* * *
During the days that followed the weekend with Aunt Louisa, the memory still resonated, with its shocking end.
Katherine’s parents lived in Kent, and two weeks later Pa drove them over there to attend her funeral. Amy had to feed Beth discreetly in the car and leave her with Pa while she and Edmond attended the service. She had managed to fit into a dress she had worn when mourning Bertie, and Edmond wore his uniform. It was a moving occasion, attended by several of the staff from St Luke’s, some of them nurses who Amy had once worked with. She gathered that Laurence was in northern Italy with his unit, unable to obtain leave.
Afterwards she assured Katherine’s family how valuable her work had been, and how she would miss her.
‘It seems the planes that came over that night were larger than the Gothas,’ her uncle said, his brow wrinkling. ‘They used a new type of large bomb.’
‘So I read,’ Edmond said.
Amy had heard that too. It was not much consolation to know that only the one aircraft had inflicted losses.
‘Another Gotha attacked the following night,’ Katherine’s uncle went on. ‘It hit St Pancras station and lots of people were killed.’
They stayed a little longer. Amy still felt numb when she remembered Katherine’s smile as she had talked of her plans for her future with Laurence. They travelled back to The Beeches, sick at heart.
Next day she went to Sebastopol Terrace to see Mother, who had received a fretful letter from Aunt Louisa. ‘She’s nervous about the crack in her wall,’ she told Amy, scratching her head, ‘although her builder says it’s not in a dangerous state. And she says she doesn’t sleep well at night now from fear of another raid.’
‘Poor Auntie!’
‘So we’ve invited her here to stay,’ Mother went on. ‘We’ve got enough space.’
‘How long for?’
‘Till the end of the war, I suppose.’
So a few days later Aunt Louisa arrived at Amy’s parents’ little house, with the most essential of her belongings. ‘I feel much safer here,’ she told the others.
When Edmond’s X-ray was ready it confirmed the consultant’s view that his lung was mending as well as could be hoped.
The memory of the sudden loss of her friend continued to disturb Amy.
* * *
Florence was attending lacemaking classes, run by Madame Rousseau, one of the group of Belgian refugees they knew. Amy and Florence had been part of the team helping them after they had first fled to Britain in 1914. Now Amy began going with her friend to the classes in Wealdham. She looked forward to their Saturday outings, with Florence helping her get on and off the train. Edmond was content to mind Beth.
One Saturday in early March Florence phoned to say she had a bad cold and would rather stay at home.
‘I’d still like to go,’ Amy said. She was getting a little more confident at walking, and Madame Rousseau lived near Wealdham station. Pa drove her to Larchbury station for the early afternoon train, and arranged to meet her as usual when she returned on the train that arrived at about half past four.
She passed a pleasant afternoon improving her skills, manipulating the bobbins carefully to move the strands of cotton around the pins according to the pattern. She loved watching the intricate design gradually appearing. She chatted happily to the other woman who was learning the process. Madame Rousseau was stout and grey-haired, and her black-haired daughter, Yolande, looked grown up now. These days most of the younger Belgian men had joined up to return to Flanders to fight the enemy, and the women and children were becoming more settled in Wealdham.
Madame Rousseau always refused to let Amy and Florence pay for their lessons. ‘You’re making progress, I can see that,’ she told Amy. She spoke English with only a faint accent now.
‘I want to make a panel of lace for a dress for Beth’s christening,’ Amy told her. ‘Goodness, is that the time? The afternoon has rushed past. I must go and catch my train back.’
* * *
It was cool and cloudy as she walked the short distance to the station, thankful she was around a mile away from the river, with only a faint whiff of the foul air around the factories. She took her place on the usual platform. The stationmaster was walking along, speaking to the few waiting passengers. ‘Where are you going, Miss?’
‘Larchbury.’
‘They’ve just phoned from up the line. The train’s broken down. They’re sending another one, but it’ll be a good half hour getting here. You might like to go in the waiting room.’
She retreated there, with another two women who were engaged in conversation and paid little attention to her. She took out the scrap of lace she had completed, admiring its even pattern. Edmond would be interested to see it.
She wondered if she should make a telephone call to The Beeches to tell them she was delayed. But the train had been late before, and Pa had not minded waiting. When it was due she went out on to the platform.
‘It’ll be a while longer,’ the stationmaster told her when she had been waiting for several minutes.
‘Perhaps I should phone to say I’ll be late.’
‘Better not leave the platform. I’m not exactly sure how long it’ll be.’
It would not do to miss it. She waited, sometimes pacing awkwardly along the platform, wishing she had phoned when she had first heard it would be late. The other women were complaining about the delay.
When they finally heard the approaching train she had been waiting for over an hour. She climbed into a second class carriage as best she could, hanging on to the door, and sat down. Poor Pa, if he had been waiting all this time. The other women got into her carriage, but alighted at Alderbank.
At last she reached Larchbury, as dusk was falling. She gave up her ticket to the collector and went outside, but there was no sign of Pa or the car. She remembered vaguely that besides meeting her train he had to collect Beatrice from a friend’s house.
There was the sound of another train arriving from the opposite direction.
