Song of Songs

by Beverley Hughesdon

  We did manage to celebrate some kind of Christmas for the men in the wards. Sister and I and the night VAD pooled our resources and brought small gifts back from Rouen. I had written to Pansy and she and her mother sent a great hamper of food from Harrods. The men were thrilled at this gift from ‘Lady Muirkirk’ – I did not tell them that she was my sister-in-law, and they never guessed because of our different names; one of the men in at that time was a Lowlander from Muirkirk itself, and by virtue of association he was awarded the credit for this patronage and preened himself all morning. On Christmas Day the kitchens provided chicken and ham, with plum pudding to follow, and our men spooned it down with lashings of brandy butter from Pansy’s hamper. In the bell tent that was the ward kitchen, the night VAD and I mixed jellies and made trifles with our chilblained hands.

  The medical staff organized a concert for those of the men who were well enough to get about. They all crammed into the orderlies’ mess, which soon became warm and smoky, and listened to comic recitations and attempts to impersonate Harry Lauder. Sister and I had been asked to perform. Sister chose Marie Lloyd’s old favourites – the men nearly fell off their chairs with laughter at her suggestive smiles and saucy gestures as she sang: ‘There was I, waiting at the Church,’ and they all joined in with a rousing chorus of, ‘But my wife, won’t let me!’ As they finished the last echo a cockney voice from the back shouted, ‘Cor, Sister – I wish mine would!’ There were roars of agreement and the Colonel hastily leapt on to the stage at Matron’s frowning nod and began to thank Sister Jennings warmly. I had to follow – I was rather nervous – how could I possibly compete with Sister’s flamboyant delivery? But of course, that was not what they expected or wanted from me. I sang for them the sentimental favourites in a girl’s clear high soprano of the last rose of summer, blooming alone, and of home, sweet home. There was a reverent hush as I began:

  ‘Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

  Be it ever so humble there’s no place like home!’

  And then, in a message of thanks and hope to these men wounded in our Empire’s service, I sang of how their loved ones back in England were keeping the home fires burning as they waited for their return. And the low male voices joined me softly in the final chorus.

  But soon there were very few fires burning in No. 15 General; the miners went on strike and there was no coal; coke supplies dwindled, but coke was a poor substitute at the best of times since it was almost impossible to light and never blazed up.

  In the New Year the cold intensified. Snow and rain had been falling alternately, then they suddenly stopped; an icy wind blew and the long frost set in. For six weeks we stared at the thermometer in disbelief as it fell to twenty and even thirty degrees below. We seemed to be always shivering, and it was agony to force our chilblained hands into the bowls of disinfectant we had to use. As I scrubbed the lockers each day, the soap suds froze in the basin where they stood: the lotions froze in their bottles, the milk froze in its churn; the eggs froze in their shells; and all the water pipes in camp froze until there was only one tap for the whole of the hospital.

  We learnt to sleep with our vests on, otherwise in the morning they were too stiff to pull over our heads. We piled on jersey after jersey over our blue cotton dresses and took our gloves off only when we had to work with water – we even ate with our gloves on, else the metal cutlery burnt our fingers. I wrote to Mrs Hill at Hatton and asked her to send me the pairs of ankle-length drawers I had used for hunting. As soon as they arrived I pulled them on and sighed with relief as the black cashmere clung warmly to my legs. But the biggest battle was the one to keep our patients warm in canvas marquees that were coated with ice. And as I boiled up kettles and endlessly refilled hot-water bottles I thanked God daily for whoever had invented the Primus stove.

  My heart ached for Robbie, for Guy, for Hugh – shivering in the exposed trenches on the front line, or in makeshift billets further back. Robbie’s letters became shorter and shorter, pencilled scribbles from numbed fingers. Conan’s brief scrawls still came from time to time, but there was a dullness in them now – as if he doubted the effort of writing being worthwhile. I always answered them quickly – it was all I could do.

  The French said it was the coldest winter for fifty years, and I believed them, as I stood on the bridge at Rouen and watched the huge packs of ice float slowly down the Seine towards the sea. Yet the forest was more beautiful than ever: a white still world in which I walked through the soft dry snow – and listened to the distant rumble of the guns.

