After the War Is Over: A Novel

by Jennifer Robson

  “You weren’t, though. Look at me, Charlotte. Look at me.” He sat up, swung his feet to the floor, and folded up his right trouser leg, revealing the artificial limb beneath. It was made of aluminum, the metal scratched and dull, and was held in place with the help of canvas and leather strapping.

  His fingers trembling, Edward loosened a buckle at the side of his knee, then one on the other side, and pulled the prosthesis away. His stump was covered by a kind of knitted sleeve or sock; this, too, he tossed aside.

  “I know you’ve been curious. Go ahead. Tell me that it doesn’t look all that bad. Offer up some well-meaning platitude.”

  His leg had been amputated just below the knee, which explained his ability to walk with such apparent ease. Whoever had done the surgery had been skilled, for the scarring was minimal and his stump had healed well.

  “As a nurse, I’d say it looks very good. It’s healed properly and you’re evidently comfortable with your prosthetic.”

  “Doesn’t it disgust you?”

  “No. Not in the slightest.”

  “It should,” he insisted. “I can barely look at it myself.”

  “It doesn’t,” she insisted, hating the expression of self-loathing on his face.

  “Open your eyes, Charlotte. I’m half a man. A failure in everything I do. A stranger to his family and friends.”

  “Not to me. Never to me.”

  She couldn’t bear another moment of this, not one more moment. The room was so charged with emotion, hers as much as his, that if she were to open a window she feared she would go soaring off into the sky, a firecracker fizzing with pent-up grief and regret.

  “Don’t—”

  “Please—”

  They both stopped short, waiting for the other to go on, and the terrible tension that made it so hard for her to breathe began to loosen its hold and melt away.

  “Sorry,” he said. “When I woke up I felt so peaceful, and look where I ended up. Whining about myself again. Do forgive me.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Shall we think of something else to talk about?”

  “Very well. Would you like to hear about my work with Miss Rathbone on the Pensions Committee?” She winked, hoping he recognized it as a rather feeble attempt at humor.

  “Ha. It would serve you right if I agreed. But perhaps we could try for a less lofty topic? Say . . . I don’t know . . . I could tell you something you don’t know about me, and you could do the same. Tell me something that I couldn’t possibly know about you.”

  “I don’t follow. There are so many possibilities.”

  “Try. Tell me something surprising. Something you are certain I can’t know. It doesn’t have to be earth-shattering. Only interesting.”

  “How will I know if it’s—”

  “Try.”

  What could she tell him? He really did know so little about her; it would be easy to think of something. Her fear of thunderstorms, perhaps? Her childhood pet having been a tortoiseshell cat named Adelaide? Her having written a paper about Pamela in her second year at Somerville, though she’d read only the first hundred pages?

  And then it came to her. “I’m named after a man. My middle name, that is.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My name is Charlotte Jocelin Brown. Spelled l-i-n, not l-y-n. After Jocelin of Wells, a thirteenth-century bishop. My father is an expert on him, and always thought he’d name his son after Jocelin. Instead he had me.”

  “Ah. Well, that is, ah, very interesting. I certainly had no idea.”

  “Your turn. What is something about you I don’t know?”

  “Let me think, let me think . . . oh, here’s something. I detest chocolate.”

  “Chocolate? Who dislikes chocolate?”

  “I do. Hate the stuff,” he insisted.

  “My goodness. I’m glad I haven’t been serving you cocoa at bedtime. Is it my turn again? I’m not sure if—”

  “May I go again?” he asked, and this time there was something odd about his voice. Suddenly he seemed remote, absent, his thoughts many miles away. “It isn’t funny, though. Not funny at all.”

  “Go on,” she said, a serpent of anxiety coiling tight around her rib cage.

  “I am a coward.”

  “Do be serious.”

  “I am. I’m a coward through and through.”

  “Why would you say such a thing?” she asked fearfully.

  “The night I was captured . . .”

