Until the War is Over
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
A Letter From Rosemary
Acknowledgments
Books By Rosemary Goodacre
Copyright
Until the War is Over
Rosemary Goodacre
To my husband, Ian, still adjusting to having a writer in the family. Also to Elaine Everest, tutor at The Write Place Creative Writing School at Hextable, and to my group of writing buddies there. They have given me so much help and encouragement, and together we have enjoyed often hilarious social events.
Chapter One
Larchbury, Sussex, January 1918
‘Will you be ready soon, darling?’ Edmond Derwent asked his wife, Amy.
‘Yes!’ Their baby daughter, Beth, was growing sleepy as she completed her feed. Amy set down the soft, warm little bundle in her cot and buttoned up her dress. It was nearly time to set off for today’s event in the church hall.
She combed the dangling curls of her blonde hair before reaching for her best hat with the velvet trim. She slipped her arms into her coat, then scooped up Beth once more and wrapped her in a thick blanket for her first outing, for the day was cold. Her heart surged with pride as she looked at her sleepy baby. It was the first Saturday of 1918 and some family and friends would be meeting their daughter for the first time.
‘Let me carry Beth for you,’ Edmond said as she approached the stairs, for she needed to hang on to the banister. Her bad leg was still a considerable handicap. She walked with a limp because her broken ankle had been badly set in France at a hospital overflowing with casualties, and she could only make slow progress.
He took hold of his daughter, his blue eyes bright, for he too was still overwhelmed with joy at Beth’s arrival on New Year’s morning. He was tall, and thinner than when they had married. With clothes concealing the lung injury he had sustained near Ypres, he was still a good-looking man, though strain occasionally showed in his face.
‘How will we all get in the motor car?’ he asked as his father joined them in the hall. With his mother, and sister, Beatrice, there would be five of them, besides the baby. ‘I’d better walk.’
‘No, I’ll have time to make two trips,’ Pa said valiantly, for he was without a chauffeur now the man had joined up. As Amy had grown closer to Mr Derwent, Edmond’s father, she had started calling him Pa.
‘I don’t mind walking,’ Edmond said. ‘I’m recovering every day.’
Amy admired his optimism but he still got breathless easily.
‘You’re not that fit yet,’ Pa said. ‘It’s nearly two miles to the village. I’ll drive you two and Beth first, for everyone will want to see her.’
His wife bustled into the hall, wearing one of her huge feather-trimmed pre-war hats. Amy called her mother-in-law Ma, but that lady was often standoffish, only warming a little lately, with the arrival of her grandchild.
‘If only the day were milder,’ Ma said.
Amy gasped as Pa opened the front door. It had been snowy for two days, but now sunshine illuminated the drive, shining on the bare branches of the ancient beech trees, sparkly white against the blue sky.
‘It’s like fairyland!’ she said. She supposed Beth was much too young to appreciate the magical scene.
Pa’s tall figure was still unbent as he walked resolutely to the car. He drove them down to St Stephen’s, the old stone church in Larchbury village, where Amy’s uncle, Arthur Fletcher, was vicar. She felt a glow of anticipation as they hurried past the church, through the slush along the path to the hall.
At the door to greet them was Uncle Arthur, wearing his dog collar with everyday clothes. ‘Your news is marvellous,’ he told them. Beth was stirring now.
Beside Uncle Arthur were Aunt Sophie, in her best dress, and the upright figure of James, her cousin. He had not managed to get Christmas leave but now he was home. Since she had last seen him he had grown a moustache. He eased back the corner of Beth’s blanket to take a better look, and beamed at her.
‘How lovely to meet a new member of our family!’ he exclaimed.
Tables and chairs were arranged in the hall, which was lavishly decorated with foliage, mostly branches of pine from the Derwents’ forest.
Amy’s parents were sitting at one of the tables, and Father rose to hug her. He was brother to the vicar. As she sat down with them, Mother reached across to kiss Beth’s cheek. Others welcomed them, smiling at the new arrival, who slept on.
Her friend, Florence, in her familiar brown winter coat and smartest hat, greeted them from the same table. She had already visited Amy to see little Beth.
The hall was half full, and many parishioners were soberly dressed. Recent church services had included prayers for the outcome of the war, and Uncle Arthur struggled to keep his sermons optimistic. ‘We must keep faith,’ he would reiterate to a weary congregation.
Soon Edmond’s parents and Beatrice arrived. She was wearing her fur-trimmed coat and her smile looked a little forced. At church the previous Sunday, she had been the centre of attention, when her engagement to Lieutenant Charles Shenwood had been the latest news. Amy realised now their Beth had seized her limelight.
‘They might have held the event in the vicarage.’ Beatrice looked disgustedly at the paraffin heaters, which were not always adequate, and the hard wooden chairs.
Uncle had considered using the large reception room in the vicarage, but was uncertain how many parishioners would attend. While some welcomed the festive diversion, others found little to celebrate.
‘I’m so glad Aunt Sophie had her brainwave,’ Amy said.
