by Lizzie Page
‘Scrape and scratch, scrabble and scrooge,’ I said to her, but Bonnie didn’t get the Wind in the Willows reference. She stared at me bad-humouredly. Her hands had grown red-raw and gnarly. Still, I was surprised when she took to her tent right after dinner, apologising that she needed a rest. That wasn’t like Bonnie. The next day, she was still unwell and was lying prone when I popped in at break. I was wondering if she would have to go back to England. I didn’t want that at all because she was a kind-hearted soul and she worked brilliantly with everyone.
* * *
After my shift ended, I went to Bonnie’s tent with some dinner for her on a tray. It was tinned meat and crackers. Bonnie loved her tinned meat. Whereas some of us turned up our noses at the watery, fatty slop that was sent over from England, she insisted it was far superior to what she was used to eating.
‘Don’t come in!’ she called, even though it was too late; I was in. ‘I’m not hungry.’
She was kneeling on her bed, her head ducked down low. I thought maybe she was looking for something in the sheets. She clutched her pillow to her and groaned, very lightly, but for a long time.
‘What is it, love?’
She didn’t look feverish or jaundiced or any of the other ailments. I wondered if she was constipated.
‘Get Kitty,’ she hissed. And this was unlike her too. Bonnie was usually scrupulously polite. And suddenly, I had a crazy, terrible inkling.
* * *
Kitty was busy with her lessons with Gordon in his tent, sitting among the cushions and incense. Kitty adored Peter Pan and when I told her I had read it to my girls, she had been full of questions: Where is Mrs Darling? Where did the Lost Boys live before? They both looked up when I ran in, but before I could say anything more than a breathless, ‘Kitty, I think, if you wouldn’t mind…’ a screech came from the neighbouring tent. They must have heard it in the men’s hospital tent; they probably heard it in no-man’s-land – they probably heard it over the other side. I pictured a German general demanding of his men, wat iz zat?
It was Matron who reacted first. Matron, usually so slow she made a tortoise look hasty, sped past us, her dumpy legs gathering pace towards Bonnie’s tent, shouting.
‘Towels, water and, dear God, find something to wrap it in.’
* * *
Joy had been born in my bedroom at home. George had volunteered the services of his mother. Perhaps it was the prospect of that nasty woman sneering at my nether regions that got the baby out.
The doctor said I had had it easy because I was so young. It wasn’t easy. I knew others had been cruel about me too, gossiping that I’d spent the full nine months of my pregnancy resting. I had spent a lot of time in bed, but that’s because I was so miserable, I could hardly leave the room. Joy had eventually slipped out of me. When she was placed in my arms, I was sobbing so hard, I could barely look at her.
George wanted to call her Araminta after his aunt. Over my dead body, George.
What had I been thinking, having children with someone like George? He had been useless with the babies, of course. For him, having a baby meant wetting the poor soul’s head. It meant more alcohol and cigars than you could shake a fist at. His church friends all came round, spending hours in the drawing room. (He still had friends then; he hadn’t yet put them off with the scary amounts of liquor he would consume, and it was before the advances he made on their wives and daughters were public knowledge.)
He wanted to resume marital relations only three weeks after Joy was born (and only ten days after Leona). ‘I’m still bleeding, George.’
‘Quick wash will see to that,’ he insisted. ‘A man has needs.’
He didn’t understand why babies (and their mothers) cry.
‘A thimble of whisky will help it sleep.’
It, George?
‘That’s not a thimble, George, take the bottle away from her face… now!’
And when Leona crawled into his office once, dipping her finger into the ink and trailed it along the blotter, the desk, the bureau – ‘I’ll get my cane.’
‘She’s a baby!’
‘Never did me any harm.’
The jury’s out on that one, George.
* * *
We got Bonnie up, we helped her lie down, but nothing was happening. Other than her pain, that is. The poor girl was obviously hurting everywhere.
‘It feels like I’m being kicked from the inside out.’
