Remembering the things Arthur told us when Mother fell asleep, I wanted to yell that it was all make believe. I was crying with anger to think he had died for me! My poor brother had been mortally wounded in the squalor of trenches that he himself told us swarmed with flesh flies and rats!
The letter went on in its polite, remorseful way to say that Corporal Smith suffered a severe head wound and was taken by hospital ship to Lemnos. Despite every effort to revive him, Corporal Smith passed away.
In the aftershock, I wondered if it was an error, perhaps our Arthur was still alive. ‘It’s a mistake,’ I whispered. ‘Father, surely he can’t be dead; the army must have made a mistake! So many people dying . . . such a common name, Smith.’
Father had trouble speaking, which somehow made me angrier. Sissy pulled me into her arms. ‘No, they have tags around their necks. There’s no mistake. But remember what he said, Gertie? He said it for a reason.’
I shook my head. ‘No, no! He can’t be dead, Sissy, he’s my brother! Brothers don’t die!’
‘Listen to me!’ she continued, shaking my shoulders before turning to our parents. ‘Mother, Father, when our Arthur was home, he said this: “If the worst happens, Gertie, I’ll remember how much I enjoyed this Christmas dinner. Promise you’ll toast me every Christmas in my absence, preferably when you set the figgy pudding alight and swig the brandy.” So come on, let’s pour a tot of brandy now, for everyone, just like Arthur told us to.’
When we had charged our glasses, Father said, ‘The toast is the last line of the letter. The adjutant assures us that: Corporal Smith has been a great asset to his country and a gallant and universally liked soldier.’
*
Sissy returned home from the munitions factory and, on her twenty-third birthday, she applied to join the Voluntary Aid Detachment. More than ever, she wished to become a nurse and soon signed up for training.
‘Promise you won’t go overseas, Sissy!’ Mother begged.
‘I promise, Mother. Many wounded soldiers have been shipped home and need help right here.’
Yet after a terrible battle on the other side of the Channel, my darling sister volunteered to nurse the wounded in France. She wrote every week and I kept all of her wonderful letters.
*
The shortage of doctors meant we hardly saw Father. When we did, it was clear that Arthur’s death had taken its toll. Gone was the bombastic man who laid down the law. He quietly withdrew into himself. I took over his beloved pigeons when he hadn’t the time. Since the start of the war, his birds had been used by the Pigeon Corps. Often, theirs were the only form of correspondence received by our leaders at home, from the officers on the remote front line.
The coop was built onto the outside of the house, with steps leading up to it, as the attic was Mother’s sewing room. A maid’s bell in the kitchen was attached to a wire across the coop entrance and when it rang, I climbed the ladder, found the bird, removed the canister from its leg, and cycled hurriedly to the police station.
Every fortnight, a despatch rider would arrive on a motorbike and sidecar. He’d take a dozen birds away, and I’d await their return. I was paid generously – twenty shillings a week – and they also supplied a sack of corn for the birds. I loved my job, although sometimes the young policemen would tease me and make me blush. I wanted to follow Sissy and be a nurse and there’s no place for shyness in nursing, so it was vital I gain control of my fiery cheeks as soon as possible.
Life reached an uneasy harmony, but then we received a letter from France. Sissy had come down with the Spanish influenza, which was killing people faster than the war. We were all afraid and watched each other for the symptoms: headache, temperature, dry cough.
Please, Sissy, get better soon!
I was sitting under the tree, about to read one of my sister’s letters. In my mind’s eye, I could see her smiling face and hear her so clearly.
It’s a brave new world, Gertie. Make the most of it.
I must have been staring up the lane because suddenly I realised the telegram boy was cycling towards me but I could still hear Sissy’s voice.
Don’t be sad, Gertie. We’ll meet again, I promise you.
I jumped up to run indoors, not wanting to sign for the telegram while Father was out. Before I’d reached the door, I turned and hurried back to the gate, my heart thumping. Unable to speak for the pain of holding back tears, I took the envelope and signed the receipt. There was no way I wanted to put Mother through the agony.
