The Promise

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘It was a lovely day,’ Jimmy said as they got into bed that night. ‘You and Mog worked so hard to make it good, the best dinner ever; if the boys back in France knew what we’d had they’d be drooling.’

  He had mentioned various friends during the course of the day, and it was clear to Belle that he was missing the comradeship of the army and realized that even if he could get back to work behind the bar he was never going to find that depth of friendship in civilian life. It was the same for her too, but Jimmy’s disability was going to make it hard for him to make new friends.

  ‘You must write to some of them,’ she said. ‘I’m sure they’ll want to know how you are getting on, and maybe you can even get together again once it’s all over.’

  ‘I suppose I should,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It would be good to hear first hand what’s going on over there too, the newspapers don’t tell it like it really is. Do you write to that friend of yours back in the hospital?’

  ‘I’ve written to Vera several times,’ Belle said. ‘There’s more wounded Australians, New Zealanders and Canadians being brought in now. She worries about her two brothers, half expecting them on the next ambulance train. I miss her.’

  ‘I miss the blokes I was with,’ Jimmy admitted. ‘We were always arguing, taking the rise out of one another, I used to think that some of them were idiots. But now when I look back what I see is the brothers I always wished I had. Pals like I never had in civilian life.’

  ‘You never had a chance to make friends before, you were always too busy working,’ Belle said. ‘I never had a real friend either, not till I found Miranda. We’ve got one another, Jimmy, we were good friends too, but it isn’t quite the same as friends of your own sex, is it?’

  ‘No, sweetheart, it’s not. But I’d rather have you as my only friend than a whole battalion of male pals.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ she said, and cuddled closer to him.

  ‘Night night,’ he said, turning his back to her.

  Belle lay there for some time feeling sad and disappointed. It had been such a lovely day and surely it wasn’t too much to expect a cuddle at the end of it?

  On New Year’s Eve, at Garth’s insistence, Jimmy reluctantly joined him in the bar. He came out less than an hour later looking shaky and sat down with Mog and Belle in the kitchen. ‘I couldn’t stay there,’ he said. ‘Half of them wanted to know all the gory details of my injuries, the other half knew someone worse off and went on about it. I don’t want to talk about wounds. Or who is dead. There was some poor sod in the corner coughing his lungs up too, he’d been gassed. I can’t be doing with that.’

  Belle thought she ought to be glad he didn’t like it in the bar. One of her biggest fears had been that he’d want to be in there every night, and she’d have to help him up the stairs at closing time and listen to drunken ramblings. But she couldn’t be glad. Although everything had been fine on Christmas Day, he had retreated back into himself since then, not speaking, not taking any interest in anything or anyone.

  She had tried to bring him out of himself, talking about people and things he used to like, getting Mog to cook his favourite meals and asking about his friends in the army. But the wall he’d built around himself seemed to be getting higher each day.

  The fog had lifted on Boxing Day, and then it snowed. Belle had gone for a walk up on the heath and saw scores of children dragging sledges, having snowball fights and making snowmen. She’d come home invigorated and suggested they bought Jimmy a wheelchair so he could go out. But he’d been contemptuous, asking how she thought she would be able to push him up the hill.

  It was true that whichever way they walked from the Railway there was a hill, but she was strong, she could push him, or at least attempt it. Was he really intending to stay indoors permanently?

  In another couple of hours it would be 1918. A time for being optimistic and hoping the year ahead would be a better one. Why couldn’t he see it that way?

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ Jimmy said.

  ‘Surely not this early?’ Mog exclaimed. ‘Stay up and see the New Year in.’

  ‘What’s to see?’ he shrugged. ‘Hundreds of glasses to be washed, the outside lav awash with piss and vomit, and drunks talking rubbish. I’d rather be in bed.’

  Belle’s heart sank. While she did understand that he must be feeling useless because he couldn’t work, his negativity about absolutely everything was affecting them all.

  ‘Go on then if you’re going to be a wet blanket,’ she said.

