At the port they reported to the military. After debriefing and form-filling, with Auberon having to write his reasons for surrendering, they were allowed to telegraph home, Mart was checked out and declared fit enough to kill, the MO said, laughing. Mart wanted to kick him in the balls, he told them as they headed for the showers. Jack telegraphed Grace and received a reply from Rouen to say that she was ecstatic. They were given passes to entrain to their regiment’s position, travelling together, then marching with the guns growing louder and louder until they reached Rouen, but there was no time for Jack to see Grace. They travelled further south to Amiens, where C section was in deep reserve. ‘Home from bloody home,’ murmured Mart as around them the guns crashed, the night sky flared with star shells, the ground shuddered. Yes, they were home, and there were only five former comrades to greet them. The rest had perished on the Somme. Six of their fellow escapees had reached safety and were back in the front line. There was no news of anyone else, including Major Dobbs.
Leave was not a possibility. They were not yet ready to be parted and must renew the battle, if they were to hold up their heads.
Chapter 12
Easterleigh Hall, May 1917
EVIE READ GRACE’S letter as she leaned against the cedar tree in her post-breakfast break. Beside her Ron Simmons smoked his pipe. He had discarded cigarettes on his engagement to pretty little Posie Ringrose, a VAD from Lancashire. She didn’t mind whether he had a nose or not, but she would not allow cigarettes, so these had gone. Ron was also leaning against the tree, resting his leg as he did when his stump was sore, though he never mentioned the fact. ‘It’s going well, Commandant Evie.’ He raised an eyebrow at her. She grinned. ‘Acting only. Veronica had to choose between the acute ward and bossing people about.’
He placed his finger over the bowl and sucked. ‘The Hall’s solvent, partly because you’re managing the shortages. We’ve all dropped our wages, and Sir Anthony’s syndicate have upped their support.’
‘Let’s not forget Harry’s honey,’ Evie reminded him, folding the letter. ‘Matron is on top of the dressings situation with the sphagnum moss, and we’re doing a roaring trade supplying Fenton House, near Newcastle.’
They both peered up through the cedar’s branches. The squirrels were leaping about, and somewhere the dogs were yapping. ‘Oh God, Ron, I thought America’s entry would wriggle the war along.’ Evie’s voice was flat. In her letter Grace said that she’d seen Jack in the few moments she’d had to spare from the huge influx of wounded from Nivelle’s disastrous attack along the Chemin des Dames, and he’d been well. Evie should have been glad, and of course she was, but she wished it had been her seeing Jack the lad she loved more than anyone else in the world, except for Si, of course. But Si had sacrificed his chance to escape, and was safe, and she couldn’t remember what he looked and sounded like, and the feel of his arms around her, his lips on hers. She pushed the letter deep down in her pocket. Ron was engaged, Lady Margaret had a lovely little girl, Ver a chubby young lad, even Millie had Tim. What the bloody hell had she?
Ron was tapping his pipe on the huge trunk of the tree. ‘The Americans need to build up their army and the Germans will be pushing hard for a victory before they arrive, so it’s looking a right bloody-knife edge out there. We’ll be busier still at Easterleigh, I fear.’
Evie watched the ash as it fell from the bowl of the pipe. Ron couldn’t get the wretched thing to light properly, ever, no matter what he did. Perhaps it was as well, as Dr Nicholls would say. She asked, ‘What will happen to the prisoners if they win?’
‘The Germans will collect them up, kick us out perhaps, and . . .’
‘No, what will happen to ours out there, to Si?’
He looked at her, his nose completely rebuilt now. Work was almost complete on the new Cambridge Military Hospital in Aldershot where Harold Gillies, the facial surgeon, worked. ‘I’m sorry, Evie, how foolish of me. The fact is, I don’t know. I would imagine they’ll be repatriated. Don’t worry, he’ll come home, with all his bits.’ He smiled, then sobered. She knew he was thinking of Jack, Mart, Dave and Charlie and Auberon, who all, so far, remained intact.
‘All is not lost,’ he said, shoving himself upright and putting his weight back on to his wooden leg. ‘Things could swing back our way and until then we go on.’
The German POWs were arriving on the lorry as they walked back across the lawn, ten of them, to work on the vegetable gardens, the pigs and wherever else needed help. Jack had said that the mines had been a home from bloody home, when he’d written. Some of the German POWs felt the same, obviously. Even Mrs Moore talked kindly to them at lunchtime, except for Heine. Neither she nor Evie could abide the blond-haired, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered young man who was from Munich and knew everything, it seemed, while they, mere women, knew nothing.
