by Charles Todd
My head was pounding as I bent over the bed to tuck in the sheets and my shoulders were beginning to ache. I ignored the pain, moving on to the next bed to hold a patient upright as he went into a paroxysm of coughing, hardly able to draw the next breath. Thirty minutes now until I could wake Matron.
When the time came, I didn’t wake up Matron after all, nor tell her about the extra body in the shed.
Instead I was being carried to an empty cot on a stretcher, and I was soon fighting for my life.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS MY turn to be nursed, and I remember very little about it. Feverish and choking on the fluids that threatened to overwhelm my struggling lungs, I was ill for days, slipping in and out of consciousness.
Once it seemed I heard Matron saying, “She’s strong, I thought she’d be all right.”
I tried to rouse myself to tell her about Private Wilson and the body in the shed, but I couldn’t put the words together and must have made no sense.
Another time I heard Dr. Wright speaking. I opened my eyes and saw his thin, haggard face as he bent over me to listen to my lungs. “Her father is Colonel Richard Crawford. He’ll want to know.”
Know what? That I was dying? But I couldn’t let them down by dying! I couldn’t imagine my mother’s face when word came. A telegram? A letter? I couldn’t hold the thought long enough to decide.
Later still, it was Simon Brandon’s voice that reached me in the dim recesses of illness and pain, urging me to drink a little broth to keep my strength up. But Simon was in England, and I was in France. Confused, I let myself drift once more, wanting to cry with the agony in my chest that was threatening to kill me.
He was there again, bathing my face and hands as the fever peaked, and finally as I lay so weak that opening my eyes seemed to be too great an effort even to contemplate, his voice said bracingly, “It was a close-run thing, Bess, but you’re going to live. I’m taking you to England tomorrow. Hang on a little longer, and you’ll be home.”
A while later, it was an Australian voice that spoke to me, and I felt my hands gripped tightly. But I couldn’t respond.
I was told afterward that I’d slept most of the journey back to England. Because of that, and the fact that in Somerset it had been raining for a week or more, it was decided that the longer journey home would be too much for me. Instead as soon as we landed in Dover, I was settled into a motorcar amongst a mountain of pillows and carried by easy stages to Eastbourne, on the southern coast of Sussex. There my father had taken rooms at the Grand Hotel.
I was aware in Dover—only just—of my mother’s hands touching my face and her voice saying, “My darling!” and then my father telling her, “Don’t cry, my love, she’s safe now.”
And Simon’s voice said, “She was exhausted to begin with, even before she was taken ill. It will be some time before she’s herself again.”
I hoped I wasn’t dreaming in delirium, that they really were there.
I awoke one morning in a lovely room filled with sunshine, the sound of the sea rolling across the shingle strand a soothing backdrop to living in the present once more. As I opened my eyes, I found it difficult to imagine where I was. Not at home. Nor in London or France. Not even in the cramped little stateroom on a crossing. Around me now were the elegant furnishings and high ceilings of a first-class hotel. Or was it an hotel?
India? The Maharani’s palace? But I was lying in a bed, not on silver-shot silk cushions.
Just then my gaze found my mother’s face. Surprised, I said, “Hullo.” My voice sounded rusty from disuse. All the same, I could almost watch the strain fade as she smiled at me.
“My darling girl,” she exclaimed, and her fingers reached out to brush a strand of hair from my forehead. “Could you drink a little more broth, do you think?”
And for once I drained the cup before I lay back against the pillows, too weak to do more than watch the shadows of sunlight on water that danced across the ceiling above my head. The sea air was heavenly, the sun bright, no guns thundering in the distance too close for comfort. I took a deep breath and smiled.
As she took the cup away, my mother must have said something to my father, because he came in almost at once, taking up my hands as they lay on the coverlet and kissing them gently. “Welcome home,” he said, his voice husky.
Much later I understood how hard it had been for him, this illness of mine. For once in his life, he had faced an enemy a regiment with all its might couldn’t defeat.