  Mog turned on her as he left the room. ‘Can’t you find it in your heart to be kinder? You never used to be cruel.’

  ‘Am I cruel to want him to talk to us? To accept what’s happened and to think about what he can still do rather than all the things he can’t?’ she asked. ‘For a start, he could take over doing the pub’s accounts, Garth struggles with that.’

  ‘Have you suggested it?’

  ‘Yes, of course I have, but he nearly bit my head off. Said how could anyone follow Garth’s system?’

  ‘Garth hasn’t got a system,’ Mog said. ‘That’s the reason he struggles. I never knew anyone so disorganized.’

  ‘Jimmy could make one, he’s bright, he’s good at sums. Besides, he used to do it before he joined up.’

  ‘You are always so impatient,’ Mog said. ‘He’s only been home a week. Can’t you just let him alone for a bit? Let him find his own way?’

  Belle wanted to tell Mog that she might be right, and it was Jimmy’s coldness to her that was making her seem cruel and impatient, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit something so personal.

  For the next two weeks she made no suggestions at all to Jimmy about things he could do. She ignored his long silences and waspish remarks, and let him go to bed early without passing comment, even though she knew it was a ploy to avoid any lovemaking, or indeed conversation.

  The weather was not on her side either. First snow, which quickly turned to dirty slush and more fog, and even when that lifted for a while the sky was like lead. It was so cold that just a short walk made her feel as though the skin was being stripped off her face, and although she found jobs to do at home, the days seemed endless.

  It had been very quiet in the pub since New Year’s Eve, so Mog and Garth also had a lot of spare time. She sensed they were both finding Jimmy’s moods quite a strain too, as they were arguing about petty things. Mog kept complaining she had a headache, and Belle could feel pressure building up inside them all, which if it blew up could only result in more distress and unhappiness for everyone.

  For all their sakes, Belle felt she had to get some advice about Jimmy, so one Tuesday afternoon she walked up to the Herbert Hospital in the hope that one of the sisters she knew might be able to recommend someone who could help him.

  She went to her old ward, only to find the nurses, most of whom were unknown to her, settling in a batch of new arrivals. Belle had all but forgotten the frenzied activity at such times, and as she hovered at the door looking for a familiar face, she was shocked to see that most of the new patients were burned, their faces, shoulders and arms like raw meat, and there was a smell so bad it made her gag.

  ‘Have you come to see one of the patients?’ a nurse asked as she came in carrying a pile of clean bed linen.

  Belle explained she used to work there and had been hoping to see Sister May.

  ‘She’ll be on another ward,’ the nurse said. ‘This one is just for burns now. Maybe one of the porters can tell you which one to go to.’

  ‘Why are there so many burn cases?’ Belle asked.

  ‘Liquid fire,’ the nurse said. ‘This lot got it at Cambrai, poor devils. Of all the weapons they use in warfare, I think this is the worst. Those who survive it are scarred for life.’

  Belle thanked the nurse and turned away. She realized that all the wards would be just as busy and that no one would have time or inclination to talk about a man who was no longer in a critical condition. She thought
perhaps it would be better to go and see Dr Towle and get his advice.

  As she started to walk home with the images of those badly burned men on her mind, the anger she’d been trying so hard to suppress for the last couple of weeks began to bubble up inside her. She wished Jimmy could see those men, perhaps then he’d appreciate that losing an arm and a leg could never be as bad as such terrible burns.

  Yet as she walked she realized her anger wasn’t just because of Jimmy, there was a whole raft of things causing it and she was projecting it all on to him because he was closest and she was with him daily.

  How could anyone not be angry about a war that was killing so many tens of thousands of young men, and maiming still more? There were the widows with children left without fathers, some of whom were left in desperate situations, unable to pay the rent and struggling to buy food. It was becoming ever more common to see wounded men begging in the streets, and only a day or two earlier she’d read that in some poorer areas of the big cities malnutrition in children was as bad as it had been in Victorian times.