The vicar’s wife had proposed that the afternoon should celebrate the Women’s Working Party, who sent comforts to the troops. They and their families were encouraged to attend.
‘And we’ll have young men to tell us how the work is valued by the soldiers,’ Aunt Sophie had told them when she had planned it in December. ‘You’ll speak to them, won’t you, Edmond? And I think James will be on leave by then.’
‘I’m glad they invited you to speak too,’ Edmond said to Amy. ‘After all, you’ve nursed in France.’
She nodded, only slightly apprehensive. Hadn’t she always maintained that women’s opinions should be valued?
Pa chose the table next to theirs, and allowed Ma and Beatrice to sit down first. Amy preferred to sit with her parents and Florence. Besides being Amy’s oldest friend, from school days, Florence had been engaged to her brother, Bertie, before he had been killed on the Somme. Amy had not fully recovered from the loss, and probably never would. She pitied Florence, still often submerged in grief. Even now Amy’s parents regarded Bertie’s fiancée as practically part of the family.
Amy’s spirits rose again as Mother took baby Beth into her arms. How relieved she had been when Mother had arrived to hold her hand through the final stages of Beth’s birth! The baby opened her eyes, gurgled a little and then settle
d again. Father, smart in his newest suit, admired his grandchild.
Amy unbuttoned her coat. ‘Do I look all right in this dress?’ she asked. It was her blue woollen one, two years old. ‘I couldn’t get into my newer day dress.’
‘Of course, dear.’ Mother’s hair had been fair once, like Amy’s, but was turning paler now.
Margaret Leadbetter, an enthusiastic member of the Working Group, came to their table. ‘Congratulations on your good news!’ she said, admiring Beth. Her husband, the headmaster, followed her to their table to greet them. Amy’s father taught in the senior section of the village school, and Florence taught a junior class. Mr Fletcher and Miss Clifford were both popular teachers.
As a few more villagers arrived there were other families they knew and two women interested in joining their group. Coughs and colds were keeping some members away, she had heard.
‘Arthur might have fitted everyone into the room at the vicarage after all,’ Amy’s father said. Few people had removed their coats in the chilly hall.
The vicar climbed the few steps to the platform and formally greeted his guests. Then, to their surprise, Edmond’s father got up and followed him. ‘May I call upon you all to wish the vicar a very happy fiftieth birthday,’ he announced, in his loud, confident voice. Most of the visitors gasped with surprise, previously unaware of the occasion, then they burst into applause.
‘Our vicar and his wife generously decided to hold a party for the Women’s Working Group, instead of a private party for a select group of friends and family,’ he told them.
‘It was a wise decision,’ Amy’s father said to the others on his table. ‘With the news from Flanders there’s so little to celebrate.’ After more than three years of fighting, hardly any families were unaffected by the terrible losses.
‘We must all offer our congratulations to Amy and Edmond, on the birth of little Beth,’ Uncle Arthur said. ‘They are like a symbol of hope, of life carrying on in spite of all the horrors.’ Other guests turned to them and clapped their hands.
Amy basked in their good wishes. Once she had been regarded with disapproval by some villagers, when her direct action with the Suffragettes had been discovered. Now, following her war work as a nurse, she felt accepted once more.
In a pause while some latecomers arrived, James fetched another chair and joined their table, smiling.
‘I’m glad they approved your leave,’ Amy said.
He was less plump and had grown up noticeably in the past year, while working as an orderly at the Front. ‘How are you both now?’ he asked.
She had last seen him while she was nursing in France, before she was sent back to have her baby. At that time Edmond had still been seriously ill in the hospital in Ypres.
‘Much better now,’ she reassured him. Edmond is recovering, though he’ll never be entirely fit, she thought. My ankle is better, but it still feels stiff and my walking is impaired, but all the same… ‘When I wake up now and we’re both together and have a beautiful daughter, it seems like a miracle,’ she said.
‘I wish I hadn’t been invalided out,’ Edmond said. ‘I keep thinking of the poor chaps in the Front Line.’
‘But you nearly died!’ Amy exclaimed. ‘Your lung may never heal fully. You’ve made your contribution.’ She understood how he felt, though, for she had joined the Voluntary Aid Detachment and nursed troops in London and in France before her pregnancy and injury.
‘This afternoon we’ll be hearing from some brave young people who have served at the Front,’ Uncle Arthur said now. She knew he was determined the women of the Working Party should realise how much their contributions were appreciated. ‘I’d like to call upon Edmond Derwent to begin.’ He sat down on one of the chairs arranged on the platform.
Edmond walked forward and climbed the steps to the platform, less nimble than he had once been. Conversation stopped as the guests waited respectfully for him to speak. The Derwents were a prominent family in the village, and with his brave struggle to overcome his wound, he had gained their admiration.
‘This time last year I was in France, in the Somme area,’ he said, standing very upright in front of them, in his khaki army uniform, with one hand on Uncle Arthur’s chair. ‘It was bitterly cold, with frequent snowstorms, and I can tell you all we were very thankful to receive the socks and gloves and balaclavas you fine women knitted for us. Imagine what it’s like to go on night patrol when it’s frosty!’
