The Deserter's Daughter

by Susanna Bavin

  They were alone in the lane. He stepped across her body, batting aside a couple of moths getting drunk on the honeysuckle. The rich fragrance poured into his senses, but he switched off his awareness of it, leaning over the stile to peer all round before, satisfied, he stepped back.

  This time when he hunkered down, he lifted the girl’s wrist. Her hand was work-worn, but the nails were clean. A pulse fluttered like a baby bird beneath the pads of his fingers. He waited to see if he felt anything, relief perhaps, but he felt nothing. Action first, feelings later. That was something else he had learnt in the army. Feelings later – by which time, what was the point?

  The girl mumbled and uttered a soft groan. Bloody hell, that was all he needed. She gasped and her eyes squeezed tight. Don’t open them, girlie. You mustn’t see. Stupid bitch, stay unconscious.

  He leant down, scooped a hand beneath her neck to lift her head. With his other hand, he walloped her good and hard so that her head snapped aside. He dropped her and stepped away. Job done.

  He returned to the motor, quelling the urge to hurry. Act normal. Don’t make yourself conspicuous. He cranked the starting handle, climbed in and drove away, heading back to Sale through the fading light, returning to the hotel from where he had helped himself to the Crossley. He drove round the side and jumped down for a quick recce before taking the motor into the stableyard, where a couple of vehicles were parked. He returned the Crossley and slid away, aware of being swallowed by the darkness.

  He permitted himself a quick smoke, accompanied by the usual frisson of dread associated with smoking outdoors in the dark. Lighting up at night was the sure way to get your brains blown out. Even after all this time back in Blighty, that old fear could still put the wind up him. He took a final drag, then threw down the cigarette end, grinding it beneath his heel.

  He kept a moderate pace all the way to The Bridge. It was tempting to forego his usual and head straight for home, but it was important to stick to routine, so he ducked inside for a pint, bought one for mad old Felix, passed the time of day with the landlord, behaved as normal even though he was primed and ready, alert for snipers.

  When time was called, he nodded farewell. Others headed back up the lane into Sale, but he climbed the steps to the riverbank and Jackson’s Boat. Presumably somewhere back in the mists of time there had been a boat and it had been rowed to and fro by a bloke called Jackson, but for as long as anyone could remember, Jackson’s Boat had been a bridge. He strode across, listening to his boots striking the wooden planks in the still summer night, aware of the Mersey moving beneath.

  On one side: Sale and Cheshire and a Crossley with a cooling engine and a girl who might wake up in a few hours with a crashing headache or might not wake up at all. On the other: Chorlton and Lancashire and the promising future that had been his from the moment he first set foot inside a fancy French chateau.

  Darkness brought a crackle of coolness. He set off at a triumphant jog across the meadows.

  Job done.

  Battling to prise open eyelids glued together by a night-time of tears, Carrie shifted on the mattress, seeking to ease the weight in her heart. The day stretched ahead and she didn’t know what to expect. Instead of her precious plans, there was – nothing. By rights this would have been her last day in the shop, but the Trimbles had given her the day off as a wedding present. She had had it all mapped out. First she had intended to do the cleaning and nip to the shops while Mam was at Mrs Randall’s, then pack her clothes and the contents of her bottom drawer into boxes lent by Mr Trimble. After that, instead of a dip in their tin tub, she had planned to take her home-made lavender bath salts to the public baths and luxuriate in a double session before collecting her flowers on the way home, and … Just thinking of it made anguish swell in her throat.

  A streak of panic ripped through her, sending pulses jumping all over her body. She flipped over to cuddle up to Mam, only to find the other side of the bed creased and empty.

  Picturing Mam forlorn and exhausted at the kitchen table, she swung her feet to the fuzzy latch-hooked rug and opened the bedroom door. She found herself looking straight across into the back bedroom. The door was open and Mam was standing beside the bed, looking jaded. Her hair, which had gone unplaited last night for possibly the first time in her life, straggled down her back.

