Edmond came in to greet them, before smartening up for dinner.
‘How did it go?’ Amy asked a few minutes later as he joined her at the table.
He smiled. ‘For a moment the Principal seemed to have quite forgotten who I was,’ he said. ‘Then he asked me if I was certain I’m well enough to continue as a student, and I assured them I’m much improved, and I’ll have you there to support me. Then they agreed I can continue with my second year of studies. There’s a shortage of men there now – just ones who’ve failed their medical for the army or been invalided out like me.’
‘You’ve had a long gap away,’ his mother remarked as Cook brought in the tureen of soup.
‘It’ll be four years – sometimes it seems like a lifetime. But I’ve got six months to read through my first year studies, ready to take up the course again.’
‘I’m so glad you’re carrying on,’ Amy said.
‘What do you suppose you’ll do afterwards?’ Beatrice asked.
‘I’m concentrating on metallurgy.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It concerns metals and their alloys. I’d be happy doing some kind of engineering,’ he said. ‘I enjoy practical work.’ He showed no sign of making any concession to his injuries.
Pa looked at him seriously. ‘You’ll have to consider your capabilities,’ he said. ‘You may never be able to do work requiring you to be very active.’
‘While I’m studying I can decide,’ he said, as bright and animated as he had been when Amy had first known him, and his aim had been to join the British Expeditionary Force.
Cook collected the soup plates and began bringing in dishes of vegetables.
‘How have you spent your day?’ Edmond asked Amy.
‘It’s mild enough at last to take Beth outside,’ she told him. ‘She loves to lie cooing in her pram beneath a tree, watching the branches waving in the breeze.’ Their baby was progressing from a new-born to a little person taking an interest in her surroundings.
‘We must make arrangements for Beth’s christening soon,’ Ma said later when they were sitting in the drawing room. ‘Sometime in June or July would be best.’ She and Pa were delighted with Beth, but Amy suspected Ma would have preferred them to have a boy.
‘When we’ve chosen a date I’ll speak to Uncle Arthur about it,’ Amy said.
‘If only I could fix a wedding day,’ Beatrice said wistfully, looking at the silver framed photograph of her fiancé that she kept on top of the bureau. ‘I don’t imagine Charles will get much notice of when he’s coming on leave. But my dress will be finished soon, so I’ll be ready.’ Amy had seen her being fitted for her gown, lavishly trimmed with lace.
‘I’d like Florence to be a godmother to Beth,’ Amy said. ‘It would be especially appropriate as she was engaged to Bertie.’
‘I suppose she’s a good choice,’ Ma said. ‘Then you can have Beatrice and Peter as the other godparents. I daresay he’ll be able to get leave as he’s not actually fighting.’ Edmond’s brother, Peter, was still working at High Command.
Edmond agreed with her choice. Amy had to accept his relatives assuming the roles, though she would have preferred to invite Lavinia to be the other godmother. She might have had difficulty obtaining leave, though.
Soon Edmond admitted to being quite tired and they went upstairs. He looked briefly into the nursery, to see his daughter sleeping contentedly, then he and Amy went to their room.
‘We’ll need to find somewhere to live in Cambridge,’ she said, turning down the damask bedspread. After some two years apart while he had been fighting, at last they were together every night, a properly united married couple. Edmond was even sleeping better now, disturbed less often by bad dreams.
Their bedroom was comfortable but cluttered, for they liked to use it as a sitting room. There were shelves of books, their small sofa, and the carved wooden cabinet that Peter had shipped over from India for their wedding present. The room was a retreat, where they could withdraw from the rest of the family and be alone together. Even so, she longed for them to have their own home.
‘We’ll take a little house,’ he said. ‘We’ll find one towards the end of the summer, one we can rent, and make sure we have everything there we need.’
‘Just a modest place will do.’ So long as the three of them were together it was all she asked.
‘Yes, and just one servant to help you with the hardest work.’
