He produced a ring from one of the huge pockets of his uniform jacket and lifted her hand and put the ring in place. Everyone in the room stood and applauded. For Honora could look after herself in a marriage, Sally believed. Honora radiated a sense of achievement and raised herself as high as she could and kissed Dankworth’s mouth through closed lips. This kiss seemed to signal the end of all furtiveness. It also exposed Dankworth’s mashed but functional ear to their gaze, but there was chastity in those closed lips. The two were mobbed with warm wishes and congratulations as, one by one, their friends came up to them. Honora began to weep.
After the beef, Honora ate her flummery left-handed so that the ring could be seen and to enable her to hold on to Dankworth’s hand with her right.
At the end of the evening—after they had waited in the lobby to allow Honora and Lionel a little while on a secluded ottoman to exchange a few sentiments and further embraces—Honora went back with them by cab to what she called Hardtack Castle—Palmer’s Lodge was named after Samuel Palmer who, with Mr. Huntley, produced the tooth-breaking biscuits consumed at the front.
At the Peak of All Mad Things
These were even more bitter days at Château Baincthun as—with less hope than the previous year, but with a few shared and dutiful toasts offered in the messes, and one uttered in Erse by Doctor Airdrie—1917 began. It became apparent quite suddenly that the work and the winter were wasting Matron Mitchie. Her presence as well as her frame had thinned. Naomi saw her display irritability at the English Roses over wounds that had not been dressed for two days. It was partly a sense of impotence, a flare of frustration. Mitchie could not get around all the wards in a day. The gardens and paths between the house and the hut wards were so frozen that only sure-footed nurses and patients could walk there. Sometimes in the bleakness and transfixing cold, honest snow fell and consoled the earth—but blocked Mitchie further.
In this dim light and under the breath of what everyone said was the worst winter in this modern century, nothing had color and everything was demanding. And in the midst of such an undistinguished day, as Naomi supervised debridement and irrigation and the massage and anointing of lamed men, an orderly came to tell her there was a telephone call for her downstairs.
Access to the telephone seemed less strictly regulated under Lady Tarlton’s regimen than it would have been in general hospitals. Here it was taken as a given that boyfriends on leave could briskly inform this or that frost-nipped, red-cheeked young woman of the Red Cross or this or that Australian nurse that they were in the locality. But when Naomi descended to the august telephone in the hallway, she feared for Sally. She had got a note about the casualty clearing station business from her sister and it sounded safe only by a margin.
Hello, Kiernan here, said the voice she heard. You might remember me? I am a most accomplished ship’s newspaper editor.
Sergeant Kiernan?
His voice had that old color in it and the spaciousness of a translucent ocean.
Are you well? he asked.
Yes. A little cold.
Of course. Are you overworked?
Everyone here is. But you?
Things have changed a little with me, he told her. And your sister does not approve. I met her in Horseferry Road, and she and her friends were very judgemental. You see, I have accepted the King’s commission. But I’m totally unconvincing in the role, so maybe that excuses it.
He told her that he was on his way to be supply officer at a casualty clearing station. Sadly, a different one than Sally would be attached to.
But, he continued, of course nothing is distant from anywhere else here. Did you know the entire British line is barely more than a hundred and twenty miles? Melbourne to Beechworth?
A great deal of slaughter in a little space, she agreed.
Just the same, the roads up there are impossible. So in effect that makes distances greater. I’m in Boulogne right now with most of the officers and men of my unit. What we’re waiting for, I don’t know. But I wondered if I could come there and take you for a picnic? It may need, however, to be indoors.
There was no clearly viable picnic place inside or outside the château. It was agreed they would meet in Boulogne. Somehow she switched shifts with the most senior of the Red Cross women. When Lady Tarlton was asked to ratify the matter, she insisted on providing the big black-and-white car Mitchie and Naomi had once been so overwhelmed by. And—of course—the middle-aged Private Carling to drive it.
