Five Children on the Western Front

by Kate Saunders

  Somewhere nearby voices started to sing ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’. The Lamb and Edie saw the choir as they went past the open door of one of the hospital wards. A vicar with white hair was conducting a group of elderly singers around a large Christmas tree covered with candles. The patients wore paper crowns, as well as their bandages. Most of them were smoking, and a couple puffed on pipes.

  ‘Crikey,’ Olive said, ‘Christmas is breaking out with a vengeance! Good luck with Ponting.’ She ran along the corridor.

  The Lamb and Edie followed their big sister into another ward, which was shadowy and silent. Anthea smoothed her apron, knocked on a door, and went into a glassed-in office that looked like a small greenhouse.

  ‘Good evening, Sister.’

  ‘Well, well!’ the Psammead said. ‘So this is the famous Sister Ponting! I expected her to look more like a wicked witch.’

  Sister Ponting was writing something at her desk. Edie shivered at the stern expression that came into her eyes when she glanced up at Anthea. She was old, with grey hair and glasses on a gilt chain.

  ‘Ah, Pemberton.’ She frowned at her watch. ‘Nearly two minutes late.’

  ‘Sorry, Sister.’

  ‘You are not running a race. I expect my nurses to arrive with at least a few minutes to spare.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’

  ‘You’re not much use if you’re panting like a race horse!’

  ‘No, Sister.’

  Sister Ponting put the lid on her pen and stood up. ‘We had some new arrivals this afternoon – all gas cases – and the doctor says most of them won’t last the night. I’m putting you in charge of the boy in side ward B.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’

  ‘We put him in the side ward because he was upsetting the other patients. Your job will be to keep him quiet and calm.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’

  ‘What a horrid woman,’ Edie said hotly. ‘She sounds just like Miss Bligh at my school!’

  Sister Ponting left her office with Anthea close behind her – and no idea that she was also being followed by two invisible children and a sand fairy.

  There were no carol-singers in this ward, and no Christmas tree. It was quiet and the lights were turned low, and all the patients lay very still under their white covers. Sister Ponting led Anthea into a small side room, where another young nurse sat beside the only bed.

  ‘Any change?’ Sister asked.

  ‘He woke at about four,’ the nurse said softly. ‘I think he was delirious – he wanted steak and kidney pie. And he kept trying to say something I couldn’t make out. But he’s quietened down now.’

  ‘Thank you, nurse,’ Sister said. ‘You may go.’

  The other nurse left the room, giving a quick, tired smile to Anthea.

  ‘This is Private Grant,’ Sister said. ‘If he rests properly now, he has a fighting chance of surviving the next twenty-four hours. The gas has burned his lungs, eyes and mouth. You mustn’t let him talk, and he mustn’t be agitated. If there’s a crisis, or you think he’s sinking, ring the bell.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’ Anthea sat down in the chair beside the bed.

  ‘Sinking? Does that mean he’s going to die?’ The Psammead was indignant. ‘Well, that’s a nice thing to show me!’

  ‘Shut up!’ the Lamb hissed.

  ‘Why? He can’t hear me.’

  ‘I don’t care! It just doesn’t feel right to make a noise here.’

  Though they knew they couldn’t be heard, the Lamb and Edie crept to the bed on tiptoe. Private Grant’s head and eyes were wrapped in layers and layers of gauze bandages, and his lips were cracked and sore.

  ‘This is a very dreadful sight,’ the Psammead muttered.

  The patient’s sore lips moved painfully and he made a thin, wheezing, rattling sound whenever he drew a breath.

  Anthea took his hand. ‘It’s all right,’ she said softly. ‘You can’t see me, but I’m Nurse Pemberton and I’m here to watch over you. Please don’t try to talk.’

  ‘Eyes!’ he whispered.

  ‘Are you in pain? Squeeze my hand for yes.’

  ‘Bartimeus,’ he whispered, with effort.

  ‘Who? What on earth is he on about?’ The Psammead’s ears were rigid from listening extra hard. ‘It’s no good showing me if I don’t understand!’

  ‘I think I do,’ the Lamb said. ‘The Bigguns had a guinea pig called Bartimeus. Father named him after a chap in the Bible, because he was blind and so was this chap – blind Bartimeus, who sat by the roadside begging.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ Edie said. ‘How dreadful to be blind – but maybe he won’t be when they take off the bandages.’