When I turned to walk away, Albert said, ‘Sorry, but you should read it, miss, in case you want to send a reply.’
I stood there like a fool – what should I do?
Albert said, ‘Do you want me to read it to you?’
It was too much. I shook my head and tore it open.
It is with deep regret . . .
The influenza had quickly turned into pneumonia. Despite the doctors’ efforts, in a matter of days Sissy had passed away.
The following weeks were dark and empty, and my parents were bleak with sorrow. The funeral drained us all, we felt such loss. Mother continued to set two extra places at the table, and Father withdrew further into himself. I became most aware of how sacred, yet fragile, life is. Despite the continuing bombing raids, life went on without our brave Arthur and my darling Sissy. I searched for a way to make up for my parents’ loss, but all I managed was to feel an immense sense of loneliness.
*
A poster on the police station wall caught my eye. Three women in starched white aprons and clipped veils stood side by side.
VAD. NURSING MEMBERS urgently needed. Apply inside.
Trembling with excitement, I felt Sissy’s spirit rise inside me. I had to try! For the first time since my sister’s death, I felt a glimmer of true purpose.
‘Your father’s not going to be pleased, Gertie,’ Sergeant Miller said, handing me the form. ‘Fill this in and submit it, along with any other relevant papers, at the town hall.’
I raced home again, the wind coursing through my hair. I snatched my St John certificate and my French and German schoolbooks, tossed them into the wicker shopper on the front of my bicycle, and pedalled like fury back into Dover.
My heart was thumping by the time I reached the town hall. I retrieved lipstick, powder, and a compact from under the gas mask in my saddlebag – there was no need to rouge my glowing cheeks but I applied the lipstick.
With all my heart and soul, I ached to nurse the sick and injured, to be the heroine of my own life and the lives of others. To be remembered for who I was, to demonstrate to my parents that I was as valuable as my sister and just as capable of performing noble deeds. Having worshipped Sissy until the day she died, I knew the time had come for me to rise up and prove myself. I hurried up the town hall steps as fast as I could.
My age, eighteen, was a problem, so I lied at the desk. ‘Twenty-three, sir,’ I claimed, knowing this was the minimum for female volunteers. Lucky to be taller than most eighteen-year-olds, I stretched up and proudly lifted my chin.
Had he recognised the lie?
Breathe, look confident, be Sissy! It’s all in a good cause.
‘I’m quite capable, sir,’ I said boldly. My heart thudded as I handed over my papers and flung my shoulders back. ‘I passed my St John exam with merit because my father’s a doctor. Also, as you can see from my notebooks, I am fluent in French, and German.’ This was a gross exaggeration. ‘As you know, sir, these languages are a great advantage in these difficult times.’
I could not believe I had spoken to him like that!
His eyes narrowed as he studied me, then he nodded and handed over a list. ‘These are the things you’ll need for training camp, young woman.’
Back home, I considered my actions. I was fulfilling Sissy’s dreams. She wanted me to be bolder, to fight for equality, and stand up for my rights. But what about my dear parents? My heart was breaking for them. Their dread would be devastating, especially m
y mother’s who believed everything came in threes. From the cliff top, I gazed over the English Channel, watching ships, trying to visualise what it would be like to work on one as a warrior in the war for my country. Mrs Pankhurst would be proud, and once my parents had got over their fears, they would be proud too.
I informed Mother and Father of the application at dinner that evening. Father shouted and banged the table top so hard, the salt cellar toppled. Mother cried and begged me to withdraw my application, but I explained that I would help save the lives of young men like my darling brother. Perhaps, if there had been one more pair of hands, my sister may not have been so terribly tired and overworked. If she had been stronger, she may not have caught the influenza in the first place.
Father stood and banged his fists on the table again. ‘How dare you use your departed brother and sister as a weapon to get your own way! You will never attain the skills and self-discipline to step into their shoes!’
His words felt like a knife had been plunged into my chest.
I looked him straight in the eyes. ‘I know, Father.’
The room fell silent. Ashamed of using my siblings to change my parents’ minds, I felt abandoned.