‘You are, dear, that’s the baby…’
Her back hurt – ‘Oh, how it aches!’ – even down to her toes: ‘I’ve got pins and needles there now!’
Matron made the bed afresh, then told her to get on it.
‘I don’t want to lie down,’ she protested but Matron wasn’t having any of it.
‘You’ll do as you’re told, young lady.’
‘Let her sit upright,’ I tentatively suggested. ‘Gravity might help.’
Matron glared at me. ‘And how many babies have you delivered?’
I couldn’t reply. Noticing my distress, Kitty said soothingly, ‘We need whatever help we can get.’
Gordon took us to the side. ‘How about morphine? The Germans use it in childbirth, they call it twilight sleep.’
‘Well, if the Germans use it…’ sneered Matron.
It was Kitty who spoke against it. ‘How will we get the baby out if she’s asleep?’
Bonnie moaned. I don’t know if it was at the idea of the baby or the prospect of sleep.
‘At least she won’t be in more pain,’ I argued, watching as Kitty wiped Bonnie’s forehead again. Poor Bonnie, I had never seen her in such a state. Was this what I had done? With Mrs Crawford cringing by the door with a jug of cold water and washcloths? I could hardly remember.
‘She’ll have to cope with the pain,’ Matron decided firmly. ‘It’s on its way.’
Kitty was looking at me. ‘May, are you okay? May?’
I couldn’t do it. Too many horrible memories were bubbling up. I ran out of Bonnie’s tent, went over to the communal stove and, quite unfairly, made myself a three-teaspoon cup of coffee with a heap of sugar.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, I heard Gordon calling: it was over. I approached nervously.
‘What is it?’ I sounded like I had something stuck in my throat.
‘It’s a baby!’ he cried incredulously as though he didn’t quite believe it himself.
‘A baby!’ I still couldn’t believe it. Bonnie had a baby! ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’
‘I forgot to look,’ he said sheepishly. I heard laughter from inside the tent, then Kitty’s voice: ‘It’s a boy, Doctor Collins!’
Bracing myself, I went in. Matron was gathering up the sheets, Kitty was sitting on the bed next to Bonnie and they were both clearly enamoured with this tiny wee thing wrapped in a blanket. He was gorgeous, a proper heartbreaker.
‘Meet Freddie,’ Kitty said with a big smile. Bonnie glanced up at me shyly, her eyes full of tears.
‘What a beautiful name,’ I said.
‘Is that after his pa?’ Matron asked sharply.
Bonnie and Kitty looked at each other and laughed at some private joke.
Bonnie shrugged. ‘I just like the name.’
* * *
Later, Bonnie fell asleep with her mouth open, her hair askew and her nightie dishevelled. Even so, she still looked triumphant in that post-natal I did it, I really did it way. I remembered that euphoria, mixed with fear, the myriad of conflicting emotions.
The next day, with Bonnie’s permission, I took the bundled-up Freddie into the convalescence tent and as soon as I did, Monty, a cheerful young lad from Hull, shouted out:
‘Not more cleaning! Sister Turner…’
Walking carefully over to him, I held out the precious parcel. ‘No, look what I’ve got here!’
Monty couldn’t believe his eyes. A baby. Here in bloody France. Tears came to his eyes and as I watched him, tears came to mine.
‘Is it rea
l?’
‘Yes, he is very real.’
‘Is he yours?’
‘Oh no, not mine, he’s Bonnie— Nurse Matlock’s.’
‘Well, I thought she was just fat!’ he said. I blushed. There was an awful lot going on out here, but how we all hadn’t noticed Bonnie’s increasing girth was beyond me.
Freddie had gripped Monty’s hand in that way babies do and wouldn’t let go. His unfocussed eyes peered around.
‘I can’t get my finger…’ said Monty in a happy panic. ‘I’ve never seen anything so small. Or so lovely.’