  Carrie was beside her in a heartbeat, drawing her into a hug. ‘It’ll be all right. Honest it will.’

  ‘She’s gone.’ Mam sounded surprised. ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘It’s for the best. We’d rather be on us own just now, wouldn’t we? It wouldn’t feel comfortable having Miss Reilly in the house.’

  ‘I suppose not, but it would have been respectable.’

  Mam wasn’t about to cry again, was she? Instead, a knock at the front door made her spring away. Tripping against the foot of the bed, she crumpled, but when Carrie reached to help her up, she tugged hard. Carrie’s stomach gave a little whoop as she stumbled awkwardly into a heap beside her.

  ‘Don’t answer it,’ Mam whispered. ‘They’ll go away.’

  Carrie wriggled free. ‘It might be Billy.’ Had he lain awake all night, breaking his heart over how he had hurt her?

  She hurtled across the square of landing into the front bedroom, lifting the corner of the curtain at the same moment as the visitor stepped away from the door and looked up. A rush of warmth engulfed her at the sight of Letty’s face. At that moment, Letty was the only person she could forgive for not being Billy.

  She waved, then hurried back to Mam, reaching to take her hands reassuringly.

  ‘It’s Letty.’

  ‘Don’t let her in.’

  Mam tugged sharply and Carrie almost lost her balance, bending double to keep her footing, her face close to the urgency in Mam’s eyes.

  ‘It’s Letty,’ she repeated.

  As Mam clambered to her feet, Carrie supported her, relieved that she seemed to be returning to normal, but then Mam snatched her arms, trying to hang on to her.

  ‘Mam, let go! What’s the matter? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t let them in.’

  ‘There is no them. It’s Letty. How many times have you said she’s like another daughter to you? Get dressed and I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Disentangling herself, she hurried downstairs to open the door a crack for Letty to squeeze in.

  ‘Oh, Carrie.’

  They stared at one another, then moved into each other’s arms.

  ‘I’m that sorry,’ Letty murmured.

  ‘You’ve heard, then.’

  Letty stepped back, her face crinkling. ‘Course I’ve heard. Everyone has. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t try. Coming is enough.’

  ‘Of course I came.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘Nay, I can’t stop. I’m on my way to work.’ Letty followed her to the kitchen. ‘Sorry to barge in so early, but I wanted you to know that … well …’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He were always kind to me and polite to everyone. That’s what I’ll remember. I wanted to come yesterday evening, but Mam said best not. She said: Give ’em time to get used to it.’

  Laughter erupted from Carrie’s lips, a bitter sound. ‘How are we meant to get used to this?’

  She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. All at once she was fourteen again and the news about Pa had just arrived. Tears welled, scorching eyelids still tender from last night. Deep dry sobs cracked her ribs, just as they had when she was fourteen; and Letty’s arms slid round her and held her, just as they had when she was fourteen. The sobs shuddered to a halt, leaving her feeling like an old dishcloth with every last drop wrung out of it.

  Letty eased away.

  ‘Sorry,’ Carrie whispered.

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘Have you heard about Billy?’ She absolutely would not ask if that too was common knowledge, but Letty’s sympathetic nod left no ro
om for doubt. ‘I haven’t spoken to him yet. I don’t know what’s happening until I’ve spoken to him.’

  ‘But surely—?’

  ‘I never saw him. He told Evadne. I went round, but Mrs Shipton wouldn’t let me in, shoved me clean off her doorstep.’

  ‘Eh, she never. What did she say?’

  Carrie sank onto a chair. Letty sat too, pulling her seat close, bumping knees. Her eyes widened as Carrie explained.

  ‘I can hardly believe it,’ Carrie finished. ‘I never thought she’d tek against me.’

  ‘She hasn’t, not against you personal, like.’

  ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? I can’t bear to think what’s being said about Pa.’

  ‘I know, love. Everyone’s shocked at the minute. They need time to get used to it.’

