The Keepsake

by Sheelagh Kelly

  The other could, but, ‘You are aware how close to the front it is?’

  Ignorant as to what this entailed, Etta nodded and said she would catch the first available train.

  ‘You’ll have a long wait,’ the other busied herself whilst giving her reply, gathering dirty mugs for washing, ‘there’s not another due till this evening – if only you’d asked someone earlier you would have made the last one.’

  Etta sighed and said it was her own silly fault. Reluctantly, she agreed it was better not to arrive at a strange venue in the dark. ‘Do you know anywhere cheap I might stay?’

  ‘There’s a relatives’ hostel.’ The woman scribbled on a piece of paper. ‘Or if they can’t fit you in there, there’s another place that’s quite reasonable.’

  Etta nodded and said she would delay her journey till morning. However, after consuming the bun and the mug of tea, she decided there was nothing to prevent her making a start on her investigations into the whereabouts of Marty’s unit. ‘I didn’t like to pester your customers before…Do you think they’d regard it as a monstrous cheek if I ask them to which regiment they belong?’

  ‘No, so long as you don’t go empty-handed.’ The other grinned slyly and extended more mugs of tea towards her.

  And for the rest of the afternoon, Etta found herself thus involved. But, apart from being made to feel of some small use to those who had been fighting on her behalf and seemed to take great pleasure in conversing with her, she found little to be gained from the exercise. When she bedded down for the night in the cheap hotel she still had no definite course of action. Still, tomorrow she would head in the general direction of Lady Fenton’s canteen and see what fate provided.

  Another train, another cramped, soot-speckled journey with many miles to travel, sometimes at a crawl and often shunted into sidings to make way for a troop train to pass, finally to alight several hours later at Amiens. Lady Fenton’s canteen was many miles to the south of here, but Etta had decided she could go no further today and would find a place to spend the night, meanwhile using the rest of the afternoon to make further enquiries about her husband.

  It was somewhat peculiar, being in quite civilised surroundings but able to hear the big guns growling in the distance, and frightening to know she would soon be heading towards them, but exhilarating too. However, with no jolly accomplice to provide her with an address of somewhere to stay, her lodgings might prove more difficult, for the city was crammed with soldiers of every nationality, and so she made a start without delay. Second nature led her to forgo any grand hotel and opt for more modest accommodation, though her prospective hostess seemed not keen to take a female guest, saying her rooms were reserved for the brave soldats who had been fighting, and only when Etta made a concerted charm offensive and explained her desperate reason for coming there was Madame persuaded.

  Immediately after slaking her hunger, Etta set about her enquiries, asking anyone who might listen if they knew of the exact whereabouts of her husband’s unit. She wandered from every café to every restaurant and every bar, meandered within the Gothic cathedral, here not to admire but to scrutinise each male face, praying that one of them might be his. She gazed through the windows of barbers’ shops at lathered jaws, attempting to define the features behind the foam, wondering if those green eyes swathed within the hot towel could be Marty’s, but no…

  Back to treading the streets, the thin soles of her shoes affording no redress and her feet on fire, she paused tiredly to inspect a column of French soldiers on the march, noting the weary faces and unpleasant odour that emanated from their ranks; more powerful than mere sweat. This was, she guessed, the stench of war.

  By early evening, having come almost full circle, the constant squinting against the sun giving her a headache, she stood in a patch of shade for a moment by a high-class hotel to observe the stream of red-hatted staff officers going in and out. How silly that she had not thought of this first: if anyone should know how to locate an army unit, they would. Without a second thought, she accosted one of them politely as he passed, explaining briefly that she was here to search for her husband.

  After flicking his eyes up and down her form, he responded to her question as if she had no right to ask it. ‘My good woman, if you suppose that I have nothing other to occupy me than the personal dealings of one private soldier, you know little about the organisation of war.’

  Etta was instantly furious, losing her dignity into the bargain. ‘You know little about courtesy either!’ she flung at his retreating back. Still, this did not deter her from asking another.