  “What happened? I only know the barest details. That you were taken prisoner in no-man’s-land after being wounded, and brought to an enemy hospital.”

  “That’s the gist of it.” He was fidgeting with his trouser leg, pleating and unfolding the fabric that was hitched close around his stump.

  “Why on earth were you out in no-man’s-land?”

  “It wasn’t something I’d normally have done, but morale had been low. A few weeks before, my battalion had been transferred to a pioneer division. In essence it meant we were no longer a frontline fighting unit, but a support battalion that took over fatigue duties like trench digging and the setting up of barbed-wire defenses. The rank and file saw it as a demotion, and so naturally there was a lot of grousing. Certainly the men in my company were pretty miserable about it.

  “We were in no-man’s-land that night to repair some coils of barbed wire that had been cut. So, no, I wouldn’t normally have accompanied my men on something routine like that, but I wanted to give a show of support. Let them see that I didn’t consider such work a demotion, so they shouldn’t either. That was the plan, at least.”

  “What happened? Did you come under fire?”

  “We were shelled. One moment all was calm, and the next it felt like the world was ending. We didn’t understand what was happening—all day and all evening, everything had been so quiet along that stretch of the front. Then one of my subalterns, Lieutenant Jerrold, marked the trajectory of an incoming shell, and he realized it came from the west. From our side.”

  “Surely it wasn’t deliberate.”

  “Deliberate, no. Cretinous and foolhardy? Yes. I learned not so long ago that one of the brass hats at GHQ had got to boasting, earlier that evening, about some new long-range guns that were looking quite promising. So he decided to conduct a little experiment. See how far the things would go. Turns out they could lob shells exactly as far as the section of no-man’s-land where we were repairing barbed wire.”

  “Good heavens,” she whispered, wishing she were bold enough to say what men did when they were upset. A bad word, a filthy word, would better match the horror she felt.

  “I know. We hit the ground and waited for someone to realize they were making a mistake. We didn’t dare shout for help, or even stand up, otherwise the light from the exploding shells would have made it easy for the German snipers to pick us off. So we simply lay in the mud and waited.

  “The worst part was the sound as the shells came close. It was a terrible sort of whine that got louder and louder and louder and then—boom. If you heard the explosion, you knew you were alive, at least for another few seconds.”

  “Was your group hit?”

  “Yes. Several of the men were killed outright, as well as Lieutenant Jerrold. I was knocked back, into a shallow sort of crater. The force of the blast burst my eardrums, and it seemed to paralyze me, too. I couldn’t hear, I couldn’t speak or shout, and I couldn’t move, not one muscle. So I lay in that muddy crater and let fear consume me. I lay on the ground and listened as my men died around me.

  “I didn’t do a thing to help them, Charlotte. I wallowed in a puddle of my own piss and tried not to choke on my fear. That’s all I did. That’s what cowards do, you see.”

  She sprang from her chair and went to him. Kneeling at his feet, bruising her knees on the cold flagstone floor, she took his hands in hers.

  “I know nothing of being a soldier. I admit it. And I cannot truly understand what happened that night. But I am certain
that you are not a coward. Fear doesn’t make one a coward—if that were the case, then I, too, am a coward.”

  “Why didn’t I act? Why did I react like a mewling child?”

  “Because you had been stunned senseless by the shell that knocked you down. You were paralyzed not by fear, but by the concussive effects of the explosion. To not be terrified in that instant—that would have been the act of a fool.”

  “I wept. I wept and prayed and begged God to save me.”

  “I’m not surprised you did. I should have, too.” Her knees were feeling awfully sore, so she got up and sat next to him on the sofa. She didn’t let go of his hands. “At some point, my dear friend, you are going to have to face up to a simple fact: you survived. Others perished, but you survived.”

  “Of course I face it. I face up to it every day.”

  “What are you going to do about it, then? There’s no use feeling sorry for yourself or fretting about the past. You need to make the most of the life that has been given to you.”

