‘Are you family?’ he asked Davy.
‘No,’ Anna said.
‘Yes,’ Liesel replied at the same moment. ‘Nearly,’ she added, shooting a sideways look at Anna. ‘We’re practically engaged.’
‘Practically engaged ain’t good enough. He’ll have to wait outside,’ the guard said.
‘But I want him with me!’ Liesel protested, her pretty face screwing up as it always did when she was on the verge of a tantrum. She would be stamping her foot any minute, Anna thought.
‘For heaven’s sake, let’s go in,’ she sighed.
‘But I want—’
‘Don’t make a fuss, Liesel! We’re late enough as it is. Do you want to waste even more time?’
She half dragged her sister through the gates, ignoring the longing looks she sent back over her shoulder at Davy.
‘Practically engaged, indeed!’ Anna snorted.
‘Well, we are!’
‘You’re barely twenty!’
‘I’m exactly the same age Mother was when she married Papa, so there.’
Anna thought her heart would break when she saw her father standing waiting for them. Friedrich Beck was smiling as usual, but she could sense the deep sadness in him.
‘Look at you both. What beautiful young ladies you are!’ he greeted them in his usual way, kissing them on both cheeks and holding them at arms’ length to look at them.
‘I’m not beautiful, Papa. Look at my hands. They’re so rough and red, like an old woman’s.’ Liesel held them out for him to inspect.
‘Nonsense, the outdoor life suits you. You have quite a bloom in your cheeks.’ He stroked Liesel’s face, then turned to Anna, his features softening. ‘And you, Liebling … Your mother has told me how you have been helping her in the bakery as well as doing your own work. It is very kind of you.’
‘I did it for you, Papa.’
‘My sweet girl …’ Friedrich turned away, but not before Anna saw the tears glistening in his dark eyes.
They spent the next hour or so as they usually did, walking in the grounds, then drinking tea in the recreation room. They played cards, and chatted, talking about anything but what was to come. They all talked too fast and laughed too loud to try to keep it at bay. But it was there all the same, casting its dark, heavy shadow over all of them.
And all the time, Anna’s gaze kept straying to the clock on the wall, its ponderous ticking measuring away the precious time she had left with her father.
Finally, Friedrich said, ‘I’m sorry, my girls, but we must talk about the practicalities of what is to come.’
He sat very still, his thin hands resting on his knees. The skin on the back of them was wrinkled and spotted with age. He was barely fifty but his shoulders were stooped like an old man’s, Anna noticed.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘I want you to know that you will be well looked after, even though I cannot be here myself to take care of you. I have written to a solicitor and made arrangements for you both.’
‘Papa, please. Don’t,’ Anna begged, but her father held up his hand.
‘No, Liebling, this is something I must say. I need you both to listen.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Liesel, I have arranged for you to have some money. It is not a fortune – as you know, I am not a rich man – but it will be enough to make sure you are reasonably comfortable until you get married.’
For once Liesel didn’t seem to be able to speak. She could only nod, her head bowed.
Friedrich turned to Anna. ‘And you, my dear,’ he reached for her hands, ‘I am giving you my bakery.’
‘Papa!’
‘I would have divided everything between you both equally, but I know Anna has always been more interested in the business than you are, Liesel.’ He looked anxiously at them both. ‘What do you say? Do you agree it is fair for your sister to take over the bakery?’
Anna held her breath as she waited for her sister to speak.
‘Yes, Papa,’ Liesel replied.
‘But I don’t want you to think you have to keep the business going,’ he said to Anna. ‘You may sell it if you wish, use the money to make a life for yourself. But as you know, I have always said I would pass it on to you and Edward, so – I wish to keep my promise.’
‘Thank you, Papa.’
The words didn’t seem enough to express the emotions welling up inside her. This was all so enormous, she could barely take it in.
