by Maggie Holt
Mabel was horrified. ‘Oh, Aunt Nell, how dreadful. Don’t they go to special hospitals?’
‘They have to wait their turn because there are so many. We get much worse cases now than at first and I’ve got a better appreciation of the things you have to do at that Infirmary, Mabel. We can’t afford to be too ladylike any more.’
‘So that’s why Daisy’s not allowed to go with you?’
‘Oh, dear me, no, it’s no place for a child. And Alice has had to overcome a lot of her reluctance, not that she’s any the worse for that, it’s opened her eyes to what this dreadful war is doing to the men fighting in it.’
‘Has she heard from Gerald lately?’ asked Mabel.
‘She gets a few letters, but it’s been night and day flying for his squadron for months with no home leave, poor Gerald. It’s good that she’s got this work at Pinehurst to keep her occupied.’
‘Yes, work’s a great help – in fact, it’s a life saver,’ agreed Mabel, thinking of Timmy Baxter. ‘And I admire Alice so much for looking after the wounded, because it’s something I’ve always dreaded having to do.’
But whenever Mabel attempted to talk to Alice about Pinehurst, or anything else for that matter, she found her very difficult to approach. She longed to be closer to the lovely girl she had looked after as a child in Battersea, but her sister seemed embarrassed by her overtures.
‘Alice, dear, it seems such a pity, with both of us bein’ engaged to men fightin’ out there, that we can’t share more with each other,’ pleaded Mabel. ‘Y’know what I mean, we’re both goin’ through the same thing, wonderin’ about ’em all the time, lookin’ out for letters. Couldn’t we –’
Mabel’s words tailed off into silence as Alice gave a little shrug. ‘I’m sorry, Mabel, but it isn’t really the same, you know. I don’t think you can compare our situations.’ After a short pause, she went on, ‘Did Aunt Nell tell you that Lady Savage visited Pinehurst last week with her two daughters? She was most impressed by what Aunt Kate’s doing there and she’s talking of turning over part of Houghton Hall as a convalescent home for wounded officers.’
Which effectually checked any attempt to draw closer. There was a barrier between them that prevented any real intimacy and Mabel regretfully came to the conclusion that Alice preferred it to be that way.
When the next day brought them an invitation to tea at Houghton Hall, Alice was suddenly transformed. Her dark eyes sparkled and she seemed to be brimming with suppressed excitement. It was not just one of Lady Savage’s At Homes, but a special invitation to Miss Chalcott and Mrs Somerton, Miss Somerton and Miss Daisy.
‘I expect she wants to consult with you, Aunt Kate,’ said Alice with a satisfied air.
Miss Chalcott sent a polite reply up to the Hall, adding that their eldest niece was staying with them, and back came an immediate invitation to Mabel, at which Alice’s heart sank. She fervently hoped that Mabel would mind her ‘p’s and ’q’s and not bore them all to death with tales of that tiresome child she had nursed after an ear operation. She found her sister’s jarring London twang was nearly, though not quite, as bad as Albert’s.
Tea at Houghton Hall was in the drawing-room, with its casement doors open on to the terrace, and Lady Savage’s daughters shared hostess duties with her. The elder girl, the Honourable Mrs Rosamund Holt, had been recently married to a younger son of Sir Thomas Holt; her husband was newly appointed as a major in the 18th Hampshire Fusiliers and she had come on a visit to her mother with a happy secret to impart. Miss Georgina Savage was the same age as Alice and had been told to converse with the three sisters.
Mabel looked around her with interest, impressed but not overawed by the grandeur of the Hall and the Her Ladyship’s condescension. The daughters of the house were pleasing enough and she smiled politely as she accepted a cup of tea from Miss Georgina who asked how the war had affected life in London.
‘Well, life’s not what it was, that’s for sure, Miss Georgina. Everythin’s sort o’ shabby, y’know, ’cause of all the shortages, an’ no lights on after dark ’cause o’ the Zeppelins.’
‘Oh, do tell us about those horrid airships – have you seen one?’