Naomi dressed in every item of her gray-skirted, gray-jacketed and overcoated uniform she could put on. Her gloves were ungainly but necessary. She regretted her button-up shoes would leave her feet a little cold. But to such a meeting—to which she looked forward so much—she could not wear gumboots or borrow cavalry ones.
Kiernan was waiting at the British Officers’ Club in Boulogne. Carling had a hard time getting there since fog had blotted out the country roads that led to it. The occasional wagon with its hunched farmer atop would appear out of the mist to test Carling’s braking and heart. But once in town the aged private knew precisely where the club was. He said he would be waiting for her from three o’clock, but she was not to hurry. For, he said, she’d worked too hard and was entitled to a little time to herself.
Kiernan was sitting in a chair in the lobby of the club and reading a small, leather-bound book from the club’s library. He put it in one of his jacket pockets—they were baggy enough to serve as a traveling library. As he had promised, he had all the looks of a man who’d been promoted from the ranks, including an awkward uniform. And his greatcoat—when the elderly Frenchman behind the desk fetched it—was the normal, graceless Australian army greatcoat.
Would you like a moules and fish place? Or would you prefer beef?
In this weather, said Naomi—of course remembering her meal with Airdrie—I suggest beef.
My exact instinct, he said. I’ve asked the concierge about a good place. Can you stand a walk?
Out in the dim day they spent their time further informing each other of their careers since they had last met. The phenomenon of Lady Tarlton figured large in Naomi’s account.
I have nothing to tell you in return, said Kiernan, that isn’t banal. But are you engaged yet to that pleasant fellow—Shaw, was it?
Of course not, she said.
That “Of course not” emerged from her barely without thought. She knew at once she didn’t want any idea of engagement to Robbie Shaw to make Kiernan too respectful or distant. So now it was apparent. How criminal that she hadn’t told Shaw himself definitely yet! How criminal if she didn’t do it as soon as she was back at the Voluntary.
He said, I’m sorry if the question was an intrusion.
The restaurant recommended by the porter at the club proved a long walk past bleak parkland. He apologized maybe once too often. But she emphasized she was happy. And she was. They saw the sea and the wet beach stretching out to a barely visible tide. A Blighty boat making its slow way out there was rendered black in outline by the uncooperative light of the day. This was all no better climatically than the day Dr. Airdrie had taken her to town. But it was different in every other aspect.
They reached a hotel she knew from her French experience could be called “Third Empire” and climbed the stairs to the warmth of its restaurant. The windows were opaque with mist but a fire raged in the inglenook and the light was warm. There was a surprising crowd of people here. Many but not all were soldiers. She and Kiernan were taken to their table by a plump, confident, full-bosomed woman who seemed part of the room’s grace. Naomi felt a sudden enthusiasm for conversation that the day outside had not encouraged.
So you’ve gone from the ranks to first lieutenant, she remarked as they were seated.
Oh, yes, your sister noted that too. But it was thought that a supply officer must of necessity have a certain authority.
Do you like it? Military rank in itself? Be honest now.
Do you like being a matron? Sall
y says you do.
I am only a matron by default. My rank is still that of staff nurse.
He thought a while. Actually, I do like a little rank, he decided.
For its own sake?
Almost certainly. Vanity of vanities . . . Quite a confession that is, isn’t it? But the eye of God doesn’t penetrate this mist.
Has your rank changed the way you talk to people though?
I always thought we talked well. But it’s true that rank changes things a lot. That’s why some men reject it. Better men than me have done so.
They may know they won’t have power over shrapnel and the rest, whether they’re commissioned or not, she argued.
Yes, but they have power before the bullet hits.
Look, she said, relenting, Don’t let me tease you. I know why you took your commission. So you have more power to do sensible things. But what interests me is whether you’d have asked me to lunch without those two pips on your shoulder?
Well, I wouldn’t have had the easy means to call your château. I would have had to get a lift out there. Or walked. But I would certainly have come.
