Trembling Rachel stood up, the knitting dropping to the floor at her feet. With a small, sympathetic glance at the child’s mortified face Sally stooped to pick it up. ‘Please, Mama—’
‘Upstairs I say!’
‘It really wasn’t her fault, Charlotte,’ Sally said mildly. ‘Toby was teasing her.’
Charlotte’s mouth tightened. ‘Rachel!’
Rachel, eyes and mouth mutinous, crept past her mother, not looking at her, and slunk up the stairs.
Sally rethreaded the slipped stitches and wrapped the wool neatly around the needles, then lifted her head to look at Charlotte. Charlotte flushed a little. Sally stood up. ‘I’d better go and help Bron, I think.’
Wordlessly Charlotte stepped to one side, her expression daring anyone to criticize her treatment of her daughter.
Sally was still seething when she reached the kitchen. Really, Charlotte had been most unjust to the child – and not for the first time. It hardly seemed fair to hold the circumstances of Rachel’s birth against her – for Sally had no doubt at all that that was the basis of Charlotte’s obvious dislike of her daughter. It was a damned pity that the poor child in looks so took after her feckless father—
‘Postman’s been,’ Bron said cheerily from the kitchen table. ‘There’s a letter on the mantelpiece for you. And guess who’s just dropped by to show off her fancy clothes – our Kate no less! Working in munitions she is, an’ money to burn she’s getting! Thinks herself everybody now she’s got a penny or two in her pocket. Well she can keep it, and her fancy clothes too – getting altogether too big for her boots is Kate.’
Sally grinned, picked up the letter. ‘Funny. Who’d be writing to me?’
‘Terrible gossip she is an’ all, mind. Worse than ever – can’t keep her tongue from anyone – Sally? Is something wrong?’
Sally, the letter in her hand, lifted her head, her face stricken. ‘Dear God. Surely not.’
‘What? What is it?’
‘It’s from old Mr Dickson. Here—’ She held out the letter to the other girl, ‘Read it.’
Bron read the letter, her cheerful face saddening. ‘Dreadful! Both of them gone?’
‘Both of them.’ Dan and Walter Dickson, killed together in the muddy fields of Flanders. For what? Sally shook her head. ‘Both of them,’ she said again, and closed her eyes wearily. ‘Oh, Bron – where is all this going to end?’
* * *
It promised to be a strange Christmas, that first Christmas of the war, with the young men away and the streets darkened for fear of the raiders who had that month struck at several towns along the east coast of England and must now surely be making preparations to bomb London. In the club room Charlotte and her friends hung garlands and holly, and a small tree was set in the corner, yet despite their efforts the atmosphere was muted, the celebrations, such as they were, strained.
‘Do you think this party’s a good idea?’ Polly Andrews, a pretty, brown-haired girl with wide dark eyes and a snub nose, helped Charlotte to move the piano into the corner of the room. It was Christmas Eve afternoon, and Charlotte’s last duty of the week.
‘Hardly a party.’ Charlotte opened the piano lid and tinkled a few notes, ‘just a bit of a get together for the lads who haven’t been able to get home, that’s all. God, this piano’s dreadfully out of tune!’
‘I don’t suppose they’ll notice. Here we go – get the urn on, Charlie – here comes our first customer.’
It was an hour or so later, with the smoky room crowded and the subdued buzz of conversation all but overwhelming the quiet notes of the piano where someone played a Christmas carol, one-fingered, that Charlotte, handing round ham sandwiches, found herself caught and held from behind, two firm hands laid across her eyes. ‘Guess who?’
She giggled. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Try!’
‘It’s—’ she twisted round, found herself looking into a fair, laughing face, ‘—it’s Peter! What are you doing here? We thought you were in France!’
‘And so I was. But here I am – forty-eight-hours leave! Haven’t you got a kiss for your brother-in-law? It’s a million years since I kissed a pretty girl!’
‘Oh, Peter!’ She threw her arms about him, hugging him hard. ‘How lovely to see you! What a wonderful surprise!’ She stood back, looking at him. ‘You’re handsomer than ever!’ That was no exaggeration. His face was leaner, a little harder than she remembered it, his uniform, usually so meticulously smart was shabby. He looked jauntily attractive, vaguely – she hesitated over the word – vaguely dangerous.
