by Maggie Humm
That night Lily slept easily for the first time in a month. She knew how to evoke Louis. She would sing.
The next morning was fresh with a strong breeze from the river as Eliza and Lily walked round the corner from the hostel to the hospital.
“The doctor and I listened to the music,” Lily said, her voice brimming with laughter, “while the patients jigged around the room as best they could.”
“I wish you’d invited me to your party,” Eliza said, her eyes widening.
“He brought in the gramophone without any warning,” Lily replied. “The first record was the song Louis and I used to sing in the studio, on my first visit to St Ives—‘Yes, You Are.’”
“You’re thinking too much about Louis,” Eliza said, smiling. “But if you appreciated the songs so much, why don’t we go to Chu Chin Chow when it opens? It’s promised to be the biggest show ever in the West End, and we’ll need to book ahead.”
“What a wonderful idea!” Lily exclaimed as they strode into the hospital. “Looking forward to it will get us through the next few months.”
She occupied herself throughout the day with as many tasks as possible. There was always another set of bedpans to wash and sterilize. The week’s supplies had been delivered to the nurses’ station and needed unpacking and sorting. Counting sets of bandages and hypodermic syringes, she noticed medicines with strange labels in another box, and, without thinking, she unpacked the bottles, putting them in order by size. She was lining up the vials when Matron appeared at her side.
“Nurse Briscoe, those bottles need to be locked away safely in the medicine cabinet above you,” Matron instructed. “I have the key. The morphine vials stay all together at one end so we can find them instantly.”
While Matron carefully rearranged the bottles in the cupboard, Lily continued replenishing drawers. The methodical arrangements filled her with a sense of achievement as if, by creating perfect shapes, she could push away the disorder of war. How long was it before she could escape to the hostel? She didn’t dare look at her watch in case Matron noticed. Had she already had an afternoon break? She couldn’t remember in the blur of counting supplies, but she’d created a pattern out of chaos and rested for a moment, watching Matron make an inventory with a red pen.
“Red is for danger, Nurse Briscoe,” Matron said, glancing up. “You are not permitted to unlock the cupboard unless I am in attendance, or Mrs. Beckwith.”
The everyday name surprised Lily. Everyone in the hospital was known by their status: doctor, nurse, matron, or by their jobs as stretcher-bearers. The familiar sounding “Mrs. Beckwith” jarred the immaculate hierarchy. Could Lily dare to ask about her? The question was unnecessary—Matron was unusually forthcoming.
“We are fortunate to have Mrs. Beckwith with us again,” she explained. “Before the war she was one of our most highly trained dispensers, an expert in medical treatments containing strychnine, arsenic, and other tricky elements. She married and resigned, of course. But, with so many men called up, Mrs. Beckwith has graciously returned to run the pharmacy.”
Lily nodded, thinking what a ridiculous rule it was, women having to retire when they married, and wanting to know more about one who had conquered scientific knowledge so expertly as to impress Matron, but Matron was scribbling away. At last the drawers were full. She’d be needed in the ward but stayed for a moment, surveying the room with satisfaction. Everything was in its proper place, with the medicine cabinet safely locked.
Returning to the ward, Lily noticed the empty bed at the end and realised she’d forgotten to tell the kindly doctor one of his patients had died. She’d started the day cleaning a gangrenous leg. Managing at last to expose his injuries to the light, cutting through the far too tight, caked bandage, nauseous at the sweet acrid smell, she’d taken small gasps of breath to avoid gagging. Dropping the filthy dressings in a kidney bowl, she’d straightened up to find the patient staring directly at her, unmoving, his eyes fixed and unblinking. She doubted if she would be able to view a dead man as a matter of course. Witnessing death unwound everyone and brought back the memory of her mother in bed with hollowed-out cheeks trying to smile. It was the face Lily remembered; she had difficulty remembering her voice. When, once the padre had seen the dead man, she’d pulled a white sheet over the body, Matron had ordered her to notify the doctor, and, lost in her memory, she’d forgotten. If she went quickly now to his office Matron wouldn’t notice.
