Sunday 30 May
Mother only today remembered to give me a letter which arrived last week. It is from Ada, who writes that she is constantly occupied with fundraising committees and has made friends with a young woman named Eliza, who she describes as ‘quite fabulous fun’ (I wonder whether this is designed to provoke jealousy?). In response to my question about Harriet, she says she has had no news since Christmas, other than from Harriet’s brother George, who is in Egypt (which she knows because he sent her a postcard of a camel). Her other news is that a troopship left Auckland carrying Maori soldiers, the Newsreel of their departure showing them performing a rousing war dance, which she deemed likely to terrify any Enemy with whom they should meet.
31 May, 1st Eastern
Major D greeted me with a smile, which is progress indeed. Of course I said nothing of all my uncle had imparted, instead chatting amiably about dogs. The Major was interested to learn that my preference is for Spaniels while his is Setters.
1 June
Winifred has just rushed in to tell me that London has been bombed. Sister is considering disallowing newspapers on the ward for fear they will damage the men’s morale.
2 June
Matron is pleased with the Major’s progress and suggests I take on two further cases — though fitting them in will mean I have to complete my morning duties of straightening beds and serving breakfasts in double-quick time!
3 June
One of my new cases was weeping today. When I enquired as to the problem, he said he did not know but could not stop. Winifred says that such nervous disorders are becoming increasingly common, sometimes being found even in men who have suffered no injury. She has strained her back lifting and been ordered off for the remainder of the week. I suggested she might try sitting with my chaps, but she says she hasn’t the patience.
5 June, Deans Park
Hurrah! A letter from Edmund, dated eight days ago. Mother was waiting up when I arrived, which was after ten, though I rapidly detected that her interest lay in hearing Edmund’s news rather than mine. He writes that he is well and much enjoyed the recent parcel — Dundee cake, shaving soap, packet of ‘decent’ tea and spare socks (fortunately not knitted by me!). Of the War he says little, other than that he is proud of his men, who acquit themselves well. I interpret this to mean that he has seen some Action, although I did not say so to Mother. I hope he is not near Neuve Chapelle. Father thinks it likely he will be involved in the defence of Belgium.
Sunday 6 June
Millie walked with me to Church and after half a mile took my hand. I believe she is lonely. Thirteen is an awkward age.
7 June, 1st Eastern
Another letter from Edmund awaited in Cambridge; he had sent it care of Matron. His Unit spent eight days at the Front and he reports that it is not at all as he had expected.
9 June
Major D has begun having nightmares again; we are not sure why. Today I asked whether he could tell me what it is that he dreams of, and he answered, rather stiffly, that he sees his men. I did not immediately take his meaning and blundered on, saying, ‘Oh, but I am sure they will be looked after by other Officers in your place.’ He considered me as one might the Village Idiot, and said no more. My mistake did not strike me until I lay down to sleep: he had not meant the men who survived. And now, like the Major, I cannot expunge the thought of them from my head.
10 June
Major D was gone when I entered the ward this morning. I ran to Matron in a fluster, blurting out my stupidity. She patted my head like the idiot child that I am and said he had only gone to physical therapy and would be back by the afternoon. Still I could not relax, and spilt tea and tipped over dressings until Sister was ready to ban me from the ward. And then the Major was wheeled back in, and gave me his usual half-smile, and I was again perfectly able and composed. When it came time to take him out onto the terrace I managed to stutter out a feeble apology for my misunderstanding, to which he replied: ‘Not at all; you were quite right.’ And it turns out my naïve comment has somehow set his mind at rest and he now believes that those Officers who have fallen will be looking out for his fallen men. I checked with Night Sister who confirmed that the Major slept better last night. The workings of the human mind are a mystery!
14 June
Mr Lindsay writes that he has decided to abandon his studies and sign up! Also that he will be in Cambridge next week and hopes that I may agree to see him. I wrote immediately to say that I should be delighted, and that I look forward to introducing him to my friend Winifred (proprieties thus being observed). I shan’t mention it at Deans Park as altogether Too Much would be made of it.
15 June
Sent off a parcel to Monty for his birthday: Kipling’s The Cat That Walked By Himself, which I found in a second-hand bookshop in Trinity Street. I suspect he will be miserable, this being his first birthday away from home.
17 June
Mr Lindsay sent a telegram confirming that he will call for Winifred and myself at 5.30 next Wednesday to take us to tea. W most amused by my cry of ‘Whatever shall I wear?’