Evie and Ron walked across the grass, spongy from last night’s rain. Evie waved at the guards, and the prisoners. Ron said, ‘Is the strike settled, or perhaps I should say strikes?’
Evie laughed, she couldn’t help it. Suddenly something was funny, and her spirits lifted. ‘I gather so, and the Bastard has had to up his wages to the prisoners at Auld Maud, Hawton and Seaton, not to mention the steelworks. The union wasn’t having peanuts paid to them. They’re not monkeys, Jeb told me when I met him at the co-op.’
They were on the drive now, and she could tell from his frown that Ron’s stump hurt as the gravel resisted, then slipped and slid beneath his false leg. He said, ‘It’s remarkable that they care about the enemy at a time like this.’
Evie slipped her arm through his, to steady him as much as anything. ‘Oh, thee of a simple mind, they don’t, what they care about is that their own men aren’t done out of a job and their wages. If Bastard Brampton and other owners can get away with paying practically nothing, how long will our own workers be employed?’
They were in the stable yard now, and Heine was ahead of them, entering the stables, his jacket slung over his shoulder. Several patients were strolling about in their uniform blues, some carrying pigswill in buckets from the kitchen. Millie was heading into the stables after Heine, a bucket in either hand. Stupid girl.
Evie had stopped worrying about it, because if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else, and as Millie now wrote to Jack regularly, took Tim to school before work, helped Evie’s mam with the chores at home, and had even stopped glaring at Evie as though she would do her harm, what could she say? Would it be a disaster if she found someone else, anyway? After all, there was Grace waiting for Jack in France, but there was still Tim, and Millie would take him, and that would break Jack’s heart, but only if he survived. She shut her mind on the old familiar circle, because it went nowhere.
Ron slipped on the cobbles. Evie took his weight for just that moment. One of the POWs passed, and paused, his hand out. She smiled and shook her head, saying, ‘Thank you, but we are all right.’ Ron righted himself. ‘Have you given more thought to your hotel, Evie?’
They were at the kitchen steps now. ‘On and off, but it’s pointless. What if we lose?’
‘Is that you, Evie? We haven’t all day.’ Mrs Moore’s roar reached them.
They both laughed now, hurrying down the steps and into the kitchen. Today for lunch it was to be chestnut soup, using chicken stock and all the bacon rinds from yesterday, plus the outside leaves of vegetables, onions, apples, even leftover crusts. The soup would be removed by squab pie with a little mutton, apples, onions, and potatoes, covered with a potato crust. It was a favourite. It would be removed by gooseberry crumble, the crumble a mixture of barley and wheat flour with some sugar, liberally dribbled with honey.
As Ron scooted through the kitchen he about-turned, and came close to Evie. ‘Bear up, old girl, so far all is well, as your sainted mother says, so very often.’ He winked, and she laughed again. Yes, everyone was safe and only when she had been on night duty, ready in the chair by the furnace to provide food and drink, did the world drag on her shou
lders.
In June, on a sunny morning, Evie passed groups of patients talking in huddles as she headed back from the herb store at the end of the path running alongside the walled garden. They were officially strolling on crutches, or keeping an eye out for blackfly on the runner beans and the broadies, but in reality they were puffing away on pipes or cigarettes, all the while watching for Dr Nicholls, and talking about the latest news on Haig’s Messines Ridge attack, the success of which would help any intended attack on the German lines around Ypres. This could turn the tide, and the excitement was high. Or they might be discussing the success of the convoy system, and the rise in merchant shipping getting through the blockade, as their thoughts were never far from food, or perhaps they were chatting about the latest young women in their lives. The latter was more probable
Evie smiled as they broke off to call to her, and she refused their offers of help to escort her and her burden back to the kitchen, and a cup of coffee. ‘Herbs aren’t heavy,’ she replied, feeling the sun on her face, ‘and today it’s bubble and squeak and bullock’s heart.’ They grimaced, then one said, ‘It’ll be ambrosia, dearest Evie. It always is. You have a magic wand.’