I retired to my room, where I cried and cried, proving my father right. Sissy never cried; she would throw a tantrum.
After much thought, I decided to take the first step and train. After all, I may never be accepted into the Voluntary Aid Detachment, I explained to Mother.
‘You can’t go, Gertie! I forbid it!’ she said the next morning. ‘I haven’t slept a wink, nor shall I if you persist with this madness.’
‘Mother, you can’t deny me my dream. Besides, I must do it for poor Arthur and Sissy. It was Sissy’s dream too, remember? What Father said hurt me terribly, Mother, but what I said was true, if there’d been one extra pair of hands in the hospital, Arthur might have made it. Or at least I could have done my best – instead of doing nothing.’
It was difficult to hold back tears of frustration, but I had to. ‘Do you know how hard it’s been, growing up in the shadow of two such wonderful people? Now I have a chance to shine, and perhaps help some other mother’s son. Would you deny me that chance? Would you deny that mother of another wounded soldier the chance of getting him back alive? Please, the last thing I want to do is hurt you or Father, but you can’t keep me locked away, like a princess in a tower, forever. I know you love me and want to protect me, but I need to grow, Mother.’
Our eyes locked, wide and hard in an effort to hold back pain.
‘All right,’ Mother said quietly after a long silence. ‘I’ll help you.’
We went up to the attic, her sewing room, where she removed a crystal vase of dried honesty and a lace doily from the treadle-top, then set up the Singer. In the corner stood a wooden chest where Mother kept assorted linens and special materials. Next to that, a canvas-covered dressmaker’s form with a beautifully turned walnut neck and stand.
Together, we sewed the things I needed, finally embroidering my name on everything in neat chainstitch. We hardly spoke, both of us full of emotion. My name anchored, tightly stitching my spirit to those earthly things. So long as my name was there, it felt as though everything would work out.
I recall it was an odd list:
One calico bag – six feet four inches by three feet – to be filled with straw at camp.
A pillow-bag.
Two blankets.
A Macintosh rug, if available.
Two towels, a duster, and two tea cloths.
Besides these things I had to take a set of cutlery, a shoe brush, a bicycle or candle lamp, an enamel basin, cup, saucer, two plates, and a block of soap.
‘Here,’ Mother said. ‘Sissy would want you to have this, Gertie.’ She placed Sissy’s silver fob watch in my palm. My parents had bought it for her when she signed up to train as a nurse.
I read the inscription on the back. For our daughter, with love.
‘Oh, Mother, can’t you see that I have to take this step for Sissy too.’ Then, I was in my mother’s arms and we were both crying. ‘I’ll wear it for Sissy and treasure it always.’
CHAPTER 5
SHELLY
Dover, present day.
DESPITE THE DUST AND GLOOM, a spark of excitement tingled as Shelly remembered a trunk of memorabilia under the bed. Better to go through that on her own in case it made her emotional. If there were any clues to her own personal tragedy in there, she didn’t want Eve seeing them.
A moment passed before Shelly realised the kitchen phone was ringing. She hurried downstairs and picked up.
‘Hi, it’s me, Eve. Sorry to let you down at such short notice, but I can’t make it today.’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Absolutely, more than all right. It’s just I’m running a bit late, and now I have to cook breakfast for someone.’ Her voice trailed off to a whisper. ‘Nudge-nudge . . .’
‘Shameless!’
‘Listen, don’t forget to get that holiday booked! Blue skies, turquoise water, remember? You’ve got all day, Shelly, no excuses now!’
Shelly laughed. ‘I will, no worries. See you tomorrow.’ She hung up; the smile still on her face.
‘Who you seeing tomorrow then?’ her father said with a hopeful glint in his eye as he entered the kitchen. ‘Boyfriend, is it?’
‘No, Eve, at work. She was going to come over to help me clear out the spare room, but she’s been side-tracked.’
‘Clear out?’ he exclaimed, the mischief falling from his face. ‘Shelly, you won’t throw any of your mother’s stuff away, will you? I couldn’t bear to part with it, let alone imagine some other woman touching her things.’
