Somewhere in France

by Jennifer Robson

“Captain Mitchell will be back from leave.”

  Well, then. He could trust Tom to keep on top of things. “Thank you, sir. I’ll just finish off this paperwork.”

  “Bugger the paperwork. Get to bed, get a decent night’s sleep, then send a telegraph to your mother and tell her you’re coming home.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ten days. The most leave he’d had since signing up more than two years ago had been three days. Not long enough to do anything more than take the train to Paris. But ten days was enough for a trip to Scotland, and then . . .

  Perhaps a visit with Lilly? Only lunch, or tea, or whatever was considered proper with the youngest sister of one’s dearest friend. Certainly not dinner at a restaurant or dancing or an evening at the theater.

  Telegraph forms were kept in a pigeonhole above Matron’s desk, and ordinarily were reserved for official use. But the OC had told him he might send one to his mother. He took one and then, hesitating a moment, pulled out a second. The post to England could be unreliable, and he knew there’d been times when Lilly received a bundle of his letters all at once, some of them weeks old. If his letter went astray, and she weren’t able to secure a few hours off work, it didn’t bear thinking about.

  He glanced at the calendar above his desk. If he left on the morning of the twentieth, he’d be back in London by late the following day, in time to take the night train to Glasgow. That would give him six days with his mother and, allowing at least twenty-four hours to return to Aire from London, a slender window on the morning of the twenty-eighth for him to see Lilly.

  He couldn’t, in good conscience, allow any more than that; not only for his mam’s sake, but also for Lilly’s. Though she would, he prayed, be happy to meet him for a cup of tea, he had no illusions that she wanted anything other than friendship from him. And there was the matter of that fiancé, God rot his soul, though she’d never once mentioned him in her letters, and he’d never been bold enough to ask. Was it too much to hope that Quentin Whatsit had cried off when Lilly had broken with her parents?

  He took up his pencil, schooling his doctor’s scrawl to the neatest block letters he could manage, and began to write.

  DEAR LILLY. HAVE BEEN GIVEN LEAVE. HOME TO SCOTLAND FIRST. THEN BACK TO FRANCE VIA LONDON VICTORIA MORNING OF OCT 28. LET ME KNOW IF ABLE TO MEET. SEND REPLY TO MRS GORDON FRASER, LANGMUIRHEAD RD, AUCHINLOCH, NORTH LANARKSHIRE, SCOTLAND. WARMEST REGARDS. ROBBIE

  Chapter 10

  The sun was long gone by the time Lilly trudged up to the door of 21 Georgiana Street and let herself in. It hadn’t been up either when she’d left for work that morning.

  Not counting the journey to and from work at the Willesden Garage, or her half-hour midday break for dinner, she’d spent ten hours hanging off the back platform of a motorbus, clipping tickets and finding change and offering directions and ignoring the comments, some of them shockingly lewd, from a minority of passengers who were still disconcerted by the sight of female conductors on the trams and buses.

  Now all she wanted was a hot bath, assuming Mrs. Collins was in a good mood and let her run one, a plate of hot toast, and an even hotter brick at her feet when she fell into bed. That, and as much sleep as she could manage.

  Charlotte was working late, as usual; she’d been transferred to a new hospital that summer and was well down on the pecking order when shift assignments were made. It had been days and days since they’d had a chance to talk, but it did mean that Lilly could go straight to sleep after she’d bathed and eaten, without being tempted to stay up late.

  “Is that you, Miss Ashford?” came her landlady’s voice from the back of the house.

  “Yes, Mrs. Collins. How was your day?”

  “Terrible. Boiler stopped working again. And me halfway through the household wash!”

  So much for a hot bath. “I’m sorry to hear that. Were you able to get anyone to see to it?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve asked Mr. Pruitt down the road if he might pop by and have a look. He’ll come round tomorrow.”

  “Good luck, Mrs. Collins. I’ll be off to bed.”

  Lilly climbed the stairs, her regulation boots weighing down her every step, and let herself into her room. Switching on the light, she hung up her coat and hat and bent to unlace her boots. Only then did she notice the telegram that had been pushed under her door.