19 June, Deans Park
This morning I presented Millie with my knitting needles, complete with their half-knitted sock, explaining I no longer have time and would be grateful for her help — which is true, though my intention was more to provide her with a sense of purpose in terms of the War Effort. She asked whether I might also instruct her in bandaging. I shall, though she is rather too young for it to be of use. Next on my list was Eugenie. No such difficulties in that camp, she being happily engaged assisting the Head Gardener (whose staff have largely abandoned him in favour of signing up), and digs and pulls weeds like the gamest of farm children. She confided that her mother despairs of the state of her nails — which really are quite atrocious — while the laundry maid is agog at the mess she makes of her smocks. Cook, by contrast, offers no shortage of praise for her efforts. Together with the parcel sent to Monty, I thus acquitted my familial responsibilities on the Heath-Stanton side, and next gratified Mother by gurgling with brother William for an hour before lunch. He is a chubby little fellow, currently working very hard to get from his back to his front. Nanny did not approve of my tickling, but he does have a rather delightful chortle.
Sunday 20 June
Listening to the Vicar (or rather, not listening to the Vicar) it occurred that I have heard nothing at all from Harry. I wonder whether Father has news? Perhaps I shall ask him.
Later, Cambridge train
We are once again stopped on the line. Winifred is grown quite frustrated and has gone marching off to find the guard. It is one thing in summer but will be tiresome in winter when we shall doubtless freeze — though it does at least provide a moment to attend to my diary. Father huffed and hmmed when I asked after Harry, then conceded that he had heard from him; that he was in France (or possibly Belgium); and that his Regiment had been much in the thick of it. And that was all. I did not mention Harry’s having called on me in Cambridge, Father clearly being uncomfortable with the topic of my half-brother. I have nevertheless decided to write. What a dutiful relation I am being on all fronts this week!
21 June, 1st Eastern
Major D is to be transferred to a Hospital where he will receive intensive physical therapy that may enable him to walk again. His enthusiasm at this news is rather faint, but I have elicited a promise that he will write and let me know how he goes on. My other ‘special’ cases are also being moved on. Matron is confident my time will be rapidly allocated — and if not, there is always rolling bandages!
23 June
I confess I felt a little weepy as the Major was loaded into an ambulance. He gave me a salute (as did Winifred, at the wheel) and they were off. I was not about to let Matron see such weakness, so I bustled off to the ward where I gave the pillows an extra vigorous plumping. Captain Johnston took one look at me and announced I needed either a cup of tea or a German to bayonet.
Later
24 June
Newspapers full of another attack. These days I read such news in a jaundiced light, with the expectation of a fresh influx, and Major D’s dead men marching sadly behind.
26 June
Another mad few days: back on washing and changing and settling the new intake into bed. One cannot describe the smell of wounds that have been largely untended for a week or even longer.
28 June
Winifred fell asleep at dinner. She has been up every night since Thursday, snatching an hour’s sleep here and there, and is quite worn out. Matron says we shall both have four days off as soon as things settle down.
29 June
Querulous note from Mother; Eugenie has contracted measles and Mother is worried that William is at risk.
30 June
Matron has given me five days off, through to next Tuesday. Tomorrow morning I shall sleep, sleep, sleep!
2 July, Deans Park
Millie and I went for a walk along the lane and found hedgerows awash with blossom, the smell quite divine. Eugenie is far less ill than Mother made out (or has made a miraculous recovery) and was quite put out not to be allowed to join us. I consoled her by returning with a bouquet of harebells, corn-cockles and several flowers I couldn’t name, all picked from the roadside. Millie skipped as we walked, and I was hard-pressed not to join her!
3 July
Sitting on the lawn with tea and sandwiches and the sound of tennis being played beyond the herbaceous border, it is quite easy to forget the War. If I close my eyes I can breathe the scents of the garden, rather than carbolic and suppurating wounds, and hear birdsong and laughter (or voices raised in dispute, as Eugenie is up today but rather out of sorts) and it seems such a long way from my poor injured men — though I do wonder how my sad Major is going on.
Sunday 4 July
Father has been cajoled by Mother into agreeing that I am overworked and require ‘a proper rest’. My reply is that when the men can have one, I shall have one too. To which Mother says I am ‘quite impossible’ and announces that my Hospital work is ‘encouraging insubordination’ — Matron would be startled to hear it! The truth, if Mother but knew it, is that I quite contrarily find myself beguiled by the notion of doing nothing at all for several weeks on end.