‘Yes, they’re called Mrs Moore and Annie,’ she shouted back. They laughed. As she entered the garage yard Alfie from Easton was propping up his bicycle against the wall, three glassy-eyed rabbits on the handlebars. He hurried down the steps to the kitchen, shouting, ‘Evie, Evie.’ She weaved and ducked her way through the flapping sheets the laundry girls had just hung out, and wondered how much he wanted for them this time, the canny little beggar. ‘I’m up here,’ she called. ‘Wait there.’
‘Evie, Evie.’ He met her in the doorway to the kitchen, with Mrs Moore shouting from the pantry, ‘Less of your noise, bonny lad. Give her a chance.’ The rabbits hung from his fingers, which were whitening from the pressure of the string. Dark dried blood dribbled from their mouths. ‘You should be in school,’ she said, trying to pass him. ‘Out of the way, now.’ He didn’t move. Mrs Moore came from the pantry, carrying a huge bowl of chestnuts. There was something ominous in Alfie’s face, and he was groping in a pocket with his free hand. ‘Note from the parson, Evie. He was in a grand fuss, said you had to read it quickly and come. Crying he was.’
Evie pushed past him, and dropped the herbs on the table. Grace? What? She had her letter, so . . . But that was posted weeks ago. Or Mam? Mam was at home today, with a cold. Da? He wasn’t on shift at Auld Maud, he was here.
She grabbed the note from Alfie; it was creased and grubby. Mrs Moore eased the rabbits from his hand, slapped them on the table. Annie came in, saw the blood. ‘What the hell’s happening, those need to go to the game pantry, not on the table. I’ve just scrubbed the thing.’
‘Hush your noise,’ ordered Mrs Moore, rubbing the feeling back into Alfie’s fingers but watching Evie, nodding at her. ‘Read it, lass.’ The gentleness in her tone gave Evie courage to unfold the note. Edward had written, ‘Grace is injured, a shell. She was on an ambulance heading back from the front. She is at Rouen Camp Hospital. I should go, but I have so many in need here. Please, please, bring her back. I can’t bear her to travel alone. A head injury, burns. You will need to talk to a Dr Sylvester. It is he who wrote the note. I have booked you passage on the ferry. Please, now.’
Within thirty-six hours Evie was gripping the rail of the pleasure steamer that had been pressed into service as a troopship for the voyage out, and ambulance ship for the return journey. All around were fresh-faced youths, almost doubled over beneath their packs. Some seemed even younger than Harry had been when he first arrived. She turned her head into the wind, clinging to the sight of the land that was steadily taking shape. The sun gleamed on the marquees that straggled along the cliff, endlessly, white and pure, they seemed. But they wouldn’t be. She knew it from experience.
She disembarked at Calais, straight into the chaos of shouted orders, khaki uniforms, boots crashing in time as the men were marched away, their packs and gas masks weighing them down, their tin hats slipping sideways, the sergeants shouting. In the distance was the sound of shells. She forced her way through to a naval lieutenant. He directed her to the station. She walked past ambulances, stretchers, stretcher-bearers, VADs, nurses, doctors, padres, filthy, stinking, screaming or silent patients, some with cigarettes, some talking, some staring. No, she didn’t know this. She knew the comparative quiet and order of Matron and Easterleigh Hall.
She walked on to the station. There were other women who had disembarked walking alongside her, carrying valises or carpet bags; some were nurses, some relatives. At the station some followed the signs for Rouen. She followed them, and the troops, on to the train, which huffed and puffed, but didn’t blow her house down, because it was already falling around her ears. She didn’t know any of this, and she had thought she did and her arrogance and ignorance appalled her. The VAD opposite looked beyond tired. Her hands trembled. Evie’s did too, but her tiredness was pathetic beside this girl’s. ‘Are you returning from leave?’ Evie asked.
The young woman nodded, then closed her eyes. She didn’t open them until the train screeched and wailed into Rouen station, then she gathered her valise and her coat and stepped from the train, her shoulders back, her head high. Evie followed. She asked a Queen Alexandra’s Nurse for directions to the camp hospital. ‘Follow me.’ The older woman spoke crisply, quickly, hurrying along without checking that Evie was with her. Outside there were ambulances discharging their patients, the artillery was louder. The day was drawing to a close; the sky was alight, the ground shuddered. The nurse made for the first ambulance, which was backing out of the station, a large Red Cross on its khaki sides. She flagged it down. ‘Two for the camp hospital, Thomas.’