‘I should jolly well hope so,’ he grinned engagingly. ‘You going to be here much longer?’
‘Another hour or so.’ She grimaced a little. ‘It’s supposed to be a party, but – well – no one seems to feel much like partying.’
‘Well—’ he winked, face full of mischief; Polly, Charlotte noticed with some gratification, was gawping like a schoolgirl, ‘—let’s see what we can do about that, eh? Come on, lads,’ he lifted his voice, pushing his way through the grinning crowd to the piano, ‘what is this, a party or a wake?’ He stood by the piano, took a small flask from his pocket, tilted his head and drank, then crashed a melodic chord, ‘Right – here we go – Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag and smile, smile, smile!’
One by one the others joined in, drifting towards the piano. Peter pushed his cap to the back of his head, tossed his greatcoat onto a chair. The mudstained uniform stood out like battle colours from the rest. ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary—’
Charlotte watched him, laughing as he caught her eye above the heads of the crowd around the piano. His vivid presence lit the room, the reckless, infectious gaiety warming the most solemn face to a smile.
Polly slid to Charlotte’s side. ‘And who exactly’, she asked, big eyes bigger than ever, ‘is that?’
Charlotte smiled. ‘My brother-in-law.’
Polly mulled that over. ‘I see.’ She slanted a small, mischievous glance at Charlotte, ‘And does that mean that he’s – available?’
Charlotte laughed outright, and did not answer. Peter grinned, took another swig from the battered flask. ‘Roll up, roll up – who’ll give us a turn?’
* * *
‘You certainly woke them up!’ Charlotte, hurrying by his side through the driving rain, laughed delightedly. ‘Fancy that young captain knowing all those music hall songs! It was as good as a night at the Palais!’
He grinned, tucked her hand into the warmth of his greatcoat pocket. ‘It’s my officer qualities coming out, you see – bringing out the best in people!’
They had turned into the courtyard of the Bear. In the light from one of the windows she tipped her head to look up at him. Slight, neatly built, his fair hair curling from beneath his rakishly angled cap, it struck her suddenly and quite astonishingly that he had become by far the most attractive young man she had ever seen. They had stopped walking at the same second, and for an odd, surprised moment their eyes held, each studying the other intently as if, although they had known each other for almost all of their lives, they each unexpectedly found themselves looking at an intriguing stranger. Charlotte felt a sudden flood of colour rise to her face, and somewhere very deep inside her a tiny shaft of excitement stabbed. Then, laughing she turned and the strange moment was gone. She pulled him inside, excited and impatient as a child, watched as he divested himself of dripping cap and coat. ‘Come on, oh do come on! I’m dying to tell everyone you’re here!’ She led him to the parlour, flung the door open to an array of astounded faces, ‘Surprise, surprise! Just look what I’ve found! I’ve brought you all a Christmas present!’
* * *
In some stretches of the trenches that Christmastide the guns fell silent for a few short hours, and enemies met, warily at first, in the wasteland over which they had fought for three endless months. They shared their cigarettes and their Christmas tots, played football like street urchins with makeshift goalposts. They exchanged na
mes, admired photographs, talked longingly of London and of Berlin, of the green valleys of Wales and of the lovely mountains of Bavaria.
The next day normality returned; and the killing began again.
PART FOUR
1916-19
Chapter Fourteen
I
‘Have the bloody Boches all gone to sleep out there?’ The Honourable Fiona MacAdam clicked sharp fingernails impatiently upon the deep windowsill, scowling into the peaceful garden that lay in the dormancy of late winter beneath a drifting cloud of rain. Beyond the high wall at the bottom of the garden a stretch of green, unspoilt countryside lifted, a verdant, wooded hillside veiled by the misting rain. ‘D’you think he’s given up and gone home and our fellows haven’t noticed?’
Hannah Patten, sitting at a desk in the corner of the large, cheerfully comfortable room, pen poised over the letter she was writing, lifted her head, smiling a little. She was dressed to go on duty, starched white collar, cuffs and apron gleaming against the severe dark blue of her uniform dress, a crisp white head-dress sitting neatly upon the dark cap of her short hair. ‘Honestly, Fiona,’ her voice was mild and held an edge of exasperated affection, ‘to listen to you anyone would think you’d actually rather they were blowing us all to blazes.’