  This one was barely less discourteous, though he was more knowledgeable, priding himself on statistics. ‘Let me see, that would make his battalion with the eighteenth brigade, which is with the Sixth Division…’

  Etta was instantly excited. ‘And can you tell me precisely where I might find them?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ He strode on.

  Etta refused to be cowed and persisted in her approach to others, but, constantly frustrated, she was about to admit defeat and return to her pension when someone appeared at her elbow.

  ‘Pardon me, ma’am, might I be of assistance?’ She turned to see a man of perhaps forty, quite tall and thickset, clearly not one of the staff officers for he was infinitely more polite, and, though his hazel eyes had a shrewd vulpine gleam about them and his wide, heavily pocked face had lost any shred of innocence it might once have had, it wore the most engaging smile. He also had a North American accent. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear you say you’re looking for your husband.’

  She threw herself on his mercy. ‘Yes! All they’ll tell me is that his unit is with the Sixth Division, but they won’t say precisely where.’

  ‘That’s probably because they have no idea themselves.’ He smiled.

  She looked dubiously at his garb. ‘Are you involved with the military?’

  ‘I’m a journalist.’ The man doffed his Panama hat and introduced himself. ‘Robert Williams.’

  ‘How do you do, my name is Lanegan.’ Etta extended her hand. ‘Thank you so much for your intervention. I do hope you’ll be able to help.’

  ‘I shall endeavour to, Mrs Lanegan.’ Not content with covering accounts of valour, Williams had spotted a smaller but no less interesting tale of a beautiful young woman come to the battleground in search of her missing husband. ‘Though I must warn you that I’m as persona non grata to the British Army as yourself when it comes to information.’ He indicated the hotel foyer. ‘Would you care to tell me all about your intrepid venture over dinner?’

  ‘Intrepid?’ She laughed this away. ‘Merely desperate, I’m afraid.’ Aware that she could be being duped, Etta nevertheless decided this could be her only chance, and hence, after apologising for her dusty attire, accompanied him into the hotel. Here, over an exquisitely laid table, she was not only to spend the best part of two hours regaling him with her dilemma, but rather unwisely opening her heart, for somehow without even seeming to, Mr Williams extracted from her much of her life history, including the identity of her tyrannical father.

  Despite this, her faith in him was repaid. In exchange for her story, Robert Williams was to donate the valuable information that the 6th Division was in the vicinity of Ypres in Flanders.

  At first, dismay. ‘So I’ve been travelling in completely the wrong direction!’

  But then salvation, for on top of putting her on the right track her host offered to escort her as far as was possible in his motor car. ‘Unlike our Fleet Street brethren we neutrals have the advantage of being allowed to go pretty much where we like.’

  She disallowed herself to become too excited. ‘This is inordinately generous, Mr Williams.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He dealt his mouth a final pat of the table napkin. ‘I was thinking of heading there myself anyway.’ Ascertaining the whereabouts of her lodgings, he said he would meet her there early in the morning.

  Astounded by this change of fortune and by the speed
of it, Etta could not really believe as she left the hotel and returned to her modest pension that she would see Mr Williams again, let alone that he would lead her to Marty, and she determined to make alternative plans for the morning. These feelings were added to by the elderly Madame, who, upon being made privy to Etta’s progress later that evening over black coffee in her cosy parlour, cautioned against going so deep into the battleground, saying in impeccable English, ‘I do not want to alarm you, but could it be that your husband has been wounded and is in one of the hospitals?’

  ‘That has crossed my mind,’ replied Etta gravely, pausing in her knitting and allowing it to rest on her lap, her eyes travelling over the religious artefacts and lace doilies that made this parlour very like Aggie’s except for its more ornate furniture. ‘But the telegram made no mention of it and I really need a starting point. the most sensible thing would be to find his unit and start from there rather than visit every hospital in France.’

