Amy

by Peggy Savage

  ‘Come on,’ Helen took her arm. ‘Let’s have a drink.’

  They sat down at a table and ordered coffee. The evocative smells rose around them, coffee and garlic and Turkish cigarettes. ‘I’m going to come back after the war,’ Helen said, ‘When it’s all back to normal and full of beautiful clothes and sit right here and watch all the beautiful people walk by.’ Amy suddenly remembered the young soldier she had met with the ambulance, the young farm worker, so sure that he could come back after the war. Already there were thousands of fine young men who would never leave. The old waiter brought their coffee, shuffling under his white apron.

  ‘What about this officer,’ Helen said, ‘the one with the leg.’

  ‘Lieutenant Maddox,’ Amy said. ‘Nothing about him. He’s just a grateful patient.’

  ‘As long as that’s all.’

  Amy laughed. ‘Of course that’s all. What else would there be?’ Is that all, she thought again? Of all the dozens of men she had cared for, why was this one in her mind so much? There was something about him, something so alive, so vital, so hard to ignore. She sipped her coffee. The soldier, still crying, got up and limped away down the street. ‘I’m not interested in men or marriage or anything to do with it. And now certainly isn’t the time.’

  Helen smiled. ‘I don’t think it works quite like that, Amy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think that sometimes it overtakes you, unless you nip it in the bud. I wouldn’t want you to be hurt.’

  ‘Overtakes you? The bolt from the blue? Love at first sight?’

  Helen nodded. ‘So they tell me.’

  Amy laughed. ‘Has it happened to you then? Are you harbouring a secret infatuation?’

  ‘No. What about you? Have you ever been in love?’

  Amy shook her head. All those years of work and study. She’d never had the time or the inclination to even think about getting involved. The horrible memory of Bulford came back to her again, of his gross intrusive body, his thick fingers. He was enough to put anyone off men for ever. She laughed. ‘I think you’ve been reading too many novels, Helen. Too much of the Bröntes perhaps. I can’t say that I fancy a Heathcliffe in my life.’

  ‘What about your captain? When is he coming back?’

  Amy laughed again. ‘I have no idea, Amy. Come on, finish your coffee and let’s walk.’

  Sister caught them as they came back. ‘Would you do the officers’ ward this evening, Amy? We’ve now got two nurses off sick with colds. I’ll be the only nurse on duty but there’s another orderly and it’s fairly quiet. We’ll manage.’

  Amy had dinner and then made her way to the ward. Some of the officers who were up and about were out in the main hall, smoking cigarettes. Sister wouldn’t allow smoking on her ward. Some of the officers had had words with her about it, but she was adamant. She maintained that smoking was bad for you.

  She glanced around but she couldn’t see Johnny Maddox. He was obviously one of the figures asleep, hunched under the bedclothes. Sister was standing beside her desk. ‘I have to go out for a moment, Amy,’ she said. She took off her white working cuffs and rolled down her sleeves, buttoning them up at the wrist. ‘Can you manage, just for ten minutes or so?’

  Amy nodded, ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. I’ll just be in the office if you want me. We desperately need some more sheets and pillow cases. I’ll have to go down on my bended knees.’ She bustled out.

  Amy sat down at the desk. The patients’ reports were stacked tidily in a box. She slid out Johnny’s notes. Lieutenant John B. Maddox, she read. Age twenty-eight. Home address Faring Hall, Winchley, Berkshire. Next of kin Sir Henry Maddox, father. She read quickly through his operation notes – it was much as Miss Hanfield had said. She turned the page. His temperature was registered in red ink. He had a fever. No! She almost spoke it aloud. He must have had a fever when she saw him earlier in the day; he had not looked well then, tired and in pain. He had come through so well, surely now he wasn’t going to suffer the pain and horror of infection, the infection that they all dreaded. If it took hold it was relentless, first the wound, then perhaps septicaemia, certain death.