  Toast and tea forgotten, she retrieved the envelope from the floor, then sat on her bed and stared at it. Please, oh please, let it not be about Edward, she prayed. And then the realization: it couldn’t have anything to do with her brother, for the War Office would send news only to her parents. And Mama and Papa would never bother to contact her, not now.

  Could it be?

  She tore open the envelope. Yes; it was from Robbie. He was coming home and would be in London the morning of the twenty-eighth. A Saturday, not one of her days off, but she might be able to persuade one of the other girls to take her shift.

  Where might they meet? He was returning to France via Victoria Station; there was a Lyons tea shop nearby, she recalled. A perfectly respectable place to meet.

  16 October 1916

  Dear Robbie,

  Such a wonderful surprise to return home from work and find your telegram waiting for me. I am so glad your OC feels able to spare you and that you will be able to see your mother.

  I am free the morning of the twenty-eighth. Let’s meet at the Lyons tea shop on Victoria Street (at Palace Street) at eleven o’clock. If either the venue or time doesn’t suit, do let me know.

  Please pass on my regards to your mother.

  Your affectionate friend,

  who is very much looking forward to seeing you again,

  Lilly

  IT HAD BEEN harder than she’d thought, finding someone to take on her shift, but Betty had agreed eventually, with the added inducement that Lilly would cover two additional shifts at any such time as Betty asked.

  She’d barely slept last night and had scarcely been able to eat a thing at breakfast. Before that, there’d been the question of what to wear. After extensive consultation with Charlotte, Lilly had decided on her plain gray wool skirt, which she had recently shortened to a more fashionable calf-grazing length, and a simple white blouse. Over it she wore her best coat, a gray wool, which buttoned tightly at the waist. Bought secondhand from the dressmaker around the corner, it still looked like new. Crowning it all was her hat, a recent extravagance, made of black felted wool and trimmed with a wide ribbon of charcoal-colored satin that Charlotte had unearthed from her mending basket. Nothing about her ensemble was particularly stylish, but it looked well on her and was suitable for the occasion.

  A few years before, she would have turned up her nose at such simple clothes, but she had changed since then, and thank God for that. The Lilly of two years past had been oblivious to her actions and the effects they had on others, as evidenced by the disaster that had befallen the Pringles.

  She’d done her best to atone for that, selling her jewelry and insisting that John Pringle use the proceeds to buy a cottage in Penrith. With the additional help of a character reference from Edward, he had found work at a motor garage and the family had avoided destitution, though not before suffering weeks of agonizing uncertainty and public humiliation.

  Those first months after she’d left home had been exceedingly unpleasant; a fitting punishment, she told herself, for her misdeeds. To begin with, it had taken much longer than she’d expected to find work, for none of the women’s services would accept her without formal qualifications and proper references. When she was finally hired on by the London General Omnibus Company, more than a month after leaving home, it was as a painter and not as a driver.

  Of course she’d been terrible at the job, absolutely ham-fisted, and it was a miracle of sorts that she hadn’t been sacked after her first week. But she had persevered, had become friends with some of the other girls, and had been punctual and attentive enough that after a year her supervisor had recomm
ended her for a coveted position as a bus conductor.

  Work as a clippie, as the female conductors were called, was ever so much easier than painting, and it had been heaven to finally wake up without the smell of oil paint and turpentine clinging to her hair, but it still fell far short of what she had hoped to be doing. She was freeing up a man to fight, that was true, but was she truly making a difference? Was her work actually helping Edward and Robbie in any meaningful way? She knew the answer, and it wasn’t an inspiring one.

  But she hadn’t complained in her letters to Robbie, not once. Instead, she’d written long, carefully composed missives, full of what she hoped were amusing anecdotes about life at home. She was pretty certain he didn’t want to read about zeppelin raids or American neutrality or German U-boats, so she wrote of the craze for jazz music among her friends at work, her well-meaning but inept attempts to knit socks for the troops, her Sunday-morning walks on Primrose Hill, and her occasional trips to the theater with Charlotte, most recently to see the musical comedy Theodore & Co.

