A Nightingale in Winter

by Margaret K Johnson

  “D’you want to know what I was drawing?” he asked, and Eleanor glanced quickly over her shoulder to check that the coast was clear.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I saw the old trout leave ten minutes ago, when you were in the middle of removing my scalp. Here, look.” He reached beneath his covers to pull out the dressing packaging and held it out to her.

  Eleanor took it from him, and found herself looking at such an accurate portrait of Sister Palmer, she had to quickly cover her mouth with her hand to stop herself from snorting with laughter. Oh, how Kit would love this, if only she were here. The picture really wasn’t accurate, since the poor sister was part bull, part woman. Something about the steam being snorted from the unfortunate woman’s nostrils, though, was absolutely spot on.

  Eleanor handed it back to Leo, grateful that she had succeeded in pushing away her ridiculous feelings of doom and gloom about him. “It’s very good,” she said. “Although I really shouldn’t approve of it. And if I were you, I would keep it very well concealed.”

  Leo grinned at her and winked. “Will do, nurse,” he said. “Will do.”

  Later that day, Eleanor managed to purloin some drawer lining paper from Jenkins and took it to Leo. After that, it became a habit for her to pause by his bed to see what he had been working on. As their friendship developed, she was pleased that she had been able to overcome her initial reservations about him, and put his watchfulness down to the fact that he was an artist.

  However, if she had thought that breaking down her self-inflicted barriers would have the effect of stemming her nightmares, she was wrong. No matter how exhausted Eleanor was, they came to her regularly each night, until she was almost afraid to go to sleep.

  Leo was lying in his bed outside on the abbey terrace, the sunshine warm against his eyelids, making him inhabit a world of vermilion red. It had caused the nurses and porters a huge amount of work to bring the beds outside, but he was glad they had done so. It was a treat to be out in the air again.

  All around him, other men were talking, laughing, or playing cards. For the most part, Leo successfully managed to block them out. Right now he was thinking about Severini and his wife, Jeanne, picturing the petite woman shaving her husband in their Paris apartment, the loving skills with which she had wielded the blade on her husband’s jaw.

  Severini had been pontificating as usual, sitting in his chair with a towel draped on his chest, accepting his wife’s ministrations without comment. Then, right at the end of the procedure, when his jaw was smooth and Jeanne was about to move away to empty the bowl of used water, Severini had caught her free hand and pressed it to his lips—all with only the briefest of pauses in what he was saying to Leo about the use of light and dark to describe tone. Somehow, to Leo, the gesture summed up the couple’s marriage, and as he lay on his bed outside the abbey, he wondered what it would feel like to live like that, to be cherished and to willingly offer service to another. It was not something he had ever experienced himself. Although there had always been plenty of women around who were ready to do anything he desired in order to keep him in their lives, none of them had ever moved him enough for him to want to seek a commitment.

  Severini and his wife had met when Jeanne had come to pose for him. Leo had heard the tale of the sixteen-year-old Jeanne turning up on Severini’s doorstep with her glowing skin and angular cheekbones, and he knew the artist had painted her obsessively for years before the couple had married. Severini’s paintings of Jeanne were amongst his strongest work. They were also the paintings that had first earned him a reputation in the art world. Jeanne was—and still continued to be—Severini’s muse and inspiration.

  Just as this thought entered Leo’s head, VAD Martin appeared on the far end of the terrace. One of the soldiers called out to her, and Leo saw her smile shyly, saying something in French in response. Some of the other men joined in with the conversation, and general laughter ensued. As VAD Martin drew nearer to his bed, Leo saw she was blushing slightly. It reminded him of how she had blushed a few days previously, when he had presented her with a quick sketch he’d made of her. When she had thanked him with a shy smile, Leo had experienced a glow of pleasure.

  “Good morning,” he said to her now. “Have they been teasing you?”

  She smiled. “They’re asking me for drinks.”

  “But you’re not on duty?” he guessed, noticing that she had a book under her arm.

  “Not for another hour, no,” she said. “But in any case, I shouldn’t be able to bring the kind of drinks they’re requesting. They want me to fetch the gin they’re convinced Sister Palmer keeps in her office.”