‘Yes, Sister Breave,’ said the orderly. ‘Hop in.’
Sister Breave led the way to the rear, threw in her valise, and pulled herself into the back. Evie followed. They sat on a bench in an ambulance devoid of stretchers but not of the stench of the wounded. There was blood on the floor, an old dressing. The ambulance roared off. It was Evie who closed her eyes now. Was Grace still alive? Had Richard found Jack and telegraphed the news as he had promised? Could he come, or was he in the thick of it at the Messines Ridge near Ypres? Perhaps he was still in deep reserve? Oh God, oh God, she’d thought she’d known, but her brother and his friends were facing these guns, were charging them, in this noise, this dreadful, dreadful noise. Their warm fragile bodies were facing all of this and how could they possibly have survived as long as they had, how could John Neave write cheerful letters, how could any of them?
At the camp hospital Sister Breave pointed her to Grace’s marquee. ‘Number 14. Give her my love,’ she said, her voice gentle now. ‘She’s lost an ear, has broken ribs, shrapnel, a broken and burned arm. She needs rest and kindness, which she’s had in abundance from Slim Sylvester. Make sure she has it from you or I’ll hunt you down.’ She mimicked a pistol shot with her right hand. She smiled, but her eyes were full of fury and pain.
Evie, carrying her valise, walked along the duckboards past marquee after marquee, from which came sounds that were worse than any at Easterleigh. She had reached number 6. Orderlies and nurses were entering and leaving the marquees, ducking down, flipping up the flaps. Some were overtaking her, some approaching. The duckboards were lit by oil lamps hung on eight-foot poles, around which huge moths fluttered. There was a breeze. The artillery was louder. She had reached number 12. Two more. Number 14. Moths were hitting the lamp outside, casting monstrous shadows.
She walked down the duckboard, hearing her boots clickety-clacking. She drew in a deep breath, and ducked inside. This marquee was divided into ten compartments. In the centre was a table at which sat a nurse. Evie went to her. ‘I’ve come to take Grace Manton home,’ she told her. The nurse smiled and stood. The internal oil lamp was attracting moths here too, and even with the artillery Evie could hear the thump as they hit the glass. ‘It seems there are quite a lot want
ing to see our Gracie,’ the nurse said. She pointed to a smaller table almost hidden in the corner. It was in shadow but a voice called, ‘By, let the dog see the rabbit, if it isn’t our Evie.’
‘Mart, oh Mart.’ She ran to him, dropping the valise on the way, letting him swing her round and cover her face with kisses. ‘I thought I’d never see your ugly mug again, bonny lad, dearest bonny lad. He’s here then, our Jack is here?’ He put her down, straightening her hat for her, tucking her hair behind her ear.
‘Yes, thanks to the boss, but now you’re here I have to go. I have a nurse to see. From Tyneside she is, Cathy. Lovely lass, we’re made for one another but I’ve got to make sure she knows that, now I’ve seen you.’ He was off, almost running down the duckboard. ‘NO running,’ the nurse at the table barked. He did as he was told.
Evie touched her ear as she watched him go. Oh God, Grace. But thank you for getting Jack here. A voice behind her said, ‘Do sit down, Evie. You must be very tired.’
That voice. Her hand fell. That voice, the dark of the sea, when . . . Then she felt a touch on her shoulder. ‘Please, do sit.’
She turned. Auberon stood there quietly, in the shadows. ‘Aub. Oh Aub.’ Suddenly she was crying. ‘Oh Aub, I didn’t know. I thought I did, but I didn’t. How can you bear it, day after day? Oh Aub.’ She put her hands to her face and sobbed, quietly, because she must disturb no one, and then she felt him pull her to him. ‘Shhh,’ he whispered. ‘It’s all right, Evie, how could you know?’
The tiredness was tearing at her, it had made her weak, but he was here, holding her up, letting her rest, just for a moment. Their boss was here, and she rested against him, and it was as though she was floating in a silent stream, just for a moment. She felt the sobs slow, and cease, and still she leant against him.
Auberon, Jack and Mart watched the ambulance depart. Aub could feel her against him, he could hear her voice, her sobs, and then her silence. And still she hadn’t moved from him, until Jack came to find her. If he was killed tomorrow he would die happy, because he had held her. He put his arm across Jack’s shoulders. ‘Grace’ll be safe now, and you were there for her.’
Easterleigh Hall at War Page 22