  His replies, always prompt, weren’t nearly as long as hers, were often scribbled in pencil, and were strangely barren of detail compared to the letters he’d written while first in France, at the hospital in Versailles. Presumably he had little time to himself at the clearing hospital, which accounted for the brevity of his letters. Likely he didn’t feel she was capable of appreciating the finer points of his work, hence the lack of detail. But it would have been nice to have a better sense of how he spent his days.

  Today she walked the four miles to Victoria from Camden Town; it was a fine morning and she hadn’t been able to bear the wait, fretting, sitting alone in her room. As always, she was struck by the changes that war had brought to the city.

  Everything was shabbier, for a start; an artist would need little more than gray and brown on his palette to capture the scene. There were fewer automobiles than before the war, and fewer horses, too. Nearly every man she saw was in uniform, some of them alarmingly young; surely they were not yet eighteen? A khaki-clad boy passed her, brushing so close that she could see the down still softening his face.

  She continued south on Palace Street, crossing at the junction with Victoria Street. Just ahead was the distinctive white-and-gold lettering of the Lyons tea-shop facade. She stepped inside, scanning the tables to see if Robbie was waiting.

  “May I help you, madam?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you. I’m meeting a . . . a friend. But he hasn’t arrived yet. I’m not sure if I ought to take up a table; you seem so busy.”

  The waitress smiled understandingly. “We’ve been busier, madam. You go on and sit down wherever you like. I’ll come along to take your order once your friend is here.”

  Lilly walked down the center aisle of the tea shop, finally selecting a smaller table, only big enough for two, near the back. She sat, facing the door, and tried to make herself presentable. Not that there was much she could do: tuck any stray curls under her hat, straighten the lapels of her coat, take off her gloves and tuck them in her reticule. She checked she still had her change purse and noticed she had forgotten her handkerchief. If only she had thought to bring something to read.

  Pulling the bill of fare from its little metal stand, she leafed through it slowly, the lines of text blurring before her unfocused gaze. Three pence for a pot of tea, tuppence for lime cordial and soda, a penny each for scones, jam tarts, or ginger cakes. The bell hanging above the shop’s front door jingled loudly; she looked up, her heart racing, but saw only the back of a departing customer.

  Perhaps Robbie had forgotten. Perhaps his train had been delayed.

  Better to think of something else, anything else. What of the people surrounding her? At one table, a group of young women talked excitedly, their chairs pulled into a companionable circle. They were fashionably dressed, their skirts even shorter than hers, and one of them had rouged cheeks and lips. Lilly decided they probably worked in a nearby office or shop, doing the work of men who’d been called up.

  She turned her attention to an older couple, the husband clearly too infirm for service. They’d ordered tea and crumpets, and seemed to be relishing every bite. At one point the wife reached out and gently brushed a crumb from her husband’s coat, a gesture born, Lilly imagined, of long years of love and companionship.

  Nearest to Lilly was a young couple, the man in uniform. The woman held his hand, ignoring her tea, her eyes fixed on his as he spoke slowly, softly, his words indistinct but their murmur infinitely soothing. I promise I will be fine, he must surely be saying. I will be fine; I will return to you; you mustn’t worry about me. I will be fine. Lilly said a silent, fervent prayer that it would be so.

  The bell jangled again, knocking against the glass of the shop’s front door. She looked up, telling herself it couldn’t be him; it would only be another stranger, come for tea and toast and a warm refuge from the sharp chill of the day. But it was Robbie, politely holding the door so the elderly couple, finished with their crumpets, could depart.

  He surveyed the shop interior, then, seeing her, smiled crookedly. The shopgirls, silent for a moment, turned in their chairs to look at him, their expressions nakedly admiring. He walked toward her, unbuttoning his greatcoat; under it she could see the khaki of his officer’s tunic and trousers. Someone, his mother probably, had polished his leather gaiters, boots, and Sam Browne belt, and she saw, as he removed his hat, that his beautiful golden hair had been cut very short.