He sat for a time by my bed, watching me as I drifted quietly into sleep again, and when I woke, it was Simon sitting there in his place.
“The Colonel is resting. Your mother as well,” he told me softly. “I don’t think they’ve closed their eyes for days.”
I was sure he hadn’t either, for the lines of worry in his face told their own tale.
Smiling, he fed me more broth, and held my hand as my father had done while I slipped in and out of a healing sleep.
They took it by turns, the three of them, staying constantly by my side, plumping pillows, feeding me until I could manage a spoon for myself, and talking of things that had nothing to do with war or sickness. Gradually I understood where I was and was even carried to the window to lie there for a while and watch the sea below.
When I was stronger I was allowed to sit on the sunny balcony, swathed in blankets and shawls. My father read to me sometimes, and Simon sat by me in companionable silence. My mother tried not to treat me like her small daughter recovering from measles, and that was a measure of how frightened she had been for me.
I on the other hand was unspeakably grateful that the three people dearest to me in the world had not been struck down by this merciless killer. I learned too that Mrs. Hennessey, who let the flat where I stayed in London on my leaves, had also come through unscathed. Mary, one of my flatmates, had been ill, but it was a milder case, and she had survived. Diana had been just as lucky. There was no accounting for the way the disease had chosen its victims.
One evening we were sitting together, Simon and I, watching the moon rise over the water and enjoying the milder weather. Earlier, the band had been playing in the open-air stand close by the strand, and the music had drifted up to us along with the soft whispers of the waves rolling in. There had been old favorites as well as martial tunes, and I had hummed along with some of the selections. Then, reluctantly breaking the mood, I said, “Simon. I had the most vivid dream while I was ill. It had to do with Major Carson. Do you remember him?”
“In fact I saw him in France not three months ago,” he said. “What brought him to mind?”
“I’m not quite sure.” Hesitatingly, I added, “He was dead, his body hidden amongst the influenza victims. I think—it appeared that his neck had been broken.”
In the pale light of the moon I saw his gaze turn toward me. After a moment he said, “Fever does odd things with the mind. And you were very ill.”
“Yes, I know. Still, I dreamed I needed to tell Matron about finding him, but she was sleeping, and I couldn’t remember where. And I could hear the burial detail coming for him, and I had to stop it. But I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak. As if I were paralyzed or strapped down to my cot. It was all rather frightening.”
“I shouldn’t worry about it, my dear,” he said gently. “The dream will fade as you heal.”
“I’m glad,” I told him, smiling, grateful for the lovely evening and the peace of England. Not everyone was as fortunate as I had been. Leaning my head back against the pillows, I watched the moon ride through a cloudless night sky before drifting into a dreamless sleep.
I awoke in my own bed the next morning and felt better than I had for weeks. But the influenza epidemic was still raging, and I knew how desperately I was needed in France. I concentrated on getting well and recovering my strength, which seemed to have flown out the window. We began to walk, my parents or Simon taking it by turns to accompany me. At first it was only a few dozen feet across Reception
before I succumbed to a weakness so profound I had to lean on someone’s arm to make what seemed to be an interminable return journey to my room. Determined to heal, three times a day I sallied forth, and soon I could stroll to the music stand and then nearly as far as the pier. Before very long, I could even walk out to the pier’s end and then back to the Grand Hotel, without weakness or shortness of breath. The next day Simon dismissed the carriage that was paid to follow us wherever we went, in the event I tired.
When first I had brought up returning to the war, the Colonel Sahib vigorously opposed it, and I saw the fright in my mother’s eyes at the very thought. And so I had said nothing more. They were right, it was too soon. Eager as I was to resume my duties and spell the overworked staff that so desperately needed experienced nursing sisters, I mustn’t become a burden for them instead. Holding on to my patience, I had concentrated on recovering and regaining my strength.
