Suffragette Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  As they walked, she whispered, ‘I will fight for the rest of my life to clear your name. I’ll see the King, if I have to.’

  James actually smiled as he glanced at her. ‘Chain yourself to Buckingham Palace railings, eh?’

  Florrie nodded.

  As they reached the place and saw the soldiers waiting, James paused and turned to her. Gripping her shoulders and kissing her briefly on both cheeks, he whispered, ‘There’s only one thing I want you to do for me, Florrie dearest. Go to the farm. You know where it is, don’t you? Where you saw the soldiers hay-making? Find Colette and take care of her and – and the baby.’

  ‘I will, James. I promise I’ll find her.’

  He was led away from her. He was positioned with his back to the post and his hands tied behind it. But when they came with the blindfold, he shook his head. His gaze found and held Florrie’s as the soldiers shuffled to take their positions.

  ‘You should leave now, miss.’ It was Sergeant Granger in charge of the firing squad. He was white-faced and trembling. His eyes were pleading with her.

  ‘I’m going nowhere, Sergeant. Do your worst and, when this war is over, I will do my best. Never again – in any future wars – will a soldier be shot for so-called cowardice if I can help it. I promise you that.’

  The sergeant looked at her with a mixture of anxiety and admiration as he turned from her.

  ‘Take aim.’ The soldiers raised their rifles to their shoulders.

  Through her tears, her gaze held James’s and she smiled.

  ‘May God bless you, my darling brother,’ she murmured as the order was given and the shots rang out.

  A shadow crossed the sun as James sank slowly to the ground, but even as he fell his gaze held hers. He lay perfectly still, his eyes wide open.

  This time, he did not scramble up from the sand, wave gaily to her and then gallop towards the sea.

  Sergeant Granger walked towards him and took out his pistol. Aiming it with a hand that shook, he delivered one shot to James’s temple.

  Florrie flinched as the echo reverberated round them. She glanced briefly towards the line of men who’d made up the murderous squad. Two were crying openly and one had passed out and was lying crumpled on the ground.

  As the sergeant came back towards her, she could see that his face was drained of colour and his eyes dark with horror.

  ‘When and where is he to be buried?’ Florrie asked with a calmness she didn’t feel inside. Two of the soldiers were already moving towards James, releasing his body from the post and carrying him away.

  ‘In the cemetery here. Straight away.’

  It was done with unseemly haste. The padre was on hand and James was placed in a plain wooden coffin, still in his uniform. A small bundle of his possessions was handed to Florrie as she stood beside the yawning hole after the brief and soulless service at the graveside.

  Silently, she bade her baby brother goodbye, turned and marched away, speaking to no one and allowing no one to speak to her.

  It was only then that she glimpsed Gervase standing silently in the shadow of a tree.

  ‘Dr Hartmann,’ Florrie began in her most professional manner. ‘I must request a few days’ leave.’

  ‘Impossible. We’ll be leaving for the Somme any day now. I can’t do without you.’ He smiled as he added softly, ‘You know that. You’re my right hand.’

  But Florrie could not return his smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘You know full well that there has been a tragic – event – in my family and I have to take some time off. I – can’t do my work properly at the moment. I’d be no use to you anyway, feeling like this, and – and there’s something I have to do.’

  Ernst’s face darkened. ‘And how do you think the soldiers in the trenches feel? Don’t you think they’d like to be able to say,’ he mimicked a high-pitched female voice, ‘ “Sergeant, I’d like a few days off from the noise and the killing. I don’t feel like going ‘over the top’ this morning.” No,’ he said harshly. ‘You cannot have any more leave. You’ve just been absent for two days as it is. That I fully understand,’ he added, mollifying a little. ‘I’m sorry – deeply sorry – for what has happened to your brother. But work would be the best thing for you. It would help you forget. So why are you asking for more leave now?’

  She fixed her gaze somewhere just above his head so that she did not have to meet his eyes. Help me forget, she thought. How would she ever – for the rest of her days – forget the last few hours? And she could hardly believe that the man who’d been so tender, had whispered such sweet words, could be so callous now. But even that seemed to be a thing of the past. He’d seemed distant lately and they’d not made love for weeks.