The door was ajar, and seeing the doctor working at his desk, she knocked timidly. He was bent over some charts and didn’t seem to hear. As she watched him scribble, there was something about his posture—the wide shoulders—giving him the look of an athlete. She was intensely aware of his body, as she’d not been of any other man since Louis. Even as she thought this, he looked up, smiling as if glad to see her standing nervously in the doorway, and swept his eyes, in a practised, nonchalant way, all over her.
“Do sit down, Nurse Briscoe,” he said. “Am I wanted in the ward?”
“No, Doctor,” she said, taking the gestured chair. “I’m afraid I forgot to notify you of patient Ambrose’s death.”
“Well, Matron will be cross with you if she discovers,” he said, his smile curving upwards, “but I won’t tell a soul.” He put his finger to his lips.
Facing him across the desk, she had a chance to look at him properly. On the ward he’d been a head atop a white coat. Now, as he stared directly at her, she thought him handsome. His forehead was high and his nose as straight as a Roman soldier. They both shared the daily horror of wounded men; they faced the same dangers when the thuds of bombs rattled the windowpanes, and, presumably, the same prickling of unease walking along the Embankment late at night after their shifts. Did he live alone? They must encounter similar things everywhere: the crunch of broken glass under their feet, burnt whiffs from charred trees, searchlight beams over London, and all this gave her a sense of comradeship, even if a doctor, any doctor, ranked above a nurse.
Spending the next few minutes agreeing on details he could record in his notes, they smiled at each other’s fabrications about when the death was signed off. Before, in the hierarchy of the ward, she’d stood to attention, avoiding doctors’ eyes. Now the awkwardness was gone. It was as if, by talking, there’d come an understanding between them, and her heart felt unpractised from being with an agreeable man, a knowledgeable man, a man connected with the reality of life. He was glancing sideways at her as he wrote, and she could detect the lingering sharp tang of his morning’s shave.
“Might we share a coffee together some time? I’d love to talk more,” he said, passing her the form to countersign and smiling as he leaned over to shake her hand. Had he held it a little too long before moving his hand away?
He was looking at her, waiting for a reply, but she hadn’t expected to be touched, and she hesitated. The thought came into her head she didn’t have to ask anyone for permission—Father wouldn’t know, and Eliza would certainly approve. The feeling of freedom made her breathless for a moment. What would being with the doctor be like; could they openly sit together in public? She wasn’t sure. She didn’t know if he’d asked other nurses and what it all would mean, even if the lightness of his voice seemed to echo hers. But the doctor’s scent wasn’t Louis’s lemon cologne; his smooth hand wasn’t Louis’s rough painter’s grip. She was in danger of being pulled into something, a friendship or more. Should she end it before it had even begun? It seemed when she thought about Louis, missing him had become a part of her, like an extra finger, which she could feel whenever someone held her hand.
“Thank you,” she replied, not knowing what it all might add up to except she had to try to forget Louis, at least for one evening.
“Good,” he said. “We’ll plan something when I’m next on the wards.”
“Matron will wonder where I am,” she replied as briskly as she could, and standing, she smoothed down her skirt. At the door she turned to look at him. His head was bent over his p
en, scrawling across the next set of patients’ records, but she found herself smiling.
In the week before Christmas the backbreaking rituals of each day’s nursing eased a little, with several patients being assessed and discharged to return to their families. Although the beds, lockers, and mattresses needed thorough cleaning and fumigation, there were fewer inspections by Matron. Holding onto the back of an iron bedstead, Lily stood resting for a moment, staring through a window at the clouds massing heavy in the sky, wondering what Louis would be doing over Christmas and New Year, imagining him first-footing, rushing from house to house, downing glasses of whisky. The thought was strangely comforting.
The tide was flowing in swiftly, sweeping detritus onto the Embankment wall, as high as the top step of the short pier, and she thought back to the studio evenings, watching the sea in St Ives throwing up spume and froth on stormy days, but the river here wasn’t so dramatic, swirling in little eddies of pale white currents. Taking in the distance to the south bank and the scale of the scene, she remembered Monet painted close to this very spot, near Westminster Bridge, from inside a hospital ward. How had he managed to make his colours seem en plein air when he was indoors, and what was it Louis had said about painting nature out of doors? “Creating nature is not about imitation but throwing away the detail to feel the whole.” She was thinking about things, about the river, about painting, hearing Louis’s voice, lost in the sound; everything seemed so much clearer than if she’d thought of it on her own. If she had more time to paint, even water patterns could mean something.
