Daughters of War

by Lizzie Page

  ‘Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag’

  ‘If You Were the Only Girl in the World’

  ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’.

  12

  On days off, Kitty, Bonnie and I cadged a lift to one of the towns back from the front line: Pretty Cappy, Chuignolles, Suzanne, Proyart, or our nearest town of Bray-sur-Somme. It was quite the thrill to discover that, in France, shops were open on Sundays. On the other hand, we became quite blasé about the beautiful fountains. We would sit on their cool stone edges and after a while, we’d barely comment on the spitting cherubs or the lions pouring water from wide-open mouths that surrounded us.

  Kitty and Bonnie missed their sandwiches and cups of tea, but I delighted in coffee and French pastries, with their tiny currants or surprising cream centres. I had never loved English tea. (The foodstuff I missed most was American doughnuts, which were something I hadn’t eaten in years but now unexpectedly found myself craving.)

  We had become firm friends. Bonnie and Kitty were closer, they had known each other a long time, but they never let me feel left out. I didn’t tell them about George or the girls, which was fine at first. However, as time went on and I knew the ins and outs of Kitty’s sister’s appendix and Bonnie’s father’s failing business, I felt more acutely that I was hiding something from them and that made me feel both dishonest and guilty.

  One time, a street seller called us over to show us his pretty little hand mirrors edged with seashells that he was selling out of a battered suitcase. I knew Leona and Joy would love them. The street seller delighted in practising his English on us. He kept up a long stream of compliments: ‘She is pretty, she is charming, and you –’ he said to me – ‘you are the beautiful one, hey?’ He liked charming Bonnie best. Men usually did. ‘Shall we marry? You and I?’

  We admired the mirrors and finally I succumbed, picking out two of them.

  ‘Who are they for, May?’ asked Kitty.

  I looked up, suddenly remembering that no one knew about my family in England. I remembered Elsie’s instructions, and the interviewing panel: any commitments?

  ‘No, none whatsoever.’

  ‘My friend’s daughters,’ I said, quickly. ‘Tiggy and…’ I hesitated. This was ridiculous. ‘Delia.’

  ‘Tiggy?’ echoed Bonnie.

  ‘It’s a nickname,’ I said quickly. ‘Her real name is… is…’ I cast around for a clue and saw a street sign: Rue du Clemence.

  ‘Clementine…’

  ‘How on earth did that get shortened to Tiggy?’ pondered Kitty.

  It was one thing to pretend there was no George – it was enjoyable to pretend there was no George – but quite another to pretend there were no girls. It felt horrible, like I was tempting fate.

  * * *

  Doctor Collins – Gordon – shared his tent with Doctor Rafferty from the other team. They were rarely in the tent at the same time. Sometimes, after a long shift, Gordon would tell us we could unwind in his tent with him. I liked the word ‘unwind’: it reminded me of Leona’s musical box. Wind it up and the little ballerina would twirl to ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’. Wind it up, wind it down. How I wonder what you are.

  Gordon’s tent was very different from Matron’s and mine. Not only was there the gramophone, but also rugs, throws, cushions and pictures from all over the world. Gordon had been a doctor in Africa and India. He would happily tell anyone that conditions here were worse than anywhere he’d been before. The doctors also shared a small desk, most of which was obscured by a large typewriter. I had watched Gordon type once and it was very laboured, surprisingly for one so deft with a needle or tweezers. I would have liked a poke at those keys – the things I could write on that!

  Gordon knew that I liked poetry. One evening, he told us a verse a patient had written for his sweetheart.

  Roses are red,

  Violets are blue,

  War is stupid,

  And so are the leaders.

  ‘I like it,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘It doesn’t even rhyme,’ said Gordon, chuckling.

  ‘I bet May could do better,’ Bonnie said unexpectedly. ‘You’re always writing, aren’t you, May?’

  Kitty looked at me, then quickly looked away. I wondered if I’d upset her in some way.