  His tone softened. ‘My dear, I do understand what you must be going through.’

  He reached out for her, but she avoided his touch. Now she looked him straight in the eyes and said softly and sadly, ‘Ernst, if you cannot believe that it’s a very serious matter to make me ask for any more time off, then you don’t know me at all.’ She turned and began to walk away.

  ‘But who is going to drive the lorry to take the patients to Base Camp?’

  She glanced back over her shoulder. Always, always, his work came first. For a long moment they stared at each other, before she turned away again and this time she walked on without looking back.

  Florrie drove the ambulance as far as the main camp, ferrying two patients. She’d told Sister Blackstock – not asked – that she was taking a few days’ leave. There was something she had to do, she told Rosemary. Something that could not wait. Sister Blackstock was more sympathetic than Ernst had been.

  ‘We’re all so sorry, Florrie, for what’s happened. I so wish there was something we could’ve done.’

  Florrie smiled thinly. ‘There was nothing anyone could do, Sister. They were determined to use him as an example.’

  Gervase had tried his very best at least to get the sentence commuted, and all she’d done had been to castigate and blame him. In fact, he’d risked everything, even perhaps his own life, for he could have been charged with insubordination and disobedience. But she’d been so frantic to save James that she’d been blind and deaf.

  Weary with sadness, she arrived back at the Base Camp. News had travelled and Sister Carey, who was now in charge there, greeted her with sympathy.

  ‘Sister Blackstock has asked if you can send another nurse,’ Florrie told her. ‘And could you find someone to drive the lorry to and fro? I’ve brought it back. Perhaps Sergeant Granger could find you one of the soldiers to do it.’

  ‘I’ll ask him.’ She eyed Florrie closely. ‘But where are you going? Home?’

  Florrie shook her head. ‘No, no,’ she said and added bitterly, ‘I’m not deserting my post.’

  When Sister Carey raised her eyebrows, Florrie said swiftly, ‘I’m sorry. The last few days – well, it’s all been a dreadful strain.’

  ‘Of course. But—’

  Florrie didn’t want any more questions so she interrupted quickly, ‘I’m sorry, I really can’t explain any more. Not – not just now.’

  She had to find Colette – had to establish the truth. And she didn’t want to confide in anyone until she knew herself.

  After a meal and a rest, Florrie set off to walk towards the village where Ernst had taken her to the little cafe. Tears burned her throat at the memory of the happy evenings they’d spent there with the genial, generous host. Despite the war and all its horrors, life had been wonderful then. Away – even for a few hours – from all the carnage and the suffering, they’d been cocooned in a little world of their own. But now, with the incessant sound of pounding guns still in her ears, she didn’t think she’d ever again be able to get away from the thoughts of the war. She would never again be able to smile or laugh. She’d never felt so lonely or desperately miserable in her life.

  When the news of James’s death and the manner of it reached home, it would likely kill their poor mother. Au
gusta, though elderly, would cope, Florrie knew. Augusta always coped. But what about their father? Well, she knew what Edgar Maltby’s reaction would be.

  He would disown his son.

  Thirty-Eight

  The houses and buildings in the village were still intact. The shelling had not reached here, yet the place seemed deserted. Florrie knocked on several doors, but there was no sign of life. Even the little cafe was closed and shuttered.

  Then, down the street, she saw an old man emerge from a low cottage to pile belongings onto a hand-cart outside the front door. She hurried towards him, calling out in French, ‘Excuse me, monsieur – can you tell me where the Mussets’ farm is?’

  The man turned, surprised to see a young woman in a nurse’s uniform, addressing him in passable French.

  ‘Ah yes, Jacques Musset’s farm. It’s that way, but there’s no one there now. He’s gone.’ He shrugged in a hopeless gesture. ‘Everyone is gone, mademoiselle, or going. Like me. I go before the guns reach here. It cannot be long,’ he added without hope.

  ‘Did Monsieur Musset have a daughter? Colette?’

