by Rosie James
*
Just before nine o’clock, Angelina made her way the few hundred yards to the canteen. It was a warm evening and it hadn’t rained for several hours, so the well-trodden grass was soft under her feet.
The nurses had brought very few of their own clothes with them, and from the few things she did have, Angelina had chosen her deep blue cotton skirt – the length just below the knee – and her white, frilly blouse with the small, rounded sleeves that caressed her slim shoulders. She was wearing her white pumps, and was carrying only her small clutch purse to hold a hanky and a little money. While showering, she had made sure that her hair was shampooed and thoroughly rinsed so that there was no trace of dirt or dust lingering amongst her long tresses. However much you tried, it was hard to remain absolutely clean for long. She had left her hair loose – a change from the normally severely clipped-back style demanded of all the nurses.
As she approached the canteen, she saw that the door was wide open. Light chattering and laughter could be heard, and all of a sudden Angelina felt her heart lurch with apprehension. She felt as if she was going on a first date! But how would that feel, anyway? She had never had a first date, or any date, with a man. And anyway, it wasn’t as if she was meeting a stranger – she was going to be spending a brief hour or so with a member of her family … well, sort of her family. So why was her heart racing as if she was about to sit another exam?
But she wished he hadn’t instructed her to leave out the Mr Alexander. Somehow, being more familiar with him was going to leave her feeling as if she was taking liberties.
As she entered, she didn’t have to look around for him because there he was, standing up by a table in the far corner, his hand raised to catch her attention. As soon as she approached, he pulled out a chair for her, and they both sat down opposite each other.
‘Thank heaven you were able to make it,’ he said, looking across at her. Then, after a pause: ‘I’ve been biting my fingernails that it wasn’t going to happen and that this morning would be the last I’d see of you until the war was over.’
He was still in his uniform, but Angelina saw that it had been brushed clean, and he, too, had obviously washed his hair because it looked and smelt wonderful. She lowered her eyes briefly, hoping he hadn’t noticed her flushed cheeks. He broke the spell by referring to what they might have to eat.
‘What would you like, Angelina? What can I get you?’ He raised one dark eyebrow. ‘This is not the Ritz or the Savoy hotel – as you obviously already know – but I went over to the counter when I came in and I thought the sliced ham looked good, and the salad seems fresh. I was told that the bread rolls have just come over from the bakery. Shall we have any of that? You must be hungry, and I could eat something. But how about a drink first? I shall have a beer, but would you like a glass of wine?’
Angelina didn’t hesitate, even though she’d never drunk alcohol before, thinking that she wasn’t likely to be affected after just one glass, and anyway – who cared if she was! Alexander would see her safely back to the hut.
‘A glass of white wine is exactly what I need,’ she said coolly.
Alexander went over to the counter to order what they wanted, then came back carrying the two drinks.
‘’They’re bringing the food in a minute,’ he said, and Angelina raised her eyes.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘We don’t usually get waiter service here! How did you manage that?’ She took the glass of wine from him and was about to take a sip when he stopped her, touching her hand lightly.
‘Of any event I have ever attended in my life, Angelina,’ he said seriously, ‘this is one that calls for a toast.’ He raised his glass and clinked it against hers. ‘To us, and our unbelievable good luck in seeing each other here. And, please God, to our continuing safety until we’re home again.’
‘To us, and to our safety until we are home,’ Angelina repeated. Then they both drank, and as Angelina felt the bubbles teasing her tongue, the cooling sensation of the wine as it slipped down her throat, she wished that she could stop the clock, now, now! She wanted to stay here for ever with Alexander, just the two of them. War or no war, for a few moments she was drifting on a cloud of pure happiness. She didn’t want it to end, because she was living a dream! One of the many dreams like this that she had had in her life.
Presently their food arrived, and after they had eaten, Alexander sat back and looked across. ‘Which of us is going to start?’ he said easily.
For the next few minutes they exchanged news of when and how they’d arrived in France, and some of what they’d experienced, though neither giving too many details of what they’d so far seen and endured. Then memories of all the Christmases at The Garfield came up, and how Miss Kingston always kept the place running like a well-oiled machine.
The canteen was quieter now, many people having drifted away, and Alexander – who hadn’t taken his eyes off Angelina for some time – said, ‘Have you received any news from home? It’s all very scanty, of course, but I did hear from my father in answer to a letter he received from me.’
‘I’ve only had two,’ Angelina said. ‘One from Miss Kingston and one from my friend, little Ruby. Do you remember Ruby, Mr Alexander?’
He leaned forward and smiled, tapping her hand. ‘Have you forgotten what I want you to call me?’
She smiled back. ‘Sorry – but it’s very hard not to use the name I have always known you by. So I will ask you again – do you remember Ruby … Alexander?’
He nodded. ‘That’s more like it. And of course I remember Ruby. She was a very introverted little thing, wasn’t she? sSeemed to cling to you like a Siamese twin. Miss Kingston always kept my father up to date with news of his … of his children,’ Alexander went on, ‘and I’ve sometimes thought that his orphans filled the gap caused by the fact that my mother died young, denying my parents the pleasure of having any more of the offspring they’d apparently wanted.’ Alexander grinned suddenly. ‘My father’s had to put up with just me around all these years, poor chap.’