  She smiled at him, her gentlest, most reassuring smile. If only he would believe. If only she could will him to believe.

  “Charlotte the philosopher,” he murmured, not meeting her gaze.

  “Of course. It was one of my favorite subjects in school. Shall we turn to thoughts of supper, though, and leave our serious thinking for another time? There’s always tomorrow.”

  “Yes, of course. There’s always tomorrow.”

  Chapter 22

  Christmas, 1916

  The Savoy Hotel, London

  They were just finishing their pudding when Charlotte thought to look at her wristwatch.

  “What time do you have to be at work, Lilly? Because it’s already half past two.”

  “Bother. I start at four o’clock. I must go—it will take me almost an hour just to get up to Willesden.”

  “Irvine can drive you,” Lord Ashford said.

  “No, thank you. I’m quite all right getting there on my own.” Lilly came round the table and kissed Charlotte on the cheek. “Don’t wait up for me.”

  “I won’t. Perhaps, Lord Ashford, you might like to see Lilly out? That will give you a chance to say a more private farewell to one another.”

  He shot a disbelieving look at her, but took his sister’s arm without protest and led her from the restaurant. Wondering if she had spoken out of turn, though she had only been looking to protect Lilly at what was sure to be an emotional moment, Charlotte picked up her fork and began to dissect the remnants of her pudding. Lord Ashford had ordered apple Charlotte for the table, no doubt thinking it was an amusing choice. If he only knew how many times she’d been winkingly presented with that particular pudding over the course of her life.

  “There. Farewell effected. Happy now?” Lord Ashford said as he reclaimed his place at their table.

  “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to interfere. It was wrong of me to be so high-handed, with you and Lilly both.”

  He stared at her for a moment more, his expression unreadable. “No need to apologize. But it does beg the question: why are you so irritated with me? Whenever we meet, you seem to be in a state of high dudgeon, and I am your focus. What have I ever done to you to deserve it?”

  “I . . . I—”

  “Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but I had hoped we could be friendly today. I mean, it’s Christmas Day, Miss Brown, and in a matter of hours I’ll be returning to the front. Does that signify nothing to you? Do you dislike me that much?”

  “I don’t dislike you at all.”

  “Then why not be friendly? Would it cost you so much? What is preventing us from being friends?”

  Her face was red, she knew it from the way her cheeks burned, and if she could have excavated a hole in the middle of the Savoy Grill and buried herself, she would have done so forthwith. That he should say such things to her in the middle of a crowded restaurant was bad enough, but that they were true . . . that was the worst part of all.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered, unable to meet his gaze. When had she ever been afraid to look someone in the eye? “I’ve been wrong to treat you so poorly. There is no excuse for it.”

  “I know you think me a feckless aristocrat who’s done nothing more with his life than spend his father’s money and indulge himself, and until a few years ago you wouldn’t have been entirely wrong. But that man is dead. Gone. Can you not see me as I am now? I’m a man, Charlotte, not a boy. If the war has done one thing to me, it’s made me into a man.”

  “I know.”

  “Then treat me like one. And for God’s sake don’t sit there and look like you’re going to cry. Just agree that we might be friends, if only for today. Agreed?”

  She swallowed back her tears, and her chagrin, and nodded decisively. “Agreed.”

  “In that case, what shall we do now?”

  “I thought you were seeing Lady Helena.”

  “Not until later. It’s a pity the National Gallery is closed today. Otherwise we could have continued our debate over modern art.”

  “I really ought to go,” she said.

  “Not yet. What about a walk? The Embankment gardens are just across the road. And the sun is very nearly shining.”

  “Very well. But only if you’re certain you can spare the time.”

  “Of course I can. Besides, we’ve a friendship to establish, and I’d rather do it face-to-face. Letters are a poor second in that respect. Shall we be off?”

