Daughters of War

by Lizzie Page

  ‘You must miss them,’ said Kitty.

  ‘So much.’ I held back a sob. I thought of Leona pleading with me to come into the house, and how cold Joy was when she said hello or goodbye. Kitty’s sympathy was making me feel worse. Could I have done more? Should I be with them now? Then Bonnie asked if Matron knew. I asked if they would tell her for me. Although I was keen to have everything out in the open now, I couldn’t face telling her myself.

  * * *

  That same evening, Matron stalked over to me. I suppose because Kitty and Bonnie’s reaction had been so positive, I assumed she too was going to say something heart-warming and that she might even admire me for my fortitude, but she had a cold glint in her eye, like a predator who’d found a weak spot.

  ‘You have to go back to England, Nurse Turner.’

  ‘Wha-at? Why?’

  ‘This is no place for mothers,’ she said.

  ‘This is no place for anyone.’ I hissed back. ‘It’s… it’s not nice for sons, fathers, husbands, wives – anybody.’

  ‘It’s against the rules.’

  ‘It’s not. Doctor Collins said it’s not.’

  She sniffed. I didn’t wait for her to say any more, I extinguished my lantern quickly. I hadn’t known I could dislike her any more than I already did.

  I lay awake in the silence for longer than usual.

  * * *

  The younger men cried. It wasn’t only the loss of their limbs, but the loss of a future, of work, of money, of love.

  ‘I’m spoiled goods,’ they said, or ‘No one will ever want me.’ Kitty, Bonnie, even Matron did their best to put their minds at rest.

  ‘You’re a silly sausage,’ Bonnie might cajole them. Or, ‘With a face like yours, the girls will all come knocking…’

  Sometimes, Bonnie would go too far. She would plonk herself on a poor fella’s bed – she had to be told repeatedly to stop it, but she always forgot – and say ‘I’ll be your beau.’

  Matron’s words of comfort were: ‘Oh, there’s plenty who’ve got it worse than you.’

  ‘In fact,’ Kitty would say, with her usual rationality, ‘after the war, there may be such a shortage of young eligible males that you may find you have quite the pick of the ladies.’

  I myself never knew what to say for the best. Perhaps they sensed that about me too, because they didn’t seem to talk about it to me as much as to the others. If any of the boys did try talking about it with me, I would bring them some water, stroke their foreheads and try to make them as comfortable as I could. Sometimes I would read them the letters they had from their mothers – that seemed to work.

  * * *

  Eight weeks came and went in the blink of my very bloodshot and dusty eyes. Divorce papers were served and signed. Gordon was my witness. George had done what he said he would do and claimed that I’d had an adulterous relationship with Percy Milhouse. Occupation: Artist. (Unsurprisingly, Percy had not replied when I wrote of it to him.) The girls would continue at boarding school – George agreed he would pay.

  ‘But you are losing so much,’ said Gordon. He feared I was being too hasty. Divorce in haste, repent at leisure. ‘Why would you admit to something you haven’t done?’

  ‘It’s by far the easiest way. The law makes it near impossible for me to divorce George but easy for him to divorce me.’

  ‘Wait ‘til the war is over,’ he advised. ‘Things will change. Women might have more rights.’

  But George and I couldn’t wait. ‘Oh well, it’s only a house,’ I said ruefully. ‘And my good name…’

  Gordon raised his eyebrows at me.

  ‘And what about the girls?’

  ‘Oh, George wouldn’t do a thing about them.’ I laughed. ‘He’d have to look after them himself!’

  * * *

  There was still no sign of Major Louis Spears.

  Maybe that was a good thing. Who wanted that nonsense out here? It hadn’t worked out for many of my colleagues: Katherine had been abandoned broken-hearted, Bonnie had been left with a baby and Lucille had a fiancé who was now a prisoner of war. And it hadn’t exactly worked out for me before. What was one of Mrs Crawford’s strange sayings? Once bitten, twice shy? I was shy even before I was bitten.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I found myself telling Gordon, who had already suspected, of course. ‘Just be patient, he’ll come back.’