Her attention had slipped away, and, shoving her cold hands into her pockets, she turned back to the ward, hoping she hadn’t spoken aloud. Across the room Matron was watching, looking as if she was about to start one of the many lessons she gave to tardy nurses.
“If you’re really finished cleaning, Nurse Briscoe,” Matron called over, “please sit at the table and help make Christmas decorations.”
The coming of Christmas seemed to affect them all, even Matron. Lily joined two older nurses opening boxes, the three of them too timid and obedient to start a conversation. They weren’t rude—they passed each other the scissors, but it hardly seemed to matter whether they were friendly or not; they got along together because they had to. All chats were kept for the short breaks and the dormitory. Even talking briefly to Eliza as their paths crossed on the staircases was a risky enterprise, but Lily, seeing her expression, could guess what she was thinking.
The boxes were full of green and red crepe paper, Union Jack triangular flags, sweets, crackers, satsumas, and red bags. Cutting the paper as evenly as possible, she wove streamers to hang between the windows and thought about the arrival of the Christmas tree at home, carried into the hall by the local greengrocer from his cart, his horse in the street munching oats in a canvas bag hanging from the reins. She’d always rushed to share the wonder with her mother. The dining room table would be cleared for once of its elaborate silver candlesticks, her mother’s daily fussing left behind, and all heavenly light was about them, it seemed, as they’d worked together on the paper chains until, best of all, her mother let her stand on a stepladder to finally put the Christmas star at the top of the elegantly decorated tree.
In the ward the time passed speedily enough as she filled the paper bags, presumably a substitute for Christmas stockings, with crackers on top of a single satsuma and sweets, feeling how amazingly good such simple pleasures could be. Her mother had woven a special stocking, with “Lily” appliquéd in silk letters she remembered now, hung in the centre of the mantelpiece below intertwined garlands of holly and streamers. Had Father saved it? Mother had stored her baby toys and books in the attic, anticipating Lily’s wedding and possible children, but her mother had died too young. She wasn’t sure now about marriage, or rather what marriage would bring. Why did weddings have such significance? In any case, would she ever marry? Would Louis ever marry her? Noticing she’d knocked a satsuma to the floor, she filled the last bag, feeling a tinge of sadness she wouldn’t be there on Christmas morning to see the men opening their presents.
It was already lunchtime, and she had a half-day free for Christmas shopping.
“I don’t wish to celebrate anniversaries,” Father would always say, but last year he’d wrenched the wrapping paper from his parcel like a child and seemed to savour her attempts at cooking Christmas lunch, with the maid and cook away with their families. She was glad to be spending the day with him. Before the war, at the rare dinner parties he felt he had to give, he’d said once or twice, “Lily’s a very fine artist. She takes after my late wife,” and his praise had kept her buoyed for a week.
Glancing up as she left the hospital, a harsh northerly wind rushed her around the corner to the tram stop. The news that morning had been of more Zeppelins arriving in the skies over London. During overcast nights she’d heard warning rockets dispatched from fire stations, and air ships droning close by, but the bomb thuds were always far away. How many people would the “baby killers” kill tonight? Trees thrust bare dark fingers into the sky, their soot-marked trunks as mottled as her patients’ skin, and shivering, she hopped onto a tram joining the tide of traffic flowing to Piccadilly.
The sun was shining brighter now, picking out gilt lettering on buses and carts, their horses’ breaths hazy in the cold air. She’d walked the last mile to mingle with the crowds cheerfully window-shopping, jumped down, and noticed a church sandwiched between two shops. Its doors were wide open, and, fancying a few verses of some familiar Christmas carol, she peeked inside. Surprised to see a poster attached to the door advertising a conscientious objectors’ meeting rather than a carol service, Lily came to an astonished halt, reading the speaker’s name in bold red letters above the time listed for tea: “Dr. Charles Tansley, Esq.” What was he doing here?