  Leo smiled. “Hmm,” he said. “Now, that would be good. With plenty of ice and lemon.”

  “Yes, that’s what they said, too.” She smiled and went to continue on her way, but Leo reached out his hand to detain her, an idea forming in his mind.

  “Listen,” he said, “if you’re only going to read, would you mind terribly doing it here? I’d love to draw you from life, instead of relying on my memory.” The blush came again, a look of uncertainty crossing her face. “I should be very grateful,” he pressed on. “I do so miss drawing directly from the human figure.”

  She hesitated a moment longer, an intriguing series of expressions flickering across her face, and Leo waited, hoping he had succeeded in making his request as impersonal as possible. It seemed he had, because finally she nodded.

  “Very well,” she agreed. “As long as I can read my book, I’ll sit for half an hour for you.”

  Leo smiled. “Thank you.”

  A chair was procured, and Eleanor sat and opened her book. Straight away, Leo began to draw, his pencil strokes strong and confident. She was bent over her book, the sun illuminating the left side of her face, the shadows lovingly silhouetting the outline of her breasts above the cinched-in waist of her uniform. Leo had always thought her pretty, but as his pencil moved and defined and shaped, he realized she was beautiful. How he should like to paint her properly, not dressed in all that starched cotton, instead draped in flowing velvet of rich red or vivid green. Outdoors amongst nature, holding a bunch of flowers to her face. Or better still, naked.

  Leo’s body grew aroused at the thought. Yes, perhaps this was it, what he needed. Perhaps VAD Martin—Eleanor—could be his muse, the way Jeanne had become Severini’s muse. Eleanor was sweet and kind, the type to put other people before herself. She would be accommodating and never demand too much attention, surely the perfect companion for an ambitious man such as him.

  A nurse was helping a patient walk along the veranda toward them, and she called out to Eleanor. “I say, VAD Martin, have you taken up a new career as an artist’s model?”

  As he watched, Eleanor closed her book, the self-conscious expression quickly returning to her face. Leo sighed, sensing the drawing session was at an end. Damn the stupid nurse!

  “Oh,” said Eleanor quickly. “I was just helping Private Cartwright out for a moment, VAD Hurst. Wasn’t I, Private Cartwright?”

  Leo nodded, but before he could reply, he noticed that the soldier who was in the interfering nurse’s care was staring at Eleanor. Since Leo had, himself, just realized how attractive she was, this wasn’t entirely surprising, but there was an odd sort of intensity about the man’s regard that stirred Leo’s curiosity.

  Then the man spoke. “I know you, don’t I?” he said to Eleanor.

  As she looked over at the man, Eleanor’s book slipped from her hands and clattered to the ground. “I…I don’t think so,” she said, bending to pick it up. Her voice sounded oddly fearful to Leo, and he frowned, wondering why.

  “Yes,” the man persisted. “I’m sure I do. I’ve met you in England. I never forget a face.”

  “Perhaps you have a doppelganger, Eleanor,” VAD Hurst said with a laugh. “A double of yourself!”

  Eleanor’s chair scraped as she pushed it back and stood, not returning the nurse’s smile. “My apologies, Private Cartwr
ight,” she said quietly to Leo. “I must go and get ready for my shift now.”

  However, before she could go more than a few paces, the soldier called out again.

  “I’ve got it!” he said. “Your father’s the vicar of St. Mark’s in Hertford. I went to a wedding there once. And a christening.”

  Eleanor froze on the veranda. Although she didn’t turn round, Leo could see she was gripping her book so hard her knuckles were white. “No,” she said quietly. “I…I’m afraid you’re mistaken. My father’s dead.”

  “Oh?” the man persisted, sounding confused. “I could have sworn…”

  “Honestly, Private Pryce,” said VAD Hurst. “I think VAD Martin ought to know who she is. As I said, she must have a double.”

  “Martin?” repeated Pryce. “That was his name, I’m sure of it! If she’s got a double, then she’s got a double with the same name to boot!”

