Where he had come from, they did not know, and so far he could not tell them. He had been almost naked when he had been brought in, what clothes he had worn were burnt off him save for a few tatters, and it was a miracle he had survived. Had it not been that he had been found half-drowned in a pool at the edge of a wood, he would undoubtedly be dead long before now.
Jacques looked vacantly into the sweet face of the nun. Along one of his cheeks were livid scars, but in time they would fade. He had been assured of it. He hardly cared. He cared about nothing. He was consumed with an anger as bitter as gall, and he did not fully know why. If only he could remember.
He wasn’t stupid. He was fully aware that he had lost his memory. During the months he had been in the Abbey of St Helene, tended so caringly by the nursing nuns, he had recovered enough to know that he was in some kind of a hospital, that there were many other men here suffering far more than he, that he was one of the lucky ones who would eventually get well. And in time, the nuns hoped confidently that his memory would return…
In time! The phrase was uttered constantly, confidently, meant to give him sustenance, courage, endurance. Instead, it left him raging and boiling inside himself. Didn’t anyone understand that time was no more than an empty vacuum, stretching into infinity, when there was no past, no more than a hazy uncertain future, a searingly painful, red-rimmed present?
He refused to speak to the nun who had taken his pulse, and was now swishing away from him. He could almost taste the smell of her, gagging him with its cleanliness, its godliness. She was all starch and cheap soap and clinical perfection. Too perfect to be womanly. Sterile. Unsullied. The words swam through his mind, but remained without voice, as Jacques did. Only occasionally did the words he produced make sense, but mostly they did not. They were the bleatings of animals in pain. Bleatings or roarings, depending on the pain. Everything depended on the pain.
‘Poor sod.’
He had heard the chirpy Englishman’s voice many times, and struggled to get him into focus. No clinical smell now. Sweat and stale blood, the whiff of excreta still lingering on the air. Going back soon, the Englishman kept saying cheerfully. Back to the war, the war, the bloody war…
He heard the man discussing him with someone called Jock in the next bed. They thought that because he couldn’t concentrate, had difficulty in speaking, probably had only half a face for all he knew – that he couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel…
‘Christ knows what they’ll do wiv ’im,’ the Englishman went on. ‘Set ‘im up as the Abbey artist, p’raps, and sell off his drawings. They ain’t bad, if you like being scared to death. Not the kind of thing my old woman ’ould want, or I might take one ’ome to her.’
The other man grunted as usual before he spoke in his gravelly voice. What was he? Scots, presumably. Jacques was too tired to think, and too uncaring to bother.
‘Nice wee lassie he’s drawn. Have ye seen it? Keeps staring at it, poor devil. His wife, mebbe.’
Jacques turned his head a fraction, away from the two men. The face of a pretty girl was crudely drawn on a piece of paper. The nuns had propped it up beside his bed, so that when he turned he had no choice but to see it. It wasn’t that he kept staring at it. If he needed to holler for help, he had to turn his head that way. The girl’s face was a meaningless series of black lines and curves on the paper.
If he screwed up his eyes, he could make better sense of the bad drawing. He had enough sense to know that he was capable of better, which must be something in his favour. The face had large, expressive eyes, pale hair framing her cheeks, soft wide mouth. Part of another life, when such things had the power to stir his loins, to make him a man with a man’s needs for such a woman. He didn’t recall drawing her. She was a stranger to him, like everyone else in this bloodied world right now…
He closed his eyes tightly, before the black fear dragged him down once more. Better to shut it all out than to go on seeing a frightening place in which he was an alien thing, a man with no memory, therefore no soul.
The Englishman studied the drawing on the other side of Jacques’ bed, and gave a sudden lewd chuckle.
‘She’s a nice bit o’ crackling, whoever she is, Jock. I could give her a bit o’ the old heave-ho, given ’alf a chance –’
‘And given a guid right arm to hold her down,’ the Scot sniggered. ‘A lassie like that wouldn’t give ye a second look, Harry! She’d go for the aristos, like yon laddie.’
