Amy

by Peggy Savage

  She looked away. She felt reasonably safe in the uniform, especially as an orderly. She could become totally anonymous – disappear.

  She had one or two nasty moments. One of the well-wishers with the group of doctors had a face that she knew – a woman doctor who had been a year or two ahead of her at the Royal Free where she trained. She felt a moment’s shock and turned hurriedly away, but she hadn’t been recognized. She was safe, invisible among the orderlies. Then a photographer pointed his camera in her direction. She turned her face to her father, hiding it against his coat and he understood and put his arm around her and waved the man away.

  Beyond the platform barrier she could see a mass of colour, the fluttering shapes of women’s hats and dresses, moving and jostling as the wives and mothers, sisters and daughters, said goodbye to the men who surged through. This side of the barrier there was no colour at all, just khaki and grey. It was, she thought, as if someone had drawn a line across the world. On that side, England and home; on this side, the unknown horror of what was to come. She felt as if all the colour and joy of life were back there on the shore, and that she was drifting out into an unknown sea on a mud-coloured tide.

  ‘Are you all right, Amy?’ Beside her Helen put her hand on her arm.

  Amy shook her head briefly, clearing her thoughts away. ‘Yes, it’s nothing.’ She turned to her father. ‘This is Helen, Father. We met when we joined up. Helen, I would like you to meet my father.’

  Helen’s freckled face smiled up into his. ‘How do you do, Mr Osborne.’

  He gave a slight start at the name, and then smiled and shook her hand. She looks sensible, he thought. He noticed the purple, white and green badge on her lapel. A suffragist, though. Impetuous, perhaps.

  ‘I hope you two young women will look after each other,’ he said.

  Helen gave a broad grin. ‘Oh we will.’ A porter came down the platform with a loaded barrow. ‘Oh look,’ she said, ‘there’s my luggage. I’d better go and look after it.’ She bounded away, her bright red hair glowing under her veil.

  ‘She’s a nice girl,’ Amy said, ‘and fun, I should think. And she’s very sensible.’

  ‘And a suffragist,’ her father said. He smiled. ‘I don’t suppose she’ll be chaining herself to anything in Paris.’

  ‘We’re all suffragists, aren’t we?’ she said. ‘Even if we don’t wear the badge.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. He was frightened again. These girls seemed so strong these days, so confident. Too confident perhaps.

  There was a sudden movement among the women. The rest of the luggage was piled into their reserved carriages and the women began to climb aboard.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Father.’

  ‘Oh, Amy.’

  ‘It’s all right, dear, don’t look so tragic. I won’t be in any danger. We’re only going to Paris.’

  ‘Promise me, Amy,’ he said, ‘promise me that if the Germans get anywhere near Paris you’ll leave. They are not far away now.’

  ‘I’ll have to do what the unit does,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to do my duty.’

  He sighed. ‘Write to me. Regularly.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She kissed his cheek and climbed aboard. The train gave a great gout of steam. There were shouts and a clattering of doors. The guard blew his whistle and waved his flag and the train gave a lurch and began to move. From the window she watched his tall, thin figure retreat from her view, and behind him the colour and movement of the world she once knew.

  They arrived in France in the late afternoon. The boat steamed into the harbour at Dieppe, Amy and Helen standing by the rail on deck with the others. The long quay was lined with people, strangely still and silent, watching the boat come in.

  Amy looked along the line of silent figures. It was unnerving, this stillness. It was, Amy thought, as if these people themselves were the strangers, cast up in an unknown foreign place, not knowing where to go or what to do. She shivered a little, though the day was still warm.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ Helen said beside her. ‘What are they waiting for, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Amy’s throat was dry. Perhaps these stunned, overwhelmed people were waiting for someone to give them an explanation – why is this happening to us? Why France? They were standing on the very edge of their country, as if they wanted to leave, to flee. They looked, she thought, like the rows of birds in autumn, waiting on wires and trees for the signal to go, to get away. And these were the French, so proud of their nation and their heritage. The sight chilled her.