  There was an awkward silence. Though curious about the conversation, Leo felt a sudden dislike for Pryce. Without the man and his stupid questions, Leo would still be drawing Eleanor. “Are you calling the nurse a liar?” he snapped.

  “No,” said Pryce. “Of course not. But—”

  “Excuse me,” said Eleanor, finally making her escape.

  Pryce looked away from Leo to follow her every step until she went into the abbey and vanished from sight.

  “If VAD Martin says you’re mistaken, then you must be mistaken,” Leo continued, and Pryce turned round to glower at him.

  “All right, all right,” he said. “A man can make a mistake, can’t he?”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” said VAD Hurst, leading Pryce on past Leo’s bed. “This is such a silly argument.”

  “Well, I didn’t start it,” grumbled Pryce. “And anyway, I haven’t made a mistake. It is her; I know it is.”

  “Let’s leave it, shall we?” said VAD Hurst, and as she led him round the corner and out of sight, Leo leaned back against his pillows and wondered.

  It had been a mistake to lie. She had recognized Pryce as soon as he had mentioned attending her father’s church. Her terror at being discovered had been so great, however, that the denial had just slipped out. She couldn’t turn back from it now, even when the man frowned at her every time she passed by his bed that day.

  Absorbed in her work as she had been these past months, Eleanor had almost been able to forget all about her unhappy home life. But now the thought that this man might return to Hertfordshire to recuperate and possibly inform her father of where she was filled her apprehension. The strain of it was such that when she came off duty she didn’t feel up to eating anything. Neither could she sleep properly, not that night or the next. The nightmares had worsened. Every time she went to sleep, it was waiting for her, suffocating and claustrophobic, leaving her gasping for breath when she awoke. In no time at all, Eleanor looked and felt very ill.

  “Eleanor? You look perfectly dreadful,” Kit said to her later that week. “Are you all right?”

  With Kit’s face such a picture of concern, it was suddenly all too much for Eleanor. Closing her eyes to prevent herself from crying, she knew she couldn’t face going out onto the ward that day.

  “I don’t feel too well,” she told her friend at last. “I think…I think perhaps I’m coming down with influenza.”

  Kit looked even more worried. “Shall I get the doctor?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “No, no. Just tell Sister. I’m sure I’ll be right as rain after a rest. But you’d better tell Sister as soon as you can; she’ll need to arrange for someone to cover the ward.”

  After Kit had gone, Eleanor got back into bed, her mind in turmoil. At night on the wards, the men were visited by ghosts—ghosts that made them cry out in their sleep. The ghosts of friends, blown apart before their eyes, and Germans they’d met face to face before blowing their brains out. She’d never minded hearing about her patients’ dreams because she knew what it was like to be haunted. Now here she was, lying here, letting them all down.

  “Sister was awfully annoyed,” Kit told her when she returned. “Honestly, anyone would think it was a crime to be ill. She’s insisting on the doctor, but I’m sure that’s because she thinks you’re lying rather than out of concern for your health. Lying! You of all people!”

  But she was, wasn’t she? She didn’t really have influenza. She was just frightened—frightened and weak. A failure. And when the doctor examined her, he would realize as much. He would realize what Pryce already knew: that she was a liar. Dishonest, no good. Not to be trusted.

  “Perhaps I’d better get up…” she said, lifting herself up.

  “No! I won’t hear of it!” Kit was angry, pushing her back into bed, and Eleanor relented.

  But in the end, Eleanor was not seen by the doctor. While Kit was downstairs arranging some tea for her, a telegram arrived.

  Kit’s brother, Arthur, had been killed in action.

  Eleanor knew nothing of it until Sister Palmer brought the weeping Kit to their quarters. “Can I leave her in your hands, VAD Martin?” she asked Eleanor. “I know you aren’t feeling too well yourself, but I simply can’t spare anyone else.”

  Kit launched herself into Eleanor’s arms, shudders of grief tearing through her body. Holding her tightly, Eleanor rocked her as if she were a child. “Yes, of course, Sister,” she said.

  The older woman looked at her for a while, then gave a nod. “Good,” she said and left.

