A Collar of Jewels

by Pamela Pope

  At the end of October, the French and American armies linked around Chatillon in an enveloping movement, and conquered the Argonne Forest with its outside railway system and two valley tracks. The enemy was crippled, left without power or communication facilities, and the Americans pursued them in their retreat along the Meuse.

  It was while working on the captured light railway that William’s luck began to run out. The fractured lines had to be pieced together, bolted and ballasted and re-laid, to link up with a main railway point further down in order to feed thousands more tons of shells and ammunition to the advancing troops. Most of the once-wooded hills overlooking the valley had been cleared of trees during the trench warfare, and the vast American tented encampment had moved on. But higher up the valley there was enough vegetation for isolated German batteries to escape detection, and it was one of these which opened fire on the engineers while they worked in the open, vulnerable targets for the besieged enemy.

  William had come through the fighting unscathed, believing in his own immunity to such an extent that he took risks without considering the danger. The mortar shell, which killed and wounded several of his men, buried him in a fallen dug-out near the line. After a few minutes he recovered enough from the shock to realise his left arm was useless, agonisingly painful, and badly broken, but apart from that he seemed to be intact. He began to shout to his trapped comrades, encouraging all who could to start digging their way out of the debris, and he set an example by using his good arm to shift clods of earth and timber until he was free.

  ‘Keep down,’ he yelled, lying on his stomach as another shell landed several hundred yards away, smashing the newly-repaired line. ‘Dawkins, organise the men behind that promontory and return fire. Watts, get as many of the wounded as you can to a safer position. Hilton, the engine’s intact. Get it going. We’ve got to get the wounded back to the rail-head.’

  Blood was seeping through his khaki jacket sleeve.

  ‘We’ll be sitting targets in the trucks, sir,’ said Hilton, his second-in-command. ‘We’d never make it. The Hun’ll just pick us off from up there.’

  ‘I said get the engine going! By the time you’ve done that it should be safe.’

  Another shell exploded close by. ‘That arm looks bad, sir.’

  ‘It’ll be seen to later. I’ve a job to do.’

  A stench of blood and explosives hung in the air as William moved back with Dawkins and put two grenades in his right-hand pocket.

  ‘Keep Lieutenant Hilton covered as best you can,’ he ordered. ‘I’m going up the hill.’

  ‘But, sir …’

  ‘The bastards’ve got to be put out of action.’

  He judged by the short-range mortar fire that the enemy position was hidden in a clump of trees not far above the working party and he climbed up stealthily, the pain in his arm so excruciating he hoped he would make it. A twig cracked beneath his foot and he stopped, but there was no sign he’d been detected, and after a moment he moved on up, crouching in places where there were only bushes for cover. There was nothing to guide him, other than instinct. At any minute he could stumble across the battery and that would be the end of him. He couldn’t defend himself with his arm the way it was.

  A low-velocity shell whined past quite close to his right, pin-pointing his objective. Another few yards and he could hear guttural voices. Yes, he could see the battery through the branches. There were only two soldiers operating the muzzle-loading gun behind a barricade of rocks, and they were too engrossed to suspect retaliation. He went on climbing a step at a time, pausing, listening, watching, holding his breath until he was past the enemy bunker and ideally positioned above it. Using his uninjured right arm he threw the first grenade, seeing it explode just wide of the mark and alerting the soldiers. But the second was right on target. It killed both men instantaneously, and destroyed the gun. Only then did William pass out.

  He was vaguely aware of being taken down the line to the field hospital. Loss of blood had weakened him considerably, and it was several days before he was fully conscious again. Shell splinters had been removed from his arm and the shattered bone set as well as possible, though it would never be completely straight or the arm capable of heavy use.

  Nurses ministered to him, their white caps fluttering before his eyes like butterflies, their hands gentle yet competent. Soft voices murmured above him, but he couldn’t hear properly what was being said. Fear of gangrene in the wound seemed to be the concern of the doctors and the dressings were changed often, causing fresh, unbearable pain which necessitated another dose of morphine. But gradually he began to recover, and one morning he was told he could have a visitor. It was his Commanding Officer, a man by the name of Colonel MacDonald.