  ‘I can’t bear any more,’ the Psammead said in a shaking voice. ‘I’m getting very tired of this and I’m LEAVING!’

  He shrilled his complaint with such confidence that both children braced themselves for a swift return to the attic.

  But they were still here, watching Anthea’s face in the soft shadows, and listening to the young man’s agonised breathing.

  ‘Pooh!’ the Psammead muttered. ‘I didn’t think it would be as hard as this.’

  Private Grant’s lips moved again.

  ‘You really mustn’t talk, it’s so bad for your lungs,’ Anthea said. ‘Try to lie quietly. Is it better if you can hear me talking?’

  He squeezed her hand.

  ‘All right, I’ll talk to you for a few minutes, until you fall asleep. Oh dear – what shall I talk about? I can’t think of a single thing.’ Anthea frowned anxiously, and while she floundered for something to say, the sore lips began to move again. ‘Please – you mustn’t talk – oh dear!’

  ‘If Anthea could hear me, I’d tell her to pull herself together,’ the Psammead said. ‘Of course she knows what to talk about – that must be the reason I’m here!’

  ‘I know!’ Anthea stopped looking helpless and smiled, as if she’d heard him. ‘I’ll tell you a story.’ Lowering her voice and bending her head closer, she began, ‘Once upon a time, there were five children—’

  *

  And then the world spun and they were back in the attic.

  ‘Good heavens,’ the Psammead murmured, ‘for once, I seem to have done something useful.’

  Letter from Nurse Pemberton,

  on the evening of Christmas Day 1915

  Dearest Janey, Lamb, Edie and Psammead,

  This is your private letter, not for parental eyes, because it includes a certain sand fairy.

  Everyone is doing their best to make a happy Christmas for our poor wounded patients – the entire hospital has been ringing with jollity for days. But I must admit I was feeling pretty blue yesterday – I missed you all so much, and wished like anything I could see E.

  It was greatly cheering-up to hear that there was a box for me at the porter’s lodge. Thanks so much for all the presents! Jane, the bedsocks are utter heaven – I’m wearing them now because I’m writing this in bed, and it’s the first time my feet have been warm for weeks. Lamb, thanks for the box of dates; you know how I love them. And Edie darling, your sachet is simply a marvel. I’m sorry to say that Olive thought the Psammead was a monkey; I hope he’s not offended.

  And the sight of him must have blown some cheer into my Christmas Eve. I was taking care of a boy who had been very badly gassed. I was ordered to keep him quiet but he kept trying to talk, and I was at my wits’ end until I thought of calming him down by telling him a story – naturally, all about the Psammead, the best (and only) story I know. He calmed down like an angel and fell asleep. And he was so much better this morning that Ponting actually uttered the immortal words: ‘Well done, Pemberton.’ What a turn-up! Tired as I was, I danced all the way back to the nurses’ home.

  After that, Olive and I opened our wondrous Christmas presents, and had a superb breakfast – bacon! Coffee! Porridge with CREAM! – kindly donated by the local Methodists. Three cheers for them, and for the Church of England ladies who decided to do their bit for the war ef
fort by providing a stupendous lunch for hungry nurses.

  In the afternoon there was a big carol service for the patients. Everybody well enough was wheeled in. I was lucky to be pushing a very jolly Welsh sergeant, who has lost both his legs (you can imagine how I thought of E), and kept trying to give me swigs of rum from his flask! He smelled like a plum pudding and I trembled every time he lit a match (he smoked nasty little Woodbine cigarettes at every opportunity) in case he burst into flames. He turned out to have the most beautiful singing voice and it was lovely to hear him.

  But here’s the best part. When I finally dragged myself off to bed (no night shift tonight – hurrah), I happened to glance at Jane’s famous snapshot of Edie plus Lamb plus invisible Psammead – and the Psammead isn’t invisible anymore! There he is, sitting on the cushion with a superior expression on his furry face – looking so extraordinary that I had to stifle a shriek and hide the photo in the drawer before Olive saw it.