  For several hours, Eleanor and Kit stayed up in their room together. Some of the time Kit cried, and some of the time she angrily remonstrated against the injustice of it all. Later, she suddenly felt the need to take action.

  “I must see Mama and Papa, Eleanor,” she cried. “I must go home.”

  “Yes,” Eleanor agreed. “You must.”

  With almost bewildering speed, it was all arranged, and Sister Palmer allowed Eleanor to accompany Kit to the station. Her friend’s eyes were red and swollen with the tears she had wept all night, but she was calmer now, even though she was still infinitely sad.

  “Funny how one never thinks it will happen to one’s own,” Kit said with a catch in her voice as they sat on a bench waiting for the train to arrive. “Even working in a hospital as I do, seeing casualty after casualty. Not even when poor Jane’s brother was killed. I just can’t seem to take it in. That Arthur is…really dead. That I shall never see him again.”

  “I know,” Eleanor said, and found Kit looking at her sharply.

  “Of course, you do, don’t you?” she said. “You’ve lived through both of your parents dying. Perhaps that’s what makes you so strong.”

  Eleanor looked away, feeling ashamed of the lies she’d told her friend when they first met, before she knew she could trust her. “I’m not so very strong,” she said, thinking of how she’d stayed in bed that morning because she was afraid to face Pryce’s reproachful expression. “Not really. And besides, you’re far stronger than you realize yourself.” She returned her gaze to her friend, remembering her brief meeting with Arthur Ballantine and the obvious affection and admiration he’d felt for his sister. “And I know your brother would have agreed with me.”

  Kit’s eyes filled with tears once again. “Oh, Eleanor,” she sobbed, “I shall miss you so much.”

  “And I you,” she said, and they embraced. “Will you come back?” she asked at last.

  Kit brushed her tears away. “Oh, yes. At least, I want to. The only thing is…Mama and Papa. I shall have to see how things are. Oh, but yes, I do want to come back. If Arthur…If Arthur had been injured instead of killed, he would have needed a nurse who cared about him…”

  When the train came, Kit got on and looked down at Eleanor. “I’ll write to you,” she promised, a wistful, shrunken figure with large dark smudges around her expressive eyes.

  Eleanor reached up to squeeze her hand. “And I’ll look forward to receiving your letters,” she said truthfully. As the train began to pull away, she waved and waved until it dis
appeared from view.

  Eleanor returned to her duties the next day. Arthur Ballantine’s death and Kit’s grief had lent her own private fears some perspective. England and her father were a long way off. It was the here and now which were important.

  Chapter Fifteen

  AT GHQ, DIRK WAS WORKING toward a compromise with his fellow journalists and the censor. Talented as he was, it was a relatively simple thing for him to churn out the kind of copy that was expected of him. Most days he was finished before many of the others. But instead of using his spare time to chatter or to play cards, he worked as a volunteer ambulance driver with the Canadians. If he had any spare time left over, he shut himself in his room and wrote in his journal with absolutely no self-censorship at all about the horrors he’d witnessed.

  Or else he wrote to Eleanor.

  He thought about her constantly. They’d grown much closer during their last meeting, and he longed to see her before that glow could diminish. But Eleanor’s hospital was simply too far away to be a destination for the ambulances he drove.

  So, he wrote to her, carefully choosing what he said to her. And Eleanor wrote back—calm letters that he scoured, unsuccessfully, for evidence of her feelings for him. And it was through one such letter that he learned of Arthur Ballantine’s death, and he was ashamed of the feeling of relief that was his first instinctive reaction.

  With Kit gone, their room was very quiet, which meant that there was much more time for Eleanor to think. This was precisely what she didn’t need, but at least she hadn’t had to see too much of Pryce, because when she wasn’t helping out in theater, Eleanor had been consigned to the officer’s ward.

  But the nightmares were still haunting her every night, and soon she was exhausted. Even Sister Palmer seemed to notice that something was wrong. “Are you sure you’re quite recovered, Miss Martin?” she asked Eleanor briskly one day.

  Taken completely by surprise, Eleanor stammered a reply. “Yes…thank you, Sister.”