by Lizzie Page
Yes, I was judgemental. That’s who I was. I couldn’t hide it any more. I felt I had to draw a line somewhere. A line in the sand. A line in the mud. I wasn’t looking for revenge, I was looking for order. Standards had to be kept.
She was looking at her boots now. They were scuffed and mud-stained. Elsie never really cared for polish.
Finally, she spoke in her low, husky voice. ‘I’ll tell you why, if you really want to know.’
‘Oh I do,’ I said in my new, mocking tone.
She hesitated. I was still exasperated that she was pretending there was a good reason. Then she took a deep breath. ‘He beat me in Java, Mairi. He tortured me.’
Her words didn’t sink in straight away. They couldn’t. The violent images they made just floated in front of my eyes.
‘The sixth time he beat me, I left. Six times! I don’t know what I was waiting for. He would have killed me in the end.’
My lips moved, but nothing came out. My Elsie. My sister. Who would dare to do that to her?
‘Not every bad thing that ever happened is because of this dreadful war. Terrible things happened long before, Mairi, you just didn’t know about them.’
The ship let out a nasty belching foghorn.
Elsie! I thought I’d said her name aloud but I hadn’t. She had suffered so and what had I done? As my realisation grew, my face turned scarlet, giving me away. Dear God, I thought desperately. Help me.
Elsie could usually read me like a book, but for once she wasn’t looking at me. She was just gazing at her hands.
‘But with Harold, things will be different. I always wanted to give Kenneth a good father. The father he deserves. A life free of brutality and violence. A life of love.’
I was so drenched with horror and confusion that I could barely breathe. Everything felt upside down. All my certainties had been smashed. I need time to digest, I told myself, I just need to work out the implications, but deep down, I knew it was too late for that. No excuses. I had betrayed her.
Finally, I managed to mumble, ‘I’m sorry,’ but I don’t think she even heard me, so intent was she in getting her story across. ‘But I’m a survivor, Mairi. And so are you, my darling. Your war is over now. Safe journey.’
She leaned forward before I could say any more and whispered, ‘Where would I be without my Mairi?’ Then she strutted over to the Wolseley and ostentatiously sounded the horn so that everyone looked at the car and at her. A few men whistled admiringly as Elsie drove away.
36
I didn’t last long in Dorset. A few months’ recuperation was more than enough. In February 1918, I found work in a London hospital for demobbed soldiers and lodged in quarters nearby. I met a Belgian girl there, Martha, who by coincidence was from Poperinghe. She had sad grey eyes, which I suspect hid sadder tales than mine. Whereas Elsie and I were opposites, Martha and I were alike in many ways. We were both private, quiet and industrious. She seemed to understand me without my needing to say much.
I didn’t stop thinking about Elsie and what I had done. I wrote to her care of Dr Munro, but my cards and letters were returned, unopened, I think. The pocket watch I had engraved came back and it had lost its time. Martha told me to ‘forgive myself’, and even said ‘there’s nothing to forgive’, but I knew I would never feel quite at peace again.
I had made a most terrible mistake.
I joined a small church with an understanding vicar who had served in Vimy. When I prayed, I felt the Lord’s forgiveness, but alas, the relief was only temporary. Back in the real world, my darkness never seemed to lift.
The war staggered on until November 1918. When the armistice came, I stayed put in London. I was trying to work out what to do or where to go. I felt a pull to Scotland, yet I was hesitant to cut the cord with my parents. I didn’t make them happy, but the thought that I might move north made them unhappier.
I gained a reputation for being a good nurse. I was not the most educated or most innovative, but I was reliable and caring. I was a good nurse, but I felt like such a worthless person that it didn’t mean much to me.
In December, I was put on a ward for the mentally disturbed. There were twelve patients. A few of the men slept day and night and some refused to speak. Loud noises triggered one man, Henry, who would jump under his bed at any bang or clatter. But mostly, we were surprisingly jolly, doing crafts and playing games. The post suited me. It was most uncomfortable when the patients’ bewildered mothers or wives came in. They all said the same thing, ‘He wasn’t like this before, you know, before the war.’
‘The war changed everything,’ I’d reply, not only because it was the stock phrase that Matron used, but also because I knew it to be true.
I had a letter from poor Edward’s young wife, who wrote that Edward was doing as well as could be expected. They planned to take him to watch the cricket next summer. I felt too fragile to visit him but I hoped I would find the strength one day. At night, I’d return to my lodging house, where I sometimes ate with Martha; but more often, because of our shifts, I ate alone and then went to bed.
I had so many terrible memories that there weren’t enough good ones in the world to replace them. The one I couldn’t wipe out – the one I thought of last thing at night, and first thing in the morning – was not of the boys in the trenches or even my poor shy Jack trapped in a burning plane. It was the look on Harold’s face in that hospital room when I told him that Elsie was already married. A house without windows, like a face without a soul. All hope, passion and love flew out of Harold at that moment.
It was the first New Year’s Eve at peace in five years and London was celebrating with fireworks and street parties. I had offered to do the night shift until 6.00 a.m., sleep for a few hours and then come in for a shorter shift at midday. I didn’t need much sleep and it meant that the nurses who had families could spend time with them.
