The Fog of War

by A. L. Lester

Sylvia seemed a little different, Lucy thought. A tiny bit softer. She supposed that was down to not having to constantly be on call in case her surgical skills were needed. Lucy had been doubtful that someone who had been so skilful and dedicated a surgeon would happily settle back into life as a village doctor.

  But here they were. It seemed as if Sylvia was happy, at first glance anyway. The way she joked with Mr Kennett wasn’t something Lucy had ever seen a hint of before and she liked it. Sylvia happy suited her. Lucy hoped she’d get to see a great deal more of it.

  Chapter 10

  Sylvia trotted down the stairs and along the passage toward the kitchen, smiling to herself. Lucy always made her smile. There was a lightness about her that never seemed to waver, even if she was struggling herself. She was the original Pollyanna, always playing the Glad Game without ever saying so aloud. It had charmed Sylvia from the first, despite how black her own thoughts were during that summer of 1917 as she was dealing with her loss of Anna. She’d leaned on it, in fact, allowing Lucy to prop her up without it ever being discussed in so many words. Sylvia should thank her if she could bring herself to speak of it.

  Walt was in the kitchen, scrubbing potatoes and staring out of the window at the birds in the cobbled courtyard.

  “It’s my turn,” Sylvia said.

  “I thought you might forget,” he said with a straight face. “What with your lady-friend arriving. I didn’t want to go hungry.”

  She chuckled. “Ruled by your stomach you are, Orderly Kennett,” she said.

  “Don’t you forget it,” he said. “Twenty years in the army will do that to a man. Never miss a meal if you can avoid it.” He smiled over his shoulder at her. “Is she settling in?” he asked.

  “Yes, she’s changing and then she’s going to come down and help,” Sylvia said. “She’s no different. I was afraid she would be.”

  Walter nodded. “I know what you mean. I was afraid you’d have changed when I landed here in the spring.” He glanced at her sideways. “You haven’t, of course. I don’t think there’s any going back to what we were before, for those of us who were out there…” He trailed off, staring through the window at the sparrows squabbling in the courtyard, lost in his own thoughts.

  “That’s for sure,” Sylvia said after a moment, hip-nudging him out of the way and taking the potato peeler out of his unresponsive hand. “No going back for any of us.” She frowned at him. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m all right. Just brings it back, doesn’t it?”

  Walt had lost a friend, the day he and Sylvia had met at Royaumont. He’d died on Sylvia’s operating table. He never spoke of the man to Sylvia—she didn’t think he’d even told her his name—but she’d arranged for Walter to sit with him for a while, afterwards. It had been the beginning of their friendship.

  She sighed. “It does indeed, my friend. It does indeed.”

  He began to rummage in the drawer for another peeler to attack the carrots. Should she tell him about her experience at Webber’s? She hadn’t mentioned it at all so far.

  She could try…he might find the magic hard to accept. She didn’t want him to look at her differently. He might dismiss that, but she thought he would understand on a visceral level the pain of a loss that couldn’t be openly spoken of, if she had read his grief at his friend’s death correctly. He was certainly very accepting of Sylvia’s friendship with Anna and teased her about Lucy’s mythical crush on her. If he could accept what she had found out from Webber about the magic, then he’d certainly understand her pull to find out whether it had something to do with the day Anna went missing.

  It was just…she really didn’t think he’d accept stories of the supernatural. She remembered his reaction to the circulating tales of the Angel of Mons in ‘14 and ‘15. Not that she’d had any truck with them herself, although she thoroughly enjoyed an uncanny story when she had time to read. He’d rejected the rumours of unearthly intervention on the battlefield at Mons as swiftly as she had, arguing with some of the other staff who swallowed them wholesale. He’d even had a copy of Machen’s Bowmen story sent out from home she remembered, the better to make his point that it was all superstition based on a made-up tale.

  She absolutely, certainly, couldn’t imagine what he’d think about her if she sat him down and told him that she thought Anna might have disappeared because of a magical cloud rather than a cloud of enemy gas or fire. Or rather, she could.