  An agent met them on the boat, to help them with their luggage through Customs. They walked in a line off the boat and into the Douane, watched by groups of sailors and porters. In their own grey uniforms they were, Amy thought, as colourless as the watchers. Was this the first effect of war, the draining of all colour, the first bloodletting?

  ‘Why are they staring at us?’ Helen said. ‘They look as if they think we’re some strange undiscovered tribe.’

  ‘I expect it’s the uniform,’ Amy said. ‘I suppose we are an undiscovered tribe, in a way. They’re not used to women in uniform. Nobody is. Not yet.’

  They went into the Customs building.

  ‘Good Lord,’ Helen said. ‘They look like a flock of crows.’

  The Douane was manned by women, old women, in thick black dresses decently down to their black boots. The few porters were old men – too old to fight.

  ‘Get ready for some arguments,’ Helen whispered. The French Customs were notorious for their thorough inspections. But the women merely stared at them and chalked on their hand luggage and waved them through.

  They walked in a group to the station and boarded the train. Amy watched as the doctors and senior nurses got into a carriage of their own and then climbed aboard with the other orderlies. They waited for half an hour while their heavy luggage and boxes of equipment were loaded, with much noise and the raising of French voices. Then they slowly chugged away.

  After Pontoise the train stopped at every little halt and station, and often in between for no apparent reason. The stations were mostly deserted, apart from women selling water and wine and fruit, and who gazed at them in puzzled surprise. No one, it seemed, was eager to go to Paris. The French countryside, lush and green, drifted by. It slowly grew dark.

  ‘I’ve never been to France before,’ one of the girls said. ‘Isn’t it exciting?’

  They ate sandwiches and cake that they had brought from England. The simple food seemed to Amy to be oddly exotic, a piece of an England that now seemed so far away, so different, so safe. France was a different world now, a world that had become strange, fierce and dangerous. But it was an England that she wanted to leave. Whatever she had to do in France, it was better than sitting at home doing nothing, or doing something meaningless to her – rolling bandages or knitting socks. Those activities were useful, of course, and the women at home would feel that they were contributing in any way that they could. She would have gone mad.

  At every small station a group of young men was waiting, surrounded by haggard, tearful women. At every station the young men kissed their goodbyes to mothers and sisters and wives and climbed aboard.

  ‘They’ve all been conscripted,’ one of the young orderlies said. ‘Our men have all volunteered. I think that’s much braver.’

  Young men, Amy thought; many of them just boys. It must take courage, conscripted or not.

  ‘They’ll all be fighting the same battles,’ Helen said sharply, ‘however they got there. They’ll all be taking the same risks.’

  The girl blushed and looked shamefaced and Amy smiled at her, trying to comfort her, and the girl smiled back. She was young, nineteen or twenty, Amy guessed. She wondered if the girl would survive here and stay, or hurry back to England, frightened and appalled. She would certainly never have seen real injury or suffering.

  ‘I wonder what it’ll be like,’ Helen said, ‘the hotel that’s going to be our ho
spital. Some little building tucked away somewhere in a back street I expect. God knows how we’ll manage.’

  ‘We’ll manage.’ Amy said. ‘Dr Louisa Garrett Anderson is forming a group as well, and she won’t put up with any nonsense.’

  ‘Who is she?’ one of the young girls asked.

  Amy looked at her in amazement. ‘Her mother, Elizabeth, was the first woman doctor in England.’

  ‘My grandmother doesn’t approve of women doctors,’ the girl said. ‘She’s very old-fashioned. She says it’s indecent.’

  Amy looked out of the window. What do we have to do? she thought. What on earth do we have to do to make our way, to be even heard? British women surgeons rejected by the army! How crass, how stupid, how wasteful of their expertise. The French countryside slipped by.

  It was nearly midnight when they arrived in Paris. They climbed stiffly out of the train into the dimly lit Gare du Nord. Amy breathed in the atmosphere, a mixture of garlic and anise and Turkish tobacco. So this was Paris, the smart, ultra-fashionable, self-confident and self-satisfied Paris. Surely such a wonderful city couldn’t have lost its beauty and its charm. Why was this happening? There seemed to be no logical reason for this dreadful war. There seemed to be no logical reason for half the things that human beings did to each other.