  She put the notes back in the box and walked down the ward to Johnny’s bed. As she came towards him she could see that he was motionless, lying on his back. Then she was standing beside him, looking down at his face, as white as paper against the pillow. ‘Johnny,’ she said. ‘Johnny.’ He didn’t respond, didn’t move, his breathing rapid and shallow. She pulled back the blanket and caught her breath. Blood was seeping steadily from his wound, soaking through the dressing, staining the sheets. She knew at once what was happening, a deadly haemorrhage, the infection eroding through a blood vessel. He was bleeding to death. ‘Help,’ she shouted. ‘Help me.’ She pulled up his jacket and with both thumbs pressed as hard as she could into his groin, closing off the femoral artery. The other orderlies and an officer ran towards her. ‘Get Sister,’ she shouted. ‘Get Dr Hanfield. Tell her it’s a secondary haemorrhage.’ In a few moments Sister was beside her, putting on a tourniquet. ‘Dr Hanfield is in theatre now,’ she said. ‘Come on.’ They lifted him on to a trolley and ran with him to the theatre. He was moaning now, his hands clutching and scrabbling at his jacket.

  Dr Hanfield was waiting. ‘You’ll have to assist us, Amy,’ she said, ‘He needs an anaesthetic. He mustn’t struggle about like this.’ The anaesthetist stationed herself at his head, put a gauze-covered mask over his face and slowly dripped chloroform on to the mask. ‘We haven’t time to scrub up.’ Dr Hanfield took off the soaked dressing, cut through the stitches. ‘Release the tourniquet, Amy,’ she said. ‘Very slowly.’ The blood welled up again. ‘There it is.’ Amy heard the familiar crunch of the clamp as Dr Hanfield closed off the bleeding artery, exposed a little of its length and tied it off. ‘Release a bit more, Amy.’ Slowly Amy took off the tourniquet. There was no more bleeding. Dr Hanfield stood up, sweat standing on her forehead. ‘I think we got it,’ she said. Amy watched as she put in a drain and closed the wound.

  For a moment tears stood in Amy’s eyes. Emotions overwhelmed her. She realized that it wasn’t just the relief that Johnny was, for the moment at least, saved; to be back in theatre, to be doing what she longed for, what she had struggled and trained for, was like waking from a bad dream. Now she had to go back to reality.

  They took him back to the ward and Sister put screens around him. Amy looked down at his white face. He was desperately ill. She suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired, swept with a feeling of utter futility. What were they achieving here? The beds emptied and filled, emptied and filled. They got men better, only for them to go back, to risk it all again. What was it for, this life? Had he been born, loved and cared for and nurtured, for this – Johnny and all these men, these boys, who had found in themselves a heroism and stoicism that they never knew existed? Not just the British and French boys, she thought, Australians and New Zealanders and Canadians and Indians and the whole world and, no matter how much they were hated, ordinary German boys were horribly dying. And what was her life for, deprived as she had been of her reason for living?

  Johnny was struggling for his life. She could see it in the blanched face, the shallow, laboured breathing, the beads of sweat on his white forehead. She tried to blink the tears away.

  ‘You did well, Amy.’ Dr Hanfield was smiling at her, looking faintly puzzled. ‘You seemed to know what to do.’

  Sister interrupted, saving Amy from replying. ‘When I was in training a secondary haemorrhage was the only time we were ever allowed to run in the corridors.’

  ‘I wish to God we had something to use against infection.’ Dr Hanfield looked exhausted. ‘We could save so many more young lives. Sometimes I feel so helpless.’ She rested her hand on Johnny’s shoulder for a moment, and then left the ward.

  ‘Amy,’ Sister said, ‘you look dreadful. Go and get a cup of tea and then go to bed. You’ve done enough. The night staff will be here soon.’
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  Amy went to the little kitchen where they could make tea and coffee. She sat down at the table, her hands shaking. She had seen dozens of men die, but in a strange way Johnny seemed to embody them all. He seemed to hold in himself everything that was best from home; he was young, strong, handsome and fearless. It was such an appalling waste. It seemed to be more than that. His death would in some way be the end of something that had hardly begun; something that she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, admit to herself.

  She finished her tea and dragged herself up the marble staircase to her room. Helen was sitting up in bed again, reading. Amy sat down on her bed and began to cry, soft tears running down her face. Helen got out of bed at once and sat beside her and put her arm around her shoulders.

  ‘What is it, Amy? What’s happened?’