  ‘I only write lists and my diary…’ I responded. They were all looking at me. ‘And yes, a little poetry sometimes, but it isn’t very good.’

  ‘I bet it is,’ said Bonnie.

  ‘You’re very talented, May,’ said Kitty finally.

  ‘I think so too,’ said Gordon.

  They have no idea, I thought, but at the same time, I was delighted they’d formed such a high opinion of me and I resolved not to disappoint them.

  Tasks of a nurse/volunteer

  Bed-baths

  Dressings

  Bedpans

  Take temperatures

  Make beds

  Write letters

  Paint on a smile and cheer everybody up, whether it’s with a song, a letter or a joke.

  13

  For the first few weeks, I cried at the end of my shifts into my flaccid pillow (I had to be silent because Matron would have no sympathy). I wasn’t habituated to seeing men injured, I wasn’t accustomed to suffering. After a while, though, I stopped crying and instead, went straight to sleep. I don’t know how exactly this change came about, but it did. I was doing my best on shift, and I realised it did neither me nor the men nor my team any favours to dwell on the soldiers’ tragedies. To be in the best state I could be was far more important than that I wept at their hardships.

  In general, spirits were surprisingly high. We knew things were terrible in Belgium, particularly in Ypres, where Elsie was, and we knew there were other areas in France – not very far from here – that were getting hammered, but in our corner by the winding River Somme, strange to say, we were relatively quiet. Our hospital was running well. Maybe once or twice a week, we would receive a telegram from along the front line: In-coming two men: leg and abdominal injury, and we would make the appropriate preparations.

  At each changeover we smiled at our counterparts, handed over our notes and wished them a good day or good night. I don’t think I was imagining it: there was a sense that we were winning the war. I was sure I would be home long before the school vacation. Soldiers smiled shyly at us as they marched past us towards the front. We could see their different regiments. It seemed they were pouring in from all over the world. How could the Germans possibly compete? So many volunteers had responded to Kitchener’s call that the Army had been overwhelmed by the numbers. I thought back to that moment in Percy’s apartment as he said, maybe… I would need to know more.

  It isn’t so bad, Percy. I thought to myself. You should try it.

  * * *

  One day a new nurse arrived in the other team, replacing Sybil, who for all her bravado about staying the course had now gone back to Wiltshire to take care of her elderly father. I almost pitied the new arrival for catching only the tail end of the war. She’s missed all the action, I thought. She might as well turn around and go straight back home.

  I looked over and saw blonde bun, round spectacles. It was someone I recognised very slightly from the Tooting Bathing Lake. Elizabeth had once told her she was using her legs wrongly. (Elizabeth was a great one for correcting other people’s legs.) I introduced myself. She jumped up so fast that her chair fell to the ground. She shook my hand vigorously, exclaiming, ‘It’s you, isn’t it, from the swimming club?!’

  Everyone in the canteen was very pleased for us. Her name was Millicent Sumner and, like me, she was a volunteer. Afterwards, I thought, but I hardly know her at all; all I knew was that she was a proficient diver and wore a disarmingly old-fashioned bathing suit – but it made me feel at home. It was lovely having someone from London here. In a way that was confusing, though. I had so yearned to escape my life in London, yet now I was away, I felt increasingly nostalgic about it too.
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br />   * * *

  I heard rumours that Nurse Katherine, from the other team, had fallen in love with one of our patients. And then, at changeover one evening, I spied her mooning over the bug-eyed man with a nasty ankle injury in bed four.

  ‘Saying goodbye is such sweet sorrow,’ she said, misquoting Shakespeare. Shaking her head sadly, she left the ward.

  ‘You’ll be back in tomorrow, won’t you?’ I said. She gave me a sharp look.

  The fella was a charmer, with smooth dark skin and feminine eyebrows. Being prostrate in bed, in his unflattering hospital blues, hadn’t daunted his confidence an iota. He had the charm of a snake-oil seller.