‘Perhaps a maid who calls in twice a week,’ she conceded.
As he prepared for bed she considered his other plans. ‘I do hope you’re right, that eventually you’ll be able to take up the kind of profession you always planned.’
‘I’m not letting the Huns defeat me! That’s how it would seem, allowing one of their shells to deflect me from my path in life,’ he asserted, paying little regard to the mutilation of his chest.
‘Lots of young men have had to adjust their expectations,’ she reminded him as he climbed into bed. ‘It’s no disgrace.’
‘I’m going to aim high and see what I can achieve. But if I’m prevented from pursuing a scientific career I can always help Pa run the forestry business. I know he’d like me to carry it on.’
He leant on one arm, watching her in the lamplight as she shed her clothes and pulled her smocked nightdress over her head. As she joined him in bed he reached out to take her into his arms. His lips came down on hers hungrily and his hands began to move under her garment to explore her bare flesh.
* * *
One fine afternoon Amy took Beth with her into Larchbury. As usual there were people crowding round the Casualty List displayed outside the post office. Families usually heard quickly by telegram if their next of kin were killed or gravely injured, but people sometimes learned from these lists of more distant relations or school friends who had been lost.
Amy noticed Mother was there; she must have stopped to look at the list when she went to the shops. Amy touched her arm and greeted her.
The Casualty List was long again and Mother was staring at it bleakly. ‘Patrick Watson has been killed in action,’ she said, a tear trickling down her face. ‘He worked on the farm before he joined up.’
Amy put her arm round her mother. ‘I know. One of his daughters used to be a pupil in Florence’s class.’
‘I wonder how the family will manage now, without their father.’ Mother seemed to notice Beth for the first time. ‘It’s lovely to see you two.’
‘I was planning to call in and see you.’
‘Of course – I’m ready to go back to the house now.’
They had to walk past some of Patrick’s family who were there, weeping. Bunches of bluebells had been left by the roadside.
They reached Sebastopol Terrace. ‘Do you want to practise your piano exercises?’ her mother asked her.
Amy seized the opportunity, as Mother had Aunt Louisa there to sympathise with her about the bad news. She practised on the piano for a while as her mother and aunt strolled around their garden with Beth.
Aunt Louisa came to see her in the parlour. ‘Your poor mother,’ she said. ‘She takes it so badly when someone is killed.’
‘I think she relives the day when we heard that Bertie was dead.’ The Casualty Lists affected Amy too, but with Edmond and Beth to care for she was not quite so overwhelmed at the sad reminder.
At length she closed the piano lid and went out to the garden to join her mother and aunt. Mother still had Beth in her arms.
‘How are you progressing?’ Mother asked Amy.
‘More slowly than I’d like, especially now I’ve Beth to care for.’
‘Isn’t there a good piano at The Beeches?’ asked Aunt Louisa, from a deckchair.
‘I don’t like to inflict my feeble efforts on Mrs Derwent and Beatrice,’ Amy admitted.
Mother pursed her lips, annoyed at their intolerant attitude.
Amy gave them the date of Beth’s christening at the end of June.
‘Wonderf
ul!’ exclaimed Aunt Louisa. ‘I’ll be able to attend now I’m in Larchbury.’
‘Uncle Arthur’s looking forward to performing the baptism,’ Amy told them, sitting down in a deckchair near the flowering lilac. ‘He doesn’t think James will get leave.’ He had sounded anxious that he had not heard from his son that week.
‘Have you got a smart dress to wear for the occasion?’ Mother asked. ‘Shall I make you something?’
‘I’m having one made by the Derwents’ dressmaker,’ she told her, hoping Mother would not be offended. Discovering that Ma and Beatrice were ordering new outfits she had resolved to look her best. I’m a Derwent now, she told herself, and if I want them to accept me I must aim to meet their standards.
‘Lovely, dear. We’ll look forward to seeing you in something extra special.’