‘Mrs Derwent?’ The stationmaster had recognised her and followed her outside. ‘Your father-in-law was waiting, but we told him the train was delayed. He had to go off on another errand, and said if he wasn’t back you were to take a cab.’
‘Thank you.’ As she made for the solitary cab a woman hailed it and it drove off.
Amy stood wondering what to do. She could telephone Edmond, but she did not want him to rush out and tire himself walking to the station and back. She could wait for the cab to return, or walk back by herself.
It’s already past the time to feed Beth, she thought. She turned up the collar of her coat and set off along the High Street towards The Beeches. It was dark now, and before long she was regretting her decision. Her walking was slow and tiring, and it was over a mile to the driveway to The Beeches.
Behind her she could hear footsteps, a man’s footsteps, she judged, determined not to look round. In front of her the road was empty in the early evening. If only the street lights were on, she thought now it was getting quite dark, but the blackout had been extended beyond London. And when she reached the turning for The Beeches the narrow road would be even less likely to have familiar passers-by.
The footsteps seemed to be getting closer. Echoing from the buildings, they were heavy steps of a large man. She tried to hurry but it was no use; she could not reach any speed with her bad leg. She felt her heart beating as unwelcome thoughts invaded her mind. A man was pursuing her, and she was suddenly paralysed with fear, remembering her ordeal in Ypres the previous summer.
She had been on her way to the nurses’ hostel there when he had come out of a bar and seized her, urging her to spend the evening with him. She shivered at the memory of Wilfrid Fairlawn’s hot, beery lips and his hand ranging over her breasts.
She remembered breaking free and running through the rubble-strewn street with his lofty figure pursuing her. Then she had lost her footing and sprawled among the loose stones, l
anding heavily on her ankle. He had started to run towards her, and it was probably only the approach of a vehicle that had made him give up.
But now I’m in Larchbury, she told herself. Can I call on someone? But my parents and uncle and Florence all live in the other direction.
The streets are familiar, she tried to reassure herself, and any minute now I’ll meet someone I know.
It did not help. The memory of that evening, when she had been at Wilfrid’s mercy, made her feel clammy and faint.
Back then he had left her in pain, alone in the dark street, unable to pull herself to her feet. Only the timely arrival of a pair of nuns had brought about her rescue. They had summoned an ambulance and she had been taken back to the hospital, desperate with worry that the fall might cause her to miscarry her baby.
Now, in Larchbury, as the footsteps pounded behind her, her feet were barely doing her bidding. What if she lost her footing and fell?
The steps were catching her up, as though the man was determined to reach her. Now he was right behind her.
‘Mrs Derwent?’ She stopped, alarmed at the man’s voice, trying to think who it might be.
‘It’s me, George.’
She turned and looked at the man, in his private’s uniform. There was just enough light remaining to make out his friendly, familiar face: of course, he was the former gardener from The Beeches, who they had last seen in the autumn, when he was on leave.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Derwent? I didn’t mean to startle you.’ His voice was deep but gentle.
‘Yes, thank you. How nice to see you.’ She struggled to speak to him normally.
‘I’m on leave again. They can’t usually spare men now there might be a major offensive. They only allowed it because my cousin’s recently died near Passchendaele.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear you’ve lost him,’ she said, stricken. ‘Did he live with your relatives in Wealdham?’
‘Yes – I’ve spent most of my leave with them. But Mum and my sisters are back here in Larchbury now – they managed to find a cottage we could afford. I’m thankful to be back. I’ve just had a pint in the Station Tavern with an old school friend who’s been invalided out of his battalion.’
Amy remembered the tiny, grimy house near the factories in Wealdham that they had visited in the autumn. The smoky air had given Edmond his relapse. How glad she was that George’s mother and sisters no longer had to live there.
‘How’s Mr Edmond getting on?’
‘He’s much better, thanks.’ She was still trembling a little from her fright.
Just then she heard the noise of a car coming down the road towards them. As it slowed down she recognised their family car.
‘Hello, Amy,’ Pa said, getting out. ‘Sorry I wasn’t at the station to meet you. Is that you, George? How are you doing?’
They exchanged news for a minute more, then Pa opened the door for Amy. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked her.
‘Yes, thank you.’ She had not quite recovered from her scare.
‘You shouldn’t have tried walking back on your own. Well, it was good to see George. He’s a much better gardener than his brothers.’
His younger brother, Henry, had taken over for a while before he also had left to fight. Then Joe, the youngest, had taken his place.
Amy struggled to compose herself as Pa drove her back to The Beeches. Why had she become so nervous, simply walking through Larchbury? The memory of Wilfrid Fairlawn’s manhandling of her in Ypres was haunting her still.
I must overcome this, she reasoned. I was becoming independent when I was nursing in London, sometimes walking back after dark by myself to the hostel. I can’t let my experience with Wilfrid leave me frightened to be alone.
* * *
Edmond was interested that George was back in Larchbury, though only for a few days. I must try to see him before he goes back to France, he thought.
Amy was quiet that evening, almost as though something was troubling her. ‘Was the walk back becoming too much for you?’ he asked her.
‘No – well, I was becoming a little tired, I suppose.’
