A Rose In Flanders Fields

by Terri Nixon

  ‘I was pretty surprised to see him, I must say,’ he said. ‘He certainly knows how to use his contacts to good effect.’

  ‘I wish he was having the same luck with Oli,’ I said. ‘I’m so glad he found you though, we were all so worried you might send that wire.’

  ‘Aye, it was a close run thing, a couple of hours to spare. And it was good to see him in any case. I’ve not seen him in a long time, we communicate by letter, mostly.’

  ‘You’re very alike,’ I said, studying him again. ‘I can’t think why I didn’t notice it when I first saw you.’

  ‘You had Lizzy and Will to think about.’ He paused, then cleared his throat. ‘How is Will, by the way?’

  ‘He’s…uh, he’s well,’ I managed, but my voice wobbled and a moment later Archie was on his feet and around the table.

  He knelt at my side. ‘Come on, Evangelastica, he’ll be absolutely fine, try not to worry, it’s not fair on him.’ The way his words echoed Will’s own plea struck me; I had also used the same argument, when Mother had been so worried about Lawrence. How could I now dismiss it?

  ‘He wants me to leave him.’

  ‘I see,’ he said carefully.

  ‘Should I?’ I looked at Archie, pleading with him to tell me no.

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Do you think you should?’ That was the wrong question. I struggled to find a reply that wouldn’t rip my heart right out of my chest, but couldn’t find one. I nodded. Archie didn’t say anything, but stood up and drew me up with him. I looked up at the kind, handsome face, echoes of Jack Carlisle in the strong bone structure making him seem even dearer and more dependable than ever. His strength seemed to flow through his hands as he held me to him, and it was so like leaning against Uncle Jack that I unthinkingly let myself relax against him.

  After a moment I became aware of his breath stirring my hair, and that his heartbeat was heavier beneath my cheek. His head moved slightly as if he were about to speak, and I pulled back, remembering who he was, and who he was not. I was being unfair.

  ‘Nothing’s changed,’ I said, searching his tired grey eyes, looking for understanding in their depths.

  ‘I know, darling.’ He kissed my forehead. I missed the feeling of being cherished, but what I felt for Archie Buchanan was the wrong kind of love. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. And I didn’t know if I was sorry for wanting to accept his love, or sorry for rejecting it, but he nodded.

  ‘Aye. Me too.’

  ‘There’s something else. He wants me to…he doesn’t want me to be alone.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘He likes you.’

  Archie looked at me for a long, quiet moment, then nodded. ‘You can tell him whatever will give him the most peace.’

  ‘Thank you. I mean it, you’re the dearest –’

  ‘Friend. I know.’ He smiled and squeezed my hand. ‘Write to him now, Evie. Give him what he needs.’

  Voices heralded the return of the others, and Archie stepped away as Boxy came in brandishing a bunch of wild flowers and looking for a jar to put them in. I turned on my brightest smile and put the water on to boil for Bovril, and Archie exchanged a few words with Elise and the new girls before picking up his cap.

  ‘I’m away now, ladies. Thanks for the hospitality. Be sure and let us know if you’re in need of anything. Supplies, mechanics, extra hands, wine.’ He said that last with a wink at me, and grinned, but those lovely eyes were shadowed still. As we said our goodbyes he brushed my cheek in a gentle kiss. ‘Take care of yourself, Evie. And please tell young Kittlington I’m thinking of her.’ Again, I detected a tremble in his voice, and there was a tightness in his fingers where they closed on my arms. Then he was gone, and in front of me lay the awful task of writing my final letter to my husband.

  I kept it short; I wanted a swift cut, as painless as possible. Which is to say it only hurt like the slice of a blade for a few moments, and then it subsided to a deep, low throb that nevertheless eclipsed any pain I’d ever known.

  My dearest Will

  I hated to read your words, but hate even more to be a burden to you. I once told my mother the same thing as you have told me; that it is a weight on your heart you would better be without if you are to give your full attention to survival. As you wish then, I will stop writing to you and will no longer come to see you when on leave. I cannot keep fighting two wars at once, so I write to tell you that you have won. The next time I am in England I will begin divorce proceedings.

