“Wait a minute! I’m an American citizen, and in case you’d forgotten, that means I—”
The barn door was opened, and he was given an enthusiastic shove, sending him sprawling onto the mixture of straw and animal manure covering the floor. The door was closed and bolted behind him, leaving him in darkness.
For a second or two, Dirk lay there stunned amongst the filth before blind fury galvanized him into action. Launching himself at the door, he hammered at it with his bare fists, yelling at the same time at the top of his voice. But his protests were only greeted by laughter and ribald comments from the other side of the barn door. When someone grunted at him like a pig, there was a great deal of laughter, with several more joining in with pig impersonations until the sound was almost deafening. Obviously his predicament was the most entertaining thing to have happened to the soldiers in a long while.
With his fist smarting, Dirk finally gave up hammering and looked about his prison. Chinks of light coming through small holes in the roof revealed a feeding trough, a bucket, and a heap of hay over in one corner. Turning the bucket upside down, Dirk sat down on it miserably. Outside, the pig noises continued for a while until, when he continued to fail to respond, the soldiers gradually got bored and dispersed, leaving him to brood.
What a stupid, stupid situation to have allowed himself to get into. And yet, how could he have known he’d get this sort of reception? He’d believed that neutrality meant something, which just went to show how damn naïve he was.
What a start to his career as a war correspondent! He’d almost perished on the journey to France, and now almost as soon as he was here, he was taken prisoner. It was a joke. Of course, now that they’d had their fun, what did they intend to do with him?
Jimmy, he knew, would have laughed until he bust a gut if he could have heard about this. He’d have demanded every last little detail from Dirk, and then he’d have made sure all their mutual friends heard about it. It would have been his favorite party story for a very long time.
Thinking about his friend made Dirk even more miserable. He put his head in his hands, but quickly recoiled because they smelled—as must the rest of him—of animal dung. The acrid stench was starting to get to his throat. He’d been thirsty before, but now he was really parched.
Getting up, he went over to investigate the feeding trough. It appeared to have liquid in the bottom. Water? Dipping in a finger to investigate, he encountered a putrid sludge that was by no stretch of the imagination fit to drink. No point in banging on the door to demand they bring him some water, though. Not yet anyway. They’d just ignore him or recommence their animal taunts. Feeling like a trapped animal, Dirk got up to inspect his prison once again, running his fingers over the wood to try to find some weakness, some chance of escape. There was nothing, and all he succeeded in doing was getting a splinter in his finger. Putting his finger in his mouth, he sucked at it, slumping angrily onto a hay bale.
Time passed slowly, the chinks of light growing fainter as the sun moved round. How very ironic to be locked in a barn—the very place he’d spent half his life either working in or plotting to escape from. His dad’s family had been farmers for generations; it was in their blood. It had never been in his, though he’d spent much of his life grudgingly helping his dad out after school was finished. But then his dad’s blood wasn’t his blood, was it? Hardly surprising that he’d ended up disappointing his father with his passion for words instead of pitchforks. As a kid, the only times he’d been truly happy in his dad’s barn had been with a good book and an apple.
An apple. The thought drew him back to the present. What he wouldn’t give for one of those golden apples from his mom’s orchard right now! God, was his whole time in France fated to be dogged by disaster and complication? First The Sussex, and now this. And there was no one around to save him this time.
Eleanor. That’s what he would do while he waited for his captors to tire of their ridiculous, frustrating game with him. He would write to Eleanor.
There was just enough space for Eleanor’s body between the grimy, cobweb-festooned glass of the greenhouse and the garden wall. Her hip was pressed painfully against the brick, and blood was dripping onto the collar of her blouse from a bramble scratch on her neck. The blouse was torn. Once her Sunday best, now it hung in tatters, gaping open at the front where he’d wrenched the buttons off.
In the garden, a blackbird was singing. She had no idea how long she’d been crouched there like a fox gone to earth. Suddenly there was a sound, close by—something other than the scrape of branches upon the greenhouse roof. Eleanor held her breath, but the feeling of being watched grew and grew until the compulsion to look became undeniable.