  Arthur Webber had died ten days previously, a few weeks after his brother Matthew had returned home. She’d tried to put what she’d seen out of her mind once Matthew had come back. She’d stopped calling up to the farm as frequently and had made a point of not passing on what Arthur had told or shown her to anyone except for the Asylum Officer down at Cotford when she called to consult. She hadn’t mentioned a name on the telephone, either, in the spirit of patient confidentiality. It would be no good for either her or the village if it became known the doctor even considered the ravings of a sick man might have some truth behind them.

  It hadn’t come as a surprise when she was called to certify Webber’s death. He’d gone downhill rapidly over the weeks since she’d first seen him. She’d put cancer on the death certificate. She could hardly have put death from magic, could she? And then she’d tried to put it out of her mind.

  It was so unreal that she almost didn’t believe it herself in retrospect. That was why she hadn’t mentioned it to Walter. But she had been there, and she had seen what she’d seen. And if there was a chance that Anna…She was the one staring out the window at the sparrows, now.

  She blinked as she caught herself mooning and turned back to her task.

  Lucy chose that moment to make her entrance. Sylvia turned to look at her, peeler in hand. She looked stunning.

  “Wait!” Sylvia said suddenly realising what was different. “Have you bobbed your hair?”

  It hadn’t been visible before under her extraordinary hat. But she’d cut her hair off at her nape, and without the heavy weight of the length, it sprang into a riot of curls. She had it parted to one side and with the bounce of the curls it came to just below her ears, with a hair slide to keep it out of her eyes.

  Lucy blushed. “Maybe?” she said. “Er. Yes. What do you think?” She gave a twirl, skirt-hem flaring out as she did so, and patted the back of her head self-consciously.

  “It’s very chic,” Sylvia said, stepping closer to examine it as Walter removed the peeler from her hand and tactfully turned and continued with the vegetables. “How long have you had it done?”

  “Only last week,” Lucy said. “I was in negotiations with Papa’s barber for ages to do it for me and eventually I had to get Mama to come with me and tell him it was all right and that Papa wouldn’t have him arrested or something.” She smiled. “And luckily Papa rather likes it, so everyone is happy.” She patted the back of her head again. “It does feel rather odd though. Cold on the back of my neck. But lovely and light.” She looked over at Sylvia mischievously. “You should try it, Sylvia!”

  Sylvia laughed. “No, I don’t think so! I’m too old for it, it’s a young person’s hairstyle.”

  Lucy huffed dismissively. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s everyone’s hairstyle. It’s practical. And don’t tell me you’re an old person, anyway! Please!”

  She broke off, distracted by the waxed-paper parcel of sausages on the draining board. Sylvia remembered her unbreakable focus on food from Royaumont. “Oooh! Sausages! Can I help?”

  Sylvia smiled at Walter as he finished the carrots and she reached down for the heavy frying pan. Lucy was going to shake things up around here, that was for sure.

  Chapter 11

  “What is it?” Sylvia said. She was already rolling her feet onto the floor and pulling her dressing gown toward her from the bottom of the bed as someone knocked on her bedroom door. “What’s the matter? Who is it?”

  She’d woken from a deep sleep to someone hammering on the door. It was dark and
cold, and she had no idea what time it was, but before she could get downstairs herself, she had heard Walter’s voice drifting up from the portico over the front door below her bedroom window. He must have still been on the settee…she’d left him reading the paper and stuffing his revolting pipe for another smoke.

  It was Lucy at the door. She opened it a crack and said, “Walter says to say it’s Marcus Wright. Can you come down?” She paused and then added, “I’ll make some coffee. He looks like he’s been beaten, Sylvia.”

  Sylvia jerked herself to her feet, belted her dressing gown around her waist and slid her feet into her slippers. She was out of practice at these midnight calls. “What time is it?” she asked in a rough voice. Not that it made any difference.

  “Just after eleven,” Lucy replied as Sylvia reached the door.

  Sylvia scrubbed her hands over her face to bring herself round. “I just need to use the bathroom and wash my face, then I’ll be there,” she said. “And coffee sounds wonderful, thank you.”

  “Walter’s taken him into your surgery,” Lucy supplied, disappearing down the stairs.