  I will take such support as I find here, and Archie is a dear friend and keen to comfort.

  E.

  I placed the letter in the pile on the little table by the door, and by the next morning it was gone, and Will would soon know he was free.

  After breakfast Elise, Boxy and I set to work preparing the cellar, and when the mail arrived there was sad news from Pervyse. Even Boxy was silenced as she digested it.

  ‘Poor little Mairi Chisholm’s fiancé was killed,’ Elise said as she flicked out the end of one of the sheets Frances had donated.

  I caught it and we pulled it tight between us. ‘I didn’t know she was engaged.’

  ‘It was a private thing. Dorothie told me last week, but you’re not to say it around.’

  ‘Poor child. Mrs Knocker must be a great strength to her, at least.’

  ‘She’s not there, apparently. Mairi was alone, so Dorothie’s been staying with her.’

  Dorothie Feilding thought even less of Mrs Knocker than I did, particularly after Elsie had published her memoir. Dorothie had really been incensed by the whole thing. I’d not read the book myself and so couldn’t comment, but the consensus was that it was very much a story of how Elsie Knocker, now a Baroness, was the bravest woman at the Front. Mairi was so sweet, and every bit as brave, and it was a terrible shame to learn of her bereavement.

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘It was the most awful thing,’ Elise said, scanning her letter. ‘Apparently his machine came down with engine trouble, when he was flying over the aerodrome.’

  I caught her eye and jerked my head towards Boxy, who had paled. ‘What freakish bad luck,’ I stressed.

  Elise cleared her throat. ‘Well, yes. That sort of thing can’t be at all common.’

  ‘You needn’t be careful on my account,’ Boxy said. ‘Benjy and I talk about the likelihood of things going wrong all the time. If you talk about it, it stops being such a worry somehow.’

  I could see that wasn’t entirely true, but didn’t push the matter. ‘Poor Mairi,’ I said again, and we worked in silence for a while. Thinking about the little Scots girl at Pervyse, and what she was going through, helped convince me I had done the right thing. If I heard something had happened to Will, my cutting him loose would not soothe me in the slightest, but it would help him if he believed me to be taking comfort elsewhere. I pictured him reading the letter, tucked into his awful little funk-hole, or sprawled out with his division in the fields further back, and I imagined the burden of care lifting from his shoulders. Yes, I had done the right thing.

  So why did it feel as though my life had disintegrated?

  Over the next few days I got back into the swing of things, and it was a relief to be distracted, even by a seemingly endless stream of trench foot cases, and heavy lice infestations. However, once my stitches were checked and pronounced to be “doing the job nicely”, I went back to driving. It was a relief to be away from the cottage, and to have something to take my mind off both Will and Oliver and, although the work was grim and our contribution often felt inadequate, I seized every chance to work. Boxy and I fell into our old routine easily; we had always worked well together and it was a deep and genuine pleasure to have her back. And Boxy was happy to take her car right up to the lines and then let me know if it was worth me taking my bus up, or if it was better relying on the horse-drawns.

  I think Kitty might have been pleased to do that too, but d
espite her obvious courage I’d always hesitated to suggest it and so, on day runs, she’d always go up to the train station and take the wounded from there. I never had to worry about Boxy the same way, which left me free to worry, instead, about how Will had received my terse little note and if it had given him the release I’d intended, or if it had actually hurt him further. It was driving me mad, not knowing, and I prayed for one more letter from him to indicate how my seemingly quick acquiescence to his wishes had been interpreted. I didn’t even know whether I hoped he believed me or not, and part of me, despite knowing it would work against what he needed, wished he would read between the pathetically few, sharp lines and see the pain there.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Boxy said, coming out of the cottage after breakfast, and catching me climbing into the ambulance. ‘The convoy’s not due for hours yet and I’m not ready to go up the line, I’ve got to replace the plugs on the car first.’

  ‘I’m going back to Number Twelve,’ I said. ‘Just for a look around. See if I can find…anything useful.’

  She looked steadily at me for a moment, her lips pursed. ‘And if you find “anything useful”, will you risk your life to go inside and get it?’ She knew, of course, what I was hoping to find.