She turned. Someone was inside the greenhouse, watching her. The glass was too dirty for her to see who it was, but she knew anyway.
“Miss Martin?”
Eleanor awoke with a start, and for a moment she had no idea where she was.
“Miss Martin?” This time she registered the knock on the door and realized the muffled voice coming from the other side was Jenkins, the orderly. “There’s a letter for you.”
Shakily, Eleanor got off the bed, where, very uncharacteristically, she’d fallen asleep fully clothed.
“Letter for you,” Jenkins said again, holding an envelope out to her when she opened the door.
Eleanor automatically reached out to take it, as though her hand somehow didn’t belong to her. “Thank you.” She could tell her voice sounded a little odd, and she wasn’t surprised to see Jenkins frown.
“You all right, miss?”
Eleanor cleared her throat. “Yes, thank you, Jenkins. I…I think I must have fallen asleep.”
Jenkins smiled. “Expect you can do that now, can’t you, miss? What with Kit on different shifts than you. Right live wire she is, ain’t she?”
“Yes.” Eleanor smiled weakly. “Thank you for bringing the letter.”
“Don’t mention it, miss.”
Jenkins went on his way, and Eleanor closed the door after him, returning to her bed and sitting down. She wrapped her arms around herself, the letter falling unheeded to the floor. The sense of being watched was still with her; the room seemed full of eyes and whispers. Eleanor, Eleanor…
She’d had the same dream in England, over and over again, but never with such clarity as this. Before, it had just come in snatches—the sensation of her body being squeezed into a space too small for it, the creeping realization that someone nearby was watching her, and that if she only turned her head, she would see them. Fragments of sensations and images, always accompanied by an autumnal odor of rotting vegetation, and the same consuming terror that was with her now as she sat, still trembling, on the bed.
Unwrapping her arms, Eleanor forced herself to take some deep breaths. At first, the air shuddered into her lungs, but gradually, as she persisted, the trembling lessened until it became easier to breathe. Suddenly Eleanor pictured herself on the deck of The Sussex, watching the coast of England as it disappeared from view. How she’d hoped to leave her life there behind her and to make a brand new start. In many ways she had too; she had a friend now, in Kit, and she had fit in well at the hospital. But even so, when it came down to it, Eleanor felt she was still, very disappointingly, the same Eleanor Martin in France as she’d been in England, and perhaps nothing could ever change that.
Thoughts of The Sussex inevitably brought thoughts of Dirk. Could the letter be from him? Quickly, she picked it up from the floor, studying the bold, untidy handwriting. The letter bore a French postmark. Yes, it had to be from him.
She didn’t open it straight away. Now that the terror of the nightmare was receding, she felt a little numb. And tired, so very tired. It was always the same when she had that dream, and, as usual, it sapped her self-confidence. Since arriving at Revigny, she’d felt quite positive, despite the hard work and the appalling injuries she was forced to deal with on a day-to-day basis. But the nightmare always sucked her
down and made her doubt herself, and just now, she doubted the wisdom of opening Dirk’s letter. It would be easier to just keep herself to herself, to concern herself with the work she had come here to do and leave it at that. She knew subconsciously that a life beyond work was what the letter from Dirk offered, and suddenly she wished he hadn’t written. Wished that people would leave her alone and not insist on tangling their lives with hers. Even Kit.
Right on cue, the familiar sound of her friend’s steps could be heard running up the stairs, and Eleanor quickly stuffed Dirk’s letter into her pocket. When Kit came in, Eleanor was sitting in front of the mirror brushing her hair prior to putting on her nurse’s cap.
“Goodness,” Kit said, tearing off her own cap and removing her hairpins. “I’m worn out. We had two convoys in, and the dressings seemed to take forever.” She launched herself onto her bed and sprawled there, closing her eyes.