  ‘Glad you’re on the mend, Berman,’ the Colonel said. ‘Bad luck copping it just before the end.’

  William was propped up on pillows, his left arm strapped close to his chest. ‘You mean the war’s over, sir?’

  ‘Good as. I hear the Germans are on the point of admitting defeat.’

  ‘Great news.’ But surely it didn’t merit a special visit from his superior.

  ‘Great indeed. And it wouldn’t have been possible without men like you. Every one of our troops are heroes, but some show greater heroism than others. I’m here to tell you, Captain Berman, that the French are awarding you the Croix de Guerre for what you did in the Argonne Valley.’

  William sat up. ‘I’m no hero,’ he protested. ‘It was the only logical thing to do.’

  ‘By putting the enemy battery out of action you saved the lives of a whole lot of men. Wounded, too. To me that deserves the highest gallantry award. I salute you, Captain.’

  After the Colonel had left William drifted into a dazed sleep, and he awoke feeling certain it had all been a dream. But people came to congratulate him, including Lieutenant Hilton and some of the men who had got out of the valley alive, thanks to his brave trek alone up the hillside.

  He wanted to share this moment with Galina. As he lay there dwelling on what had happened he felt an overwhelming desire to see her. Hilton had brought in the latest batch of letters from her and he started to read them with joy, noting that each one became more passionate.

  The last letter had been written four days ago, and it made his heart sing.

  ‘It’s too long since I heard from you, William,’ she wrote. ‘I’m worrying about you incessantly. I know it’s difficult to get mail through, but we’ve always managed it and I’ve been expecting some to arrive. My darling, if anything should happen to you I think I’d want to die. Isn’t that melodramatic!’ And then he read what he wanted to hear more than anything else. ‘Darling, I know I said I wouldn’t make any decisions until after the war, but I’ve got the strangest feeling I must give you an answer to your proposal now. Call it premonition or whatever you will, but something tells me all isn’t well, and I want you to know I’ll marry you at the earliest opportunity. And that means taking you on, no matter what. Am I being morbid?

  ‘Please get in touch, dearest William. Tell me you’re safe and unharmed. I’m worried sick. I’ll love you till eternity and beyond. Galina.’

  He smiled as he put the letter back in the envelope. Her intuition had proved right, but things could have been a lot worse. Thankfully his wounds were healing and he was gaining strength every day to hold her close by his good arm. He couldn’t wait for it to happen.

  The letter was in his hand that evening when the lights were low and the time was right to talk to his favourite nurse.

  ‘I’m getting married, Sister,’ he said.

  ‘I thought you looked a lot happier.’ She stood beside his bed, a plain woman with a Brooklyn accent and the smile of an angel. ‘I’ve some more good news for you, Captain Berman. You’re being sent to England on the next ambulance train.’

  He was pleased. He didn’t want to stay a minute longer than necessary now peace looked certain, but he desperately wante
d to see Galina first.

  ‘Is there any chance of seeing my fiancée?’ he asked. ‘She doesn’t know I’m in here. She’s an ambulance driver.’

  ‘I’ll get word to her if it’s at all possible,’ the Sister promised.

  ‘Her name’s Galina Devlin.’

  The woman’s face changed, as if a mask suddenly covered it, and she turned away abruptly. William sat forward, his heartbeats quickening uneasily.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ He touched her sleeve. ‘Tell me.’

  When she turned back there were tears shining on her cheeks, glistening in the dim light. Her hand covered his.

  ‘Three days ago Galina Devlin’s motor-van hit a mine on a road north of Verdun,’ she said, her voice calm but her hands trembling with sympathy. ‘She was bringing us more wounded. They were all blown to bits.’

  William felt as if his own life ended there. He sank back against the pillows.