  But I no longer believed he would.

  22

  No one could escape Bonnie and her autograph book. She made everyone, staff and patients, leave their mark in it.

  By hook or by crook I’ll be first in your book, read the first one, and after that the pages filled up so quickly with lovely sweet messages that she had to write to her family in London to send more books. I loved flicking through them after our shifts. I wished I had thought of it first.

  Sometimes there’d be a cheeky comment but mostly there would be gentle thank-yous, appreciative notes, riddles or reflective stories. I loved the drawings of butterflies, of deer or strings of love-hearts.

  * * *

  A patient, Private Stanley Jones, came in making a big hoo-ha about his ventriloquist’s dummy. Even when he was groaning on the stretcher, he insisted that his wooden ‘boy’ was carried upright. He even demanded it had a bed of its own. When we refused to comply, he begged for it to have its own chair, at least. To humour him, I got the dummy a blanket, then kindly wrapped a bandage around its gurning wooden head. I was quite pleased with myself.

  ‘Better now!’

  Stanley looked at me disdainfully. ‘It’s Little Stan’s foot that got hurt, not his bloody head, dear.’

  Something about Stanley reminded me of George. I tried to keep away from him, but he always needed a drink, a sit-up, a letter written to his ma or something. Noting my reluctance, Matron scolded me.

  ‘You can’t pick and choose patients, May,’ she said. ‘This isn’t Selfridges.’

  Little Stan drew everyone’s attention, as he sat on his chair next to his owner’s bed. If you caught sight of him from the other end of the ward, you’d wonder what that schoolboy was doing here. That blank waxy face with the lines down its side and a playful yet sinister expression. He wore a paisley waistcoat and little patent shoes.

  ‘Isn’t he brilliant?’ enthused Matron. She thought Little Stan was quite the thing; but then Matron was delighted with any wig or clown, and her all-time favourite form of entertainment was a man dressed as a woman.

  Stanley was very glum. He had taken shots to the arm and leg and although a tourniquet had been put on fairly quickly, it had been left like that for a long time. The trenches were too narrow to stretcher him out and his best friend had been killed while trying to get help.

  One day Stanley saw me looking at Little Stan. I made a show of dusting around him. He told me be careful, don’t knock him off his chair. Irritably, I told him that I always was careful. I asked after his leg but Stanley insisted he wasn’t bothered, it was the arm that worried him. The surgeons had worked hard through the night not to have to amputate it, but no one was sure how far the damage went.

  ‘I was a ventriloquist in real life,’ he explained glumly. Only then did I begin to realise what a blow to his career the loss of his arm would be.

  ‘In real life?’ I said. I still didn’t know what to make of him. ‘Isn’t this real life?’

  ‘This isn’t real life, is it?’ he said. ‘It’s a bloody nightmare. Wake me up when it’s over.’

  After that conversation, somehow Stanley and I got on much better.

  * * *

  One evening, Stanley said Little Stan wanted to entertain us, ‘to show his gratitude for your loving care’. (I could never tell if he was being serious or not.) I was reluctant. Despite our best efforts, we had lost two men in two days (both from the same sniper attack – some German soldier must have been feeling very proud of himself). I didn’t see the point of anything. But Matron was surprisingly keen, so when the other team were on duty
, we moved some of the less poorly soldiers onto chairs and moved some of the beds around, so we could all crowd around him.

  It turned out Stanley was a great raconteur. Through Little Stan, he told stories about David Lloyd George, Edward Grey and the whole war cabinet. He did a good imitation of Queen Victoria – ‘We are not amused’ – as well. (Any similarity to Matron, I guessed, was entirely intentional.) It did the belly good to laugh about those in power. I had forgotten that. It was as rewarding as a good meal and when we went back to our tents that night, we were still chuckling to ourselves.