  Sylvia soon followed her. She could hear sounds from the kitchen…presumably the promised coffee being made…and low voices from her surgery. She tapped on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer.

  Walter was in her chair, which she had arranged so she could seat patients for a chat without the dark mahogany desk intimidatingly separating them. Marcus Wright was sat in one of the other chairs, at right angles, their knees not quite touching. He was crying silently. He had a bad cut on his head and was holding his broken arm in its cast tight against his chest protectively.

  “Marcus!” Sylvia exclaimed, stepping toward him; and then stopped herself. She didn’t want to loom over him.

  Instead, she pulled a second chair up and sat beside him.

  “Doctor Marks is here now, she’ll sort you out, lad,” Walter said quietly. “Tell her what you told me.” He handed the boy a handkerchief from his pocket. “It’s clean,” he said. “Go on, tell her.”

  Marcus wouldn’t meet her eye, but he did start speaking. “It were Father,” he said.

  Sylvia bit her lip. No surprises there.

  “He came home from the pub…Mr Williams paid him for the cartwheels today and he was flush, see…and I was still awake, and Mother wasn’t ready for bed, so he lost his temper with us both.”

  “Is your mother all right? Where’s she?” Sylvia asked quietly.

  “She’s all right. She went to bed like he told her and when he went, I climbed out the bedroom window.” He shook his head, fresh tears falling. “He doesn’t hurt her, usually, if she does what he wants.”

  Superb, Sylvia thought as she nodded; but she managed to still her expression rather than screw her mouth up in disgust.

  “And where are you hurt? I can see your head. But anywhere else?”

  Walter got up and quietly began gathering supplies…a bowl of warm water—thank goodness she’d had the water pipes run across here from the kitchen…as she waited for Marcus to answer.

  After a pause he said, “He kicked me. I tripped over the stool as I went to back away from him and he kicked me in the ribs while I were on the floor.” Sylvia heard Walter make a choked off noise of disapproval behind her. Marcus continued, “He left me alone after that, though.”

  “Did he catch your arm?” Sylvia asked, gently putting her hand on the cast, and drawing it away from his chest.

  “No. Just my side.”

  “Can I have a feel?”

  He nodded silently and she carefully unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off his shoulders with his braces. He sat mute in his vest, clearly in pain. She carefully palpated down his ribcage and although he winced, she could find nothing out of place.

  “There might be a crack,” she said, “but nothing’s broken.” Lucy tapped on the door at that point and the boy flinched. “It’s just Miss Hall-Bridges,” Sylvia said. “I sent her to make some drinks.” When he nodded at her in acknowledgement she called out, “Come in, Lucy!”

  “I’ve got coffee for you and Walter,” Lucy said. “And I made you a cup of tea, Marcus. It’s milky with lots of sugar.” She placed the tray she was carrying on the desk next to his elbow and slid out again.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up then, lad,” Walter said, coming over and putting his bowl of water down beside the cups. He gently began to dab at the child’s face. “You’re going to need a few stitches in here.”

  There was quite a big cut along his cheekbone and another one across his eyebrow. Sylvia busied herself getting sutures ready whilst Walter worked. It wasn’t actually too bad…for a given value of bad…once he’d got the blood off and they could see what they were dealing with, although of course head-wounds always bled like nobody’s business.

  “I’m going to inject a little bit of painkiller by the cuts,” Sylvia told Marcus as she gathered the things she needed. “It will mean you won’t feel me sewing you up.”

  Marcus nodded. He looked exhausted. “Thank you, Miss…Doctor…” he corrected himself.

  “Drink your tea whilst we wait for that to take effect,” she told him firmly as she withdrew the needle. “Then we’ll sew you up and find you a bed for the night. It’ll all look more manageable in the morning.” She didn’t say better. It wasn’t going to look better, daylight or no.

  He opened his mouth to respond, and she shook her head. “You can’t go back, Marcus. What if he comes at you again? It’s not like it’s the first time, is it?”