Angelina gazed up at him as he spoke, admiring for the umpteenth time in her life his fine features, the strength of his brow, his uncompromising mouth, and those dark, dark eyes which had always seemed to enter her very soul.
He glanced at his watch and stood up suddenly. ‘It’s almost time for me to check on my team because we’ll soon be on the move,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But …’ he looked down at Angelina. ‘Could we possibly have a short stroll somewhere first? Or are you too tired?’
Angelina stood as well. ‘I’m not too tired,’ she said. ‘In fact, Jane – my colleague – and I often take a short walk away from the place, to free ourselves for a few minutes and pretend that we’re anywhere but here! And we always end up in the same field,’ she added as they left the canteen. ‘It’s a short distance from here, and it has a little stream at the end which has a tree trunk across it acting as a bridge.’ She smiled. ‘We haven’t actually sat on that yet because so far it’s always been too wet and the stream is usually quite full, so we don’t particularly want to fall in and get soaked.’
They were strolling very close together now, almost touching, soon reaching the long field Angelina had described. It had a five-barred gate, and Alexander pushed it open for them both to go in.
By now, it was almost dark, and whether she almost lost her footing, or whether her glass of wine was suddenly taking effect, Angelina stumbled and fell against Alexander and he immediately put his arm around her.
‘Careful,’ he murmured. ‘Even though you must be as light as a feather, it would be a long way for me to carry you back.’
Leaning into him, Angelina looked up apologetically. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m used to wearing slightly tougher footwear than these pumps and—’
But before she could utter another word his lips had closed over hers and he was kissing her, gently at first, then a little more urgently, and Angelina felt her senses swimming. What was going on? What was happ
ening? Surely another dream of hers wasn’t coming true! But even as those thoughts entered her mind, she felt herself kissing him back. She’d never kissed anyone like this before, anyone at all! But it was easy. It was lovely … it was beautiful. And she didn’t want it to stop!
Then Angelina came to her senses. This might be beautiful, but it was wrong! She had no right, no business, to be held by Alexander like this, to be close to him like this, to want him like this! Because he was promised to someone else. Everyone knew that. He already had a woman in his life, and that life could never include her, Angelina Green! Why should it? How could it? So what were they doing, clinging to each other like this! It made no sense! She tried to pull away.
‘Please … Alexander, please,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry, I really am. But we should not be doing this, this should not be happening …’
But he wouldn’t let her go, holding her even more tightly. ‘Don’t be sorry, because I’m not sorry, Angelina,’ he murmured into her ear. ‘I’m not sorry at all.’
Then his lips found hers again, and despite all her finer feelings, she melted into his arms, loving the feel of his rough tunic against her skin, of his face so close to hers. This was what she had wanted, for so long, but why had it taken a war to make it happen? And what had happened to her, Angelina Green, orphan, that what she felt ready for at this heady moment was the weight of him on her, the feel of his hands exploring her naked body. If he made that happen she knew she was ready to respond, to receive his maleness completely and without inhibition.
She gazed up at him, waiting for the illusion to pass, waiting to wake up and find that it had been a dream, after all. But the strength of his body close to hers was proof enough. They were here now, and she was in his arms, and although she knew it would never, could never, happen again, it would be enough. It would have to be enough.
Alexander Garfield had arrived by her side at just the right time to help Angelina accept the horror of her friend’s sudden death. The cold stain of sorrow was being lifted, as if by magic, by the warmth of being loved, of being caressed, by the closeness of the here and the now, to the living, rather than being shackled by the dark pain of bereavement.
Chapter 16
March 1918, and the months that followed would always be known as the ultimate personification of hell. The war raged on with the Germans advancing all the time and the allies retreating. Roads and railways had been bombed out of existence, and it seemed to those sremaining at the forefront of battle that this could be the end of the world.
Sadly for them both, Angelina and Jane were separated and sent to different field hospitals, but they promised to always remain friends and keep in touch. If they were lucky enough to get out of this alive … Because by now, the realisation had fully dawned on Angelina that although, as nurses, they were not actually in military uniform, the fact remained that they were all within reach of sudden, violent death.
But if they did make it back home, the three girls had made a pact that they’d stay close, and in their hearts Heather, too, would always be there beside them. Time would never eradicate the memory of all they had done, all they had seen, all they had been through together.
By now, Angelina was carrying out her daily and nightly duties in a manner which was becoming almost robotic. There was nothing she hadn’t seen before, but thankfully, these days she rarely came across severe head injuries, owing to the soldiers now all wearing tin helmets. That had not been the case when she’d first come to France, and head injuries had been the most prolific and the most horrific.
One night, lying on her bed after a long shift, Angelina asked herself a serious question. Was she now so able, so competent at the job, so aware of her own ability to deal with everything that faced her on an hourly basis, that she no longer felt herself wanting to shut her eyes at the sight and sounds of her injured, delirious patients? That she could do what she had to do without having to force herself to stay calm, as she had in the beginning? Had she come to the point that Heather’s father had spoken of? To treat these soldiers as mere dummies? Had she actually become immune to the dreadful suffering she had encountered and was still witnessing day after endless day? Was that what nursing really was – not to feel anything at all? Had her quiet confidence turned her into an unfeeling nurse?