‘Yes, great big things dronin’ away in the sky an’ movin’ at a fair rate. People either come out o’ their houses to look at ’em, or hide away under their stairs in case a bomb drops on ’em! Only last week there was one came up from over Tilbury way, an’ the guns were firin’ full blast tryin’ to shoot it down – but it turned and went back down to Mersea. And the week before –’
Alice had sat with closed eyes as if praying for strength, willing her sister to be quiet. ‘I believe your mother wishes to discuss the conversion of part of the Hall as a convalescent home, Georgina,’ she interposed, cutting Mabel off in mid-sentence.
‘Oh, er, yes, we enjoyed our visit to Pinehurst,’ Georgina replied. ‘Mamma greatly admires Miss Chalcott’s work for the wounded.’
Mabel felt herself to be silenced and tried not to be hurt, though Daisy glared and shook her head when Georgina offered her a slice of cake. Alice was humiliated by this display of bad manners, but Daisy stuck out her lower lip and continued to glower.
This awkward situation was saved by the arrival of the son of the house, the newly qualified Flying Officer Sir Guy Savage. He kissed his mother who greeted him fondly.
‘Guy! How good to see you, just as we have guests from Belhampton this afternoon.’
‘So I see, Mother.’ He smiled, turning his attention first to the older ladies.
‘How d’ye do, Miss Chalcott? Please allow me to congratulate you on your wonderful work at Pinehurst – my mother talks of little else! And Mrs Somerton, I know that your time is much taken up there, too.’
He was a fresh-faced young man of middle height with fair hair and light-coloured eyes, who had the easy charm of one raised and educated to be the heir of Houghton Hall. Having done his duty towards the older ladies he turned to the younger ones, and Mabel saw how his eyes were drawn to Alice.
‘Always a pleasure to see you, Miss Somerton – and, er, Miss Daisy,’ he added to the scowling younger sister. ‘I hope Georgie’s taking care of you. May I pour myself a cup of tea?’
As he helped himself to tea and cake, Mabel sensed Alice’s interest beneath her demure exterior, her consciousness of the young officer’s presence.
‘Georgie, you are failing in your duty,’ he said, indicating Mabel. ‘You have not introduced me to the other young lady.’
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Guy. Mabel, this is my brother Guy. And Guy, this lady is Miss – er – Mabel, the elder sister of Alice and Daisy.’
‘Alice’s sister? Then why have we not met before, Miss Somerton?’ he asked, holding out his hand. ‘Alice has never mentioned another sister!’
Alice blushed crimson, and before she could reply Mabel interposed, ‘The name’s Court, sir. I’m Mabel Court.’
‘Then good afternoon, Miss Court, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. I take it that you are a half-sister to Alice and Daisy, then?’
‘No, we’re the same family, sir,’ said Mabel. ‘I’ve taken after me mother for looks and me sisters are dark like our dad.’ He raised his eyebrows and Alice looked as if she wished that the floor would open and swallow her up.
Elinor Somerton hastily came to the rescue. ‘My husband and I adopted Alice and Daisy after the death of their mother, Sir Guy. Mabel was older and preferred to stay in London where she has just completed training as a nurse.’
‘How absolutely splendid, Miss Court!’ he exclaimed. ‘Which hospital are you at?’
‘The Booth Street Poor Law Infirmary, sir.’
‘Booth Street? Now where have I heard that? Is it in Lambeth?’
‘Yes, not far from the Elephant and Castle.’
‘That’s the one! I heard about it from a chap I know, a flying ace who came to speak to us at Upavon. He’s friendly with an actress who took him to visit this place last Christmas – a mo
st frightful hole he said it was – but this splendid girl entertained on all the wards, singing and dancing like a trooper. She properly livened the place up, he said – ah, I see that you’re nodding, Miss Court.’
‘Yes, I was there!’ Mabel told him eagerly. ‘The actress was my friend Maudie Ling and her young man’s called Alex Redfern. It made all the difference to Christmas, havin’ them come to visit an’ entertain.’
‘But this is amazing, Miss Court! Redfern has been an inspiration to us all, the man simply lives for flying. And for the lovely Maud Ling, of course – she’s a friend of yours, then?’
‘Yes, ever since we were children. She used to –’ But Mabel checked herself. The days of Maudie begging in the streets were long gone. ‘A very good friend she’s been to me and I reckon she’ll make a big name for herself one o’ these days.’