  Dear old Psammead, it does me a world of good to look at you, and think of you in the attic at home, radiating the magic and happiness of the old days when we were all together and life was one long summer afternoon.

  I miss all of you dreadfully and hope your Christmas Day was as nice as mine.

  Heaps of love and (perfectly dry) kisses

  Panther

  Seventeen

  DOWNFALL

  1916

  THE LAMB AND EDIE WERE VERY pleased to hear the good news about Anthea’s patient. It helped to cheer up a new year that would otherwise have been grey and depressing.

  ‘Obviously that soldier got so much better because I was there,’ the Psammead said smugly. ‘I’m not used to spreading joy. It feels nicer than spreading misery and terror.’

  1916 was the third year of the war, and also the third year of the Psammead. He had been living in the attic for so many months that Edie had gradually made it more comfortable and homelike. She had dragged an ancient sofa over to the Psammead’s sand bath, heaped it with musty cushions, and sneaked in a small oil lamp (no grown-up knew about this). Jane and the Lamb visited as often as they could, but they were both busy with schoolwork, and it was still Edie who spent most time with him.

  ‘Mother is always at her committees and the others are always out or working,’ she wrote to Anthea. ‘And if it wasn’t for the dear old Psammead, I’d be rather lonely. He’s in a good mood at the moment, and he even helps with my homework.’

  Thanks to the Psammead, Edie came top in Latin.

  ‘Naturally I’m fluent in Latin,’ he told her. ‘I had to put up with the Roman Empire for centuries. It was extremely noisy – after the amphitheatre, I moved my lodgings to a public bathhouse, but that was even worse. Why must humans sing when they’re washing themselves?’

  Though he insisted he knew everything, the Psammead wasn’t as useful in other subjects – his French was medieval, and his geography and history were stuck thousands of years in the past. Edie was happiest when they simply chatted and he allowed her to ask him questions. He enjoyed talking about his distant origins.

  ‘My first long spell in hiding was after the meteor that killed off the dinosaurs. Personally, I was glad to see the back of those great, lumbering, clumsy reptiles. They smelled AWFUL, and left vast DROPPINGS one was forever falling into.’

  But there were no more adventures. Weeks and weeks passed in dull normality, without a whiff of magic to distract them from the war. At the Lamb’s school, the list of masters and old boys who had been killed in action was growing so fast that they had to put up a new honours board in the assembly hall because the old one was full. Two more girls in Edie’s class wore black dresses because they had lost their fathers. Mother had grey hairs now, and counted the days between the boys’ letters.

  And there were shortages of things people had always taken for granted, such as bread, which you were supposed to cut down on because it was the staple food of the very poor. Father, though officially on the poor’s side, made this sacrifice very unwillingly.

  ‘Dammit, I am not eating this cardboard imitation of toast – or this deformed fish,’ he said at lunchtime.

  ‘It’s a meatless day,’ Mother said. ‘Everyone in the entire country is eating deformed fish.’

  ‘Well, it’s frightful. I’d like to force-feed the Kaiser with all the cabbages and potatoes I’ve had to eat since he started this war.’

  ‘I’ve noticed something,’ Edie told Jane later. ‘The Psammead doesn’t talk about leaving anymore. But I don’t think he’s happy – he says he likes talking to me because it takes his mind off the clamour of eternity. Whatever that means.’

  ‘You know my theory,’ Jane said. ‘I think we need the Psammead at least as much as he needs us. That’s what’s keeping him here, whether he likes it or not. I don’t think we’ll see the back of him until the war ends.’

  *

  In the spring of 1916 there were two momentous events at home. The Lamb turned thirteen, which was splendidly better than being twelve. His parents gave him the wristwatch of his dreams and Mrs Field made a cake with icing (sugar was hard to come by, but she said she had her connections).

  And Ernie had an article published in the Daily Express. It was a very funny article about everyday life in the trenches, called ‘Top Ten Gripes of the Common Soldier’. Jane, the Lamb and Edie took it up to the attic to read it to the Psammead.

  ‘I don’t quite understand all the jokes,’ Edie said, ‘but isn’t Ernie clever? I hope Anthea’s seen it.’