Harry looked thoughtfully at Jacques’ apparently sleeping face, too used to the Scot’s sharpness to take offence. It was true enough anyway. He was rough-hewn stone, compared with the classic elegance of the Frenchman. Despite the injuries, breeding showed through. But an aristo?
‘Is that what you reckon him to be, Jock?’
‘I dunno, and I couldna care less.’ Jock was tired of all this speculation. His own wound burned and throbbed, and he wanted attention for himself, not for this mystery man whose physical injuries were mending, but whose mental wounds never seemed to improve, and was taking up a bed.
Harry was the lucky one. Getting out of here in less than a week with any luck, and back to the Front. Back to being blown up all over again, and sent back to some hospital for repairs. Doctors and nurses were no more than bloody mechanics these days, Jock thought humourlessly, repairing those that still had enough parts to mend, sending the rest to the scrap heap in the sky. Boxed if they were lucky, heaped into a communal spit of earth if they were not. And hopefully, God would know where to find them and sort out the tangle of bodies and legs and make them whole again for eternity.
He shivered, as if he could feel the damp cloying earth already suffocating him, mouldering his bones. He bellowed for a nun to bring him a piss bottle before it was too late. Shocking the nuns was the tiniest diversion in the boredom of waiting to get well. They all did it.
Angel felt as though she had lived a lifetime at Piersville. Since returning from taking Margot and Edward home to England, there had been little time to think. If an army of men had been sent into battle, then an army of men was being sent back into the hospitals, daily, hourly, incessantly. All those wasted, wasted lives.
All the wasted days that could have been spent so differently. Lovely, summer hours that had once drifted by in a haze of heat, the hum of insects on the air, the scent of blossom heavy and sweet, the raw tangy grasses soft underfoot, the caress of the ocean on bare feet, the nights warm and balmy. Summer, summer, all gone in a bloody stench of choking dust and burning sorrow, of pain and grime and tears, and stinking wounds that violated God’s earth and sky.
Why did He allow it? Angel wept for the poor wretches who could no longer see or taste or hear or feel … those were the fortunate ones, those who couldn’t feel. The rest of them limped painfully towards death, inch by harrowing inch, and all that women like Angel could do was watch and comfort, and hold hands until there was no pressure left in those dead fingers to hold.
There had been several letters from Margot, beseeching Angel not to think too badly of her because she simply could not return. The way she wrote the words told Angel that already the old Margot was reasserting herself, but she couldn’t blame her for relinquishing her job at Piersville. Margot had always been more vulnerable, despite her outward froth.
Angel was constantly surprised at her own resilience. Sister Yard was pleased with her, informing her so in that odd, mannish way of hers. Bannister had proved to be solid. Angel no longer flinched at the unfeminine analogy. She was deeply moved to be thought an essential part of the team at Piersville, of whom Sister Yard was a tireless and humane worker. There was no room for lightweights here. Margot had been right to retire gracefully, and besides, her mother needed her…
Since the horror of Edward Lacey’s death and subsequent loss of Margot’s friendship, Angel had made no real friends. Acquaintances she had in plenty, but the work was what kept her going. The months slipped by, and although she kept the memory of Jacques alive in her h
eart, she admitted that it was harder and harder to believe in his survival.
All the same, she clung to the fact that his whereabouts were as much a mystery to his unit. Twice she had been to Brighton Belle, to be met with the same embarrassed looks and evasions. No one knew what had happened to Jacques de Ville. Clearly the officers and men there believed him dead. But without actual proof, no one came out and declared it. Not to this girl, whose love for the man shone out of her…
Angel had to keep the hope alive. If she didn’t, no one else would. Only his father, somewhere in Bordeaux. He probably knew nothing more than she did. He would have been the one to receive the message that his son was missing. Missing, believed killed … at that point, Angel always clamped her imagination. If she didn’t, pain rushed in, heartache began, the numbness that was her salvation wore off.