She was still in a daze when they came to say goodbye. After warning Liesel not to make a fuss, when Anna fell into her father’s arms for a final hug she could not stop the tears flooding out of her.
‘There, my Liebling. Don’t cry. This is the start of a new adventure for us all.’ Friedrich held her face between his hands and stroked away her tears with his thumbs. He stared at her, his dark eyes holding hers, as if trying to imprint the memory of her in his mind forever. ‘Take care of yourself, and your little sister for me,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be there to dry your tears forever, my precious girl …’
‘You’ll come home one day, Papa.’
‘Oh, Anna.’ He pulled her into his arms for a final embrace, pressing her to his heart.
Davy was waiting for them by the gates. Anna felt a jolt of jealousy as she saw Liesel run to his waiting arms. She desperately wished Edward could be there to hold her and tell her everything would be all right. She suddenly felt very alone.
As they trudged back to the station, they discussed what her father had said to them. Of course, Davy had an opinion about it.
‘I think it’s very sensible, under the circumstances,’ he said loftily. ‘And very fair, too. I’m sure Anna will get a good price for the bakery.’
‘I’m not selling it,’ she said.
She kept walking, facing straight ahead, aware that they had both stopped in their tracks.
‘But why?’ Liesel wanted to know.
‘Because it’s what Papa would want.’
‘No, it isn’t. You heard what he said, he doesn’t mind if you—’
‘I heard what he said.’ But she had also seen the look of yearning in his eyes. There was only one reason why he had left her the bakery: because he knew it would be in safe hands.
‘And how do you propose to run it?’ Davy said.
Anna fought the urge to tell him to mind his own business.
‘I’ll take on some help,’ she said. ‘Mrs Church’s nephew used to work at a bakery in Hackney before he got called up. Now he’s been discharged he’s looking for a job. I’m sure he can run the place until Edward comes home.’
‘Hmm.’ Davy pulled a face. ‘I wonder if I should meet this young man before you take him on?’
‘Why?’ Anna looked at him. ‘What do you know about baking?’
Davy’s face flushed. ‘Well, nothing, but—’
‘So mind your own business, and I’ll mind mine.’
‘I was only trying to help,’ he protested, but Liesel shook her head.
‘Leave her be,’ she warned. ‘My sister can be very stubborn when she wants to be.’
As Anna marched on ahead, she heard Davy mutter, ‘We can only hope this Edward comes home, then.’
Oh, he will, Anna thought. And then everything would be all right again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was early November when the nightmares started again.
It was the first time it had happened since he came home. In France, before the artillery shell hit him, he had woken up screaming nearly every night. But since returning to England – nothing.
Perhaps it was the physical shock of his injuries that did it, but Sam Trevelyan had finally dared to believe that the nightmares were over for good. Until the night he woke up, bathed in a pool of his own sweat, gasping and crying and fending off unseen horrors with flailing hands.
Now, in the pale light of the morning, Sam felt queasy and ashamed. He could see the ward sister with her nurses gathered around her, and he knew immediately she was talking about him, passing on the
night sister’s report, telling them to keep an eye on him, as if he were a helpless child.
Anger surged inside him, scorching through his veins. God, how he wanted to get away from here, never to have another nurse around him, to see the pity in their eyes and hear the cloying sympathy in their voices. He wanted to stand on his own two feet again, not suffer the humiliation of having to beg for a bottle to pee in, of having a young girl washing him like an overgrown baby.
Most of all, he wanted to go home.
He turned his gaze to the window, its panes rimmed with frost. His father would be bringing the cows down from the fields by now, if he hadn’t already done it. If Sam closed his eyes, he could almost see John Trevelyan, a battered old hat perched on his grizzled head, pushing through the heavy cattle, herding them into the byres. He had turned sixty but no one would ever think it to see him, strong and wiry as he was, his skin baked brown from years of working outside. He toiled every bit as hard as the young farmhands, and could even give Sam a run for his money when they worked side by side …
He flinched, turning away from the window, shutting out the memory. He could never allow himself to go back there, not even in his mind.