  ‘I’m dying for a cup of tea,’ Helen said. ‘And then bed. Bed for days and days.’

  Amy laughed. ‘You might just get the tea, but I have a feeling that we’re going to be rather busy tomorrow.’

  There was more delay while carriages were found to take them to the hotel. They were put down, at last, on the pavement outside the hotel, cold with tiredness. They all stood for a moment in a group, looking at the big, impressive glass doors.

  ‘Goodness,’ Helen said. ‘It’s not what I imagined. It’s certainly not in any back street, is it?’

  ‘Come along then.’ Dr Hanfield opened the door and they trooped inside. Waiting for them was a small plump man with glistening moustaches, an elegant black suit, black boots gleaming. Beside him stood a woman, taller than himself, wearing a well-cut brown dress and coat and a large, impressive hat. Despite their elegant clothes there was a very un-English air of rather too much fashion about them. They couldn’t be anything but French. Helen dug Amy gently in the ribs and glanced at her impishly out of the corner of her eye.

  He stepped forward, smiling. ‘I am M. Le Blanc,’ he said in heavily accented English. ‘And this is my wife. I come to welcome you on behalf of the French Red Cross. Welcome to Paris.’

  Dr Hanfield stepped forward and shook his hand. ‘We are very pleased to be here.’

  ‘We are very pleased that you are here,’ he said. ‘We urgently need more hospitals, more surgeons, more nurses. We never expected—’ He stopped suddenly and cleared his throat.

  Dr Hanfield looked grim. ‘We will do our best, M. Le Blanc,’ she said. ‘You can be sure of that.’

  They stood in a group inside the door, silenced by the sight of this magnificent hotel. The floor of the foyer was tiled in white marble, covered here and there with Persian rugs in rich colours, blue and red. There were soft settees in tan leather and glass-topped tables. From the ceiling hung opulent crystal chandeliers, glittering in the modern electric light. A wide staircase swept up to the first floor – white marble treads with a deep red carpet in the centre, held in place with shining brass rods. The public rooms opening out of the foyer were in darkness.

  ‘Good Lord,’ Helen said. She was looking about her with her eyes wide and her mouth half open. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever be staying in a place like this.’

  The carts arrived with their numerous chests and boxes and the porters piled them on the marble floor. M. Le Blanc’s eyes widened.

  ‘You have brought much equipment, I see. We have done what we can before you arrived. We have cleared the lounges and the dining-room and the beds will arrive tomorrow.’

  ‘Good.’ Dr Hanfield smiled. ‘In that case we should be able to open the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘So soon!’ he said, surprised. ‘You English ladies work very hard. We already have many patients waiting for you.’

  ‘We’ll be ready.’

  ‘Is there anything that we can do for you tonight?’

  Dr Hanfield shook her head. ‘I think we all need to go to bed,’ she said. ‘We can do nothing more until the morning.’

  ‘The bedrooms on the first floor are ready,’ M Le Blanc said in careful English, ‘but some of you will have to share, I think. There are sheets and blankets to make your beds, and there is hot water in the bedrooms and the bathrooms.’

  Matron shepherded them towards the staircase. ‘Come along, young ladies. Let’s sort ourselves out and get to bed. I’ve no idea where anything is. We can’t unpack anything tonight, I’m afraid. We have a lot to do in the morning.’

  ‘Share with me, Amy?’ Helen whispered, and Amy nodded.

  ‘No tea,’ Helen said.

  Amy smiled. ‘It must be lost in one of these packing cases. I think I’d be too tired to drink it.’

  They trailed up the marble staircase to the bedrooms. The floors of the corridors were laid with red and blue tiles, and the walls hung with cream silk wallpaper and huge gilt mirrors. Matron opened each door in turn. She reserved the rooms nearest the staircase for the doctors and senior nurses, and then quickly settled the rest of the staff into the other rooms.