  ‘And we don’t?’ snapped Carrie; then she sighed. ‘I shouldn’t tek it out on you. Of course everyone’s shocked.’

  ‘Give her time. She’ll calm down.’

  Carrie’s heart put on a spurt. ‘There is no time. We’re getting wed tomorrow. Oh, Letty, you should have heard what she said about holding Billy back in his job.’

  ‘Bitch. It were that army chaplain, weren’t it? The one what kept vigil with your dad the … the night before?’

  ‘Aye. Letty, what should I do?’

  ‘Speak to Billy. Like you say, you can’t do owt until you’ve seen him. And see Father Kelly. He’ll have heard about the hoo-ha his friend has caused. The wedding isn’t cancelled until you and Billy go to him and say so, and even then he’d want to know the reason why. Ask him to speak to Billy, aye, and to Mrs Shipton an’ all, set her straight.’

  ‘No. I’m not having it said Billy married me because Father Kelly made him. It’s for him and me to sort out. I just need—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She couldn’t say it. She could barely bring herself to think it. She needed to get Billy on his own, well away from Mrs Shipton. He should have stood up for her yesterday, should have told his mam that she was his girl and always would be. As for skulking inside the house while Mrs Shipton made a holy show of her in the street …

  He had never let her down before. Even jilting her didn’t count, because that was the shock. She could accept that – just about. But not speaking up for her when she was right there on his doorstep … that was … it was—she flinched away. You didn’t think things like that about your husband.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘You do realise, don’t you, Doctor Armstrong, that the world and his wife think you’re barking mad? A garden party, of all things!’

  Walking down the wide, shallow steps of Brookburn’s handsome main staircase, Adam glanced sideways at her. She was a good sort, Violet Wicks. She had been a top-notch nurse in France and would make an excellent sister here. Everything had to be the best at Brookburn. That mattered more than he could say. This hospital was his brainchild. More, it was his heart-child, if there was such a thing.

  ‘I’m not going to hide these fellows away and pretend they don’t exist,’ he said. ‘God knows, enough other people are pretending – including their own families, in some cases. As if these men’s lives aren’t wretched enough without their being cast adrift by their nearest and dearest.’

  ‘Not all the families are like that, but how much more of a slog it’s going to be for the men who lack that support as they recover.’

  As they recovered. If they recovered – and that ‘if’ applied to the cherished men as well as those who had been abandoned.

  Adam paused on the half-landing, where a large window overlooked attractive parkland and the gravel drive that swept down to the gates. What a place for a hospital! His critics muttered that a manor house was hardly the appropriate place, but he believed there was nowhere better for these men than spacious, peaceful surroundings; and heaven knew, after the horrors they had endured, they had earned the privilege.

  Sister Wicks stopped beside him.

  ‘And do you think I’m barking mad?’ he asked.

  ‘If I did, I wouldn’t be here.’

  Her dry tone of voice didn’t fool him; he knew how deeply she cared about her work.

  They continued down the stairs, Adam patting his pocket to make sure he had his tobacco pouch, and into the lofty dining room. One dining room for all the staff: he had insisted on that. Aside from the waste of space involved in separation, he and Todd wanted to get to know the staff. The work they were embarking on was pioneering and an atmosphere of trust was essential. He and Christopher Todd, ably assisted by Violet Wicks, had worked damned hard to turn their vision into a reality. The three of them knew one another of old, having served together in France.

  All at once, his nasal passages, his throat, even the backs of his eyes were coated with the sickly sweet stench of gangrene, the sharp tang of antiseptic and the bad-egg stink of pus. Only think: back in ’14, he had taken a taxi to the docks so as not to be late for the war. He had spent the following years – God Almighty, the war had lasted years, not the few weeks it was meant to – patching up the wounds of those poor blighters who could be sent back to the bottomless pit of death and destruction, and amputating the pulped limbs of those that couldn’t, and all done against a background filled with the ground-shuddering clump of heavy artillery.