This skirted the edge of a particular kind of intention. It was—she was surprised to find—a not unwelcome one.
But now, he said, I must splash around my lieutenant’s pay while I have it. It is an honor to flash it around on such a lunch as we are—Deo gratias—about to receive. And—this is not only understood but normal—my shout!
Naomi nodded. I’ll accept, she told him, because we don’t often get paid out there at Baincthun. They want us to come to Boulogne to sign for it.
Maybe you should call into the pay depot this afternoon, he suggested, winking.
When had winks joined his repertoire?
A man came with a board of special dishes but they ordered the soup and then the pork with cider. A specialty of Normandy, the waiter assured them.
The Normandy beyond the windowpanes today looked as though it totally lacked specialty.
Would you like wine? Kiernan asked. I am afflicted with teetotalism.
I believe I can get through lunch without Bordeaux, she said.
They ordered Vichy water. The waiter left.
I was delighted to meet your sister in London, Kiernan told her. Because you have been on my mind since I left the hospital ship in Melbourne. That article you wrote remained with me. It showed . . .
He gestured, looking for a definition.
It showed a spirit, he decided. A humane wisdom.
And then you went and got it published in the Herald, she complained.
And the Age. But that wasn’t me. Maybe it was one of the chaplains.
But you know I hate praise.
I do. You always say, “I’m a cow-cocky’s daughter!” As if it gives you an exemption or something.
It ought to, she assured him. So before we get on to all the flattery men seem to think a meal in a restaurant requires, let me warn you off. It’s obvious to me that you are an educated man. You are far above me in every aspect. I am—apart from nursing—untutored. “Humane wisdom.” My God! Please, don’t you start on all that stuff.
She was halfway joking—or being serious in a way that sounded falsely stern. She both meant what she said and feared driving him off. There was a kind of flattery she wanted. But she couldn’t define or imagine what it was.
He spotted the emphasis in “don’t you start.”
Other people have started on what you call “all that stuff” then?
Not many. But you ought to know better. I can see you’re still working yourself up to the usual stuff men go on with at the sight of a menu. And I don’t want you to. That’s straight. You are a friend. Be a friend and don’t carry on.
I am a Friend, he said. With a capital F. Lady Tarlton’s family—the Hennings—were Quakers too. Did you know that? What she’s doing is typical Quaker work.
I’m not sure she’s Quaker anymore. I’ve seen she likes gin.
I speak of a tradition, he said. The Society of Friends is a very broad church and sometimes it takes in gin. But—getting back to the start—you must face that what you wrote about the Archimedes gave honor to those who drowned. Apart from that, I know you are a good nurse. These things are not nothing. They are not a vacancy. And I know you don’t like it, but there is reserve. It is a reserve of temperament, I know. But it also comes from experience. So that’s about it. You can start chastising me again.
She smiled—delighted with what he said—and shook her head.
About Robbie Shaw . . . I seem to have been maneuvered into saying half yeses to him. I’ve been weak about it. If a person could remain engaged forever and satisfy a fellow, that’s what I’d do—as a pure favor. Of course, when he’s present—and he has a strong presence—it all comes close to making sense. But overall it makes no sense at all.
Their meal arrived—served with a certain incomprehension on the waiter’s part that anyone would eat such a dish without accompanying wine. But Boulogne was used—as a Channel port—to dealing with eccentric and wrongheaded British behavior. They ate with a winter ravenousness and went on to sauce anglaise and then had coffee. Outside, the day drew in haggardly upon itself. Carling would be coming soon.
• • •
Naomi tried to get to Boulogne to see Lieutenant Kiernan every two or three days during the next ten while he and his medical unit remained there. Since she didn’t want anyone remarking on her journeys, she would often wait at the gate by the road of frozen mud for a French farmer driving his wagon of produce into the city.
Allez-vous à Boulogne, Monsieur? she would ask. She did not even know if she had the phrase right. On the last of her three visits she was given a lift by two Tommies, who appeared out of the mist driving a khaki tractor. Glowing with anticipation in the freezing air, she arrived in town standing on part of its superstructure.