  The watery old eyes regarded her solemnly. ‘He had a daughter of that name – yes, but no more.’

  He began to turn away, but she touched his arm. ‘Do you mean she is dead?’

  Again he shrugged. ‘As good as.’ He paused and then said firmly, ‘I must go. I cannot help you any more. Bonjour, mademoiselle.’ He gave a small bow and she knew herself politely dismissed. He’d no wish to say anything else, though she believed he knew more.

  ‘Thank you, monsieur,’ she called after him as he disappeared once more inside the cottage.

  Florrie turned away, heartsore to witness the suffering that this dreadful war was inflicting on the innocent of all nations. She even spared a thought for the ordinary German families who, she believed, had not wanted this war any more than she had.

  ‘Our politicians have a lot to answer for,’ she muttered as she marched angrily along the dusty street. ‘If only the world was ruled by women, there’d be none of this nonsense.’

  Florrie left the village and retraced her steps. She glanced about her. She was sure this was where they’d seen the soldiers working in the fields, but the grass meadows had not been harvested this year. She shaded her eyes against the hot sun and, in the distance, saw the shape of a farmhouse and outbuildings. Crossing the nearest field, she waded through the long, neglected grass and approached the house.

  The farmyard was deserted. There was no sign of life, either human or animal. She went to the house, where the back door stood half-open, and stepped inside. Like the old man had said, the farmer and his family were long gone. The place was inhabitable, yet only discarded, unwanted items of furniture remained: a broken chair, a worn-out rug and cracked pots and rusty pans in the kitchen. Florrie stood forlornly amidst the dust and cobwebs in the empty house. She didn’t know where else to search for Colette.

  She went to the doorway and stood looking out across the farmyard. She’d better check the outbuildings, but she didn’t hold out much hope. She crossed the yard and peered into what had once been a pigsty, then the cowshed and lastly she came to the barn, where hay and straw littered the floor. A few bales were still stacked in one corner. She was about to turn away when she heard a soft moan.

  ‘Oh, dear Lord,’ she breathed and stepped inside. ‘Colette?’ she called. ‘Colette, is that you?’

  There was no reply, but she heard a movement in the far left-hand corner. She moved forward carefully and, as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she saw, in the light from a hole in the wooden wall, a heap of hay and a figure lying on it. She moved closer and looked down upon the pale, thin face of the young girl whom her brother had loved. The mound of the young girl’s belly proved her identity.

  Florrie dropped to her knees beside her and took hold of her limp hand. ‘Colette, I’m James’s sister,’ she explained, speaking in French. ‘I’ve come to help you.’

  ‘James,’ the girl croaked through parched lips. ‘Where is he? I want James.’

  Florrie bit her lip. The girl couldn’t know what had happened to him, and she was in no state to be told such awful news. Florrie glanced around. There was no trace of food or water nearby and she guessed the girl was dehydrated and half-starving.

  ‘Let me take you to your family. Where are they?’

  The girl cried out at once. ‘No, no. They’ve disowned me. They want nothing to do with me. I’ve brought shame upon them.’ Tears streaked her grubby cheeks. ‘But James promised to marry me. It was all arranged at the church in the village. We were to be married yesterday. The priest agreed to marry us – he was very kind and understanding – but James didn’t come.’ Her sobs grew louder, into a pathetic wail of desolation. ‘We waited and waited at the church, but he didn’t come. He didn’t come.’

  Poor James. Poor Colette. On the very day he should have been marrying this young girl, he’d faced the firing squad.

  ‘Dear Colette,’ Florrie fought back her own tears. ‘He couldn’t. He tried. He did try – I promise you – but. . .’ How could she tell this poor girl that James had been arrested whilst trying to reach her, whilst trying to do the right thing by her and their child? And, because of it, he’d lost his life.

  The girl cried out and this time, Florrie knew, it was in pain. She put her hand on the girl’s hot forehead. Then she placed her hand over her stomach and felt the movement. ‘Oh no!’ she breathed. ‘You’re in labour. I must get help . . .’