  Amy rested her forehead on her hand and then wiped her tears away with her fingers. ‘It’s everything,’ she said.

  ‘What exactly?’

  For a moment Amy was tempted to tell her, to pour it all out, her horror at what was happening, her bitter frustration at what had happened to her. But she drew back. If it ever got out she might not be allowed to stay and do the little that she could. Her own troubles were buried under a mountain of pain.

  ‘It’s Johnny Maddox,’ she said. ‘His wound’s infected. He had a secondary haemorrhage tonight. He’s very ill.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Helen said.

  Amy looked into Helen’s questioning, troubled eyes. ‘It’s not what you think, Helen. It just seems so awful, so wicked, such an evil, horrible waste.’

  Helen hugged her closer. ‘He might be all right. We’ll just have to hope.’ She helped Amy into bed and looked down at her. ‘He might be all right,’ she said again. ‘Don’t give up hope.’ She gave a little smile. ‘The Frenchman can hear. The men all yelled at him at once, and it seemed to break through. He can hear now, anyway, and talk. I wish I could understand what he was saying.’

  Amy closed her eyes. Perhaps it’s just as well that you can’t, Helen, she thought.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  1914

  AMY opened her eyes the next morning and her first thought was of Johnny. Was he still alive? She bathed and dressed, unable to get him out of her head. Was he still in the ward, clinging to life, or had he been taken out in the night, moved out in the dark from the back of the hotel, sent home to his suffering family? She had to know, but she had to go to the general wards immediately after breakfast.

  More ambulances had arrived in the early morning, bringing in wounded from the railway stations. They were all dirty and hungry. One of them, wounded in the leg, was reluctant to let Amy take off his clothes.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Amy said gently. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. We wash the men every day. We do it all the time.’

  ‘It’s not that, Sister,’ he said. Amy smiled at the ‘Sister’. ‘It’s because me uniform’s so filthy.’ He coloured. ‘And covered in lice. I don’t like to think of you young ladies touching it.’

  He hasn’t even mentioned his wound, she thought. ‘It’s all right,’ she said again. ‘We do it all the time.’ She cut off his trousers, trying not to disturb his leg. His socks were almost fused to his feet, rotting and stinking.

  ‘I’ve not had any clean clothes since I got here,’ he said. ‘Weeks and weeks. I don’t even know how long.’

  Amy stripped and washed him and put his tattered clothes into the basket for burning.

  ‘That’s wonderful, Sister,’ he said. ‘Being clean again. It’s wonderful. God bless you.’

  ‘The nurse will be along very soon,’ she said, ‘to see to your dressing.’

  She went to the store to ask for more socks. The hospital was getting regular parcels from England, from English women at home, knitting socks and scarves and gloves. They would never know, she thought, how much they were appreciated. She remembered, grimly, how determined she had been not to stay at home knitting, and how grateful she now was to those who did. Sometimes French soldiers came to the hospital asking for socks – the word seemed to have got around about the parcels from England – and went away with a few pairs, highly pleased. Why on earth couldn’t the armies provide a simple thing like socks? Such little things, she thought, and so hugely important that the men’s feet were looked after. ‘For the want of a nail the shoe was lost.’ The old rhyme came into her head. ‘For the want of a shoe the horse was lost, for the want of a horse the rider was lost, for the want of a rider the battle was lost, and all for the want of a horseshoe nail.’ Why couldn’t the army take better care of the men? ‘More socks please,’ she said.

  Mechanically she stripped, washed, dried, powdered feet, helped to change dressings. And all the time the question repeated in her head. Johnny. Is he dead? The thought was constant, insistent. Is he dead? Had he been sent back to England to be grieved over and laid to rest in some quiet country churchyard? She hesitated to go to the officers’ ward. Such visits would be heavily frowned upon, and she was afraid to ask, afraid of what the answer would be.

  She met up with Helen at lunch. They sat down at the table with their steak and kidney pudding.

  ‘How is your lieutenant?’ Helen said.

  Sometimes, Amy thought, Helen had a strange way of knowing what she was thinking. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. She toyed with her pudding, separating out the kidney.

  ‘Don’t you want the kidney?’ Helen speared a piece from her plate and popped it into her mouth. ‘It’s the best bit.’