Tiptoeing into a side aisle and to a back seat, her nurse’s uniform shielded her from two men carefully checking visitors’ names at the entrance. The altar had been hung with white flowers mixed with white feathers, no doubt in defiance of public attacks on “conchies,” and a table alongside was laid with lines of cups and saucers next to a fat, hissing urn. In one sweeping gaze she saw the church was surprisingly full, with equal numbers of men and women.
Not much news about politics reached her these days. Lacking time to read newspapers, the nurses passed information to each other by word of mouth, in Chinese whispers. She knew hardly anything, but Charles Tansley must. There he was mounting the steps of the pulpit, clutching a few pieces of paper and a pamphlet with those long slender fingers, the same narrow face and carefully combed hair, still absurdly thin and student-like. Murmurs of greeting and a wave of affection rose up from his audience, as if peace was the one thing they believed in now.
“We are gathered together today,” Tansley began, going on to tell them a little of the history of pacifism and of the great philosophers from Seneca to Kant who’d prepared the way for them all. He faced heads nodding in agreement, faces lit up with passionate conviction. She nodded in unison, trying not to be noticed, and felt the power of his phrases reaching into her. With a sudden sweep upwards he raised his arm, displaying the pamphlet in his hand like a preacher holding up the Holy Bible. The title was indistinct from her seat at the rear of the church, but she heard Tansley say they should all read Peace at Once by Mr. Clive Bell, Esq.
“This book is the best argument for pacifism I’ve read,” he said, his voice rising with emotion. “It was seized by the authorities from the British Library and burnt, but I can supply a few remaining copies.”
Then he made a few closing remarks, gave a slight bow, and climbed back down into the nave.
Most of the spectators swept towards the tea table, allowing Lily to slip soundlessly to the door without Tansley noticing her, surrounded as he was by admiring women. As she emerged into the sunlit afternoon, she felt astonished by his easy confidence. His demeanour was so changed. At Talland House dining table, she’d tried
to please Mrs. Ramsay by drawing out an unforthcoming Tansley, but, for the past half-hour in the church, she’d sat absorbed in his passionate commitment to peace. What was the topic of Tansley’s thesis? The influence of somebody on something? Or was it how we can prove tables exist if we’re not looking at them? She couldn’t remember. He’d obviously forgotten about Mr. Ramsay’s theories in his enthusiasm for political life. In St Ives she hadn’t understood what he’d been talking about, but in London she felt ready to march alongside him.
The sight ahead—of Swan & Edgar damaged by a bomb blast—added to her feelings about Tansley. Glass lay shattered all over the pavement, a policeman with outstretched arms keeping passers-by at a distance. The bomb had missed most of the store, but the shock waves must have brought down some windows. Tansley’s words flowed into her doubts about the war, and she had a sense of being given a direction, a clear view of the world. It was strange how, without any effort of her own, such a different kind of people had come into her life, but the sudden appearance of the conscientious objectors seemed right. She’d always hated fighting and had now come across others who shared her belief. Yet she’d never gone out of her way to find them and here they were, as if the whole afternoon had been arranged to meet her needs.
The next morning the chill in the dormitory was intense. All the windows dripped with the condensed breaths of sleeping nurses, and the sky through the skylights was a collection of black squares in the curved white roof. Aware she’d woken earlier than usual, Lily used a chamber pot and climbed quickly back into bed, her legs searching for the warmth left by the night. Clutching her nurse’s cape around her shoulders and shielding a torch with a blanket, she turned the pages of her old sketchbook, feeling somehow more confident about drawing.
The first sketches of Mrs. Ramsay caught her outline quite well but lacked expression. As Lily flicked through the book, Mrs. Ramsay jumped jerkily as in a cinematograph, and she could almost see Tansley in the rear of each composition, waiting, as usual, for Mr. Ramsay to notice him. Yesterday he’d seemed to know about every great thinker. London life had obviously transformed him into someone not reliant on the Ramsays, or on anyone else, and he’d spoken so clearly, putting his pacifism into organized tidy patterns within a firm argument. Somehow, she needed to do the same in painting—to create new shapes inside an iron frame. As she replaced the sketchbook in her locker, the dormitory was waking up. Lily lay back on the pillows, watching a night-capped nurse at the far end climb out of bed, stretching her arms upwards at the sunrise.