  She’d even begun to scramble to her feet before the awful realization hit her. There was no help to call for. They were alone amidst a barren, forsaken land. The village had seemed deserted, except for one old man, and there was no other dwelling in sight for miles. Even Base Camp was too far away for Florrie to fetch help from there. By the time they got back, the girl and her baby could have died. And this was James’s child.

  Florrie stood up.

  ‘Don’t go. Don’t leave me,’ the girl beseeched.

  ‘I won’t – I promise. But I must find some water.’

  ‘The well,’ Colette gasped. ‘In the yard.’

  Out in the yard, Florrie looked about her frantically. Then she saw the well and ran to it. There was a rope with a bucket still attached. Praying fervently that there was still water there, she lowered the bucket into the black hole. Lower and lower, until she closed her eyes with thankfulness as she heard it splash. Allowing it to fill, she hauled with all her strength, heaving and panting until it appeared over the edge of the well. Grasping the handle, she pulled it the rest of the way. As she carried it carefully back to the barn, she glanced about her once more, hoping to see someone – anyone. But there was no one. They were lost in a lonely world.

  Strangely, even the distant guns were silent.

  Tearing a strip of material from her own underskirt, Florrie knelt down beside the girl once more. She soaked the fabric in the water and squeezed it into the girl’s mouth. Colette tried to suck at it, but was overcome by another pain. She writhed in agony and cried out, spreading her legs and grasping Florrie’s hand with surprising strength for one so weak.

  ‘It’s coming, it’s coming,’ she cried, but sadly, although she was in great pain, the child was not going to enter the world without a great deal of struggling and agony.

  Florrie did her best, but she’d no proper equipment and no one to help her. She had a vague idea what happened at a birthing, but the girl was so ill and undernourished, her strength quite spent. None of the horrific sights Florrie had witnessed over the past few months had prepared her to bring another life into the world. Yet she was poignantly aware that the life of her brother’s child rested with her.

  Through the night Florrie sat beside Colette, holding her hand, mopping her brow and wetting her lips. At last, the girl was grey with exhaustion and almost too weak to cry out when the spasms gripped her. She certainly had no strength left to help her baby.

  But with the
light of dawn on the following day, the child pushed its way into the world, crying even before the whole of its body emerged. It screamed lustily and waved its tiny limbs. It seemed to a bewildered Florrie that the child had sapped every ounce of its mother’s strength, for the girl lay quite still, hardly breathing, once her ordeal was over. But now another battle was beginning. The battle for Colette’s life, for Florrie could see it ebbing away.

  She knew the afterbirth should come away, but it did not and the child was still attached to its mother. Taking a deep breath, Florrie scrabbled in her pocket for the scissors she always carried and cut through the umbilical cord, and then tied another strip of her petticoat tightly around the stump.

  ‘Colette, you have a lovely baby boy. He’s beautiful and so strong. You must try to rouse yourself. Please try.’ The girl opened her eyes. They were sunk in deep, dark sockets. Her cheekbones seemed as if they would poke through her delicate skin.

  ‘Call him Jacques,’ she whispered. ‘His name is Jacques. Tell James I love him and ask him to take care of our son. Tell James – I’m sorry.’ She closed her eyes and her head fell to one side, her mouth gagging open. Florrie felt for a pulse, but sought in vain. Colette was dead, but all the while her son cried lustily.

  The child was whimpering and, though it seemed heartless, Florrie squeezed a little fluid from the dead girl’s breast and fed the droplets from her finger into the baby’s mouth. It seemed that she did this for hours, feeling guilty as if she were desecrating the poor girl’s body, yet she knew that any mother would give her life for her child and that Colette would understand. Somewhere from the deep recesses of a scant knowledge, Florrie seemed to remember hearing that the first liquid from the mother’s breast was important.

  At last the baby fell asleep and Florrie removed her petticoat and wrapped him in it. With one last look at the still form of the girl her brother had loved so much that he’d risked his life to find her, Florrie turned away and left the barn. Holding the baby close to her breast for warmth and comfort – as much for herself as for the tiny infant – she began to walk back towards the village.