Not after what had happened.
At the far end of the ward the nurses started to disperse, ready to start their various daily tasks. Soon they would be busying themselves, sweeping and dusting and polishing every surface in sight, pushing their clanking trolleys up and down the ward, laden with dressings and medicines. They would bustle about with fresh sheets, haul him and the others out of their beds, set about them with soap and flannels, comb their hair and lift them on to bedpans. No humiliation would be spared.
It was the curly-haired girl’s turn to do the washing round today. Sam didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. At least she didn’t bother to try and talk to him like the tall one did. She barely spared any of the men a second look most of the time, let alone a kind word.
She seemed so completely indifferent, Sam couldn’t help admiring her for it.
The only person who roused her interest was the new doctor, Logan. Sam noticed how she looked out for him every morning. How disappointed she was when he wasn’t there! And if he was, she would follow him like a puppy, inventing excuses to talk to him. Watching her was the only amusement Sam ever got on the ward.
But at least it meant she left the other one, Dr Wallace, alone. The poor sap still looked quite bewildered about it, although his fiancée was clearly relieved …
He checked himself angrily. What was he thinking, letting himself get carried away by the petty dramas going on around him? It was none of his damn business.
But he had to have something to occupy his mind while he was trapped in here. Either that or go slowly mad.
Finally, it was his turn. Nurse Moore appeared with her trolley at the foot of his bed.
‘Good morning,’ she greeted him in her usual offhand way. ‘How are you today?’
Sam didn’t reply. She wasn’t listening anyway as she briskly pulled the curtains around his bed.
Sam eyed the bowl of water on the trolley, the soap, flannel, combs and razor lined up neatly beside it.
‘I’ll wash myself, if you don’t mind,’ he said.
She did not object like so many of the other nurses did. The earnest-looking VADs always looked positively offended, as if he had questioned the very purpose of their existence.
But not Nurse Moore. She simply lifted her shoulders in a little shrug and said, ‘If you want. But I’ll have to help you off with your gown.’
He had no choice but to allow her to help him; the wound made it nearly impossible for him to lift his arms. He was conscious of his once-powerful limbs, now so heavy and useless, as she eased off his sleeves, pulling the gown down around his waist.
He saw her avert her eyes from his wound, the way she always did. He didn’t blame her; he hated looking at it himself.
She arranged the soap, water and flannel within his reach, then stood back as he started to wash.
He was conscious of her watching him, and hated himself for his stiff, clumsy movements. He tried to shave himself, dipping his chin and turning his head awkwardly this way and that to reach. But he grew impatient with his slow efforts, tried to rush and nicked his jaw. Nurse Moore did not fuss over him, but silently handed him a cotton swab to wipe away the blood.
‘You’ve missed a bit,’ was all she said. ‘Up there, near your left ear.’
‘Thanks.’
He was rinsing away the last of the soap when she suddenly said, ‘I heard you had a nightmare last night?’
The question surprised him. But then he remembered Sister’s huddled pow-wow with the night nurse around her desk that morning. Of course, she would have told her every detail.
‘What’s it to you?’ he growled.
Another nurse might have blushed, but Nurse Moore didn’t have that delicacy.
‘Nothing.’ She shrugged. ‘But Sister told me to ask you about it.’
He didn’t reply, groping blindly for the towel. Nurse Moore handed it to him.
‘So what was it about?’ she asked.
‘I dreamed I was stuck here forever and you were the only nurse.’
‘That would be a nightmare for both of us, wouldn’t it?’
Sam buried his face in the towel so she wouldn’t see him smile.
Later, as she was helping him back into his gown, she asked, ‘Did it hurt?’
‘What?’
‘When the artillery shell hit you. Did it hurt?’