  He didn’t talk to anyone for several days, by which time he was on his way to a Channel port and a boat bound for England. He didn’t care where he was sent. Without Galina everywhere was a desert.

  *

  For many hours after the destruction of Court Carriages, Ellie was still in shock and took no interest in anyone or anything. She couldn’t seem to focus her eyes so she closed them against the bare ugliness of the police cell, and as her ears still echoed painfully from the explosion she didn’t hear the arguments and accusations going on around her. She sat on a hard bench as if she were blind and deaf, responding automatically to commands without really knowing what she was doing.

  She didn’t know how long she had been there when someone came to say they were sorry.

  ‘It was a terrible misunderstanding, Mrs Berman. We ought never … You shouldn’t have … If only someone had known you were there … Please accept our … I’ve been in touch with the American Red Cross.’

  Everything sounded disjointed, and it really didn’t matter. She didn’t answer.

  Someone helped her out to a car and she was driven a short distance through the town. It was pitch dark. Soon she was in a house and another person was getting her into bed. During the night she felt her wrists to see if they were handcuffed or tied, but there was nothing restricting them or stopping her from relaxing on the soft feather mattress.

  Half-asleep, half-awake, her mind wandered through the past, taking her back to the days in Pullman with Max, and she thought the pain in her body had been caused by the women kicking her during the strike. She called out for Max, but of course he wasn’t there. He was never there when she needed him. He would never be there again.

  Max was dead. He had given his life for her.

  She wept over the wasted years of their separation which could have been spent so differently if only they’d been able to make allowances for each other. She’d thought the overpowering love she had lavished on him in the early days could survive everything. How she had deceived herself. The kind of love she’d believed in would have been strong enough to withstand far worse things than desertion, and would have accepted Max’s weakness as part of him. A true and lasting love would have grasped at the chance of reconciliation and worked at overcoming the faults in herself which had been a cause of the break-up. She’d told William she had loved too much, but it wasn’t that at all. She hadn’t loved enough.

  She’d failed Max. She had been too full of her own importance to try and see things from his point of view. They’d both been too proud. He, too arrogant to be beholden to anyone else; she, too proud and stubborn to accept he hadn’t adored her like everyone else, or been willing to always put her needs first. She had been intolerant.

  Now they would never be able to start again. He had died before she could tell him how sorry she was for not trusting him.

  It wasn’t until daylight that she realised she was at Fortune Cottage. Not that she had ever been in one of the bedrooms before, but fully awake and with her vision restored she saw a familiar painting on the wall of Francis and Charlotte when young, and a photograph of Millicent and Julian resplendent in evening dress. There was a soothing smell of jasmine on the pillow, and she lay still, recalling what had happened and why she was there.

  Millicent came in later, carrying a tray of tea and some light breakfast. She looked drawn and tired.

  ‘You shouldn’t be waiting on me, Millicent,’ Ellie said, sitting up in bed. ‘How very kind of you to have brought me here.’

  ‘It was the least I could do. You had the most terrible shock. I’ve been sitting with you most of the night.’

  ‘There was no need …’

  ‘I didn’t want to be on my own.’ She shuddered. With slightly unsteady hands, Ellie’s aunt by marriage put the tray on the bed and sat on the chair she had used to keep the night-time vigil. She was neatly dressed in a black gown which disguised the extra weight she had put on in middle age, and now she smoothed it over her knees with studied care while she sought for words to speak of what was on her mind. ‘Ellie, I want to talk to you about Julian before you hear things officially which will brand him a traitor to his country.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You’re here because of what I told the police last night when I heard you were being held responsible for the bomb. I didn’t even know you were in this country.’

  ‘The police came here?’

  ‘To tell me Julian had died in the blast.’

  Ellie closed her eyes in anguish. ‘Julian, too.’

  ‘I told them it was he who planted the bomb.’

  ‘To save me from being blamed?’