A few days after Simon dismissed the carriage, my mother and I walked to the west of the hotel for a closer look at the Seven Sisters, the great white chalk cliffs that ranged beyond Beachy Head Light, the wind whipping at our skirts as my mother and I stood looking at the line of headlands. The lighthouse itself was invisible, down along the waterline and tucked out of sight. Sometimes great chunks of the cliff faces fell into the sea, but today, in hazy sunlight, they shone so white it hurt the eyes to stare at them.
I said, “I shall have to go back, you know.”
Without looking at me, my mother said, “Bess. When you are stronger.”
“Next week. Or the week after.”
“We’ll let the doctor decide, shall we?”
But Dr. Everett was a family friend and not to be trusted. If my mother asked him to keep me in England longer, he’d do it for her.
I tried another tack. “I’d be willing to spend a week in a clinic, to test my strength.”
“I can feel the wind shifting. Shall we turn back?” And as we did, she added, “I’ll speak to the Colonel Sahib, Bess, dear.”
I left it at that, hoping that the seed was planted, and, with luck, would grow. And I hoped as well that I could count on my father to back me up this time.
But I was wrong there. Nothing was said that evening, and early the next morning a summons came from Somerset. My parents bade me a guilty good-bye and set out for home, leaving me in Simon’s care for a few days
“A memorial service. I’d almost forgot, darling,” my mother said, bending to kiss my cheek. “I’ve been so worried for you, it slipped my mind, but thank heavens the Rector sent to remind us.”
“Whose service?” I asked, trying to keep a note of suspicion out of my voice at the sudden and all-too-convenient disappearance of both my parents.
My suspicion was wiped away by my mother’s answer.
“I thought Richard or Simon had told you. Perhaps they felt it was too soon after your own illness. It’s Vincent Carson, Bess. He’s dead. He was killed just after you left France. The original service had to be postponed because large gatherings were discouraged. The family feels it’s safe enough now to hold it. The Colonel Sahib is delivering the eulogy.”
I was about to tell her that Major Carson was dead well before I sailed for Dover, but just in time I remembered that I had only dreamed it. It hadn’t recurred—I was thankful for that—but it hadn’t faded the way dreams usually do. And that was worrying.
Simon and I wished them a safe journey and watched them out of sight. He’d only just come back from London, and my father had taken him off for a brief report before setting out. And then to my surprise, without a word he walked off down the Promenade toward the pier.
I thought perhaps he wished to be alone, that something had happened in London or wherever he’d been, because I had noticed a grim set to his mouth as he and my father had emerged from Simon’s room.
But when he returned to the hotel, he waved to me as I sat on my balcony. I went down to meet him, and we walked on to one of the benches set out on the lawn.
“My mother just told me that Major Carson had been killed.”
“He was a fine officer. I spoke to his widow just last week. She’s resigned, I think. If this war lasts much longer, there will be no one left to come home.”
“How did he die?” I fought to keep the anxiety from my voice. Surely not—
“According to Julia he was struck by shrapnel and died instantly. A kindness, she said.”
Everyone in England wished a kind death on their loved ones. No lingering, no crying out for mothers or wives, no pain-filled last moments. It wasn’t always that easy, whatever a sympathetic commanding officer wrote to the next of kin. I’d held too many men during their last moments.
I didn’t intend to carry it any further—this was not the best time to bring up the dream. Indeed I should have felt immense relief that it was no more than that. But the images in my mind, suddenly vivid and disturbing, wouldn’t go away. I needed to exorcise them once and for all.
Before I could stop myself, I said, “Simon, remember I told you once that I believed I’d seen Vincent Carson’s body amongst the Spanish Influenza victims? But it didn’t belong there?”
“Yes. It was a dream, you said. Does it still worry you?”
“In a way. I try to put it out of my mind, but sometimes I question whether it was real or fever. For one thing, why should I dream that he’d been murdered? And I felt that his murderer must still be nearby. That it was urgent to report his body. It’s that sense of urgency that makes it impossible to let go of the dream. Please, I don’t want it to be true. I just wish there was some way to settle this for good. Then I could tell myself to stop being silly. I’ve dealt with patients who were delirious, and their nightmares fade with time. Mine hasn’t. I need to know why.” I made a gesture of frustration, not certain how to explain the confusion I felt.