‘Ah, that’s exactly what Redfern says. Why haven’t you told me all this, Alice?’
‘When have I had the opportunity?’ she countered quickly, and Mabel’s sharp ears caught the note of warning in her voice. There were undercurrents here that her aunts clearly knew nothing about: something was going on between this young man and her sister.
‘You should be very proud of your sister, Alice,’ he said.
Alice nodded and managed a smile, though her discomfiture was painful to witness. ‘Of course I am.’
Daisy caught Mabel’s eye and gave her a very unlady-like wink, which had the effect of restoring Mabel’s sense of what was important and what was not. She tried to imagine what Maud would have said about this afternoon’s visit to the gentry, and the very thought made her smile to herself. The pretentious tinkling of teacups and exchanging of polite nothings with Lady Savage and her daughters – how trivial it all was compared with the real world she knew at Booth Street, the value of friends such as Maud and Norah!
And yet . . . this young man was about to find out the true horror of war at first hand. He would experience the danger and the terror faced by Alex Redfern and Gerald Westhouse. His mother and sisters would share the same daily anxiety endured by tens of thousands of families with a loved one away at the war. This war that had levelled the differences of class and status in a common bond of suffering.
So Mabel smiled civilly and bowed to their hostesses and Sir Guy when it was time to go.
The letter from France was waiting for her on her return to the Infirmary. Her name and address on the stained envelope were in an unfamiliar hand, and she felt the blood drain from her face when Norah handed it to her.
‘D’ye want me to open it for yer, darlin’?’
Mabel sank down on to a dining-room chair, her blue-grey gaze fixed on Norah who slit the envelope open with a knife and drew out a single sheet of paper. She looked at the signature.
‘It’s from Captain Knowles, Mabel.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Mabel’s first thought was that Stephen had written to break the news of Harry’s death in action. She could not speak, but sat with open mouth and imploring eyes.
‘He says, “Dear Miss Court,”’ Norah began. ‘“I am writing to let you know that Corporal Drover is on his way to – to –” Oh, Mabel, he says Harry’s on his way to Folkestone!’
Mabel gave a cry. ‘Oh, thank God! Oh, heaven be praised!’ She put her hands to her face and heads turned in the direction of the two girls in the dining-room. ‘Go on, go on, Norah, do!’
With a voice that shook with relief, her friend read on. ‘“He has sustained a wound of the right shoulder from a bullet which has shattered the scapula and dislocated the head of the humerus. It will need immobilisation for some time –”’
‘So he’ll be home to stay this time!’ cried Mabel, laughing and crying. ‘It’ll take months for that to heal – oh, thank God! Sorry, Norah, go on.’
‘“– and it is not possible at this stage to assess the long-term effects. There may be permanent loss of movement of the shoulder.”’
Norah paused and looked at Mabel’s shining eyes, the tears on her cheeks.
‘He says there’s somethin’ else he must tell ye, Mabel.’
‘Does he? Here, Norah, I can read it meself now.’
And taking the letter she scanned the page, down to where Norah had stopped.
But there is something else I must tell you, Mabel. Harry is badly affected by war shock due to the terrible pressures of trench warfare and the loss of his whole platoon. It has taken the form of an acute melancholic state and loss of speech which even without the wound has rendered him unfit for service. The shoulder injury is a blessing in a sense, strange as that may sound, as victims of war shock are not considered as casualties, though since the beginning of the Somme offensive there has been a marked increase in these distressing cases.
I have to warn you, Mabel, that he will need all your care and patience, because no man who has seen and survived what has taken place here will ever forget it.
The letter ended with the signature ‘Stephen Knowles’.
‘Oh, Norah, where will he be by now?’ cried Mabel, hugging her friend in her relief. The date of the letter was two days ago. ‘I must go round to his parents and see if they’ve heard anythin’,’ she said. ‘And maybe Dr Knowles – Stephen’s father – can find out from the Red Cross where he’s gone – oh, my Harry! Comin’ home after all he’s been through!’
‘But Mabel, darlin’, ye saw what the doctor said – Harry can’t talk, an’ he might be like that poor young fella I saw at Charing Cross who didn’t seem to know his own mother –’
‘Oh, Norah, he’ll know me! He’s probably in England already, praise be to God!’