  Marcus shut his mouth and shook his head silently. There was quite a long pause whilst she began putting a line of careful stitches over his eyebrow. Then he said exhaustedly, “No. No, it’s not. But what can I do, Doctor? He’ll be round banging on the door if I stay here, you know he will. And the police won’t do anything. William Chedzoy drinks with him, even.”

  William Chedzoy was the village police constable.

  “Have you tried telling Chedzoy what’s going on?” Walter asked quietly from behind her.

  Marcus shook his head. “No point,” he said. “I’m friends with Peter Chedzoy,” the constable’s son. “Constable’s not as bad as Father, but he’s still handy with his fists if Peter’s not quick enough off the mark.” There was a little silence. “Not that we ever talk about it. What would be the point?”

  “Have you got any other family?” Sylvia asked.

  “Mother’s got sisters. Her brother died in the war. They live over Wellington way.”

  “Would they take you in? Would you go?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, hunching miserably over his ribs. “I don’t know anything. I can’t stay at home though. It’s getting worse. He’s getting worse. And Mother can’t stand up to him. He’s better with her if I’m not there.”

  Sylvia nodded. “Very well then,” she said. “Look. Let’s find you a bed for tonight. And talk about it in the morning.”

  “Dr Marks, Mr Kennett. Thank you,” he said, quietly miserable. “I didn’t know where to come.”

  “You’re always welcome here, Marcus,” she said, equally quietly. “Don’t forget that.”

  “Now, come on,” Walter interjected. “Let’s get you settled somewhere and get some kip. Miss Hall-Bridges said she’d find some sheets and make up one of the rooms upstairs for you.”

  * * * *

  Sylvia took her time washing her hands and putting her kit away after they’d gone. She assumed Lucy would make up one of the little servants’ rooms on the second floor—the beds were smaller and easier to manage than the wide ones in the family rooms on the first floor.

  Both Walter and Lucy were in the kitchen by the time she’d finished tidying her office and took the cups through.

  “Do you want more?” Lucy asked, nodding at the tray.

  “No, thank you. If I have another one, I won’t go back to sleep.” She sighed as she slid into a chair. “Ugh. What a mess.” She subsided, head in her hands, fingers burie
d in her hair.

  “He’s gone straight to sleep,” Walter said. “He’s exhausted. Good lad, though. Didn’t panic.”

  “Can we get him away?” Lucy said, after Walter made his goodnights and retreated back to bed in the stable block.

  “Maybe? I don’t know. It sounds like it would be better for him. And if he thinks it would be better for his mother if he’s not there…” She trailed off. “The father’s a nasty piece of work. Built like a tank as well. He’s a blacksmith.”

  Lucy sat down in the chair next to her. It was nice, her warm knee pressed to Sylvia’s leg through her dressing gown.

  “What about the vicar?” she asked. “Could he help?”

  “He’s got enough problems,” Sylvia said absently, leaning some of her weight against Lucy’s shoulder. “I think he’s thinking about giving up the church. I was speaking to his wife the other day…don’t you remember, she dropped in as you were going out?”

  Lucy nodded. “Flora Downs? Yes, I remember.” She paused. “Hmm. Didn’t she say they were thinking of leaving the vicarage and buying that farm—Stream Farm, is it called? Up by the edge of the woods? She said it had been empty for years. They want to do something with orphaned children out there, I think.”

  “He’s not an orphan, though. If he stays here, Wright will want him back—and the same if he goes to Flora and Tim. And the law’s on his side. He won’t want to be losing the free labour in the smithy.” She trailed off.

  Lucy put her arm around Sylvia and Sylvia leaned even further against her. She was warm and soft, but her arm was firm around Sylvia’s back. She gave in to the temptation to lay her head on Lucy’s shoulder and rest there for a little while. Lucy gathered her closer with her other arm as well and pressed her cheek to the top of Sylvia’s head.

  “We’ll deal with it in the morning,” Lucy said softly. “Let’s get some sleep now. It’s gone three.”

  Sylvia exhaled, momentarily letting herself go limp against Lucy. The morning would come soon enough. She was so tired of having puzzles to solve. She gathered herself up, pulling back from Lucy’s embrace. She felt Lucy absently press a kiss to her crown as she released her.