  ‘I’m sure it’s quite safe there now,’ I said evasively. ‘Anything that was going to fall down would have done so by now.’

  ‘And what if you don’t find it? Or if it’s mashed beyond all recognition, or burned? Would that be worth the risk?’

  ‘I have to try. You do see that? It’s all I have left now.’

  ‘Then let me come with you, you might have an accident, trip on something.’

  ‘You have the plugs to do,’ I reminded her. ‘You have to be ready for tonight, that’s far more important. It’s all right, I won’t do anything silly, I’m just going to be in and out again in a few minutes. I know exactly where it is. If I’m not back in an hour, come and find me.’

  ‘Be careful, poppet. Promise me.’

  ‘I will. Go in, you’ll catch your death out here.’

  I began the long, frustrating task of starting the cold engine. Boxy watched me for a while, clearly struggling with her conscience, then blew me a kiss without smiling and went back inside.

  I parked the ambulance on the road just across from Number Twelve, and sat quietly for a while, listening to the distant sound of the bombardment and knowing that, when it stopped, we would not celebrate, but instead feel that hollow, sick anticipation of the whistles summoning us to bring our men back from yet another hopeless push. The rain beat steadily down, turning the last of the late snow to grey-brown mush where the hundreds of tyres had churned up the mud. There was a good deal of traffic on the main road, but none of it pulled into the yard any more; Number Twelve was useless now, where it had once been a bustling haven of hope to so many. The cars, ambulances and horse-drawns simply rumbled carefully past on their way to the clearing stations and hospitals, and in the other direction they sped, empty, to the aid posts and dressing stations up near the lines.

  I peered through the downpour at the cottage, seeing it in its ugly quaintness, as it had been for our first years out here, before my vision accepted the rain and allowed me to see through it to what was really there: just another of the countless, shattered ruins that had once graced the landscape, and now marred it beyond all recognition.

  I pushed my hat more firmly onto my head and climbed down, sloshing through the puddles and mud that were all that remained of the once-neat yard, stepping over small holes and skirting larger ones until I reached the doorway where Anne had stood, smoking what was to be her last cigarette. I closed my eyes for a moment in memory, then stepped into the ruined main room, looking ahead through the gloom to where the bedroom door hung half off its hinges.

  There was debris everywhere, but the roof looked sound enough, and nothing was creaking or groaning. A few tentative steps across the room and my confidence and excitement grew; I would go straight into the bedroom, find the little black box, and be out of the cottage and back to Number Twenty-Two before Boxy had time to spare me another thought.

  But a noise from the cellar changed everything.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I stopped, my heart pounding so hard I was sure it could be heard. I turned my head, trying to analyse the sound. Had it been a shuffling step, as I’d thought? Or might it have been a simple shifting of some masonry down there, disturbed by my passage through the room above? The sound did not come again and I decided on the latter, and let myself breathe again. I took a couple of steps, concentrating on where my feet fell; I didn’t want Boxy’s worries to become a reality, and even a sprained ankle would put me out of action for tonight’s work.

  I pushed at the awkwardly hanging bedroom door and looked in, seeing the window I’d broken, and the thin curtain hanging limp and sodden as a result, and was hit by the horrible irony that I might have destroyed the rose by my own impatience, letting all the damp in. If the box had been even a little bit open…

  The noise came again. This time I was certain: it was a footstep. On the cellar stairs. A sliding scuffle of a boot, and now I could hear another, and another. What if it was Potter? He might have seen me park up, and followed me in, knowing there was no way for me to get out once I was this far into the room. But what was he doing in the cellar? Scavenging? There might still be some medical supplies down there, and anyone who could attack a vulnerable young girl would be just the type to try seize them and sell them on.

  My skin rippled into terrified goose flesh, and I looked around for somewhere to hide. If I could only make him think I’d gone, he’d go back downstairs and I’d be able to make a run for safety… I ducked down behind the broken door and listened, holding my breath, letting it out oh, so slowly, before drawing another and holding it until I felt dizzy. The sounds stopped. I didn’t know whether that was because Potter had reached the main room, or because he had gone back down to finish what he’d been doing. It was likely still flooded down there, and I couldn’t hear the swish of water as he walked through it…but neither could I hear any sound from the next room. Perhaps he’d seized the opportunity to escape unseen, while I cowered back here like a frightened child?