  ‘It was the truth. I can only say it’s a mercy he’s dead. He planted it, you see, to save Charlotte’s life in Germany. He was being blackmailed.’ Millicent swallowed hard and looked down at her hands. ‘Julian wasn’t a bad man, but he was weak, and lately he’d come to rely too much on brandy, like his father before him. What I want you to know, Ellie, is that I loved him, and would never have stopped loving him in spite of what he’s done. I shall defend him with every breath in me.’

  It was so awful Ellie could hardly take it in. Her immediate thought was that Julian had killed Max, and for that she could never be so magnanimous as Millicent. Whatever his motive, whatever excuse his wife made for him, there could be no such loyalty from his niece. In a way the revelation was not surprising when she remembered seeing Julian’s furtive exit from the storeroom, but she would never have suspected him of treason. Never. Or of murder, for that was what it amounted to.

  She ached unbearably as she stared, dry-eyed, at her aunt, whose loyalty to her husband put Ellie to shame. It was impossible not to admire her. She had always dismissed Millicent as frivolous and extravagant, a snob of the highest order with whom she’d had nothing in common. In the past there’d been no clue as to the strength of character behind the luxury-loving exterior.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Millicent, except that we must somehow console each other since we have both suffered a terrible loss. I’m very grateful for what you’ve done for me.’

  Millicent bent over to kiss her forehead where the swelling of last night was turning to a black bruise. ‘I wanted to be able to tell you myself, my dear. You would have heard the truth from another source, but I begged to be allowed to speak to you first.’

  ‘I’m glad you did.’

  ‘And I’m so very sorry about Max. I know you never forgave him, but he was a good man for all that. He loved his niece and brought her up like a daughter. I think he wanted a wife and family, but we all knew no one could take your place.’

  Ellie swung her legs out of bed so that she could draw Millicent into her embrace, the sensitive words having touched her so deeply there was nothing to say in reply. She ached to give way to her misery, but Millicent’s fortitude had a strengthening effect. In some ways it was worse for her aunt. There’d been no break in her marriage to Julian. They had been with each other all their married life, and
her grief must be devastating. Ellie’s grief was compounded by guilt that she and Max had spent hardly any time together at all.

  The two women held each other silently for several minutes, sharing their suffering. Then Ellie got out of bed.

  ‘I’m going to get dressed, Millicent,’ she said, forcing herself to sound stronger than she felt. ‘There’s going to be a lot of things to do, and we’ll both feel better if we tackle them together. First, I must use your telephone, if I may, to let the hospital at Richmond know what’s happened.’

  A little later in the morning there was yet another ring at the front doorbell. An incessant string of callers had been told by the only remaining maidservant to please go away, but this time Millicent looked round the door of the drawing room where Ellie was desperately trying to compose a letter, yet unable to think of anything but Max.

  ‘You have a visitor, Ellie,’ Millicent said, the first smile of the day touching her lips.

  ‘You know I won’t see anyone.’

  ‘But this is someone very special.’

  With that Millicent opened the door fully, and Ellie saw a very tall young man in military uniform standing there, his left arm in a sling tight to his chest.

  ‘William!’ she breathed. After a second’s heart-stopping delay she ran to him, halting only just in time before throwing herself against him. He was wounded. ‘Oh, my darling, how wonderful! When did you get back? How did your arm get broken? How did you know I was here?’

  ‘Mother, forget the questions. Just let me hold you with my good arm,’ he said. The strength in it more than compensated as he drew her against him and kissed her.

  She began to weep at last. ‘Oh William, your father’s been killed and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘I know, Mama.’ He stroked her hair soothingly. ‘If only I’d been here yesterday.’

  *

  William had sailed on a train ferry from Dieppe to Southampton. With his shattered arm he was among the mobile wounded so he was able to sit in the officers’ mess where there were wooden armchairs and a round covered table with a vase of flowers in the middle. The train itself was on a track through the centre of the ferry, and the lorries parked on either side of it made it impossible to see much. Not that William wanted to see. He had taken little interest in anything since learning of Galina’s death, and England wasn’t home.