After that, everyone wanted a hold. James from Kent, with half his face blown off, was a natural: ‘I’ve got three at home,’ he explained as he got out of bed for the first time since his operation. He stood in the middle of the ward, rocking Freddie from side to side. He crooned to him, soft, sweet words, telling him where in the world he was and what day it was, and how the war would be over very soon so not to worry, little fella, for he would grow up in peace. I was on standby in case Freddie whimpered, but James calmed that little boy (and all of us watching) perfectly.
Lenny wanted a cuddle too. Lenny was eighteen, an angry young man from London. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be anywhere. Skinny and dark, he couldn’t get comfortable, wouldn’t rest. He didn’t like chatting; usually the only one of us he could be bothered to talk to was Kitty, but now he was happy to talk to me.
‘Has he got a bottle? Let me give him the bottle.’
‘He’s not on the bottle,’ I told him.
‘Don’t fight over him,’ Matron said protectively, but no one was fighting, everyone was happy to take turns. ‘You have a go,’ James offered.
And Lenny did. I knew Matron, like me, was itching to say support his neck, but we let him work it out and he did.
Lenny smiled broadly. ‘My girl’s having a baby,’ he told us. ‘In spring. Can’t wait.’
Only Charles tried to resist Freddie’s charms. No, he said firmly, he couldn’t hold him. His right arm was all bust up and his left arm wasn’t much better. But I knew he could do it. I got him comfortable with his pillow perfectly positioned behind him and heaved him upright, half-grumbling, half-eager to have a try. I pushed aside his doubts and placed darling Freddie in his arms.
‘There, you’ve got him.’
‘I have, haven’t I?’ he said, his lip wobbling. ‘I’ve got him.’
* * *
Bonnie slept, then slept some more. Kitty made sure she was by her side when she woke and unsurprisingly, a few more tears were shed. I was worried about Bonnie but Kitty was keeping an eye on her. I was also concerned about how they would find a replacement at this short notice. While we were by no means busy in Bray-sur-Somme, we needed a functioning team. And I loved my team just as we were, I didn’t want more changes. The next day, as we sat drinking coffee in Gordon’s tent, Kitty told us her solution: Bonnie would take Freddie to England, then she’d return. She’d only be gone one week.
‘How?’
‘Her mother will take on the baby.’
I thought of my own mother, far too busy extolling Christian virtues in churches across Chicago to take on a child.
‘That’s good of her.’
‘Why wouldn’t she?’ said Kitty, blowing into the coffee – force of habit, because the coffee was long chilled. ‘She’s got ten of her own.’
‘Ten!’
‘This one will hardly make a difference.’
Freddie let out a cry, perhaps anticipating his large family.
Gordon picked him up. Freddie had wisps of black hair and surprisingly fierce eyebrows. He had pouty lips and a button nose. His cheeks were smooth and shiny. I suspected the father, whoever he was, must be quite the looker.
‘Uncle Gordy’s going to miss you, pipsqueak.’
‘We all will…’
* * *
I wrote a note to Elsie, smiling to myself:
When you told me to come out to the continent to nurse, never did I imagine I would find myself looking after a tiny baby!
Typical Elsie, she scribbled just three words back:
You lucky bugger!
* * *
I held little Freddie for one last time, choking back tears as Bonnie fetched her coat and trunk.
‘Blimey!’ she said, when she saw the shiny car that had come to collect her.
‘Only the best for you and Freddie,’ said Gordon. ‘That’s precious cargo, that is.’
Kitty lent me her handkerchief to cry into. I was just wiping my eyes when Matron looked over at me.
‘This is not an excuse to skive, Nurse Turner. Back to convalescence with you.’
‘I know, Matron.’ I responded sullenly. I was fed up with her scolding. The way she could suck happiness out of every occasion was quite a skill.
Where to visit in Paris!!
Eiffel Tower – Closed?
The Louvre – Closed?
Montmartre – Gordon’s recommendation. Not sure.
Tuileries – Maybe closed?
The Seine – Oh yes!
Ooh la la!
16
Most people fled Paris when the Germans invaded the first time. Even after the Germans were repelled, many hadn’t returned. Paris was a reduced, diminished city in 1915 but it was still Paris. You can’t squash Paris – it’s like one of the beastly cockroaches that Gordon chases around the tents with a broom, it will survive anything (only, of course, Paris is nothing like a cockroach at all).