In late December, one of the day’s intake of badly wounded moaned and cussed with all the ripeness of his Cockney background. Angel hid a smile, despite her sympathy. She didn’t think much of his chances. His chest had caved in, and he would need constant care if he was ever to recover from the mangled mess the bullets had made of him. She forced him back on his bed, her arms stronger than anyone would believe in so slender a girl, and uttered soothing words to him.
‘The doctor will be along very soon, and he’ll see that you get something for the pain. Try to lie still, please –’
The soldier looked up at her in dumb amazement. Angel was perplexed by his look. She thought she had seen it all. Lechery, adoration, hatred, rage, slobbering tears, dehumanised weeping…
‘Gawd almighty, where’ve I seen yer before?’ Harry gurgled through the heaving jelly of his chest.
Angel shook her head gently. The poor devil was probably having hallucinations. It happened all the time. A face, a look, reminded some poor devil of a girl at home, a wife or a sweetheart. She put a cool hand on his forehead. It burned with fever, despite the bitter cold outside.
‘I ain’t bleedin’ crazy, ducks. Not yet. I’ve seen yer, I tell yer.’
‘I’ve been here a long time. Perhaps you’ve been to Piersville before. Is this your first time in hospital?’ Angel asked gently.
At least the irritation over where he had seen her was taking his mind off the evil-looking wounds in his chest. He must have been ripped right open, and only a hastily stuffed piece of darkly reddening padding was holding him together.
‘Nah!’ Harry said with scornful pride. ‘I bin at the Front off’n on for two bleedin’ years, though I’ve seen the inside of more bleedin’ ‘ospitals than you’ve had hot dinners!’
His whole body heaved with the effort of talking now. He squinted his eyes at Angel’s face, until she became more of a blur, an image, a sketchy image of black lines on white paper…
‘Good Gawd almighty, I know where I seen yer!’ he croaked. ‘It was that bleedin’ loony chap at the Abbey – St Helene! ’E had a drawing of yer by his bed.’
‘What chap?’ Angel’s stomach retched with shock. Her heart raced so fast she could hardly hear the Cockney’s words. She felt like dragging him out of the bed and shaking him to tell her … tell her… but if she did that, he’d probably die right in front of her, and she’d know nothing…
The voice was dwindling, fumbling for sounds, losing its control. She leaned forward desperately.
‘’E never said proper words. Only bleedin’ rubbish. Posh chap. One o’ them Froggies –’
The sounds were rasping and gurgling now, as if they came from under water, as if they were drowning. Angel knew that was precisely what the man was doing. Drowning in his own blood. So many of them did it. Edward Lacey had done it. She wept for them all. She wept over the man, listening desperately for one more word, for him to mention Jacques’ name…
‘Bannister, there’s nothing more to be done here.’
Sister Yard’s voice, sharp as a whiplash, was beside her ear. Sister Yard’s hands were hauling her away from the dead body of the soldier who had given her flaring hope. The front of her uniform was stained with the blood that had erupted from the useless padding. The wounds disgorged blood, poured out blood like a fountain. An orderly was scuttling to the bed, removing the body, making way for yet more bodies, either fit for repair or to be made ready for disposal. It was an endless nightmare. But for Angel, out of the nightmare had come a sliver of light. A hope. Angel turned to scream at Sister Yard to tell her so, but before she could say anything, it seemed as if the floor came up to hit her between the eyes.
She heard nothing of the panic among the hard-pressed staff in the next hours. She was put to bed under sedation, ordered complete bed rest for a week. She was no use to anyone if she collapsed, and she had worked as hard as anybody. Sister Yard herself gave the orders, finding an odd attachment for the golden-haired girl who gave so much of herself so tirelessly. And those poor lady’s hands that cared nothing for the rough work they were given, were laid carefully over the bedcovers while the girl was restored to health and strength.
The doctor insisted that Angel be kept sedated. She had been under a terrific strain lately, and the mind and body could cope with only so much. The drugs dulled Angel’s senses. She hated them, while knowing that they healed. But at last she was allowed to wake with her head clear, to see the girl called Jones beside her bed.
‘You’re awake! I just looked in to see if you were all right. How d’you feel, Bannister?’