During their meetings thus far they had not touched each other except to shake hands. At this farewell meeting she agreed to walk with him in weather still not suited to it. For privacy’s sake they stayed outdoors and spent an hour and a half standing at the sea wall above the high tide, listening to the waves slap and rattle the shingle below them. Utter craziness—to stand and talk in such a grim bowl of half light above a grim ocean. Yet it was also perfect. They had the opaqueness and the cold to themselves. Their shoulders in overcoats touched—there was a degree too of half-intended pressure involved on both their parts. When contact with a man was managed at such a pace—a shadow of a quarter-inch at a time—it seemed it would take a lifetime before there was anything like an honest holding. Things must be moved along, she concluded for the first time in her life. Kiernan could not be trusted to do it at the pace the times demanded.
Before she could he gave her further motive. He said he was unsure—as everyone was—about future leaves. But—though it was not his business—he would come back and find out how she stood with her prospective fiancé.
I’ll be posting a letter on that matter, she said.
To me? he asked with all the teasing leisure of the implicitly chosen man.
If I’m to write to you, I’ll need your address.
“Third Australian Casualty Clearing Station” would find me, he assured her. Oh, and you’d better add “France.” Though we might be in Belgium for all I know.
I’ll be telling Robbie Shaw, said Naomi out into the fog, that I’ve decided I can’t condemn him or me to all that misery and disappointment just because of some sense of honor.
Ah, he murmured—and coughed.
Stuck for words are you? she said. Usually you fellows want to make all the declarations and use all the adjectives.
There are many adjectives I’d like to use. But you’ve warned me off.
Well, then, I’ll do the job. You are a noble soul, Kiernan. I would in fact go nearly anywhere for you. I don’t mean where you’re going now. I mean generally and for good.
He coughed. Good gracious, he said. Give me a mome
nt. I’m outflanked and flustered.
He kissed her cheek and she turned and kissed his—a kiss far more rationed on both their parts than she would have preferred.
Gosh, he said. We’ve still got time to have champagne.
This is enough, she told him. Anyone could have champagne!
They listened for traffic on the promenade. Since there was none, they crossed it clamped close by held elbows. They came again to the apartments, hotels, restaurants, and shops along the front. He kissed her on the point of the cheek and at greater length.
It is quite a changed world indeed, he told her, in which women have the courage to say what must be said.
She had to return to duty. He signaled a cab that emerged from mist. They traveled together through its opaque grayness to Château Baincthun. The cab would need to take Kiernan back to town, and she told its driver to stop at the gate. Kiernan seemed to understand she did not want to take him further. She wanted him to be secret yet. She chose to arrive alone at the château—she knew mist would protect her as she approached it up the frozen driveway under the enhanced murk of the elms. He went a few steps with her and kissed her again in a way she considered more satisfactory and which promised less cautious experiments eventually. He murmured, There is nothing a person can say at a moment like this.
Lingering around is hard, she agreed. But wait a minute anyhow.
She contemplated his face.
I wish I was French. Then I could pray to the Virgin for your safety.
Sadly, it hasn’t helped the French. And, as you know, I am a man of the rear.
You almost sound as if you wish you weren’t.
Young men feel the pull of self-immolation. If they didn’t, none of this would be happening and the château here wouldn’t be full.
Well, maybe you should go now, she said. Because the conversation’s straying.
You must let me know when you hear from Captain Shaw.
The last contact was the best. She felt the pressure of his arms and the potential pressure and mass of his body. The only way to deal with this pleasure was—when it ended—to give him a small and playful push. He vanished into the cab, and she saw him go. He looked at her through the near-opaque oval rear window of the taxi. Mist consumed the vehicle but then she was held in place by its receding sound. That soon vanished from the air and she walked on crackling ground up to the architectural grimness and cold corridors of the château.
The Daughters of Mars Page 35