  Slowly I rose to my feet, careful not to dislodge any of the broken sticks of furniture or loose bricks that lay strewn across the floor in the semi-darkness, and peeped into the main room. Right away I could see it wasn’t Potter; this man was taller, and an officer. I could only see his left shoulder and his head as he’d begun to descend the cellar steps again, and he was hunched with cold and fatigue, but the colour of his hair, unkempt and escaping the confines of his cap, was unmistakeable.

  ‘Oli!’

  Oliver turned in shock at the sound of my voice. He was a terrible mess; exhausted and terrified, his face no longer clean-shaven but dark with two weeks’ growth, and filthy. His eyes flew wide at the sight of me stumbling across the room towards him, and he held out a defensive hand.

  ‘Don’t, please…’

  I stopped, worried he might turn and run. ‘What are you doing here, you bloody fool? We’ve been all out trying to find you, to give yourself up before it’s too late.’

  ‘It is too late,’ he said, and his voice shook.

  ‘No, it’s not. Look,’ I stepped closer, carefully so as not to scare him, ‘Jack Carlisle is doing everything he can to fix things. We’re going to get Kitty out here to tell her story…’ I hesitated, unsure whether to tell him, then decided he ought to know. ‘Oli, Kitty lost the baby.’

  He caught his breath, then came back up the stairs. Framed in the front doorway, his hair caught the light and he looked so much like his sister I could have wept for them both. ‘Is that the truth?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I suppose I should be glad,’ he said, but he didn’t sound it. ‘A child born of violence can’t have a happy life, one would assume.’ He gave me a sad smile. ‘A child born in love has no
guarantee either, evidently. Poor Kitty. Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s being well looked after. Look, we all want to help, but they’ll find you eventually and it’ll go badly for you if you wait until they do. Oli, you have to come back with me.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Please! There may still be time to put this right, when you explain why you wanted to go to England.’

  ‘And why was that?’ he said bitterly. ‘To speak to Kitty? That was how it started, but I didn’t do that, did I?’

  ‘I understand you were scared –’

  ‘I can’t come back with you, it’s too late.’

  ‘Why do you keep saying that?’

  ‘Because he’s dead!’

  I fell silent, wondering if I’d mis-heard. He backed out of the door, almost losing his balance on the loose stones, his green eyes on mine and his face a twisted mask of fear and misery.

  ‘That’s why I ran away, Evie. I killed him.’

  Before I could find my voice, or any words, he had gone. The doorway stood empty, but afforded me no other sight than a shattered yard and the distant road. Oliver Maitland had vanished again. Numb with shock, it was almost as an afterthought that I turned back to the bedroom; even the black box didn’t seem as important as it had just a few minutes ago.

  Until I saw it had gone.

  ‘What do you mean, “gone”?’ Boxy said, when I told her.

  ‘Exactly that.’ I couldn’t tell her about Oli, and so the vanished box became the focus of my thoughts until Archie responded to my urgent wire. Not giving myself time to agonise over the choice, I’d gone straight from Number Twelve to the field post office, and now every time I heard a vehicle outside I prayed I’d done the right thing.

  ‘Someone stole it? Was there anything else missing?’

  ‘Someone must have decided it looked interesting enough,’ I said. ‘Probably one of the soldiers who helped move the bodies out after the flood.’ I’d already considered, and dismissed, the hope that Oli might have thought the box was Kitty’s and taken it; he had nowhere to put it. Sorrow stole through me again; when whoever took it opened it, and saw nothing inside but a collection of letters and a tattered paper rose, they would discard it in disappointment and it would lie there in the mud, and eventually become part of the landscape. No matter how much I told myself it was just a piece of paper, it symbolised so much more and now its disappearance fell into neat symmetry with the loss of Will. Like the world at war, everything was falling to pieces, everything was dying.