It was too late to wish that her life were not connected with Kit’s. Kit had told her so much about her dreams and hopes and fears, and now Eleanor cared for her. Such feelings couldn’t just be switched off at will.
“Aren’t you going to get something to eat?” she asked, relieved that merely by saying something routine, the power of the nightmare seemed to recede a little further.
“In a minute.” Kit sighed mightily. “D’you know what I’d really like to do?”
Eleanor turned from the mirror. “Go to a party?” she guessed, and although she still felt she was at a slight distance, watching herself teasing her friend, Kit didn’t seemed to notice.
“Yes!” she laughed. “Or if not a party, then at least somewhere where I could wear pretty clothes and listen to jaunty music and talk to men who aren’t suffering.” She sat abruptly up, her mobile face pulled into an expression of self-loathing. “Oh, listen to me, will you? I am wicked. I’m sure all those poor blessés wish they could be at a party too. Or at least anywhere but a hospital bed.”
A sea of faces washed before Eleanor’s eyes, faces belonging to the men she’d helped to care for since arriving in France. “I think a lot of them are glad to be here, you know,” she said gently. “Compared to where they’ve been, anyway.”
Kit’s face writhed still more. “Oh, I know. I’m completely selfish. And I am glad to be here being useful.” She propped herself on one elbow to look at Eleanor, asking, “I am being useful now, aren’t I?”
“Of course you are.”
“I’ve been trying, I really I have. It’s just that…” She broke off, sighing dramatically. “God, don’t listen to me. I’m banging on and talking a lot of rot as usual.”
Eleanor looked at her watch. It was time for her to go on duty. “I heard some of the others planning to get together to play cards,” she said. “Why don’t you join them?”
Kit groaned, watching as Eleanor headed toward the door. “Do you know, the sad thing is I can actually feel myself getting excited by the idea of a game of cards? Mama would be so thrilled, if she knew. She’s tried to get me interested for years.”
Eleanor’s smile lasted until she was out of Kit’s sight and making her way down the spiral staircase to begin her duty. She couldn’t bear the thought of the nightmares starting again. Not now, not when there was a real purpose in her life. Pausing halfway down the stairs, she closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. She didn’t want to think or feel this way, and yet there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it.
Ever since Lazare had taken his life, Eleanor had been swamped by such a sense of profound sadness, not even the pressure of work was enough to drive it away. It made no sense really, because so very many patients in her charge had died from their injuries, and Lazare’s was far from being the only suicide she’d experienced. But it was the first one she felt responsible for. If only she’d had the courage of her convictions. If only she’d followed her instincts and voiced her concerns about his state of mind to Sister Palmer. But she hadn’t, and now Lazare was dead. And no amount of Kit’s assurances that it wasn’t her fault made any difference.
“You’re late,” Sister Palmer greeted her when she reached the ward, sounding so refreshingly consistent, it was all Eleanor could do to stop herself from hugging her. As yet, the rumor about Sister Palmer’s posting seemed to be unfounded, and indeed it was difficult to imagine the hospital without her.
“Sorry, Sister.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s anything to smile about!”
“No, Sister. Sorry, Sister.”
“Yes, well, we’re one short this evening. VAD Brown has managed to give herself a septic hand.”
Eleanor thought of the rubber gloves that Sister Palmer and the other qualified nurses wore when dressing or bathing infected wounds—gloves that were not issued to mere VADs. Problems arose if you got the tiniest of cuts on your fingers or hand and forgot about it.
“I’m going straight to bed after I’ve eaten,” Sister Palmer continued. “I’ve been on duty for almost twenty hours. I can’t believe another convoy will come in tonight, but if it should, send an orderly to wake me up.”
“Yes, Sister.”
But in the end, it was a fairly quiet night. No more convoys came in, so it was thankfully unnecessary to wake Sister Palmer. Some of the patients who were well enough played cards for a while, but by midnight everyone was asleep except for one newcomer who was so haunted by his experiences at the Front that he was afraid to go to sleep. VAD Hurst, who was Eleanor’s companion for the night, was talking to him in her schoolgirl French while Eleanor sat at a lamp-lit table. There was paperwork to be done, but she left it where it was and took Dirk’s letter out of her pocket, looking again at the bold, black writing. Why had he written to her?