  Although it was another of the unspoken or invisible rules, Matron strongly disapproved of romance on the wards, but she wasn’t leading Sister Katherine’s team so it wasn’t her call. Millicent also seemed to disapprove. Whenever I saw her, she rolled her eyes so hard, she would nearly drop whatever it was she was holding.

  Next day, Katherine cooed to me, ‘Love changes everything.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I said.

  She leaned over and kissed the fella on the forehead. He closed his eyes theatrically and then opened one eye, then the other, checking I’d seen.

  ‘You should try it, May,’ she pursued.

  I shook my head. Love was overrated. The last thing I needed was complications. I wondered if George missed me. I found I didn’t care much if he did or didn’t – I was dreading seeing him again.

  ‘Telegram from Morlancourt,’ said Matron. She always recited the names of the towns. They were meaningless to me, I rarely knew if they were located near or far. ‘Two men, possible head injuries. Prepare beds, Nurse Turner.’

  * * *

  You didn’t have to ask Kitty for a thermometer or a bandage, she anticipated things. We were good at caring, all of us, in both teams, but our Kitty was exceptional. Gordon said, ‘If she were a man…’ His voice trailed away guiltily. I knew what he was going to say: If she were a man, she might have trained to be a doctor. As it was, those doors were closed to her. She was a woman and not a wealthy one at that. While most VADs were self-supporting, Kitty and Bonnie’s expenses were paid for by their local church group.

  Matron had asked Kitty and me to dole out the medicine in convalescence, which was normal, but I was trapped with a poor patient trying and failing to pee into a bottle, so I told Kitty, ‘Go ahead, get started without me.’

  When I next looked up, I saw Kitty had stopped still.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Kitty hesitated. It was as though she’d been frozen on the spot. She stared at the rectangular medicine packet, then turned it over and over. I wondered if it was one of the damp shipments we’d had to throw away the week before.

  ‘I’ll just get Bonnie.’

  ‘Leave Bonnie.’

  Bonnie had been looking pasty for the last few days and Matron had sent her for a rare lie-down. The last thing we needed was Bonnie giving everyone the flu. ‘Just give out the pills, Kitty.’

  ‘I can’t make it out,’ Kitty said in a quiet voice.

  ‘Is it in French?’

  ‘No…’

  Then what is the problem? ‘Oh, bring it here then…’

  Kitty, usually so sprightly, didn’t move a muscle, so I walked over and took the box from her. I peered at the writing. No, it definitely wasn’t wet. The instructions were perfectly clear. In English. The font was none too small either.

  I looked up at Kitty. She was looking at me pleadingly.

  ‘Oh, no, Kitty,’ I said incredulously. ‘Really?’

  * * *

  Bonnie had been covering for Kitty all this time. Everything was so chaotic when they enlisted, and everyone had liked how hard she had worked, but now she was well and truly caught out. I don’t know how they had ever thought they’d get away with it.

  Kitty broke down in tears. I was too shocked to comfort her properly.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said, but it was anything but. I couldn’t bear to think of her returning home, defeated. I knew she didn’t want to go back to east London either.

  ‘Are you going to tell?’

  I thought of the letters she refused to write, the prescriptions she refused to put in the notebook. I thought of the tiny name-bands each patient wore. Somehow I hadn’t realised this before, but they had been written only by me or Bonnie. How the hell had Kitty managed until now?

  ‘We’ll sort something out,’ I said.

  * * *

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Gordon said. ‘Not Kitty!’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I said flatly. I had told Gordon not because he oversaw us – he didn’t – but because it was better telling him than Matron. Matron would come down hard. He knew that too.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  Gordon chewed his pipe pensively. Gordon would be easy to fall in love with, if one were able to fall in love. Which I was not.

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone so sweet with the patients. You can’t learn that. You can’t teach that… She’s got a wonderful bedside manner.’

  ‘But what about reading?’

  ‘Keep her clear of medicines, obviously,’ Gordon continued.

  ‘But reading, Gordon, reading!’