  Then there were her own personal grievances. Not just the difficulties with Jimmy, but the lack of interest or sympathy from her mother, and the unfairness of Mog being ostracized in the village because of what Blessard had written in his gutter rag. Mixed with that was her grief at Miranda’s unnecessary death, and the heartache and guilt she felt at Etienne coming back into her life.

  She knew it was her impotence which was fuelling her anger. She could do nothing about any of these things. She couldn’t stop the war, help those in need, or make Jimmy whole again. All she could do was endure, hoping against hope that time alone would bring solutions to all the problems.

  Yet it seemed to her that she had spent too much time in her life enduring things. Just this once she would like to strike back, refuse to be like a leaf being blown hither and thither in the wind. To make a stand.

  A memory of Miranda came into her mind. She was sitting up in her bed in the hut one night, writing a letter home. She was wearing a pink nightdress and her blonde hair was tumbling over her shoulders. But all at once she flung the letter down. ‘I’m sick of trying to make her like me,’ she blurted out and began to cry.

  Belle had got out of her bed and gone over to her friend, putting her arms round her. ‘Your mother?’ she asked.

  ‘Who else?’ Miranda sobbed. ‘She couldn’t care less what I do here, she’s just glad I’m out of sight, and that means out of mind too. I write every week, I try and make it interesting and impress on her that I’m good at my job, a regular little Florence Nightingale in an ambulance. All I get is a few lines back every few weeks, nothing about me, saying that Amy is going to marry a viscount, how well my brothers are doing, and describing the society balls and parties she goes to. The only thing that would ever make her pleased with me is if I was to die out here, then she’d be able to boast to her stuck-up acquaintances that I gave my life for King and Country.’

  The following day Miranda had apologized for the outburst, but she didn’t say it wasn’t true. And after she was killed and Belle was packing up her friend’s things, she’d read the few letters from her mother that were in her locker. It was as if they had been written by someone who barely knew Miranda, even chillier than she’d said.

  Remembering this added more fuel to Belle’s anger. The odious Mrs Forbes-Alton hadn’t even replied to her letter giving her more details of Miranda’s death and saying how devastated everyone at the hospital had been by it. Instead she had spitefully blamed Belle and slandered her in the press, destroying Mog’s happiness and good name, to the point where she felt she couldn’t even go to church for fear of being snubbed.

  Like a bolt of lightning from the leaden sky, Belle saw that this was one thing she didn’t have to endure. She should have gone round to the Paragon as soon as she got back from France and had it out with Mrs Forbes-Alton. That was what Miranda would have expected her to do.

  As an idea began to form in her mind, Belle could almost hear Miranda urging her to do it. Mog wouldn’t approve, Jimmy would be appalled, but she didn’t care what they thought. She was tired of allowing people to victimize her, and sometimes you had to fight fire with fire. She couldn’t put the world to rights, but she could give that vile woman her come-uppance.

  That evening Belle was able to ignore Jimmy’s sullen silence because her mind was whirling with the finer details of her plan. It lifted her spirits in the same way sketching used to do.

  And she intended to put the plan into action the very next day.

  Miranda had once said that her mother held a bridge afternoon at her home every Wednesday. She had joked that she always knew when it was two o’clock as the front door bell rang on the dot, and her mother’s cronies left the house just as punctually at four. Miranda had added that supper on a Wednesday was always a trial, as she was forced to listen to a rehash of the afternoon’s gossip, and she wished she’d been able to do as her father always did, which was to absent himself.

  At just on four Belle watched from further down the Paragon as the bridge players left the Forbes-Altons’ house. It was already dark, but light from the hall at number twelve was bright enough to see Mrs Forbes-Alton silhouetted in the doorway, and Belle could hear her braying voice saying her goodbyes.

  Two of the women got into a motor car waiting for them while the others scuttled quickly to neighbouring houses. The front door closed, and Belle strode purposefully up to it and rang the bell.