Bonnie had just come back from leaving Freddie in England. She was resilient, but nevertheless, Kitty and I were determined to look after her and we had decided a day trip to Paris was the very thing to cheer her (and us) up.
We set off early in the morning, cadging a lift with a British ambulance crew going that way. Paris was approximately two hours south. The buildings were so magnificent, the bridges so beautiful, the fountains so spectacular, the sidewalks so wide (‘The people are so small,’ marvelled Bonnie). Some theatres were still open and ticket touts bunched around us, trying to sell us their shows. Lots of pharmacies and Vin et Liquor shops were open. Women in bonnets strolled around, trying to find special things to spend money on. There were more taxis here than in London. The Parisian taxis had famously transported men to the front line. Now some of the drivers shouted out to us, ‘Nurses, nurses anglaises!’
‘How can they tell we’re English?’ asked Bonnie, mystified.
‘They’re not blind!’ Kitty laughed. It was so jolly to be out, the three of us, on an adventure.
One time, I shouted back, ‘Je suis Américaine.’ The man clapped his hands excitedly, then clasped his hands to his chest in excitement. ‘Mon Dieu, the Americans are here finally!’
He was being sarcastic. I decided to carry on letting them think I was English.
* * *
We took a boat trip down the River Seine. Admiring the curve into the islands, we didn’t feel the wind blowing in from the north. We admired the white brickwork, the boulevards, the view of the bridges from underneath. The Métro stations with their beautiful squiggly writing. There was no escaping the great groups of soldiers: ‘Bonjour, English? English?’ they’d shout when they heard us speak. Blue jackets, red caps and red trousers. Bonnie preferred the English uniforms, but Kitty and I were quite taken with the colourful French.
‘The women here look so fresh,’ said Kitty, half-admiring, half-envious. We couldn’t work out what it was, but their blouses seemed a more flattering fit and their fluted skirts were longer and altogether swishier somehow.
There were children in sailor outfits. I chuckled to myself – Joy and Leona would have had a field day. They had given up ‘childish’ clothes as soon as they were allowed. And there were couples, smooching, far more openly than they did back in London, gazing into each other’s eyes, stroking each other’s faces.
‘I wish I had someone to stroke my face,’ said Bonnie wistfully.
Kitty raised her eyebrows at me. �
��I’m saying nothing.’
* * *
We found a sweet café with velvet curtains, where they were serving omelettes and coffees. Inside were lots of French soldiers and their girlfriends (I don’t know if they were proper girlfriends, because I heard one say, ‘What was your name again?’). Bonnie admitted that, on second thoughts, their uniforms were quite splendid, weren’t they?
The owner said she had some fine cheese. I think Bonnie was expecting Cheddar or something, but when the owner proudly came back, her face fell. Of course, it was Brie.
‘Smells like sailors’ socks,’ Bonnie muttered, but she cleared her plate, and when the owner asked if she’d enjoyed it, Bonnie said it was like nothing she’d ever tasted before. The owner joyfully kissed us on both cheeks. Bonnie turned back to us, whispered, ‘Wha-at? Told her the truth, didn’t I?’
* * *
There were many wounded soldiers in Montmartre, a reminder – as if we needed it – that it was not just in or around our hospital, the entire country was suffering terribly. It was hard to make your way through the wheelchairs and walking sticks but still, what a vibrant, colourful place it was. It felt like all forms of life were here. Someone struck up a tune on the accordion. Like a thousand artists, writers and poets before me, I couldn’t resist thinking: I am going to have to capture this.
Bonnie wanted to have her portrait done, so we circled the artists, looking for one who appealed to her. She considered a few and then chose the elderly man whose pencil drawings were mostly of famous people. I didn’t recognise many of them – most were French leaders, I think – but anyway, Bonnie decided she liked the work of this artist the best. They agreed a price and she sat down on his stool while he brought his paper to life.