Late afternoon, on the first day of January 1919, I was counting out tablets during craft time when I heard a roaring sound outside, the unmistakeable noise of a large motorcycle. I watched Henry carefully, but this sound, thankfully, didn’t trigger him and he carried on meticulously looping pieces of string around some wood.
Matron scowled. ‘Dear God. Some soldiers don’t know when to stop!’ And I smiled to myself because no one here knew that I used to be a motorcycle girl.
The noise continued unabated.
I went downstairs to give the noisy soldier a ticking off. Also, I was curious to see what sort of bike made such a cacophony. Pushing out through the double doors into sunlight, I looked up and there she was: Elsie. I had forgotten how distinctive she was. You couldn’t mistake her for anyone else. Straddling the bike, revving the engine, she was waiting for me.
‘What took you so long?’ she asked.
‘Elsie!?’
‘Not bad, is it?’ She grinned down at her bike. It was a Triumph Model H, 550cc if I wasn’t mistaken. A beauty. They didn’t come cheap. ‘Fancy a race?’
I stared. I couldn’t quite believe it was her.
‘I don’t have anything to ride,’ I said. ‘Besides, you always beat me anyway.’
‘Really?’ she answered drily. She looked me directly in the eyes. ‘I think you got me in the end, Mairi.’
I flushed. If she had read any of my letters she would have known how shame, stupidity and remorse had swallowed me up. Or perhaps she had somehow read my letters and had come back to shout at me, to finish me off. It was nothing more than I deserved.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, as sincerely as I had ever said anything.
‘You should be,’ Elsie said, but then her lips curved into a smile. ‘I’m sorry too.’
I had two more hours of my shift. Elsie said ‘fine’, she had friends to see – of course she did. The next two hours couldn’t pass quickly enough for me. Billy tripped over Charlie’s chair, they both got agitated, then I had to see to Billy’s gammy leg. I played rummy with Albert, who was a frightful cheat. At eight, I ran down th
e stairs, calling out goodbye to Martha, who had just arrived. I was fearful that Elsie wasn’t going to be there, or even that I had imagined the whole thing. Perhaps I was going mad after all – some said it was contagious. But there Elsie was, leaning against a postbox, this time without her bike.
Elsie and I walked alongside the river, the cobbled paths wet with overflow. The sun was drawing down over the Thames and the Houses of Parliament stood serenely to our right as beautiful as any picture on a jigsaw. We stopped to buy delicious-smelling roasted chestnuts, out of sympathy for the vendor more than anything. He had only one eye, and he told Elsie that he’d left the other one in Passchendaele.
We sat crunching nuts on a wall overlooking the river, and I was waiting and waiting for Elsie to tell me what had brought her back.
‘How’s Kenneth?’
‘An absolute darling. Still rotten at chess though. Your brother?’
‘On the run, living illegally in America.’ I said, thinking of his last letter, full of rich descriptions of the past and nothing of the present. ‘Causing my parents no end of distress.’ I paused, guiltily remembering Elsie’s lost brothers. ‘But he is alive so we are thankful.’
‘Uilleam, isn’t it? I want to meet that scoundrel again,’ she said, and her ‘again’ reminded me of that time, many moons ago, we’d first met on that rainy day in 1914 when I had raced myself off course.
Elsie asked if I had been to visit Jack’s family, and I flushed because I hadn’t, not yet, and it was another thing I was ashamed about.
‘It’s hard,’ Elsie sympathised. But I remembered that Jack had gone all the way to Glasgow to meet the family of a lost pilot friend. I knew I had to go and I resolved to see the Petrie family in Ingatestone before January was out. I would tell them how ‘Flying Jack’ was loved. About his passion for planes, how he stacked chairs, worried about cockles and how he was a puzzlemaker extraordinaire.
For the first time, I found myself smiling at the memory of my Jack.
Elsie also told me Lady D was no longer in the (imaginary) proud spinsters’ club, but had married a handsome Canadian she’d met while making tea on a hospital ship. They were leaving for Ontario in spring. I wondered if she would continue her campaign for ‘Votes for Women’. Helen and Arthur were living together in New York. Helen was working on a children’s book. Arthur was trying his hand at the illustrations.
‘What’s this book called?’ I asked apprehensively.
Elsie made a face. ‘Shot Wins the War’.
My heart leapt at the thought of our floppy-eared innocent dog.
Elsie continued. ‘The New York Times writes: “The world anticipates Eleanora Mountford’s eulogy to a twentieth-century hero – her best friend”.
‘Shot was Helen’s best friend?’
Elsie sniggered in response, which set me off. Despite my tension, I couldn’t stop giggling and neither could she. We clutched our ribs, and then each other, howling with mirth. It was like the early days in the cellar.
‘So,’ I said when we had finally stopped and there were no more distractions. I had to know now. ‘How is Harold?’ My swallow seemed louder than the revving of a thousand motorbikes.
‘Ah,’ Elsie said. ‘Harold.’