  23

  Spring was coming. Small buds on the trees, green emerging underfoot. No need for our heavy overcoats and boots. I was making plans for my next trip home when Gordon pushed through the ward, gripping his stethoscope and mouthing exaggeratedly:

  ‘He’s here!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your tall gentleman…’

  My tall gentleman! I wished!

  Major Louis Spears came in, stooping for the bowed ceiling. He was tall but the stooping was a little unnecessary. His face was every bit as lovely as I had thought the first time I saw him, but this time he was tanned and looked absolutely done in.

  After we’d exchanged pleasantries, he held out his arm. ‘Would you be so kind as to look at my wrist?’

  This was my first gulp of disappointment. Louis wasn’t here as a suitor but as a patient.

  ‘I don’t have the authority…’

  ‘Please,’ he said. His eyes really were very blue.

  I looked. He could move it all right, and he could wriggle his fingers perfectly – and then it dawned on me that the wrist just might have been a ploy to come and see me. (A very poor one at that.)

  ‘Will I be able to play the piano?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That’s good, I never could before.’

  ‘That is terrible,’ I said.

  ‘I have more.’ He smiled at me and it was as if we were old friends. ‘I can get Doctor Collins to have a look when he’s finished his round,’ I said.

  ‘I trust you,’ he said simply.

  Stanley picked up Little Stan. He pulled the delicate strings and Little Stan said in that high-pitched, sing-song voice of his:

  ‘Ooh, Nurse Turner, this one is sweet on you—’

  ‘Sshhh,’ I hissed. ‘You’re being silly, Little Stan!’

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ Little Stan piped up. ‘He’s a good ’un, I can tell.’

  I looked back at Louis. His face was flushed but he just shrugged. ‘Little Stan may be right.’

  ‘About which one?’

  ‘Both…’

  This admission made me bold. I pulled him away from our audience and whispered, ‘Are there no doctors between here and the Middle East?’

  ‘Not a single one.’ He smiled.

  I let go of his wrist, reluctantly. I had liked holding his arm.

  ‘So, what really brings you here, Major Spears?’

  ‘My friend told me I had to come, Nurse Turner.’

  He kept his eyes locked on mine. I felt transported from the hospital tent. His face was both familiar and exciting, his voice somehow thrilling yet soothing. He could make this sad, drab place come alive.

  ‘And if your friend told you to stick your head in the oven, would you?’ I teased.

  He continued to gaze at me.

  ‘Winston has many crazy ideas, but even he wouldn’t go that far.’

  He wanted to take me out. I told him I was assigned seven days without a break. The disappointment on his face felt like a compliment.

  ‘I am free later tonight, though…’ My heart was thumping. Was I really going to do this?

  ‘Eight?’ He tugged at the sticky-out bit of hair just above his ear.

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up in the car.’

  ‘What about that arm?’ I called after him. ‘Are you sure you can drive?’

  He looked at his wrist, shook it in a puzzled way, then winked at me. ‘It’s a miracle!’

  Things to do

  Don’t think about Major Spears

  Louis. Louis. Louis.

  Louis Spears

  King Louis

  The Sun King

  Louis Spears

  Asparagus Spears

  Fighting Spears

  May Spears.

  24

  I imagined we would drive to Paris. I pictured us hand in hand, gazing up at the Eiffel Tower. Or perhaps we would climb the steps to Montmartre, to sit among the tourists in the moonlight and have our portraits drawn. Our first night together captured in HB. Or we would sit in a candle-lit restaurant and stare mistily into each other’s eyes over mussels and under-cooked steaks.

  Louis drove fast. It wasn’t long before I realised that we were travelling north, for goodness’ sake, not south; we weren’t heading to anywhere near Paris. Why, when Paris was the most obvious destination? I had a terrible sensation that we were driving towards the front line. Was the man mad? Was he trying to get us killed? Perhaps he realised I was suddenly afraid, because he turned his handsome face towards me and asked: ‘Have you guessed where we’re heading yet?’

  I had no idea.

  ‘Belgium,’ he said.

  Belgium?!