By the following day all the next of kin of the latest batch of casualties had been notified of their arrival and destinations. Corporal Drover had been taken by ambulance straight from Charing Cross Station to the Tooting Home, now renamed the Church Lane Military Hospital. By the time Mabel arrived at his bedside, his parents and sister were already there, painfully trying to understand a man who had lost touch with reality.
Chapter Thirteen
DAY AND NIGHT the pounding of shells. The screams of pain, the obscenity of young, healthy bodies torn apart. The open, dying eyes of men he’d known and loved as brothers, all gone, all dead, and he alone left to slither in their blood. Night and darkness, pain, always pain. Dawn and sunlight, blood, always blood. Not for him the quiet earth where the dead find peace at last, not for cowards and betrayers, cut off out of the land of the living.
Voices come and go, hands come and touch, lift, carry. A voice he knows, saying his name: ‘Harry.’ This voice makes him think of Mabel. Is it a friend? He doesn’t know, he’s not sure.
‘Steady on, Harry. You’ve got a nasty injury to your shoulder.’ A wet cloth, a bandage, a sharp prick – a bayonet? ‘It’s a Blighty one, Harry. We’re sending you home.’
He doesn’t understand, the words don’t make any sense. Jolting movement, pain, a stifling railway carriage with shelves instead of seats. The warm smell of bodies. Thirsty.
A ship, rocking, night and darkness. Day and night, another train carriage, a long journey and good God, a London ambulance – people walking, talking, real people, a real house, a real room, big, a real bed. Quiet. Drink. Pain. Voices near and far. Another night.
Another day. Voices, faces, getting closer, a woman with tears on her face, a man’s gentle hand over his own. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. They stare at him – good God, his mother and father! They’re saying something, but he can’t make it out; and there’s another woman he ought to know. Somebody says ‘Ruby’. Are they real or in his dream? The nightmare closes in on him again and he tries to shout: Help, help me! But there’s no escape, no place to hide from the wrath of God. Done for, damned, cut off from the land of the living.
But wait, look, here’s another face, pale and beautiful, the face of an angel. Her eyes, her hair, her smiling mouth – she is an angel, his own beloved Angel, come to save him! He opens his mouth to say her name
: Mabel, Mabel, my own Angel, come to me at last!
But she can’t hear him. He holds out his hand but he can’t reach her, so pale, so far away.
Cut off out of the land of the living.
All hands were needed in the field from dawn to dusk when corn-cutting began, though the land-girls had told Daisy Somerton and Lucy Drummond in no uncertain terms to get out of the way of the workers; this was a farmer’s field, they said, and you either worked or cleared off. Hot, tired and itching, the girls made for the shade of the oak-hanger on the edge of Parr’s Wood. There the ground shelved steeply down from a bank where the bracken was shoulder-high, and here they sat to fan themselves and talk of the men whose absence left such a sad gap in village life.
‘Cedric’s learning how to pilot a flying boat,’ said Lucy. It appeared that there were aeroplanes that could land on the decks of ships, and Cedric Drummond, in the Royal Naval Air Service, was bound for the Mediterranean.
‘Gerald Westhouse has shot down five German planes, so that makes him an ace pilot,’ countered Daisy, and they both fell silent. Mr Clark, the local butcher, had lost a son in the Somme offensive and it had turned his wife from a big, laughing woman into a pale shadow who walked with her head down. Daisy thought of Harry, now home but ill in hospital; Aunt Kate wanted him to come and stay at Pinehurst.
‘Papa says we must put our trust in God, to keep them all safe,’ said Lucy.
‘He didn’t keep Rob Clarke safe, though, did he? Or Billy Potter – so what’s the good o’ praying for any of them?’ asked Daisy.
There was no ready answer, for the question was echoed all over the nation.
When Mabel got back to Booth Street after that first visit, she wept in Norah’s arms.
‘He’s been sent back to me, Norah, but only half alive. It’s much worse than when he came back from the Dardanelles. Stephen did warn me, but I didn’t pay proper heed as I should’ve done – I was just so thankful that he was comin’ home.’