  “Hello, Lilly. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

  Chapter 11

  “No, not at all,” Lilly answered, her voice even sweeter than he’d remembered. “I only just arrived.” She rose from her chair and, unexpectedly, stood on tiptoes to brush a kiss against his cheek.

  Light as it was, the caress burned like a brand on his skin, lingering after even the memory of her scent had faded. She was so very pretty, her hazel eyes shining, her creamy skin adorned with a constellation of freckles that she probably detested but which he found delightful.

  “Do sit down,” she prompted, and only then did he realize he was still on his feet, looming over her, his coat slung over one arm. Belatedly he sat and tried to gather his thoughts.

  Lilly smiled at him, seemingly unconcerned by his awkward response to her greeting. “How was your journey from Scotland?”

  “Quite pleasant, thank you. It was hard to say good-bye to my mother, though. My wee cabin felt rather lonely for the first few hours.”

  “I’ve never been on a sleeper train. Do they give you a proper bed?”

  “More of a bunk, really, that pulls out of the wall. I slept very well; I think it must be the rhythm of the train. Rather like being a baby in a cradle. Before I knew it, we were pulling into Euston.”

  The waitress, noticing that Lilly was no longer alone, approached them. “Good morning. May I take your order?”

  “What do you want, Robbie?”

  “Just a cup of tea, thank you.”

  “May we order a pot of tea between the two of us?”

  “Of course, madam,” the waitress said, smiling encouragingly. “Would you like something to eat?”

  “Robbie?” Lilly asked, but he shook his head. “No, thank you; just the tea for us.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  The tea arrived in short order, in a stout Brown Betty teapot with a chipped spout. Lilly poured hers immediately, but when she went to fill Robbie’s mug, he shook his head.

  “Thanks, but I’ll wait a minute or two. A legacy from my days as a resident at the London. We’d drink our tea so strong you could stand a spoon in it.

  “So tell me,” he continued, determined to stick to neutral topics, “about your work as a clippie. How long has it been since you started?”

  “A little more than six months. It’s certainly an improvement over being a painter, I can tell you that.” She smiled, her eyes bright with mischief. “Mr. Burns, the man who supervised our crew, was forever shouting at me. I got
drips of paint everywhere, I never cleaned the brushes properly, and I was ever so slow compared to the other girls. He suggested I apply for the training course for bus conductors. It was kind of him. Certainly it would have been easier to sack me.”

  “You don’t say much about your work in your letters.”

  “There’s not much to tell. I stand on the back of the bus, find out where people are going, tell them how much for their fare, make change, and give them their ticket. The only difficult part is the maths.”

  “How do people react to seeing a woman doing what is usually a man’s job?”

  “Most are lovely about it. Tell me I’m a good girl, am doing my part for King and Country, that sort of thing. But some clearly can’t abide the sight of me. You’d think I was dressed for the Dance of the Seven Veils, the way they stare.”

  Then they’re swine, he wanted to say, but thought better of it. “You’re not wearing your uniform today.”

  “We aren’t supposed to when we’re off duty. I think they’re worried we might be seen drinking in public houses or kicking up our heels in dance halls. I don’t mind. I’m happy to wear something else on my day off.”

  “You look lovely.”

  The compliment seemed to fluster her. “Thank you. You too. I mean, you look very fine in your uniform. Very impressive.”

  At this his sense of amour propre flickered to life. So she liked the way he looked? Could that mean . . . ? No, now was definitely not the time to be exploring such thoughts. Best to steer the conversation in another direction.

  “Have you heard from your parents? From any of your people?”

  She blanched at his words; he’d been too successful. “Only Edward. I assume my sisters are siding with Mama. And George is away at school. Likely he has no idea of what has happened.”

  “What about Quentin?” he asked without thinking.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Quentin . . . I’m sorry, I can’t remember his surname. I thought you and he had an understanding.”

  “Oh, no. No, Robbie. I mean, I do know a Quentin. Quentin Brooke-Stapleton. But I haven’t seen or spoken to him in . . . oh, it must be two years. Likely longer. Certainly not since the war began. And he was never more than an acquaintance.”