  At the end of January, Papa wrote to say that Guy had been slightly wounded. He assured me so strongly that there was no need to worry about my brother, that at once I did. I wrote to Alice and asked her for more news. She said that Guy’s wound was not serious, but he had been blown up and buried for some hours. ‘I suppose he’s shell-shocked. I don’t think he can take any more, Hellie. Papa is pulling every string he can at the War Office.’ Then she had added, ‘Frankly, Guy’s in a pretty ugly mood these days – only a woman like Pansy would put up with him.’ I thought of Guy, my loving, loyal elder brother – always so steady and even-tempered, ‘in a pretty ugly mood these days’, and I prayed that Papa’s strings would be long enough.

  Somehow we endured February but by the time March came I had forgotten how it felt to be warm. April arrived and winter still showed no wish to release its iron grip, but the news broke that America had declared war on Germany, so now we had a powerful new ally. At the same time rumours of revolution and the forced abdication of the Czar filtered through from our old ally, Russia. But soon events nearer at hand filled all our thoughts as we were told that any man who could stand the journey was to be evacuated, and we must clean our wards and wait. So we knew that a new push was in the offing – a spring offensive, except that there was no spring. As we sat polishing probes and forceps in the quiet ward the insistent throb of the guns seemed to swell and fill my ears. I prayed silently for Robbie, for Hugh, for Conan.

  Then a blizzard struck northern France: gales howled through the lines of tents and snow stung our faces as we dashed from bell tent to mess to ward – and at the same time convoys of wounded began to arrive. It was Easter 1917, and our men had gone over the top at Arras – into the teeth of that blizzard. We worked for hours on end in the dark, shadowy wards, then went to the mess and asked if there was any news – there were stories of an advance, but nobody dared to believe them. We did hear at last that the Canadians had captured Vimy Ridge, but their casualties had been heavy. Down in Champagne the French attack had failed, and their losses had been enormous. In her latest letter, Alice wrote that in London it was being rumoured that the earliest date at which the Americans could put a trained army in the field was 1919! I stared at that date in dismay – it was two whole years away – how could we wait another two years? I folded the letter and put it away and went quickly back to my ward. As far as I knew Robbie was safe; I would cling to that.

  It was the middle of April before the bleak cold ended in a last flurry of snow. The first casualties from the battle of Arras began to be evacuated, we became a medical ward once more, and off-duty time was reinstated. As I prepared a poultice for a dark-haired Glaswegian one morning I realized that I would be able to spend my half-day off in the sunlit forest. I smiled at the man – ‘Here we are, Jock – a nice warm poultice’ – and slapped it on his chest. He muttered incoherently and his eyes rolled; he was delirious in the grip of pneumonia – spring meant nothing to him now. But it did to me, and I said goodbye to Sister and went off to lunch with a lift in my step.

  I slipped under the barbed-wire fence and walked in between the tall firs. It was very still, with only the raucous caws of the rooks sounding above me. As I came into my clearing a pale cold shaft of sunlight gilded the withered grass and the tussocks of heather; the straight rows of trees stretched away until they merged into blue shadows in the distance. Even the far-off vibration of the guns seemed to fade away, a
nd for a little while I was at peace.

  Softly I began to sing my scales, until my voice was full and flexible in the crisp still air. I chose the pastoral Lieder today: those poems that spoke of bright sunshine stealing through sleeping woods. But then my voice rose up as I sang of my longing for peace.

  ‘Ruhe, ruhe, meine Seele:

  Deine sturme gingen wild’

  Rest, my soul, after the raging storms.

  ‘Ruhe, ruhe, meine Seek

  Und vergiß, was dich bedroht!’

  Oh let me forget, forget what threatens.

  I stared into the blue-shadowed forest, and for a moment I was at peace. Then I heard the rustle of footsteps behind me, and slowly turned – and saw Conan. He stood watching me from the edge of the clearing. Then he called: ‘An orderly told me which way you’d gone, but I thought I’d never find you – then I heard your voice, and it led me to you.’

  As he began to move forward he trod on a dead twig – it broke with a sharp retort like the crack of pistol shot and his head jerked up like a puppet’s on a wire. He stood there, in the clearing, shaking. I ran to him and seized his hands – even through his leather gloves I could feel how cold they were.