‘Oh, don’t be daft.’ Fiona was unrepentantly brusque, ‘It’s just – you can’t deny it – these lulls are so bloody unsettling.’ She turned restlessly from the window, strode to stand with her back to the fire. She was dressed in the mannish and elegant riding habit that had accompanied her somehow unscathed from England to a dressing hut in Flanders and thence to this casualty clearing station in a village just outside Albert, a few miles behind the almost static line that the war, now in its nineteenth month, had drawn across Europe in barbed wire, mud- and blood-sodden trenches and blasted villages and towns. ‘This time three days ago we were run off our feet – now here we are suddenly twiddling our thumbs and playing nursemaid to a couple of heads and an abdominal, none of whom are going to do if you ask me – oh,’ she cast a wickedly sharp look at Hannah, ‘and our perfect pet of an artist boy of course.’ She chuckled a little as colour rose, very faintly, in the other girl’s face. ‘It’s really very unsporting of Fritz if you ask me – why can’t he manage to keep them coming in a nice, steady stream – and where in the devil’s name is this idiot that’s supposed to be taking me riding? I can’t even chase him up – I’ve forgotten his name. They really do all look alike, don’t they? I can hardly stroll across to the cavalry lines asking for “What’s-his-name with the blue eyes”, can I?’
Hannah watched her as she marched to the window again. ‘You’re going out?’
‘Well I’m not dressed like this to have tea with Matron. Yes, I’m going out. If the infant cavalry lieutenant who promised me a mount ever turns up, that is—’ She broke off as the door opened, then turned away with a barely concealed expression of impatience.
Mercy Meredith, dressed, like Hannah, in her Sister’s uniform, hovered in the doorway with the timid uncertainty that away from the wards so characterized her and which any contact with Fiona seemed to exacerbate to a barely controlled nervous panic. In her hand she held a bundle of letters. ‘I – was just coming off duty – I met – Corporal Denton – with the post.’ She had a light, little girl’s voice that matched exactly her mouse-coloured, wispy hair and wide blue eyes. ‘There are five for you, Hannah – so many people write to you, don’t they? – and one each for Fiona and me.’ She extended a large, cream-coloured envelope with an embossed crest upon the flap nervously towards the girl who stood by the window. Fiona took it without thanks, glanced at it, tossed it on the table unopened. Mercy sorted out a small and rather crumpled white envelope for herself and held out the rest to Hannah.
Hannah smiled her thanks as she took the letters, riffling quickly through them. ‘How’s the boy with the hole in his head? Captain Beaumont, isn’t it?’
Mercy nodded. ‘No different, I’m afraid. He – he was singing again when I left just now. I really do find it very unnerving. He sings and he smiles all day.’
‘P’raps that’s what it takes for some people,’ Fiona said, without bothering to turn from her vantage point by the window, an edge of sardonic humour in her voice.
Mercy, as always, rose to the bait. ‘I’m sorry?’
Hannah shot an exasperated look at Fiona’s back.
‘Singing and smiling all day,’ Fiona said, elaborate patience in her cool voice. ‘A hole in the head. Perhaps that’s what it takes for some people?’
There was a small, injured silence, broken suddenly by the rumble of a gun, a distant explosion. Fiona lifted her head sharply, listening.
‘Really, Fiona.’ Mercy’s frail voice was unsteady with indignation, ‘You do have the most peculiar sense of humour sometimes.’
Fiona turned from the window, her elegant, high-boned face weary. ‘Mercy! Mercy – look around you. Strikes me that even a fool could see that it’s God that’s got the peculiar sense of humour these days.’
Mercy stared at her for a moment, her small mouth tight. Fiona smiled sweetly.