* * *
As Charles had expected, it was not long before he and his men found themselves in the Front Line again. On this particular cloudy day in April he was supervising his unit as they pounded the Germans, who retaliated with terrifying ferocity. This time they were not facing each other across No Man’s Land, but on opposite banks of the Lys canal.
As usual there were casualties. Among those carrying off the wounded on stretchers was Orderly Fletcher. As the hours dragged on, Charles tried to think of Beatrice’s gentle face. In her latest letter she had told him how proud she was of his bravery in facing the enemy.
Bentley had his binoculars trained on the opposite bank. ‘They’re bringing up some heavier artillery, Sir,’ he reported.
Charles looked grimly towards the narrow stretch of pewter-coloured water and the bank beyond. ‘You know what the orders are,’ he said. ‘We have to hold the Line, whatever happens.’
He was shocked that the land around Ypres, so costly to hold the previous year, had now been seized back by the Germans. So far as he knew, the allied divisions on the Somme were holding on to Amiens, against fierce opposition. In their own area they were fighting to hold Hazebrouck, on another vital rail line. There had been the recent Order of the Day from Field Marshal Haig, urging them to ‘fight on to the end’. The German breakthrough had brought them perilously close to the Channel ports. If the Huns reached the coast – it did not bear thinking about after three and a half years of fighting.
He helped his men to bring up fresh ammunition. All too soon the German attack intensified. Cascades of earth flew up into the air as shells landed nearby. When this operation had started there had been trees on both banks, but now most of them had been obliterated. The noise from both sides of the canal was deafening. There was the whiz of shells passing and the vibrations of them landing. How long could they go on like this?
Something landed nearby and he was thrown to the ground, deafened and rendered barely conscious.
Now his face lay against the damp earth. He struggled to grasp what was happening. The commotion around him was continuing. He tried to pull himself up, but he was dazed and could not manage it. He thought Frank Bentley was there, trying to talk to him. How could he lead his men if he could not focus his thoughts? But something was wrong with his feet, and his right leg. It wasn’t just the fall, or some kind of glancing blow: he sensed it was much worse than that. There were spots in front of his eyes and he knew he was losing consciousness again.
* * *
James heard someone calling for medical help. No-one particularly well-qualified was nearby, and shells were raining down. Trying not to think of the danger, he headed in the direction of the fallen man. Heavens, it was Captain Shenwood. He was unconscious and his right leg looked mangled. Another officer had been pulling him by the armpits further from the fray.
‘Carry on, Orderly, please,’ the officer said. ‘I need to stay with the men.’
James carried on dragging the captain away. He was worried that the officer’s wounded leg would be further damaged as he moved him, but it was essential to get him medical help promptly. He shouted for assistance, but everyone was busy or too far away to help. Shenwood was a tall, well-built man and their progress was slow. The ground near the bank of the canal was uneven and shells were still landing around them, even behind them. Shenwood was known as a good leader, always concerned for the welfare of his men. He had to help him, in spite of the risks.
By now he should be used to evacuating the wounded under fire, but today’s attack seemed especially frantic. Thanks to all the noise there was still no-one else within earshot.
Shenwood’s leg was bleeding heavily and his face was drawn and very pale. When there was a moment’s lull James put the captain down as gently as he could. He reached into his kit for a triangular bandage and hastily fashioned a tourniquet around Shenwood’s leg. When he touched the officer’s forehead it was clammy.
Another shell exploded nearby like a clap of thunder. As James was thrown to the ground he felt loose earth hit his face. He landed heavily, with a pain in his left leg. He looked urgently towards Shenwood; the captain looked no worse.
I’ve got to get him out of this, James thought, but when he tried to get up he fell down again.
‘It’s all right, Fletcher, we’re here now,’ said a distant voice. It was a moment before he recognised his fellow orderly. Two of them had arrived with a stretcher. Carefully they transferred Captain Shenwood on to it, while shells landed not far away.
‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ he said. His own breathing was laboured, as small scraps of earth were lodging in his nostrils. ‘Oh, God! The captain’s left leg is injured as well,’ James said. His boot was damaged and blood was seeping from it, though it looked less alarming than his right leg.
‘Hang on, Fletcher! We’ll be back for you next,’ said his comrade.
‘Just see to the officer.’
‘You’re injured too, and you were unconscious just now.’
As the others carried the captain away, James made another attempt to stand, but was still giddy. He tried to wriggle further from the danger. He took out a cloth from his kit and cleared his nostrils as best he could. He sat on the chilly ground, waiting for the others to return.
The barrage from across the canal continued. He had always hated the interminable war, but now he was horrified at the possibility that the Germans might actually reach the Channel.
* * *
Charles drifted in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware his legs were injured and that he was being transported to a hospital. When he woke for a while he could not quite gather his wits enough to ask the staff what was going on, but he heard talk of an operation. There was a fierce pain in his legs, particularly the right one, which fought his inclination to sleep.
He thought a night had passed by the time his head was clearer. He was aware of the half dozen beds, probably in a ward set aside for officers. For the moment it was peaceful there, with most men sleepy and only a few staff passing by to observe their progress. He had the feeling it had been frantically busy soon after he arrived.
He felt down inside the bed. There was a dressing on his right leg, that much he could tell.
The light was dim: was it early or late in the day? He thought the light was dwindling. A tall young woman in the uniform of a nurse – a VAD nurse – passed by. It must be Beatrice, come to see him, to help nurse him. No, of course it couldn’t be her. Bea wasn’t a nurse. The young woman passed by again. Beatrice was tall but she was taller, and her hair was dark under her white cap, not chestnut like Beatrice’s.
Now she was heading in his direction. ‘How are you, Sir? Are you in pain?’
‘My legs…’ He sought unsuccessfully for a way of describing the pain which would not sound overdramatic or cowardly.
‘You’re about due for some more morphia.’ She took his temperature and seemed satisfied with the result.
‘How bad are my legs?’
‘We’ve dressed your wounds. I’ll fetch a doctor to speak to you.’
As she walked away he had the feeling once more that he knew her. She was an acquai
ntance, someone in his social circle at home.
* * *
Daylight was fading by the time the doctor arrived. The lights were lit now, though they were not bright.
The pain had subsided a little, thanks to the fresh dose of morphia.
‘You’re a better colour now, Captain. Good job that orderly applied the tourniquet to your wound: you’d lost a lot of blood.’
‘How bad are my legs, Doctor?’
‘Very sorry, old man, we had to take off your right foot. It was shot apart.’
He could not mean it. ‘You must be thinking of someone else! I can still feel it.’
‘That’ll be the nerve endings, Captain. I’m afraid we had to amputate it.’
He struggled not to cry out in horror. He had heard of many fine men who had suffered similar mutilations. They almost always reacted courageously, but probably they had found it equally hard to accept.
The doctor hovered, trying to tell him about his treatment, while Charles’s brain seemed to be shutting down, unable to comprehend what was happening. He heard a few words: ‘prevent infection’, ‘out of the fray’, ‘Blighty wound’. He stared bleakly ahead and murmured ‘Yes, Doctor’, from time to time until the man moved on to the next casualty.
Soon they put out most of the lights. The horror still engulfed him but the morphia was making him doze.
When he awoke the ward was quiet and the night sister was sitting writing notes by lamplight. It must be the middle of the night. Could the doctor’s visit have been a dream? No, he was certain it had happened. He tried to fight off despair. He would recover as well as he could and be sent home to Blighty, and to Beatrice. She would understand and support him. But he would be changed, relying on crutches, or an appliance to help him to walk. How dreadful it would be for her.
Then his thoughts returned to his men. Were they still holding that confounded canal?
Until the War is Over Page 7