  ‘Conan – what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m on my way to Paris, Hellie – they gave me local leave.’ He tried to smile, but only one side of his mouth moved. ‘I’m something of an embarrassment to them – the only one of my draft left – the replacements aren’t due for a couple of days. I’m the only one left,’ he repeated. He looked away into the forest. ‘Giles, and Hemingway, Baker, Thomas – all gone. Even jolly little Dawson – I saw him go, he jumped out but he was already on fire – he went down blazing like a torch. He was so near we could hear him screaming – so when it was his turn Thomas stayed in his machine – it spun round like a top. They took their spades and dug him out later – to get his identity disc, you see.’

  He turned and stared at me; his face was grey and the vivid blue of his eyes was blank and hard. Then he said simply, ‘I need you, Hellie.’ I bowed my head in acquiescence and we walked hand in hand out of the clearing and down through the aisle of trees.

  He pulled up as we came near the camp. ‘Hellie – I don’t want to get you into trouble with your matron, I know what they’re like. I’ll go on ahead, it’ll give me time to find somewhere – I’ll see you in the cathedral.’ I nodded, and stood watching the tremor in his shoulders as he strode off.

  I suppose he got a lift down into Rouen, because there was no sign of him at the tram-car stop. I went straight to the cathedral and pushed open the heavy wooden door. My eyes searched the dim incense-laden interior, where the small sanctuary lights glowed red above their altars. I saw my cousin sitting slumped in a chair; he was staring at a crucifix. He stood up slowly, his eyes still on it, and said bitterly, ‘But His didn’t last three years,’ then he took my arm and steered me out.

  The patron of the small hotel looked at me knowingly as he handed over the key. The room was stuffy, but the stove in the corner was alight, so at least it was warm. Conan threw his cap on the floor and slumped down on the bed – he was shaking uncontrollably. I knelt down and unlaced his boots and pulled them off, then I stood up and unbuttoned his greatcoat and eased him out of it. He held up his arms like a small child so I could unbuckle his belt and holster; I put his revolver carefully down on the worn rug. Quickly I slipped off my own coat and hat, kicked off my shoes, swung myself up on to the high bedstead – and held my arms out to him. With a convulsive shudder he threw himself into them. I hugged him to me, then his heavy body slipped down until his face was buried in my lap and he began to cry – great heaving, gulping sobs. I held him tightly and stroked his soft black hair. At last, at long last, the shuddering of his body lessened, his breathing slowed, and he fell asleep. I sat on through the long afternoon, until the sun went in and the room darkened.

  The man on my lap stirred, heaved himself up and yawned. He looked at me with Conan’s blue eyes and familiar smile and said, almost jauntily, ‘What a rotten day off for you, Hellie – a regular busman’s holiday!’

  As I replied I tried to match his light tone. ‘Oh, we don’t nurse our patients on our laps, you know – Matron wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Then she’s a fool – a woman’s lap is the finest medicine in the world.’ He looked at me and smiled a little ruefully. ‘I should certainly know that. But today I wanted it to be a woman who cared for me, not one I’d paid for. Thanks, Hellie.’

  He jumped up and bent down for his holster and began to buckle his belt round him. I asked, ‘What will you do now, Conan?’

  He looked up from tugging on his boots and his grin flashed at me. ‘I’ll catch the first train to Paris and when I get there I’ll buy the prettiest whore, the finest dinner and the largest bottle of champagne I can find – in that order! Eat, drink and be merry!’ He shrugged himself into his greatcoat and came back to me, his face quite still for a moment. ‘For tomorrow will come, I know that now. Goodbye, Hellie.’ He bent and kissed me gently on the lips, then turned and pulled open the door. I heard him whistling as he ran down the stairs.

  I pushed myself slowly off the bed and peered into the spotted mirror, tugging my hair into place. Then I put on my hat and coat, retrieved my shoes and went slowly downstairs. The proprietor gave me a sly grin as I passed. ‘Au revoir, mademoiselle – madame!’ I ignored him, and stepped out into the busy street.