Ma and Beatrice exchanged self-congratulatory glances. Ma remarked loudly on their determination to contribute to the war effort by joining the Working Party. Amy recalled the way they missed sessions there when they felt it essential to visit the shops or their dressmaker instead.
‘It was a happy day for us, every time a bundle of comforts from home arrived,’ Edmond went on. ‘And the cakes our families sent, of course – they always cheered us.’
‘Thank you for telling us that,’ Uncle Arthur said. ‘Now may I call on your wife, Amy, to share some of her experiences working in France as a nurse. You take a seat here on the platform, Edmond – I’ll invite questions shortly.’
Amy went up and looked out over all the familiar faces. She knew what she must say.
‘It’s vital that we have a good supply of bandages,’ she said, for the Working Party prepared and packed dressings. ‘Some days lots of casualties arrive…’ She stopped short of telling her audience about the groaning patients, waiting on stretchers to be allocated a bed; she must not become too graphic for gentle listeners, like Mother. But at the Front sudden emergencies would arise.
From where she was standing on the platform she could detect a delicious savoury smell of soup. Although the hall was warming up, something hot and nourishing would be very welcome. ‘It’s essential we practise good hygiene on the wards to aid recovery,’ she said. ‘We need to replace dressings regularly.’
‘Thank you, Amy. And now, as my son James is home on leave, he can tell you about his work as a medical orderly.’
There was less obvious enthusiasm as he joined them on the platform. People still remembered that he had not volunteered to fight, and had taken a position as an orderly only when conscription loomed and he might otherwise have faced jail for refusing to fight.
He hesitated. ‘Edmond and Amy have covered several important points already,’ he said. ‘Regarding the medical dressings, there are sometimes delays to the transport. We need to maintain a good stock so we don’t run short.’ He seemed to be considering what to say next. ‘And don’t forget, the men love to receive letters from home. Time passes slowly for an invalid, and news of loved ones will raise his spirits.’
His father stood up. ‘Thank you, James. Now, are there any questions?’
The three of them sat apprehensively, wondering what their audience might ask.
Mr Leadbetter rose to his feet. ‘Is there any hope of victory in the near future?’ he asked. It was what they all wanted to know, but no-one else had dared enquire. Newspaper reporters implied that the war would not grind on for much longer, but they had been repeating that since 1914.
Edmond stood up. ‘I believe there are causes for optimism,’ he said. ‘The Americans have joined us now, and should reach Europe in large numbers this spring. And we have our new vehicles, the tanks, which can move fast across muddy terrain.’ He had heard from friends who were still serving how effective they could be.
Aunt Sophie got up from a chair near the platform. ‘Thank you all for your contributions,’ she told them. ‘Whenever I attend the Working Party I shall be certain I’m helping the war effort. Now then, I’ll see if the refreshments are ready.’
She went to the kitchen area but did not return, so Amy suspected they needed to wait a while longer.
‘Can anything be done to make life easier for the invalids?’ Uncle Arthur asked them.
‘Hospitals hold concert parties for convalescents when they can find entertainers,’ Amy said. There had not been a concert at her hospital.
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James got up. ‘We had a patient who was a cavalry officer,’ he said, ‘so we cheered him up in the classic fashion.’
‘How did you raise his spirits?’ the vicar asked. Edmond was smiling as though he knew what the answer would be.
‘You have to take his horse to see him. We arranged it.’
They took a horse on to a ward? Amy was incredulous.
‘It was in the autumn, and the officer was in a tent,’ he explained. ‘Mind you, the horse was a great brute, almost seventeen hands he must have been, and the tent nearly collapsed around them.’
Their audience could not help laughing at his comical account.
Aunt Sophie returned. ‘We’re just going to serve the meal,’ she announced.
Amy exchanged glances with Edmond and James. They had conveyed the importance of the Working Party well, she felt. They followed the vicar down from the platform and returned to their table. As they passed Edmond’s parents she noticed Ma was looking bored. A smart friend of Beatrice had joined her table to admire her engagement ring, with its cluster of diamonds.
Mother got up and passed Beth to Amy, before following Aunt Sophie to the kitchen, to help serve the meal. Mrs Johnson, the good-humoured charlady, followed them. She helped Mother once a week and also came twice weekly to the Derwents at The Beeches, as Ma was struggling to manage with fewer servants than before the war.
Beth was still sleeping peacefully. ‘It must be cheerless in France now,’ Amy said to James. ‘I suppose it’s quiet at least.’ There was seldom fighting in the depth of winter.
‘We’ve still got lots of wounded to tend.’
Uncle Arthur said grace. As plates of hot carrot and coriander soup were brought around Amy fell quiet, remembering some of the brave men she had nursed, particularly ones who had not survived. She held Beth firmly with one arm, while sipping the tasty soup.
James’s eyes lit up as he turned towards Florence. ‘It’s lovely to see you,’ he said.
She nodded her head in a token reply, looking uneasy. He had grey eyes like Bertie’s and Amy supposed the resemblance was disturbing.
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