  ‘There are still places in Belgium—’ I stopped myself; I had been going to say, ‘where you can have fun?’ but he knew what I meant anyway.

  ‘There are still places in Belgium. Not many, but…’

  He smiled at me. I grinned back, I couldn’t help it.

  ‘This was Winston’s bloody idea, was it?’

  ‘It’s too crazy even for him.’ Louis was laughing to himself. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  I didn’t say anything, but I realised, almost in a happy panic, that yes, I did trust him. (And there had been a time I thought I would never trust anyone again.)

  How nice to nestle in the passenger seat next to him. How nice to watch Louis’ firm hand on the gear stick. Large, strong, indisputably male hands. His sleeve ran almost to his knuckles, but I didn’t have to imagine: I had seen the arm underneath. I had seen the blond hairs coiled on his forearms, I had seen the knot of muscle there.

  He talked a little about his driver, Sergeant Radcliffe – Johnny. It was clear how fond of him he was. I noticed his lower lip shook sometimes when he talked and that he had to pause to catch his breath. He told me that they had taken a detour that Johnny had cautioned against. There had been an argument. Johnny told Louis that it was a dangerous road, that there were snipers, it wasn’t called the Road to Hell for nothing, but Louis was in a rush, and insisted.

  He said that there was a flash, a white light, a terrible noise, then silence. Then he pushed Sergeant Radcliffe aside and drove himself.

  ‘I blame myself,’ he said.

  I thought of Sergeant Radcliffe and could say with some confidence, ‘He doesn’t blame you though, does he?’

  ‘No,’ he said reluctantly. ‘He doesn’t.’ He made a kind of harrumphing sound. ‘Johnny is so reasonable, he doesn’t even blame the sniper who pulled the trigger.’

  His knuckles were white on the wheel. I thought, after hearing that, should I still trust him?

  * * *

  I told him about Joy and Leona – I was determined to be honest from the start. If he was surprised that I was the mother of two nearly grown girls, he didn’t show it. He dived in, asking me enthusiastically about them. I blathered on about their tennis, their reports, and then when I realised he was really listening, I told him about Leona’s sweetness and her jokes, and how, deep down, Joy was very loving but didn’t want anyone to know it, and that she studied hard, but didn’t want anyone to know that either and…

  ‘I’m going on,’ I said regretfully.

  ‘Not at all.’ He took his hand off the steering wheel and reached for mine: I felt as though I went whizz-bang.

  Later, he said, ‘When you talk about your daughters, your face lights
up,’ which I thought was charming. No one had ever said anything like that to me before.

  I told him to put his hand back on the wheel, he mockingly said, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and I told him some more about my life in London. I talked about my favourite place, the Tooting Bathing Lake, and my favourite person, Elizabeth. I didn’t tell him about my bouts of melancholy. It didn’t seem the moment; besides, I told myself, it had been some time since I’d been troubled by all that. He need never know.

  * * *

  The sign, surrounded by small white light bulbs, said, ‘La Poupée’. It was in a narrow cobblestoned street, where houses and shops were closely packed together. We were parked right outside. The shops next to it were boarded up, some of them for the night, others, I think, abandoned ever since the Germans first invaded. (Not everyone had returned here when the Germans had been pushed back. You could smell explosives and alcohol mixed in the air.)

  ‘The Doll?’ I was mystified – I couldn’t find much inviting about that. ‘What is this?’

  It didn’t look much from the outside and when two officers came out, drunk as lords, with their arms around each other, singing, ‘We’re English, we’re English… Ahhh!’ I liked it even less. I sighed. And the date had been going so well…

  Louis, however, was still grinning broadly. He tugged open the passenger door. I jumped out, trying not to look as disappointed as I felt.

  ‘You’ll enjoy this…’

  * * *

  The bar was noisy, full of people talking loudly. In the centre, there was a girl throwing back her head with laughter, wearing a black dress. She couldn’t have been much older than Joy. As we arrived, she sped over to welcome us. She was delighted to see Louis – she seemed to know him quite well.