Hannah turned to her letters, smiling to see Sally’s all but unintelligible scribble. She tore the envelope open, ran her eye quickly over the single page it contained, full of exclamation marks and scrawled capitals. Sally was no classic letter writer. ‘—all well here—the zepps haven’t got us yet—the Bear getting more like Brussels on a market day every day—so many able-bodied sensible people about they really don’t need me—seems to me even Flip doesn’t notice if I’m there or not—and who’s to blame her?—still driving my daft old colonel around London (no – you’re right – he’s a love really!) but am dying to get out there with you—you’re all doing such Patten-like and useful things—’ Hannah smiled at that, almost hearing Sally’s husky, laughing voice, ‘at least at last I’m doing something a bit more valiant than stirring porridge and changing nappies. Keep your fingers crossed for me—’
‘Good news?’ Fiona was watching her, lounging elegantly upon the windowsill, one booted foot swinging.
Mercy, also engrossed in her letter, sniffed.
Hannah grinned. ‘Not really. Just someone who makes me laugh.’ She sorted through the other envelopes. One from Ben, two from old friends from the suffragette days – how very long ago all of that seemed now – and one from – she lifted the envelope, looked at the neat, precise handwriting, sighed a little. Ralph.
‘No bad thing to do.’ Fiona slanted an undisguisedly pointed look at Mercy, ‘More than can be said for some.’
Mercy’s small nose had turned very red. Her large, rather pretty eyes were blurred with tears. She sucked her lower lip between her teeth as she read. Hannah and Fiona’s glances met, Hannah’s vexedly sympathetic, Fiona’s openly and unkindly amused. Any letter from home was guaranteed to reduce poor Mercy to a state of miserable homesickness that could last anything from an hour to two days and which she found impossible to hide. Hannah, knowing herself uncharitable but unable to repress the thought, wished she would read her letters and shed her tears in the privacy of her own billet.
Mercy looked up. A large tear trembled upon her long, mousy lashes.
‘Bad news?’ Hannah asked, gently.
Mercy shook her head sniffing, trying to smile and failing miserably. ‘No. It’s – from my mother – the – the snowdrops are out – she’s – pressed one for me.’
Fiona threw her head back in an explosion of scarcely muffled amusement. The guns rumbled again. Somewhere near the reedy sound of an aeroplane engine droned, insectlike.
With an attempt at dignity that Hannah found absurdly touching Mercy folded her precious letter carefully, put it back into its envelope and lifted her head to face Fiona’s derisive gaze. ‘You shouldn’t be such a pig, Fiona.’ She was trembling on the point of tears, ‘You really shouldn’t. It isn’t kind to laugh at people the way you do.’ She swallowed, unable to go on, and, turning, fled the room a
small, hiccoughing sob echoing behind her before the door into the dining room across the hall banged loudly.
Fiona sighed exaggeratedly. ‘Mercy Meredith! What a damned name!’
Hannah shook her head. ‘You shouldn’t torment her so, Fiona. It really isn’t fair. She’s a good nurse. And brave.’
‘She’s a little Daddy’s girl who should never have left Brighton, or Winklesea or whatever the bloody place is, in the first place,’ Fiona said shortly, shrugging. ‘All right – you’re right – she’s fine on the wards – but I wouldn’t want her with me if Jerry broke through and we had to fend for ourselves. If she wants to play Florence Nightingale she’d be better off doing it in some nice little Home Counties’ convalescent home, and you know it.’
Hannah said nothing, watching her.
Fiona grinned, the expression in her long, pale eyes suddenly warm. ‘Oh, go on, Mother Duck – go and pick up the pieces if you must. Aha – at last,’ she leaned to the window at the sound of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, ‘Sir Galahad, complete with charger – two, I hope. I’m off.’
She swung with an impudent grin past Hannah, pulled a small, barely sympathetic face at the closed dining-room door and was gone. ‘Rolly, old lad – where on earth have you been? I thought p’raps Jerry had flushed you down the pan.’ The crisp, uppercrust tones pealed into laughter.
Hannah eyed her unread letters a little regretfully, then with a sigh crossed the hall and pushed open the dining-room door. ‘Come on out, Mercy. She’s gone.’
There was a moment’s silence, then, sniffing, Mercy emerged, as Hannah had known she would; she found herself thinking ruefully that almost as unfairly aggravating as the girl’s total inability to stand up for herself was her pathetic eagerness at the slightest sign of kindness. ‘Come on in,’ Hannah shooed her across the hall like a mother hen with a chick. ‘You really shouldn’t take any notice of her you know – it’s just her way. She doesn’t mean to be unkind.’
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