5 July
Lady B sent a motor and I was whisked off for high tea. Naturally I assumed the invitation had originated with Winifred but it transpired she was out and Lady B had an Ulterior Motive, which was to grill me in her niece’s absence. Was Winifred enjoying her work? Did Matron seem pleased with her abilities? How did I find the Hospital and was I satisfied that we were Doing Some Good? I answered all as best I could, though without knowing whether Winifred had yet broached the subject of joining the Belgian Red Cross. I hope I did not give the game away!
7 July, 1st Eastern
It is both good and bad to be back. Parts of the work are tedious and, oh, how a back can ache by the end of a day! But one of my Lieutenants is now walking, albeit with a limp, while another, quite the sweetest man but with an almost impossible accent, is now able to feed himself with scarcely any assistance from me. I have another who dribbles terribly as half of his jaw has been shot away, but we muddle along and try to find ways to help him meet the difficulty.
Winifred was quite put out when she heard of Lady B’s deviousness but I do not believe anything I said will work against her; quite the reverse. I have suggested she consider broaching the question with Matron.
9 July
We have had the most trying day, with a visit from a deputation of the local Women’s Medical Aid Society, who have taken it upon themselves to assess whether Our Men Are Being Adequately Cared For. These women have simply not a clue. They were full of advice, all of which had absolutely no practical merit. Matron, forbearing throughout, was by the end of their ‘inspection’ growing visibly wearied. Captain Mackay was altogether impolite, but only after they stood about him making suggestions for his welfare as if it were his ears, rather than his arms, that had been lost.
10 July, Deans Park
Just before I collapsed into bed last night there came a quiet tippity-tap on my door and I found Millie outside, wondering whether there was not some ‘proper’ way she could contribute to the War Effort (it seems that, like me, she does not much care for knitting socks). Inspiration arrived this morning: I wrote a note to Lady B. If anyone can assist my young cousin, I am sure it will be she.
Edmund’s most recent letter to Deans Park is filled with reminiscences of fishing (of all things), which makes one certain he is feeling rather homesick. He says nothing at all of the War.
13 July, 1st Eastern
Winifred and I, together with another driver and two nurses, pooled our resources and dined at the Hotel this evening: what swank! Quite simply, we had all had enough of Nurses’ Home stodge, and instead enjoyed a memorable meal of grilled fish, roast mutton and summer pudding. It was divine and we stuffed ourselves then rolled home groaning!
14 July
Received a dressing-down from Matron for our escapade last night, but it was not too bad as we were all in it together. It is, however, Not To Be Repeated.
15 July
Success in Africa and disasters in Russia. I no longer entirely trust the newspapers, which present every battle as a victory, no matter the cost paid by our men. Of the real situation, the boys coming into the Hospital say little, but all are desperately grateful to be safe and clean and cared for.
16 July
Mr Lindsay, whom I must learn to call Corporal Lindsay, is ‘across the Channel’ — which is all the censors allowed — and writes that his Greek is of less use than his Latin. Also, that his feet and back vie for ‘the honour of greatest weariness’. Perhaps Winifred is right in her supposition, or perhaps he has written to us both: I will ask when I see her tomorrow; she is on duty tonight.
21 July
The weekend flew by with a most splendid surprise: Edmund was at the Station to meet me! He is home for four days. To Mother’s effusive outpourings, he says little. He is not quite the insouciant brother who went off to War. As well he is plagued by a cough. When we had a quiet moment I enquired whether it was gas, to which he shrugged.
Aunt Marjorie proposed a picnic on Saturday, Father arranging a cart to transport us and our hampers to the river. Edmund lay down on the grass and slept, for those moments looking almost relaxed, until Eugenie contrived to be stung by a bee and let out such a yell that he startled awake, wild-eyed and rigid. I have seen the look before and gave him a reassuring smile, whereat he held my gaze. There are things that Mother and Aunt Marjorie will never know about this War, but that cannot now be unknown between Edmund and I.
22 July
I forgot yesterday to write that Winifred on Monday received a note from Mr Lindsay, dated the same day as mine but somehow delayed. So we are even!
Edmund will by now be back in France. I wish more than ever that it were over, and can only trust that Uncle Aubrey is right when he says it will be so before Christmas. One can’t help but remember the same being said last year.
Evie's War Page 8