“Part of it is my fault. I should have told you when you first mentioned it that he was dead. That might have helped. But I thought it wasn’t the best time to give you such sad news.”
I smiled wryly. “There’s one solution. When I’m back in France, I’ll find Private Wilson and speak to him. He might be able to tell me why I thought I’d gone into that shed. There will be a simple explanation.”
I could already imagine Private Wilson saying in his gruff, kind way, Sister, you fell ill just after Lieutenant Benson died. You were that upset—small wonder you imagined—
“Oh!” I said, my hand flying to my mouth in bewilderment. “Simon—it was just after one of my patients had died that I fell ill. And when the body was removed, Private Wilson wanted me to see what he’d discovered in the shed. That part must be true. He wasn’t certain what should be done about it. It still doesn’t explain why I should have thought it was Major Carson.”
“A dead man amongst dead men,” he said after a moment. “Have you thought, Bess, that if there was someone in the shed who didn’t belong there, Private Wilson has already dealt with the problem? While you were ill. And if he didn’t, without your confirmation, whoever it was has long since been buried, murdered or not. If there was no identification with the body, finding it now will be nearly impossible in an unmarked grave. Sadly, there isn’t much that could be done.”
“You’re right, of course,” I said, wishing I could keep the doubt out of my voice.
“Julia told me Carson had died instantly. Was that a kind lie? Was he brought in dying of his wounds? Do you remember seeing him in the ward?”
I shook my head. “He was never one of my patients. It’s just an uncomfortable coincidence that Major Carson died about this same time. As if I’d foreseen his death.”
He stared at me in the sunny warmth of the morning. “I wish you’d come to me sooner. Or I’d pursued this when you first mentioned your dream. I didn’t think—there has to be a way to resolve this for you.”
“I can’t do as I did at eight, I can’t open the closet door and see for myself that no monsters live inside.” I smiled, making ligh
t of my feelings.
“There’s no need to wait until you’re back in France. I’ll look into this. What was the orderly’s name? Private Wilson? He should be easy enough to find.”
“Thank you,” I replied, feeling a wash of relief.
“Shall I ask your father’s help?”
“No, please. At least—not yet.” I had other issues to face with my parents.
“Consider it done. Meanwhile, it’s too fine a day to waste. We’ll take a drive in the afternoon, shall we? And I’ll ask the hotel to put up a lunch for us.”
At a little past eleven o’clock, Simon knocked at my door as promised, and I went down with him to his motorcar.
The drive out of Eastbourne was lovely, climbing through narrow twisting lanes where trees overhung the road and cast cool shadows.
We came into the little village of Jevington, where pretty cottages lined the road and wildflowers bloomed along the low walls. I saw an elderly man, stooped and gnarled by rheumatism, hoeing between his roses.
Unexpectedly I was reminded of Melinda Crawford, who like me had lived in India as a child, but much, much earlier, at the time of the 1857 Indian Mutiny. Melinda’s mother had survived the unspeakable horrors of the siege and subsequent battle for Lucknow, struggling to keep her small daughter safe. And when it was over and she had come back to her house on the outskirts of the town, she found it burned to the ground and her English garden in ruins. She had knelt in the torn earth and wept for her lost roses. It was the only time Melinda had seen her mother cry until the death of her father.
A small link with home, that garden, and its destruction seemed to epitomize all she had suffered in a foreign country. I wondered who the old man was keeping those roses alive for through these awful years of war. A son—a grandson?
Simon took a turning to the left, up a twisting road that led to a knoll. And there before us was the church of St. Mary’s, set above its sloping churchyard overlooking the back gardens of houses below it. Nearer the lane a stretch of clipped grass offered a view of the Weald, crystal clear in the noon air.