I half thought she might say that they were living in a Bruges townhouse and the Queen of Belgium popped in for waffles every other Sunday, but my heart – and my conscience – told me otherwise.
About a week after I had left Belgium, Elsie had gone to meet him at a hotel. He told her straight away that he didn’t believe in divorce. He said that his family wouldn’t accept her. She insisted that she and Kenneth were his family now. He said that you had to stick to the rules. I could imagine it – Elsie throwing up her arms like she had around the kitchen table with Arthur and Helen all that time ago: ‘I’m saying, look where the rules get us – this urge to have the cutlery in its place, it lands us in trenches. It lands us in No Man’s Land.’
Harold wouldn’t bend.
She continued to argue – it was a matter of pride. He said he couldn’t trust her and she shouted. Had she not been caring for the sick and the dying in a tiny cellar, living alongside bats and rats, with nits in her hair, for years on end? Didn’t that make her a good person? But nothing had moved him.
‘I love you, Harold,’ she had told him.
‘And I…’ He put on his cap and walked out.
She had never seen nor heard from him since.
‘So it’s back to Gilberts for me,’ Elsie said.
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘I was furious,’ she admitted. ‘I hated you,’ she added matter-of-factly. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply before looking at me. ‘And then I thought… you would have made a better match for him, Mairi. I should have known that all along.’
We sat there while flocks of birds circled overhead, over the Houses of Parliament, over Big Ben, in their remarkable patterns. Each one of them travelling far from home, but each one of them knowing their place.
I was going to ask what had prompted her forgiveness – why now? – but I didn’t have to say anything. She read my mind as usual.
‘Life’s too short to quarrel.’ She sighed. ‘You’d think I’d have learned that. Besides, Munro threatened to make me do naked yoga until I agreed to meet you.’
I laughed at the idea.
‘He sends his love. He remembers the day he met you. He says you’ve become such a strong, independent woman. You should be proud of yourself.’
I was weeping a little by now, but these were happy tears. To be side by side with Elsie again, after all this time, was such a relief. Even if we never clapped eyes on each other again, I would always have this moment. I felt extraordinarily blessed.
‘We did our best,’ she said.
‘We did,’ I whispered.
She took my hand in hers. ‘I’ve missed you so much Mairi.’
I was too choked up to speak.
My scalped sister.
Elsie Knocker – ‘Gypsy’, motorcyclist nurse, dare-devil mother – one of only two women on the Western Front and the best friend I ever had.
* * *
Did you love Elsie and Mairi’s story of courage and wartime friendship? Then don’t miss the next in the series, Daughters of War, where Elsie Knocker persuades American May Turner to join her at the front. But May will find herself facing a dreadful choice: her duty or her family…
* * *
Available to order now!
Daughters of War
An emotional tale of wartime love and sacrifice, inspired by an incredible true story…
* * *
As a teenager in Chicago, May always dreamed of travelling the world. So when she meets handsome George Turner, she jumps at the chance to return to London as his wife. Ten years later, May is wondering if she’s made a terrible mistake.
* * *
It’s 1914 and war has been declared in Europe. All around, brave young men are being called up to serve. George, banned from conscription himself, has taken to the bottle, and May suspects he’s seeing other women too. She longs for a way to escape.
* * *
The chance comes when May meets veteran nurse Elsie, who persuades May to join the war effort. May knows nothing of nursing – it will be difficult, dangerous work, but her heart is telling her it’s the right thing to do.
* * *
But then George does the unthinkable and May’s future is put at risk. Will she have to make the impossible choice between duty to her family and her promise to the soldiers on the front line? And can she live with the consequences if her husband goes through with what he’s threatening to do?
* * *
A gripping wartime drama, perfect for fans of Soraya M. Lane, Daughters of the Night Sky and Kathryn Hughes.
Author’s Note
This is a fictionalised account of the friendship between the war heroes Elsie Knocker and Mairi Chisholm. The
ir immense bravery and dedication saved hundreds of lives and earned them several honours including: Knights Cross of the Order of Leopold 11 with palm, Military Medal, Officer of the Order of St John of Jerusalem, Order of Queen Elisabeth of Belgium and 1914 Star.
What Happened Next…
Elsie and Harold separated, but Elsie was allowed to keep the title Baroness as part of their settlement. She became a senior officer in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force for many years, working with RAF Fighter Command. Tragically, her son, Wing Commander Kenneth Duke Knocker, was killed when his plane was shot down in 1942.
Elsie left the RAF that same year to look after her elderly foster-father. After the Second World War, she helped raise funds for the RAF Association and the Benevolent Fund. Later, she began breeding chihuahuas and campaigned for animal welfare and the conservation of Ashtead Common, Surrey, where she walked her pets. Elsie died aged 93 of pneumonia and senile dementia in 1978.
She never remarried.
* * *
Mairi Chisholm joined the WRAF, and later took up auto racing. She was scheduled to take part in a big race at Brooklands, but had to withdraw because of a fainting episode. She would suffer from ill-health for the rest of her life.
She became a successful poultry breeder with her childhood friend, May Davidson, on the Davidsons’ family estate in Nairn, Scotland. In the 1930s, they relocated to Jersey.