Angelina turned over, pulling her pillow more closely under her neck. No, she had not come to that point she told herself fiercely. All the soldiers she had ever treated could have been sick children of her own. Or like brothers, and friends, links in the unbreakable chain of common humanity.
1918 struggled along its inexorable path until towards its end it became obvious that there was only one way out. At last, Germany reluctantly agreed to sign a truce with Britain and France that there should be no more fighting on either side. The war had almost reached an end.
11th November 1918
The late autumn day was cold, the sort of cold that chilled every bone, a stiffening breeze causing the few remaining leaves on the trees to drift down to the wet and soggy undergrowth. There was no birdsong in that secluded corner of the forest, adding to the overpowering sense of melancholy.
Huddled inside the only shelter for many miles around were eight men, all in uniform. Four of them, unsmiling, faced each other across a wooden table, the others stood, watchfully, a few steps behind. The atmosphere was stiff with tension and there was little conversation.
Then the oldest man in the group, leaning on his cane, moved forward slightly and lowered his gaze, once more, to the row of papers placed neatly in front of him. He picked up the pen which lay there and slowly, with great deliberation, wrote his signature before moving aside for the other three to add their own.
Now some gentle murmuring took place, breaking the silence, before the entire group made its way outside, going carefully down the few steps to face a photographer waiting to capture the scene for posterity.
In the continuing gloom of that grey day there was no sign of triumph or elation. For one in the gathering, particularly, the suffocating mantle of his country’s prospects was already bearing down with an unbearable heaviness. For the rest, only a regretful sadness filled their hearts and minds.
It was over, but what a dreadful price had been paid.
Somewhere on the Belgian front, and deep underground, the enveloping fetid stench of mould drifted like a damp, cloying curtain, filling the nostrils of the men waiting for the next instruction, the next command. Perhaps, this time, it would be the last one they would hear before they met their Maker.
Alexander Garfield, the young officer in charge, was half-standing, half-leaning against the mud wall. His men were lying down, legs outstretched, chins on their chests, trying to catch some sleep. The only one fully awake was sitting up, his bent knees providing a rest for the pad on which he was writing his poetry, the poetry which had stopped him from going mad over the weeks and months of combat.
Suddenly, one long, strident ring from the field telephone made the officer immediately straighten up and move the few steps to reach it. The others barely bothered to rouse themselves, but they were listening, wary …
The message was short, and the officer’s reply equally so. ‘Repeat?’ And then, more quietly, ‘Roger.’
Then, leaving the receiver dangling on its wire, he gazed down at the others. ‘It’s over,’ he said flatly. ‘The armistice was signed this morning.’
He might have expected whoops and cheers from his men but only a stunned silence greeted his words before they could bring themselves to believe the longed-for news.
Going over the top, his gun at the ready, Garfield stared around him, stared at the open expanse of desecrated countryside, stared into the grey silence, waiting. At last, the news which he himself had not dared to believe, struck home and he stood up, dropping his gun by his side – just as he saw a German soldier begin heaving himself up from a dug out in the ground.
Garfield raised his voice. ‘It’s over!’ he shouted
. ‘Drop your weapon! The war is over!’
At first the German did not believe the news and instinctively raised his gun. Until he saw the British officer begin slowly walking forward, his arms outstretched in greeting, and heard the repeated news – ‘The war is over, my friend! The truce was signed this morning! Praise God! We are all going home!’
Shaking with relief, the two embraced as brothers and both sobbing helplessly, fell to the ground in each other’s arms.
*
Angelina lay down on her bed and stared up at the ceiling, her feelings a torment of mixed emotions. So, it was all over, then. But nobody had won. It had merely been agreed that it was fruitless to continue the fight.
She glanced across at the other beds, which were empty. Only four nurses shared this hut, rather than six, and the other three must have gone off somewhere to celebrate the news which they’d heard this morning. There had been rumours before that the war was about to end, but now it was fact.
The world was apparently at peace.
Angelina hadn’t wanted to join the other nurses over at the canteen. If Jane – and Heather – were here, it would have been different, but, Angelina had not become particularly close to her new companions. For one thing, they seldom seemed to be on the same ward at the same time, and they didn’t often meet when they were off duty, either.
None of this mattered to Angelina. If it couldn’t be their old trio, she would rather spend her time alone. And now that all the blood had been shed and all those lives lost, she felt only a sense of pointlessness, rather than a sense of euphoria. It was like the Somme, all over again. Nothing had been gained, but so much lost.
If any of them had thought that they could start packing up to go home, they were soon to realise that, for quite some time, it would be business as usual. The huge backlog of wounded and dying soldiers would be passing through their hands for many months to come, but still, at least the incessant din of battle had stilled, replaced, overwhelmingly, by birdsong. Soon, it was possible to actually be aware of other, gentler, sounds, of the sounds of nature.