  Amy and Helen dumped their bags on the carpet, looking round them at the luxury, the deep windows with their rich blue curtains, the thick carpets, a cheval mirror and linen-covered dressing table. There were two neat single beds with the bedding neatly folded at the foot. A water carafe stood on each bedside table.

  ‘I hope it’s been boiled,’ Helen said. ‘That would be a good start, wouldn’t it, if we all went down with food poisoning.’ She opened a cupboard door. ‘Oh look. There’s a wash basin with hot and cold taps.’

  ‘I’m sure they would have boiled it,’ Amy said. ‘They seem to be very efficient. I’ll start making the beds. You go and locate the lavatories and the bathroom, Helen.’ Helen left the room and Amy took off her hat and coat and put them in the wardrobe. She was weary to her bones, partly with the fatigues of the day, but mostly, she knew, with apprehension. She began to spread out the bottom sheets and put on the pillowcases. At least everything seemed to be dry and aired.

  Helen came back. ‘Just down the corridor,’ she said. ‘On the left.’ She gave an enormous yawn. ‘I’m too tired to do more than wash my face tonight. Baths in the morning.’

  They finished making the beds and then they undressed and put on their cotton nightdresses and got in. Amy turned off the bedside light.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d ever be sleeping in a place like this,’ Helen said. ‘Utter luxury.’

  ‘For the moment, yes.’

  ‘We’ve never had a chance to talk, have we?’ Helen said cheerfully. ‘Where do you come from? Where is your home?’

  Amy didn’t want to have this kind of conversation. She would just have to be careful. ‘Bromley,’ she said.

  ‘Do your parents live there?’

  ‘My father does,’ Amy said. ‘My mother died when I was a young child. I hardly remember her.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

  Amy shook her head in the dark. ‘No. Just me.’

  ‘Any passionate swain waiting for you?’

  Amy laughed, a short humourless laugh. A horrible image of Sir William Bulford rose in her mind. ‘No. Nothing like that. Just as well really, the way things are now. It must be dreadful to have someone to worry about. It must be appalling.’

  ‘I just have two sisters,’ Helen said. ‘Younger than me, and my parents, of course. No brothers, fortunately. My father’s too old to be a soldier but I know he’d like to go. I don’t have a swain either. My mother was always trying to marry me off.’ She giggled. ‘I think she was trying to get rid of me.’

 
Amy laughed. ‘So you didn’t find anyone who took your fancy?’

  ‘Goodness no. Everyone my mother found was far too immature, or boring. Anyway, I wasn’t ready to settle down and have children. I wanted to do something first – have an adventure. My father always said I was the boy of the family.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘I suppose this is an adventure, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know if I’d call it that exactly. It’s going to be very hard work.’

  ‘Have you done anything like this before, Amy?’

  Amy hesitated. This was another question she wanted to avoid. She would have to be prepared and phrase her answers accordingly. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘I have never been an orderly before.’

  ‘Neither have I. I just stayed at home and helped my mother. Deadly boring. That was until I joined the suffragists. I don’t think my mother is very pleased about that. She was always frightened that I’d end up in prison. Now she’s frightened that I’ll end up as a prisoner of war.’ She yawned loudly. ‘I don’t think I can stay awake any longer. Good night, Amy.’

  Amy heard her turn over, and she seemed to be instantly asleep.

  Amy lay awake. Outside the windows Paris seemed to be strangely quiet and very dark. The street lights were apparently out, or the gas turned down very low. Utter luxury, Helen had said. Amy could imagine what might have been here, the carriages and motor cars coming and going, the flowers, the music, voices and laughter. She could see the guests arriving, the women beautifully dressed, Worth and Fortuny and Patou, greeted by porters and pageboys and an obsequious receptionist. They would be shown to their rooms, champagne and fruit waiting, all the trappings of luxurious living. This beautiful hotel should be filled with elegant tourists and travellers, with silks and furs and the haunting scents of French perfumes. It was not meant for what she knew was to come. Death was coming. Death and suffering and sorrow. She shivered, though the night was warm.