  “But we haven’t paid. Shouldn’t we at least wait—”

  “I’ve an account here. But thank you for mentioning it.”

  A liveried attendant fetched their coats and his hat. Charlotte had worn her best dress and an almost new hat, but her coat was several winters old, and there were embarrassingly worn spots at the collar and front facing. Such a silly thing to fret over, really. Normally she never looked twice at what she was wearing, apart from her nurse’s uniform, and then it was only to ensure it would pass inspection by Matron.

  After Lord Ashford had asked his driver to meet them at the far end of the gardens, they set off across the road and down into the park. At first they walked side by side, but the graveled paths had grown mossy over the winter, and here and there were quite slippery, so when he offered his arm she was glad to take it.

  “We were so busy talking about Lilly and her interests earlier that we never had a chance to speak of your work,” he said. “I should very much like to hear about it.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Tell me about the hospital. It’s in Kensington, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. The Special Neurological Hospital for Officers. The buildings are on Palace Green, two huge old houses, side by side.”

  “How many patients are there?”

  “Between the two buildings there are about seventy. Because we treat men with neurasthenia and other psychological disorders, each man has his own room—we don’t have wards as such. And we don’t do much medical nursing. By the time they come to us, the patients have been cured of any . . . well, external wounds. The only dressings I ever have to change are those of men who’ve hurt themselves while at the hospital. One poor fellow keeps scratching at himself with his fingernails. We keep them trimmed, but he still manages to hurt himself.”

  “I see. What would an ordinary day be like? Say today, for example?”

  “Well, today was a bit different as I only worked a half shift. Because it was Christmas, you see. Normally I’m on for twelve hours at a stretch, from half past seven in the morning, with a three-hour break around the halfway point.”

  “Christ. You must be dead on your feet by the end.”

  “I suppose. I try not to think about it.”

  “What happens during those twelve hours? What do you do?”

  “To be honest, at least three-quarters of it is cleaning. Washing crockery, trays, utensils. Wiping down everything with antiseptic. Dusting and tidying and making beds. There are chars for the really heavy w
ork but we’re always scrubbing away at something.”

  She stopped short and pulled off her gloves to reveal rough, reddened skin and fingernails cut ruthlessly short. “Look at my hands. I have to soak them in almond oil every night, otherwise they get so raw and sore I end up with chilblains.”

  “You said ‘we,’” he noted as they began walking again. “How many other sisters are there?”

  “I’m not a nursing sister.”

  “But I thought you’d trained—”

  “I did several months’ training as a VAD at the Great Northern Central Hospital on the Holloway Road. Matron there was happy with my work, so she recommended me to the War Office as a special military probationer. They then offered me a contract to work at the hospital in Kensington.”

  “When was that?”

  “Oh, early 1915? So I’m not a nursing sister, you see. That requires three years of specialized, full-time training at a minimum. Some of the men persist in calling me ‘Sister,’ but they’re only supposed to call me ‘Nurse.’”

  “I see. Very well, Nurse Brown, who else works with you?”

  “There’s Matron, whom I quite like. Very stern and strict but so good with the men. Endlessly patient. There are the nursing sisters, sixteen of them, and twelve probationers, of whom I’m one. The doctors come and go—they’re attached to other nearby hospitals as well. And of course there are orderlies and chars and cooks and so forth.”

  “Are you always cleaning things, or are you able to spend time with the patients?”

  “Oh, yes. I help to bathe and dress the men who are still too feeble to do so themselves, and I help them with their meals, too. If the weather is fine we take them out for walks on Palace Green. If I’m on the night shift I’ll read to men who can’t sleep, or even sing. Some really do enjoy being sung to.”

  “What sort of songs? Presumably not ‘Hangin’ on the Old Barbed Wire.’”

  She stifled a grimace at the thought of how one or two of her patients would react to the imagery that provoked. “Hymns, mostly. Lullabies. Things that remind them of better times.”

  “What are they like, the patients? Is it bedlam there?”