It’s been more than twenty years.
‘Of course not, Dad. Don’t worry. I’m sorting it into boxes and we’ll go through each one together, OK?’
His shoulders dropped. ‘That Malcolm’s a nice young man, don’t you think?’
‘The postman? Yes, he’s sweet.’
‘You won’t mind if he comes over once in a while then.’
‘This is your home, for goodness’ sake. You can bring your friends over any time. Listen, did you know Gran Gertie had recorded her memoirs?’
‘I did. They’re for you when you grow up.’
‘Dad, I’m thirty-seven years old. When were you planning to give me the tapes?’
‘I forgot about them. It’s probably safe for you to listen to them now.’
‘Safe?’
‘Well, you need to be a bit, um, broad-minded, like.’
‘Are you blushing, Dad?’
‘No, yer daft bugger!’
*
Gran Gertie had been Shelly’s constant companion in her early years when Mum was postmistress in the village. She recalled the family matriarch’s silver hair, always pulled back in a bun, and her chin lifted so she peered down her nose. Gertie’s soft, freckly hands had oddly shaped knuckles and gentle fingers that dabbed Magic Milk on Shelly’s scraped knees. Gertie removed splinters, sharpened homework pencils, and plaited her long hair before school. Those hands also tucked her into bed before a bedtime story each night.
Shelly smiled, Gran Gertie’s fairy tales always had a naughty elf that said the forbidden words – shit, fart, and bugger. She could hear her great-gran’s voice.
The wind whispered through the treetops like a sprout fart after Sunday lunch.
They would giggle together, eyes fixed on the bedroom door in case they were caught being naughty, the sense of conspiracy making her feel secure. Her great-grandmother knew everything, and if Shelly ever strayed from the facts, Gran Gertie fixed her in a stare and slowly pulled in her chin. Shelly’s heart would pound and in seconds she would breathlessly blurt out the truth, regardless of the consequences.
When times became difficult, Shelly would scramble into Gran Gertie’s lap, her head resting on that pillowing bosom as she stuck her thumb in her mouth. Gertie was the only person in the world who di
dn’t tell her off for sucking her thumb. Shelly still smiled at the thought of her.
She stared into the junk room. Her mother’s treasured doll’s house, the ivory teething ring with a silver teddy dangling, a box of diecast cars, and the brass steam engine that really worked were loved toys.
‘They’ll be worth a few bob now,’ Dad had muttered, but he still packed the toys away. She slid the lid off another box, and found a pile of seasonal sweaters.
*
Physically and emotionally exhausted, Shelly slipped into bed at midnight and quickly fell to sleep thinking about that last Christmas. For the three days of the holiday, Mum made Dad wear a different Christmas jumper. Shelly felt a giggle hopping around in her belly as she remembered how he hated them.
‘If you love me, you’ll wear it,’ Mum challenged as she tugged the green crewneck that bore a ridiculous, grinning Rudolf with square, white teeth over his head.
Their happy marriage was glued together by compromises. ‘I’ll only do it if . . .’ was commonly uttered, and Shelly was captivated by the sometimes bizarre deals struck to secure their relationship.
However, Shelly was not granted this bargaining power, she simply had to do as she was told.
‘Mum, I’m sixteen! I did realise some time ago, there isn’t really a Santa Claus, you know!’
Mum threw her head back and laughed. ‘Shelly, darling, stop being a pain! You can pout all you like, you’re not coming into town with me.’
‘But why not? We always shop together on Christmas Eve. The sales will be starting this afternoon.’
‘I’m going to pick up a special present and I don’t want you around. That’s the end of it. I’m leaving you in charge of the mince pies. Take them out of the oven when the timer goes and pop them onto the wire rack. Mind you don’t burn yourself. I’m just going to have a word with your father.’ Her big brown eyes sparkled with all the merriment of Christmas as she pulled on her coat. ‘He’s around the back, having a Christmas jumper sulk and picking sprouts for dinner tomorrow. So, give me a kiss, my darling daughter, and don’t let the mince pies burn.’
Summer in Greece Page 4