  ‘I’ll send it to her, in case she missed it,’ Jane said. ‘I heard Father saying how good it was, and I told him right out it was by the same Ernest Haywood we visited in hospital. Mother must’ve told him her suspicions about Anthea because he played with his moustache and went “Hmmm” a bit. But then he said, “Dammit, it’s a terrific piece. If you’re still in touch, tell him to write to me at the Citizen.” And then he said, “Don’t tell your mother.” So she definitely does have suspicions. But I sent a postcard to Ernie straight away. Wouldn’t it be topping if Father published something by him?’

  The Psammead’s eyes swivelled haughtily. ‘The one-legged scribe is wasting time – he should be writing his great work about me.’

  ‘Typical!’ Jane said. ‘Psammead, you’re the most self-centred being on earth. The one-legged scribe needs to earn a living, and he won’t make much money out of Jimmy’s book.’

  ‘Don’t be mean to him! He’s only self-centred because he’s the last of his kind,’ Edie said.

  ‘There speaks the faithful handmaiden,’ the Lamb said. ‘You’d make allowances for old Sammy if he turned out to be Attila the Hun.’

  ‘I would not! I’m just saying, you can see why he’s so taken up with the book – Jimmy hasn’t found out anything new for ages.’

  ‘We should take one of our Saturday trips to see him,’ Jane said. ‘We’ve got the perfect excuse to go to Old Nurse’s – the poor old thing’s been ill, which means Father will give us the train fares because he feels guilty about not going himself. And it’ll do me good to get away from the eternal argument.’

  Jane was fresh from yet another row with Mother about going to medical school. She had lost her temper and called Mother ‘hopelessly old-fashioned’, and Mother had cried because she thought Jane would end her days as a wizened old spinster.

  ‘I don’t see why you have to keep bringing it up,’ the Lamb said. ‘It makes everyone so dashed cross.’

  ‘Mother wants votes for women, but she doesn’t believe a woman can ever be a proper doctor. She wants me to “get it all out of my system” by treating children in the East End who have ringworm. I said I wasn’t some parish visitor do-gooding type and I wanted to perform amputations.’

  Edie shuddered. ‘You couldn’t!’

  ‘Of course I could. It isn’t even particularly complicated.’

  ‘There’s a lot of blood,’ the Psammead said. ‘If you’re not careful it gets everywhere.’

  ‘Y
ou furry old fiend!’ The Lamb burst out laughing. ‘How many arms and legs have you chopped off in your time?’

  ‘I didn’t do that sort of menial work, thank you,’ the sand fairy said in a dignified voice. ‘I don’t think any of you realise quite how great I was once. And if you’re going to wrap me in a napkin again, please ensure that it is PERFECTLY DRY – last time I came dangerously close to a lethal smear of rhubarb jam.’

  *

  ‘I don’t know where we’d be without young Ernie,’ Old Nurse said. ‘He does all our fetching and carrying – takes the coal upstairs to save Ivy’s back, and all those trays.’

  She had been ill with pleurisy, and now sat in an armchair beside the kitchen fire, her legs covered with an eiderdown. Jane, Edie and the Lamb had come straight down to the basement to have tea with her, but they were itching to get upstairs. The Psammead was in the basket, and he’d been full of complaints all day; none of them trusted him to stay quiet.

  ‘The Professor’s out at the museum today,’ Old Nurse said. ‘Ernie’s here working – I think the two of them have had a bit of a falling-out.’

  This was very surprising and they all raised their eyebrows at each other.

  ‘The ungrateful scribe has turned on his master!’ a muffled voice in the basket cried.

  They all cringed, but Old Nurse was busy chewing cake and didn’t hear him.

  ‘What do you mean – they’ve quarrelled?’ Jane asked.

  ‘That’s what it sounded like, dear. The whole house heard Professor Knight shouting, “Truth is sacred!” and then storming out.’

  ‘But old Jimmy would be utterly lost without Ernie,’ the Lamb said when they were hurrying upstairs. ‘She must’ve got her wires crossed.’

  Behind the door of the Professor’s study they heard the brisk pecking of a typewriter. Edie knocked.

  ‘Come in!’ Ernie was at the desk, which was unusually tidy. ‘Blimey – I forgot you lot were coming!’ He was embarrassed. ‘It’s just me today. The Professor sends his apologies.’