couple of casualties in our company, nothing to speak of then there was the usual screeching roar and an almighty crump, and I heard the shout go out for stretcher bearers. A corporal came round the traverse, I asked, “Someone hit?” “They got Mr Nichols, sir.” I pushed along to see if I could do anything – a shell had caught the back of the trench, damned unlucky. They’d pulled old Bron out; he was lying on the duckboards, with his head pillowed on a sandbag, looking very surprised. Conan must have got there just before I did; he was squatting down beside him, chatting, his voice as cheerful as ever. “Well, Bron old boy,” he said, “It looks as if you’ve put one over on me. This should just about get you to Blighty, I reckon – with a bit of luck.” Then he lit a cigarette for Bron and put it between his lips, and while Bron smoked it he went on talking, about what Bron would do when he was on sick leave – he mentioned a tart they’d had in London before we came out – they’d both shared her, apparently. Conan said, “You lucky bastard, Bron – what a girl – and now you’ll be able to have her all to yourself.
” He took the cigarette butt out of Bron’s mouth and began to light another one, and I saw Bron smile at him, and he managed to speak – his voice was very low, but quite clear. “I’ll always share with you, Con – you know that.” And Conan smiled at him. Then Bron’s face seemed to change, and he said “Only, Con, I don’t know about tarts – I can’t feel anything down there – would you have a look, old man?” So Conan leant forward, and his face never changed – God, not an eyelid flickered, then he smiled back at Bron, “Don’t worry, old chap – it’s all still there, one cock and two balls, just as the Good Lord provided. The damn shrapnel got you in the leg, a nice clean wound.” ’

  Hugh stopped. I whispered, ‘Did he – were his, were they injured?’

  Hugh looked straight at me. ‘Hellie, there was nothing there – nothing, except a few pieces of torn gut. The bloody shell had scooped the whole of his middle out, how the hell he survived as long as he did I don’t know. I went back to stop the stretcher bearers – there was obviously no point. I had to steel myself to come round the bay again, I can tell you. But Conan was still there, still chatting and making jokes, though Bron wasn’t answering any more, he just lay there looking up at him; then he whispered, “It’s getting dark, Con,” and Conan replied, “There’s a storm brewing up, the sky’s as black as ink – that’s all we need for the relief tonight. Still, you’ll be down the line long before that.” And just as he said it Bron stopped breathing, just like that. He was still staring up at Conan, but there was nothing there any more. The sergeant came forward and said, “I’ll fetch the stretcher now, sir,” and Conan got up and walked away and was sick over the edge of the duck- boards. I went up to him; I didn’t know what to say, but I had to try, and he just stared at me and said, “I wanted to hold his hand, Hugh – I did so want to hold his hand – but he’d have guessed then, wouldn’t he? So I couldn’t.” I put my arm round his shoulders – he was absolutely rigid – then he asked, “Do you think Anderson’ll let me go down with the burial party?” “I’m sure he will, old man – I’m sure he will.” A couple of months later Conan got his Blighty one, thank God. And now he’s transferred to the RFC – but he should do well in it; they say good horsemen make the best pilots, and Conan’s a damn good horseman. I’d better go upstairs, Alice, and get changed for dinner.’ He walked out without looking at us.