He looked down at the bloodstained dressing that bound his left side from his chest to his hip. Half his ribcage had been shattered, blown away by the blast, along with the lateral muscles, his spleen, and part of his stomach.
What do you think? he wanted to say. But what came out was, ‘If you want to know the truth, I have no recollection of anything until I woke up here, after the operation.’
Nurse Moore nodded, taking it in. ‘So that wasn’t what your nightmare was about?’
A picture filled Sam’s mind. Looking down the barrel of his gun, that face in his sights, white with fear. His finger curling, squeezing the trigger, then the recoil of his rifle butt against his shoulder, and the sound – sometimes a volley, sometimes a single shot – and the thud of a body, dropping like a stone …
‘No,’ he said.
‘What, then?’
He stared at her. She was tidying away the washing things, piling them up on the trolley, her head down. Not listening.
He changed the subject deliberately. ‘I haven’t seen much of Dr Logan on the ward recently.’
That got her attention. Nurse Moore looked up sharply, her eyes flaring. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Just an observation, that’s all. I suppose he’s busy on the new ward.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘That new ward. You know, the one for the shell shock patients.’
‘What’s that got to do with Dr Logan?’
‘He’s going to be running it, isn’t he? Or that’s what I heard.’
He enjoyed a brief moment of satisfaction, seeing the surprise on her face. Nurse Moore’s hands stilled for a moment, then she carried on briskly.
‘You’ve got it wrong. Dr Carlyle is running the new ward.’
‘With Dr Logan. Turns out he’s a qualified psychiatrist as well as a physician. I’m surprised you didn’t know that, since you take such a close interest in him?’
He saw her mouth purse with annoyance. Then, without another word, she yanked back the curtains and was off, her trolley clattering down the ward.
Sam felt slightly ashamed of himself as he watched her go. What kind of man had he become, he wondered, that his only enjoyment came from baiting Nurse Moore? She was just a kid, a vain, self-centred little girl. It was none of his business if she became infatuated with a man.
He shifted his weight, and flinched as pain lanced through him, like a red-hot bayone
t blade. A sudden and shocking reminder that he had more important things to occupy him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A week later, Grace was packing up the contents of Lance Corporal Frost’s bedside locker. He watched her from the chair, fingers gripping the arms for dear life.
‘“It’s a long way to Tipperary …”’ he sang through chattering teeth.
In between snatches of song, he asked the same question, over and over again. ‘Why are they s-sending me away, Nurse?’
‘No one’s sending you away, Lance Corporal,’ Grace explained patiently yet again. ‘You’re just being moved to a different ward, that’s all.’
‘B–but why? Wh-what have I done?’
Grace paused in her packing, a pair of socks in her hand. ‘It’s a special place, for men with shell shock.’
‘B–but I–I’m all r–right—’ He gave up trying to speak and retreated to singing, to calm himself down.
‘“It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go … It’s a long way to Tipperary …”’ He rocked back and forth in time to the tune.
‘Of course you are, old man. You’re as sane as the rest of us.’ In the bed opposite, Captain Jeffers lit up a cigarette and settled back against the pillows, a mocking smile on his face. ‘But let’s look on it as a bit of a holiday, shall we? A chance to get away from all these ghastly wounded chaps.’
Grace looked across at him. He was a handsome young man, fair-haired with an aristocratic, high-cheekboned face. He liked to present a louche, untroubled demeanour to the world. But Grace had changed too many of his damp, soiled sheets every morning to be fooled. He was being transferred to Wilson ward with the rest of them.
Most of the men who were being transferred were too far gone to understand or care what was happening to them. They submitted like lambs, their faces and limbs twitching, looking up at the orderlies with vacant eyes.
At the other end of the ward, Private Gordon was as agitated as Lance Corporal Frost. But at least he had Albie Sallis to help him.
‘Calm down, mate. They’re sending you next door, not to Timbuktu!’ Albie joked. But Grace could see his smile was strained with worry as he looked at his friend.
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