  She had made a real effort to look stylishly eye-catching. It was important that she conveyed the message that she was tough and ruthless. A covetable scarlet pill-box hat set off her dark curls, and she wore a coat that Jimmy had bought her soon after they were married, navy-blue, fitted to her waist, and double-breasted in the fashionable Cossack style with fur trim at the hem, neck and cuffs.

  As Belle had hoped, Mrs Forbes-Alton opened the door herself, imagining it was one of her friends returning because she’d left something behind. As she saw Belle standing there, her smile vanished.

  Belle put one neatly booted foot in the door to prevent her closing it. ‘Yes, it’s me. I think it’s time we had a talk,’ she said.

  ‘I have nothing to talk to you about,’ the older woman boomed. ‘Get away from my house.’

  She was taller than Belle remembered and very stout. Her grey hair was elaborately arranged in sausage-like curls on the top of her head, which only served to draw attention to her many chins. She was wearing a purple tea dress with a ruffle of lace across her big chest, and the colour made her look bilious.

  ‘I don’t need you to talk, just to listen,’ Belle said with a hint of menace. ‘If you won’t listen I’ll go straight to your chum Mr Blessard and speak to him. You won’t like that.’

  ‘How dare you come round here threatening me?’ she said, her small pale blue eyes wide with shock at Belle’s audacity.

  ‘I haven’t threatened you at all,’ Belle said airily. ‘I only said it would be better for you if you listened to me. There’s no threat in that. Now, are you going to invite me in, or must I shout on your doorstep?’

  Belle had expected to be nervous; her biggest fear was that she wouldn’t be brave enough or articulate enough to deliver her ultimatum properly. But now she was here, standing in front of this woman who had given Miranda so much unhappiness, Belle could see she was just a bully, and like most bullies, all she feared was someone stronger than herself.

  The older woman’s face showed what she was thinking. She didn’t want a scene on the doorstep that someone might overhear, and hoped that Belle would be intimidated once she was in the Forbes-Altons’ grand house.

  ‘I am not in the habit of talking to anyone but tradesmen on my doorstep,’ she said and opened the door wider, turned and strode off across the hall. Belle smiled to herself. The woman thought this would make her falter, but Belle closed the front door behind her and followed Mrs Forbes-Alton into the drawing room. Two card tables and chairs were
set up there, the cards still lying on them. Belle guessed the maid had already left for the day or she would have been clearing this away.

  She walked around the two tables towards the fire and without being asked sat down in a winged armchair closest to it. ‘A lovely room,’ she said, looking round with interest. It was in fact very Victorian in style, with too much heavy furniture, sombre pictures and countless ugly ornaments. ‘Of course Miranda described it in detail to me, so I feel I’ve been here before.’

  ‘You are a very impertinent young woman. Kindly remember your place,’ Mrs Forbes-Alton barked indignantly. She stood behind a chair glowering at Belle.

  ‘My place?’ Belle sniggered. ‘What a delightfully old-fashioned notion. Not one I hold with at all.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Mrs Forbes-Alton asked, looking nervous now. Belle guessed that was because she was alone in the house.

  ‘I want you to tell your friends and cronies in the village that you were fooled by Blessard into believing I was a woman of easy virtue. You are going to make amends for the hurt you have caused my dear aunt, Mrs Franklin, by making sure that in future she is invited along to all the social functions she always used to attend.’

  ‘But you have been a lady of the night, that is fact,’ Mrs Forbes-Alton snapped at Belle.

  ‘The truth of the matter is that I was a victim of an evil man who was hanged for his crimes,’ Belle said. ‘I was just fifteen when I was abducted and taken away to France. But I haven’t come here today to discuss your inability to separate fact and pure fiction about my past, or to take you to task for having no compassion for someone who has been treated so badly.’ She paused to let that sink in.

  ‘My aunt, Mrs Franklin, is one of the kindest, best women who ever lived,’ she went on. ‘And you have wronged her grievously with your malicious gossip and tittle-tattle. As you doubtless know, my husband was wounded in action, and because of this we cannot move away to somewhere where people are kinder. So you, my dear Mrs Forbes-Alton, are going to make things better for us all.’