  Next day at lunch there was a rumour flying around that a VAD had been seen slipping into a hotel in Rouen, with an officer. ‘And going upstairs!’ Oliver exclaimed, her eyes round with horror. She said Matron was questioning each of us in turn. I swallowed another spoonful of soup.

  The young dark-haired Scot got steadily worse that afternoon. I boiled water and sprinkled in linseed meal with one hand while I stirred briskly with the other. I spread the mixture out on its tow mat and applied it firmly to his chest, but it was too late, poultices were no use now – he had spent too long in waterlogged trenches. He was delirious, but for a brief moment before the end I saw sanity in his eyes. He screamed like an animal, ‘I dinna wanchter dee! I dinna wanchter dee!’ as he fought like a madman against my restraining arms. Sister came running and between us we managed to hold him in his bed until his unnatural strength ebbed as quickly as it had come. His eyes rolled and he began to mutter incoherently again. He died at teatime and Sister helped me to lay him out.

  After tea Matron sent for me. I stood in front of her, my hands neatly clasped behind my back as I had been taught so long ago at the East London.

  ‘Nurse Girvan, I must ask you on your honour – did you enter a hotel room in Rouen yesterday, in the company of an officer?’ Her pale eyes were tired and anxious as they held mine.

  I looked straight back at her. ‘No Matron, I did not.’ She dismissed me and I went back to our bell tent and took out my writing case. I found the scrap of paper on which I had noted down the young Jock’s home address and wrote it on an envelope. Then I began my letter:

  Dear Mr and Mrs McPherson,

  I am so sorry to have to tell you that your son William died this afternoon. I expect you will have had the usual telegram from the War Office, but I wanted you to know that he died quite peacefully. His last words were of you, and then he simply fell asleep.

  I stopped and rubbed my aching eyes before I re-read what I had written. Then I picked up my pen again and signed it. Truth had no place in this war.

  A picture postcard of Paris came from Conan. He had scrawled across the back: ‘Mission accomplished – but I’d rather she’d been you, Sweet Coz!’ I smiled a little as I put it away in my writing case. Two weeks later a letter came from Papa:

  Dear Helena,

  I am very sorry to have to tell you that Conan is posted missing…

  Robbie’s letter gave more details. Conan had flown out over the enemy line, a fellow flying officer had seen his aircraft hit – it had lost height, wavered and begun to drop –
then the other pilot had had to bank to evade the AA fire, and when he had wheeled round to look for Conan again the sky was empty.

  I took out the last postcard, and read again the scribbled message. Then I said aloud: ‘Yes, I would rather it had been me, dearest of cousins.’ I pushed the card back into my case and walked stiff-legged over to the ward.

  Chapter Four

  For days I worked like an automaton; my hands seemed to move as though they had no link with my brain. On duty I dared not think, or I could not have continued. At night I tried to weep silently, so that I would not disturb Innes: Innes who tried to comfort me, but who could not understand, with her strict middle-class code, that part of my grief was regret, regret for what I had not done. I had never loved Conan as I had loved Gerald, but we had been young and happy together, and he had come to me in his anguish and taken only a sister’s comfort – he had not asked for more. But now I wished I had offered myself to him, that on that last afternoon I had gone down the stairs of the hotel beside him, and caught the train to Paris – and accepted the consequences of dismissal and disgrace. But then, another VAD went sick, a second refused to renew her contract, and a staff nurse went home to marry her fiancé who had been blinded at Arras, so we were short-staffed again. My body was strong, my hands were skilful now. I was needed here in France. Conan was dead – but my patients were still fighting to live.

  One afternoon Sister came to fetch me from the end of the ward; she was smiling. ‘There’s a visitor for you outside, dear, a lady.’

  I could not imagine who it was as I hurried between the beds, but as soon as I came through the flaps of the porch I saw her: there, in a long fur coat incongruously worn over riding breeches, was Lady Maud. She strode forward and wrung my hand. ‘Good to see you, young Helena. I’ve just brought my unit to Rouen – we’ve set up our canteen at the railway station and the customers are pouring in.’ She showed her large strong teeth in a broad grin. ‘Your papa suggested I came and looked you up, so here I am. You must come down for a cup of tea and a good old gossip – Juno’s with me. Go and fetch your hat.’