Suddenly, the need to have an answer to this question overcame her reluctance to open the envelope.
Eleanor took the folded sheets of paper from the envelope and smoothed them out. There were several of them, and as she began to read about Dirk’s ordeal at the hands of the French troops, it was almost like having him there in person telling her about it all.
I think they’ve had more than a few drinks now, Eleanor, and have forgotten all about me. I can hear them singing and laughing, and my head is starting to ache like crazy. I think I might explode if I don’t get some water soon. Hold on a minute while I try hammering on the door again.
Well, I’ve got some more fine splinters in my hands now, but at least I finally made them hear me and managed to beg for some water. They even threw in a crust of bread! Now I suppose it’s just a question of waiting the night out. Not that I fancy sleeping in this filthy straw much; I’m sure I can hear rats scurrying about. No, I don’t think I’m going to risk it. I’ll sit on this bucket instead and think about you going about your work. I’ll bet your patients feel safe just knowing you’re around; after all, I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of your ministering hands, don’t I? You’re such a professional, unlike me. Four hours as a war correspondent, and I get arrested and locked up. My dad would laugh, and that isn’t something he does very often.
“Got a letter?”
Eleanor had been so engrossed in Dirk’s words, she hadn’t noticed VAD Hurst coming back. Quickly, she folded the letter in half so it couldn’t be read over her shoulder. “Yes. Has our friend quietened down at last?”
VAD Hurst raised her eyebrows slightly at Eleanor’s evasive tactics. “Yes, thank the Lord. I’ll make us a brew, shall I, while it’s quiet? You can finish your letter in peace.”
Eleanor flushed. “Thanks. I’d love a cup of tea.”
Alone once more, she unfolded the letter again, scanning to find where she’d left off.
…My dad would laugh, and that isn’t something he does very often. Still, we can’t choose our parents, can we? Although they can choose us sometimes. For some unknown reason, sitting here feeling sorry for myself I suppose, I’ve been thinking about my mom and dad a lot. I think I may have told you on The Sussex about being adopted and how mad
I was with them both when I found out they’d been lying to me. Maybe that’s why I wanted to be a journalist. I’m certainly hungry for the truth.
Not that it’s doing me any good right now. Everybody told me I was crazy coming out here, and maybe they were right. Though if you get this letter at all, it will mean that I haven’t been shot at dawn for being a spy, so I’m bound to be in a more optimistic mood, and the thought of the letter you’re going to write to me in reply will keep me going. I want to hear all about the dreaded Sister Palmer and Kit of course, but most of all about you, since you’re my angel of mercy.
Anyway, that’s all for now, it’s practically dark, and I must rest before I drop off my hay bale. Maybe I’ll have to take my chances with the rats after all…
He signed off, sending her his very best wishes, and then there was a scrawled addition beneath.
The French finally saw sense and let me go after two days with dire warnings about what they’ll do to me if they catch me again, so I’ve decided it might be safer to head to the British lines. They have to be a bit more reasonable there; after all, you and Kit are British. I’m trying to keep from thinking about Sister Palmer!
Anyway, I don’t have an address for you to write to at the moment, but I’ll let you have it as soon as I do. By the way, I’m busy writing down a blow-by-blow account of my ordeal in captivity in case it comes in useful in the future. We writers never miss a chance.
Yours, Dirk
Eleanor was smiling when she finished the letter. It had moved her, worried her, and entertained her by turns.
“Good news or bad?” VAD Hurst asked, returning with the tea.
“Bad then good,” Eleanor said, refolding the letter and returning it to her pocket.
“Oh?” VAD Hurst’s raised eyebrows invited elaboration, but Eleanor was saved from an awkward reply by the sound of a patient at the end of the ward groaning with pain.
A Nightingale in Winter Page 10