‘Better,’ Angel said cautiously. Everything was winging back to her. The soldier who had died. The certainty that he had seen a drawing of her. The only person who could have made it was Jacques. And the name of the hospital. Oh God, she couldn’t remember it. Some Abbey. Some saint’s name. There were probably hundreds in Catholic France.
‘The Abbey of St Helene!’ she said in sudden, joyous triumph. Jones backed away uneasily, as though Angel was experiencing a holy vision. As Angel made to leap out of bed and then clutched quickly at the side table, Jones disappeared through the door, calling quickly that she’d fetch Sister.
There were more urgent things to attend to than visiting a recovered nurse. By the time Sister was free, Angel was washed and dressed, and wishing that her legs didn’t feel so much like wool. She was ready to return to the wards, and ready to beg with a request of her own.
‘You’ll do no such thing. You’ll be in the same state as before if you start work immediately,’ Sister said in annoyance. She thought the girl had more sense. ‘One more day taking it easy, and tomorrow you may return to the wards.’
‘All right.’ She would give in on this, and then Sister would grant her request. The next minute she felt as if she had been slapped in the face.
‘There’s no question of a transfer at the moment, Bannister! I hardly need tell you how hard-pressed we are for every nurse and helper. Perhaps in the new year. We’re promised some new V.A.D.s then. I’ll see if I can release you then.’
Angel could have wept. ‘But Sister, don’t you see how useful I would be? The man who died was British, and the nuns would be French. I speak excellent French. Oh please, Sister, won’t you think again?’
‘In the New Year, Bannister. I can say no more than that. As soon as we get some replacements, you may go. But I’ll be damn sorry to lose you, all the same. You’re a good egg. Solid.’
Left alone, the incongruity of the words failed to amuse Angel. A good solid egg, hard-boiled … but she was none of that. She was soft-centred, ready to spill over right now. For a moment she had almost breathed Jacques in her lungs, held him in her arms, as real and surely as she lived. And now she had to wait until the new year to find out if it was really him. If he was well, or injured beyond help, mentally or physically. He needed her, but she couldn’t go to him because she was needed here.
The frustration of it all overwhelmed her, and she threw herself down on her narrow bed and wept until she felt as though there were no tears left inside her.
Early in January, Ellen snuggled into the collar of he
r coat, wishing she had somewhere to go. She felt decidedly unsettled, shocked, everything jarring and worrying inside her. It wouldn’t be so bad if Rose had stayed with her after they had come out of the cinema into the pale cold daylight. But Rose had gone scurrying off to meet the young man of whom she was now enamoured, unfit for war service, but apparently fit for everything else, according to Rose’s irritatingly coy descriptions.
Ellen would have liked to go to a tea shop with Rose, mulling over the disturbing film together, instead of standing here like a left-over scone at Sunday tea. The film was appalling. I mean, one heard of the dreadful things that were happening in France and at the Somme, but to sit through such a terrible film about it, seeing the men, laughing into the cameras, but nevertheless with that awful mud and the trenches, and the tanks, and all the things one never really thought about in too much detail…
Ellen groaned to herself, listening to her own thoughts. God, she sounded just like her mother, distancing herself from the real world so that she didn’t have to be too deeply involved in it … she wasn’t ‘one’, she was herself, she was Ellen Bannister, munitions worker, lost in a world where she didn’t belong, living with a friend who indulged too freely in sex with strangers, conveniently forgetting her avowal to remember her dear departed Ronnie for always and always…
‘Ellen, is that you? Good Lord, it is! Ellen, how splendid to see you!’
The cut-glass voice shattered the silence of the winter afternoon. Ellen realised that the crowds outside the picture palace had dispersed, and she had been standing there as if she was waiting for a bus. She stared in disbelief for a moment, and then seized the other girl’s hand as if it was a lifeline.
‘Margot! Why aren’t you in France? Oh God, I’m sorry. Didn’t something happen to your brother? You look awful if you don’t mind me saying so. Have you been ill?’
The Bannister Girls Page 22