  Amy smiled, ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘You’re a fussy eater, aren’t you?’ Helen took another piece. ‘Don’t like rice pudding skin, don’t like kidney.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ Amy said. ‘It’s only the rice pudding. I’m just not very hungry today.’

  Helen looked at her. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Amy put down her fork and pushed her plate away. ‘I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. I haven’t had time to breathe this morning and I don’t suppose I’d be very welcome on the officers’ ward, asking questions.’

  ‘Go and see,’ Helen said. ‘You won’t settle until you do.’

  Amy hesitated, unwilling to admit, even to herself, that she couldn’t get him out of her mind.

  ‘Go on,’ Helen said. ‘I know you’re worried about him.’

  ‘I don’t know why I am, about him specially.’ Helen gave her an arch look, but she ignored it. ‘I suppose it’s because I was there when he bled and nearly died. It all seemed so terrible, so pointless.’

  ‘Go and see.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Amy got up. ‘I’ll go now. Sister can only tell me to go away.’

  Sister was sitting behind her desk, making up notes. She glanced up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wanted to know about Lieutenant Maddox,’ Amy said, ‘the one who had the secondary haemorrhage.’

  ‘I know who he is.’ Sister looked at her for a moment or two and then her face softened suddenly. ‘It was you who looked after him, wasn’t it, Amy? He’s very ill, but he’s fighting hard. You can go and see him if you like, but don’t disturb him. He needs all the rest he can get. He’s behind the screens.’

  Behind the screens again. She glanced down the ward. Most of the patients were resting now after lunch and it was very quiet. One of the nurses was still feeding a man whose arms were both in splints. She noticed with a chill that Johnny’s bed was near the door. They put the men who were the most ill near the door. It was thought better not to take them all the way through the ward if they died. It was just another dreadful reminder for the men.

  She slipped behind the screens. He was lying on his back, his face pale and sweating. He began to mutter and twitch, his eyes rolling under the lids, and then he lay deadly still again, his eyes still closed. She touched his hand. ‘Johnny,’ she whispered, but he didn’t move or answer. He didn’t seem to be aware of her presence. Once, for a second, his lids flickered open and he stared at her for a moment, his eyes empty, and then they rolled b
ack in his head and the lids closed again. She stayed with him for a few moments, touching his hand, wishing that she could do something, anything, to bring him back, and then she left him and walked back to Sister. ‘He didn’t know me,’ she said. ‘He opened his eyes, but he didn’t know me.’

  ‘He doesn’t know anyone.’ Sister looked grave. ‘He is very ill. We have sent a message to his family, but I don’t know if anyone will be able to come.’

  ‘I hope so. He might recognize someone in his family. It might help him.’

  Sister nodded. ‘If they can get here at all. The Germans have submarines in the Channel now, attacking the shipping. It might not be safe for civilian passengers any more.’

  Amy shook her head. ‘Is there nothing they won’t do? May I ask again tomorrow?’

  ‘Do you think you should?’ Sister’s voice sounded concerned, not angry. ‘All the men need your attention. The war is going to go on and they are going to keep on and on coming. It isn’t wise to become too attached to one. Especially one who is so ill.’

  Amy looked at her, into a now sympathetic face. ‘I’m not – I mean it’s just that I brought him in and was there when he haemorrhaged.’

  ‘You can ask again tomorrow, Amy. I’ll let you know if – if he’s still here.’

  Helen was waiting for her in the hall, the question in her eyes.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ Amy said. ‘Just. They’ve sent for his family.’

  Helen took her hand. ‘Come and have a cup of tea. You didn’t even finish your lunch.’ They went back into the dining-room.

  Helen collected their tea and sat down opposite her. ‘You really mustn’t get involved, Amy. Not with a sick patient. It isn’t wise. It can only lead to heartache.’

  Amy made a sound, half a laugh, half a sigh. ‘I’m not involved, Helen. How could I be? I don’t know him. He doesn’t know me.’ She paused, trying to explain it to herself. ‘It’s just – he seems somehow to represent them all, all these young men, all the dying and the dead.’ Tears started in her eyes. ‘He shouldn’t be here like this. None of them should.’