  ‘There are so many casualties that it must be hard to keep track of them,’ said Madame in her charming lilt, she too working on an item of comfort for a soldier. ‘They bring many here. Perhaps, before you go all that way, would it not be wise to check?’ Tugging a fresh supply from her ball of wool, she pulled her shawl more closely around her and continued knitting, going on to inform Etta that there was a casualty clearing station near to Amiens in an old asylum. ‘Maybe your journalist friend can take you to look there?’

  Etta nodded and thanked Madame for her help, though as she finally put away her needles and went off to bed she was still not expecting Mr Williams to turn up.

  But, to her extreme gratitude, the black motor car which arrived outside the pension early next morning did contain the journalist in its rear passenger seat. Trying not to express her surprise that he had been true to his word, Etta relinquished her luggage to the driver who installed it in the boot next to Williams’s typewriter, then told her new friend of Madame’s suggestion and asked if he would take her to the asylum before anything else.

  He gave a shrewd smile, this extending to a glint in his hazel eyes as he held the car door open for her. ‘I’ve already included it on the itinerary. Thought about it last night.’

  Etta smiled back warmly as she slid along the leather seat and pulled down her skirt, which had ridden up to display her black-stockinged calves. ‘I’m gratified to hear you’ve paid so much consideration to my welfare.’

  ‘My motive’s not entirely selfless,’ admitted Williams as he climbed in beside her and instructed the driver to move off. ‘I’m hoping that your good fortune might also shed a little on me.’ He told her how, regarding information, the British Army put every obstacle in his way, which was why he could so readily sympathise with her plight.

  However, there was an extra reason for his kindness, which he chose to keep from her. Inured to many features of this war, even the most horrific, there was something about this young woman that moved him, despite her friendly, confident nature, an air of vulnerability in those brown eyes that managed to pierce the hide of this hard-bitten old hack and made him want to look after her. He feared he had fallen in love. It worried him.

  They drove to the asylum where, earlier, a stream of ambulances had deposited hundreds more cases, most of them being too badly wounded to be interviewed. Observing these as they lay in the yard, waiting to be categorised, Etta was so shocked that for the moment she could do nothing but stare. It was one thing to read of wounded men in a newspaper, a completely different matter to have them presented in the flesh, with their grossly disfigured faces, seeping bandages and suppurating wounds. Involuntarily, she covered her mouth. She had considered the previous bodily smells bad enough, but this cloying stench made her want to retch. Yet others went about their task quite calmly, making sense out of chaos, talking to the wretched creatures on those stretchers as if they were human beings. Which is what they are, Etta told herself sternly, and tried to pull herself together and to remember the purpose of her quest. The white collar and cuffs of her dress marked her as a nurse, but now she felt completely ashamed and useless. She was, however, able to wander amongst those with less critical injuries who were still lying unattended in the open, to hand out cigarettes and light them whilst gently pumping the men for news of Marty, until her lack of medical attention revealed her as an impostor, at which point she was told to stop bothering them by a very possessive genuine nurse.

  Williams, who had been quietly watching Etta, now lifted his hat and sought to plead on her behalf. ‘I beg your pardon, Sister, this young woman is attempting to find her husband.’

  Flattered by the title, yet remaining intolerant, the overworked nurse directed Etta to someone else who might be able to search a list of names to see if her husband’s was on it. ‘In there!’ Even as she flicked an impatient finger she was already turning away to attend to someone more needy.

  Issuing profuse thanks to the nurse’s back, Etta went with Robert Williams in the direction she had indicated. Somewhere along the way they managed to take a wrong turn and went into an outbuilding containing a pile of arms and legs. They hurried out again, finally to come upon the one who held the relevant list. Marty’s name was not on it.

  In spite of an ability to charm with his sudden smile, it came to light that Etta’s travelling companion was by and large a taciturn man, of which she was quite glad, for she had no inclination for idle chat. Unaware of the troubling thoughts that consumed Williams, that a part of him hoped for her husband’s death so that she might turn to him for comfort, she was content to look out of the window as the motor car carried them north.