She had been by herself after dark, he realised, but it was not like Amy to be upset by that.
On the Sunday he went to speak to George after church. ‘Let’s go and take a pint together in The Farmers,’ he suggested to the young man. It was the inn in the middle of the village.
He bought them glasses of beer. ‘What happened to your cousin?’ he asked. So far as he knew there was little activity at the Front. Perhaps the man had caught one of the fevers going round.
‘It was an accident.’ George’s face was sombre. ‘You know what the roads are like out there. He was travelling in a wagon when it turned over and he was thrown out.’
‘What a dreadful waste of his life!’
‘At least it was quick.’
Another pointless death, Edmond thought, but now he himself was not fit to fight he felt he must at least talk to men on leave, allowing them to unburden themselves of disturbing memories.
When they had finished their pints he went to buy another round.
The bartender looked dubious and went out to the back, returning with Mr Spencer, the innkeeper.
‘Don’t you know you’re not supposed to treat another man to a drink now?’ he asked sternly.
‘Sorry, I’d forgotten.’ It was a wartime regulation, intended to discourage drunkenness. The beer was watered down too, Edmond had heard. Did Mr Spencer know he had already treated George to one drink, he wondered. ‘May I just buy George one? He’s a soldier on compassionate leave.’
‘Very well, Lieutenant Derwent, just this once.’
He and George sat companionably discussing the trenches. They were still waterlogged, George told him, and lately they had become infested with insects. The men had got trench foot, open sores and fungal infections that could even lead to gangrene. Edmond listened patiently.
They changed the subject when other customers came and sat nearby. George asked after Beth and he was pleased to tell of her progress.
Pa soon arrived, to drive him home, and they both shook George’s hand and wished him good fortune as he prepared to return to the Front.
As Pa drove him back Edmond’s thoughts were elsewhere. They had recently received a letter from Peter, with mention of his work for High Command, investigating disciplinary matters. But that’s not all he does, he thought, recalling his brother’s revelation at Christmas about his secret visit through a tunnel to occupied Belgium. He and Peter had not confided this mission to anyone else in the family. What’s he really doing now, Edmond thought. Is he still undertaking clandestine activities, vital but highly dangerous?
Soon they were joining the family for luncheon. Amy remained a little subdued at times, he found, but would not admit to anything being wrong. He supposed she must still be upset at the sudden loss of Katherine.
Chapter Five
Flanders, March to April
For a few weeks in the depth of winter Charles Shenwood had been billeted in a house, but now the brief respite of living within four sheltering walls was over. The privates had taken turns in maintaining the trench, while those not on duty had sometimes managed to find barns to sleep in.
The trench had not improved in his absence. There was the familiar sickly smell of mud. The cold seemed to gnaw into his bones. There were two beds in his dugout but for the moment he seemed to have it to himself, though another officer was expected. The men, if they were lucky, would be able to sleep between their night time duties in funkholes in the trench wall.
The sound of artillery was noticeable; it seemed the spring offensive would begin in earnest one day soon. It was late afternoon, and the men were beginning to return from inspecting and repairing the barbed wire. Charles had little time to distribute his few belongings around his bunk. He took Beatrice’s framed photo from his knapsack and positioned it carefully on the crudely made shelf. With her beautiful face smiling at him
he felt slightly more settled.
The gas curtain fell back at the entrance as another officer came in and saluted, followed by an orderly carrying his kit.
‘First Lieutenant Bentley reporting for duty, Sir!’ The red-haired officer saluted him.
Charles had met him before somewhere. Probably they had both joined the battalion in 1914. ‘You’re back from the hospital, I gather,’ he said. ‘Take a seat.’
The newcomer sat on the edge of the free bed. ‘Thank you for escorting me, Fletcher,’ he said to the orderly. ‘I can manage now.’
‘Fletcher?’ Charles stared at the young orderly. He had the feeling he had seen him before, too, but in some civilian capacity. ‘I know you, don’t I? Where have we met before?’
The orderly smiled shyly. ‘At my cousin’s wedding, Sir,’ he replied. ‘You were best man when Amy married Edmond – Lieutenant Derwent.’
‘Yes, of course. I remember you – you were an usher, weren’t you?’ Both times, he was tempted to add, but he stopped himself from reminding the young man of the first occasion. As usher he had had the unenviable task of telling the wedding guests that the service would not take place as the bride could not, after all, attend. Poor Amy, being arrested on her wedding day.
‘I know Lieutenant Derwent!’ exclaimed Bentley. ‘We shared a dugout for two years, till he got severely injured. Is he recovering well?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said Fletcher. ‘He’s been very brave, and he’s becoming more active now, though he’ll never be fit enough to fight again.’
‘That’s tremendous. For a week or two we didn’t know if he’d survive.’
A new recruit arrived with a mug of tea for Charles, who sent him off to fetch two more. ‘Everyone well in Larchbury?’ he asked Orderly Fletcher. ‘Amy had a little girl, didn’t she?’
‘That’s right, Sir. Both doing well. And I believe you are to be congratulated, Sir? I hear you’re engaged to Beatrice Derwent.’
Until the War is Over Page 5