  ‘Oh, I’ll teach her.’ He shrugged as if all were simple. ‘She’s here now, what would be the point of sending her back?’

  ‘But what about Matron? She won’t…’ I paused, ‘stand for it.’

  ‘Give us a month,’ he said. And I thought, but we may be home in a month anyway. ‘If she’s making no progress by then, I’ll tell Matron myself.’

  I nodded. I couldn’t think of this place without darling Kitty.

  ‘Let’s face it, she’s a clever little thing if she’s got this far,’ he added.

  * * *

  From then on, Gordon and Kitty studied together most evenings. I lent them my Walt Whitman poetry collection and they got books sent over from England. Matron didn’t like it – she liked to spend time with Gordon after a shift, wrapping up the details. I privately imagined he was relieved to get away from her and her contraventions.

  As time went on, I teased Kitty about Gordon, but she wouldn’t say a word, she just shrugged non-committal. I thought maybe Kitty was playing it cool so Bonnie didn’t feel the gooseberry, which was reasonable. One time, though, I asked Bonnie what she thought about the two of them, and she said, ‘Be a waste if she did.’

  Eh? I thought. Gordon was the most handsome and, more importantly, the most emotionally intelligent man out here. How could that be a waste?

  * * *

  Usually, you could take one week’s leave for three months’ service, so to get two weeks, you’d have to have done at least six months. But although I was still one week short, Gordon said, ‘Take two weeks this summer, May. You’ve worked your socks off.’

  Although delighted, I was also wary. I didn’t want to be singled out for special treatment, I didn’t want to be different here. I had had a lifetime of being the odd one out and it had done me no favours.

  There was something very levelling about being on the front. Yes, there was a strict hierarchy – however topsy-turvy we were at our hospital, we still knew our place – and yes, there were all the different nationalities. But when a man was presenting in front of you with a chest wound, you were all trying to assist, whether doctor or cleaner, man or woman, American or German, rich or poor, illiterate or not. We were all on the same side when it came to giving of our best to help. Whenever a telegram came, we all snapped into action: wind us up and we twirl to the music.

  The sentiment of ‘The Rich Man at His Castle, the Poor Man at His Gate’, George’s favourite hymn, was shattering around us. Good rich men and women and good poor men and women were engaged in this outrageous war together.

  ‘Is this a test, Gordon?’ I asked. ‘Do you expect me not to come back?’

  He laughed. ‘May! Don’t be so paranoid. Aren’t you desperate to get away from us?’


  I wasn’t, actually. Although I was desperate to see my girls, this was the first place I had been where I felt I truly belonged.

  14

  I arrived home feeling some trepidation, but Mrs Crawford greeted me warmly with the news I hadn’t dared hope for: George was away! Hallelujah! I’d known Mrs Crawford ever since I’d been in London and had never hugged her, but I hugged her then and she hugged me back. She didn’t know exactly where George was or how long he’d be away for, but who could care less? What a glorious start to the holidays!

  Mrs Crawford wanted to bring up some food to the dining room for me, but I asked to have it downstairs instead. She looked askance at this irregularity, but complied. In the kitchen, the fire was blazing, the kettle was on the stove and it made a far cosier place than upstairs, which, after all, was all done out to George’s (questionable) taste.

  After we had been chatting for some time, I screwed up my courage.

  ‘Mrs Crawford, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but has there been a woman here?’

  I don’t know what I expected. Would we try again if he said he had been missing me all this time? I didn’t think so.

  She wiped her hands on her apron, giving herself time.

  ‘A woman? No…’ She looked at me shiftily, then in a lower voice said: ‘Women, more like.’

  ‘Overnight?’ My voice was shaking a little. I shouldn’t have been disappointed at this news, but I was.

  ‘I don’t do mornings any more, Mrs Turner, I’m at the post office now – the war effort…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But…’

  We looked at each other. The kettle began to whistle on the stove.

  ‘They stayed over?’

  ‘I think so. The sheets, you see, and the glasses, and the breakfast plates, and the… I think he pays them.’