  Along the dusty, bumpy miles her glazed eyes were to encounter a procession of bullock carts piled high with mattresses and household goods, dispatch riders on motor-bikes, motor-lorries, horse-drawn ambulances, peasants going about their everyday business as best they could, and, of course, the ever-present tramping soldiers. There were refugees too. As the car was steered carefully around them, Etta’s heart went out to a young barefooted girl pushing a wheelbarrow in which was a toddler and a baby. That made her think of her own dear children and she thanked God they were safe in England.

  An hour after midday, she and her travelling companion stopped to buy food at a small town, where, by coincidence, a string of VAD ambulances were bringing wounded to the railway sidings. Forgoing the opportunity to eat and leaving Williams to type his notes, an anxious Etta went immediately to inspect the men on stretchers as each was laboriously transferred to the train. She walked amongst those still lying and sitting on the platform, clasped the hands of those strong enough to reach out to her in cheery greeting, lighted cigarettes for them, asked if there was anything else she could do.

  One issued cheek despite his blood-stained bandages. ‘Yes, you can give us a kiss.’

  ‘Gladly,’ she said, without hesitation pressing her lips to his brow, to much stoical jocularity from others and pleas for her to do the same for them. ‘I’m sure my husband wouldn’t mind.’

  There were groans. ‘Might’ve known a corker like you would be married!’

  Which gave her the opening to ask if any of them knew Marty, or at least knew of his unit. But alas, no one did.

  So, after a quick bite to eat it was back on the road again, stirring up the dust for another thirty miles or so, when, stiff and uncomfortable from the tortuously slow pace of travel due to all the obstacles and the poor state of the roads, they stopped again and knocked at the door of a cottage to ask if the owner could provide food and drink. This impromptu course of action was to be repeated as, veering northeastwards, they drove throughout the late afternoon across the border into Belgium, the villagers happy to oblige with what refreshment they had, sometimes charging exorbitant rates, sometimes nothing at all. Neither language nor dialect formed a barrier, the rather weary-looking inhabitants seeming to understand what was required, which was as well, for just when Etta had begun to grasp a few Gallic phrases the local tongue became predomina
ntly Flemish. Every outbuilding, every barn now seemed to house those who had been dispossessed and driven out by the enemy, forced from the place that she herself was travelling towards; every other field an army encampment. Since having their passports stamped, the driver had become increasingly nervous that they were getting very close to the war zone and now announced himself not keen to go further, until Williams offered a hefty bribe, then on they went, showing their passes at village after village, towards the sound of the guns.

  Yet even as they drew nearer the theatre of war there were pockets of tranquillity to be found. Considering it was now early evening they decided to put-up for the night, but unable to find a hostelry that was not crammed with military, they drove onwards for a little while along the narrow backroads and eventually came across an inn, which, being on higher ground, had a splendid view of the surrounding area. Here, after allowing herself to be treated to egg and chips, Etta voiced a desire to take an evening stroll in the sunshine, and with her journalist companion was to wander unmolested amongst flowers, birds and butterflies, to gaze upon a vista of windmills and hop gardens, the countless church spires of this deeply religious country adding paradox – when no more than five or six miles away across that green plain could quite clearly be seen the white tents of an advanced dressing station, and, only a little further, the puffs of white smoke as the artillery of friend and foe harangued each other in fine voice.

  The sun began to set, the gunfire to diminish. A soldier appeared on the scene, reminding them that civilians must be in by dark, and so they made their way back to the inn, here to capture what was left of the balmy evening, sipping drinks by an open window. On the breeze, from the direction of the camp hospital, came the faint strains of a bugle. Overwhelmed by thoughts and fears for Marty, Etta suddenly bent her head and wept. Gently, Williams took the glass from her hand, replacing it with a handkerchief. Etta buried her grateful face within and surrendered to the tears, barely noticing the large supportive hand on her shoulder until its warmth lingered just a fraction too long, and at this she moved away as politely as she could to extricate herself and retreat to her room, wishing not to offend but to be alone.