  The courage of those men beggared belief. Never once had he known a chap write or dictate a letter home that would give his folks any inkling of the extent of his injuries. I am none the worse … feeling bobbish … doing well … That was what they said, capital fellows the lot of them, from the lads so pitifully young their voices hadn’t broken to the old ’uns who had lied about their ages the other way.

  The men here at Brookburn weren’t capable of writing letters. They were men who, after their wounds had been patched up and their bones were knitted together, simply didn’t recover, men who had no physical reason to remain inert and yet who stayed silent and immobile.

  ‘Mind-horror,’ Doctor Nathaniel Brewer called it.

  Men whose mental scars ran so deep that their physical bodies had shut down.

  Brewer’s experiences had provided the inspiration that led to the setting up of this hospital. Before the war he had pursued his own dream of establishing a clinic in one of the poorest areas of Manchester.

  Brewer and his wife, Mary, were to be among the guests today. Mary wrote a regular column in Vera’s Voice and had promised to write an article.

  ‘For all the good that’ll do you,’ Ralph had said scornfully the other evening when Adam called round. ‘Vera’s Voice is for middle-aged women worried about getting stains out of chintz.’

  ‘Middle-aged women who, between them, have lost an entire generation of sons. The perfect audience, I’d have thought.’

  Not that Ralph’s attitude had softened, but that had come as no surprise. There was nothing soft about Ralph, as the lads at school who had called him wet for knowing the difference between Wedgwood and Staffordshire had discovered to their cost. He had always had a tough streak.

  Maybe if Molly—

  Don’t go down that road. Ancient history.

  A swift bacon and eggs, then Adam started his morning rounds, accompanied by Sister Wicks. Some of the men were being bathed and shaved; the limbs of others were being put through a regime of bends and stretches to prevent muscle wastage. In each ward was a gramophone; soothing music was played softly during the night, jollier stuff in daytime. The staff were encouraged to talk cheerfully to the men, even to hum or sing as they worked, and it wasn’t unusual to hear the strains of ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles’ or ‘Goodbye-ee’ as you went about your business. Adam had set a bottle of champagne aside for the day one of the chaps started mumbling along.

  He sat beside a couple of beds and described to the men what was in store at the garden party tomorrow. He and Todd had described the arrangements to every patient over the past day or two. Could the men hear? To tell the truth, he didn’t k
now, but it was essential to treat them as though they could.

  ‘It should be a pleasant little shindig. Not too crowded. We’ve got some relatives coming – including your sister and nephews, if I’m not mistaken, Fletcher – and the local bigwigs.’

  ‘And some of the men, Doctor,’ one of the orderlies added with a grin. ‘Don’t forget them.’

  ‘As if I would, Prosser. They’re the most important attendees.’ Getting the men outside was part of the treatment. He only wished they had more of the wheeled chairs with leg rests and sloping backs, in which the men could lie up when they were taken from their beds.

  ‘You’ll be rubbing shoulders with the toffs, Fletcher,’ said Prosser. ‘It’ll be all right, won’t it, Doctor? Wouldn’t want Fletch and the others lying here stewing about it.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about. Just staff, family, and locals who contributed to setting up this place, including my father, as it happens, getting together in pleasant surroundings on what is certain to be another fine day.’

  ‘Hear that, Fletcher? Be grateful for good weather. Doc here ’ud have you outdoors in the rain if needs be.’

  Adam laughed. Barking mad? Possibly. But if he was, then it was a top-hole thing to be.

  Carrie went through the motions, sitting, standing, kneeling, the same as the rest of the congregation at nine o’clock Mass, but her mind wasn’t on it. All she could think was that when she was here last Sunday, she had been brimming with excitement, knowing her next visit would be as a bride. Instead, here she was, come to beg Father Kelly not to cancel the wedding.

  Her eyes prickled, but it was no use feeling sorry for herself. She bowed her head, concentrating fiercely on the repose of Pa’s soul. What were the rules for the souls of executed soldiers? The Church had a rule for everything else. Did they have one for men like Pa?