Song of Songs

by Beverley Hughesdon

  ‘If it were, it’d break my heart to have it wasted on me backside – ouch! It’s cold. Come on, Sister – hurry up with me clean nappy or I’ll catch me death.’

  ‘Coming up, Sergeant.’

  ‘Ah, now you have hurt me.’

  ‘Ginger, I’m so sorry.’

  He gave a big complacent grin. ‘That’s better now – it were me feelings what was hurt – you not calling me by me proper name – us red-heads are very sensitive.’

  ‘I am sorry, Ginger, I wasn’t thinking, Ginger – Ginger how could I have been so thoughtless – all finished now, Ginger – Ginger you can put your pyjamas back on…’ He started to laugh and I laughed with him, then moved on to Ben Holden’s bed.

  Ben Holden never tried to flirt with me. He always said a polite ‘Good morning, Sister.’ Then he would lie stoically still as I worked over him, only the quickening of his breathing betraying the pain I had to cause him. When I had finished he would thank me gravely, and I would smile and move on. We followed this pattern for several mornings, and then one day I was clumsy. I felt tired and ill and I had heard nothing from Robbie for a couple of days, so I was careless and caught the exposed ending of a nerve hard with my forceps. His face went into a rigid spasm of agony. I watched, horrified, and felt the tears come into my eyes, but he said nothing and I could not speak. I made myself carry on, and then, when I had finished binding him up I managed to whisper, ‘I’m sorry Ben, I’m so sorry.’

  He put out his uninjured arm and rested his hand over mine for a moment. ‘It’s all right, Sister – you’re doing your best.’

  Young Lennie was asleep, so I went past; I could not face his shoulder yet. I began to unwrap the slimy bandages of the man with the smashed jaw. I knew I should say something – he could not speak and he looked forward to my chatting to him as I did his dressing, but today my numbed brain could not form the words, and I watched the disappointment dawn in his patient eyes. All I could say as I finished was ‘I’m sorry – I’m sorry.’ And he too touched my hand in understanding and comfort. I felt very ashamed.

  As I dressed Dennison’s foot the cramps squeezed my belly, but I had not finished: there was still Young Lennie’s shoulder and he was awake now. I looked over at Sister but she was busy on the other side, so I took a deep breath and fetched what I needed for Lennie.

  He lay with his cheek pressed into the pillow, but one eye stared up at me beseechingly. I managed to smile back and began to unwrap his shoulder. He started to whimper at once, and Ben Holden called across to him – he always did, he was very skilful at distracting Lennie – asking him simple, childlike questions which Lennie would answer falteringly. The foul-smelling pus poured out of the wound and the bile rose in my throat – I tried to tell myself what a fool I was to mind after all this time, but I did mind today: I felt so dreadfully ill and the pain in my belly was mounting – my monthly cramps were worse than usual. Somehow I got the drainage tube in and managed to pack the wound with the clean dressing, but my hands were shaking as I pinned the bandage in place and whispered, ‘There, Lennie – all over now, you’ve been very brave.’ Then I stumbled away, clinging to the trolley for support.

  Dimly I saw that the orderly had pushed several screens to one side, against the wall of the marquee, and now I blundered behind them and dropped crouching on the floor beside the reeking trolley, thrusting my nails into the palms of my hands as I tried to stop myself moaning aloud.

  It was Sister who slipped through the screens. ‘Nurse Girvan, you silly girl – why didn’t you say? I could have managed without you for a while. Come along now.’ She put her hand under my arm and helped me up. As I came out of my refuge I saw Ben Holden look at me anxiously, then quickly turn his eyes away. I walked very slowly down the ward – it seemed to stretch into infinity – but at last I was huddled in a chair in the bunk while Sister filled a hot-water bottle and shook out the aspirin. She was still scolding, ‘Goodness knows how long you would have been there if Holden hadn’t had the sense to call me over and tell me you were ill.’ Even in my pain I felt my face crimson. Sister glanced at me and said robustly, ‘Don’t be silly, they’ve got wives and sisters at home. Besides,’ she smiled, ‘he was very discreet. Stay here until you feel better, I must get back to the ward now.’

  By the middle of December winter had set in and it was very cold. I began to sleep in my vest again and we shivered in the darkness as we dressed in the morning. Bundled up in layers of jerseys, I tramped to the ward in my overcoat and boots – but underneath I wore my fine petticoats, and enjoyed their soft silken rustle as I moved.

  In the marquee the orderly poked ineffectually at the stove and it would splutter and sulk until one day I found Ben Holden had struggled out of bed and was hunched on a chair in front of it. His large square hand was delicately feeding in pieces of coke, and I watched him manipulate irons and damper until a small blaze flared up and he sat back with a grunt of satisfaction. ‘You shouldn’t be out of bed yet, Ben.’

  He swivelled his body round carefully to face me, then said, ‘Don’t you worry, Sister, I can manage.’ I opened my mouth to argue with him, then realized I would be wasting my time.

  Over the next few days Ginger and Lofty also staggered out of bed and into their blues, and began to make themselves useful, too. When Lofty received a photograph from home of his son on leave, posing in his spick-and-span uniform with the rest of his family, he met me with it first thing in the morning. ‘Look, Sister – he’s a fine young shaver – and me missus – she’s still a good-looking lass for all she’s given me six healthy childer – there’s me two eldest girls, see.’ I took the photograph and admired it and asked names and ages and Lofty beamed with pride. Ginger came up and I asked him if he were married.

  He grinned. ‘Nay – me and Ben are having a good look round first – we’re choosy, like.’

  Lofty winked at me. ‘They don’t know nowt yet, do they, Sister? They’ll find out – when it comes down to it it’s lasses as do the choosing!’

  I left them wrangling by the stove; I knew they would keep it nicely glowing and there was no problem with running out of fuel these days, since Ben Holden had a firm way with the orderly – I had never seen him work so hard.

  I was off that afternoon, and at lunch I discovered Aylmer was too, so we decided to go for a brisk walk down by the estuary. Before we set out, Aylmer picked up her basket. ‘I must buy some potatoes on the way back – for the men,’ she explained, seeing my puzzled look. I still looked puzzled so she laughed and said, ‘I’ve promised them some chips after tea; Sister doesn’t mind and they love them.’

  I began to unearth my basket. ‘I’ll get some for my ward, too – if you’ll tell me how to cook them.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, Girvan. Just walk in with the frying pan and one of the men will take it off you in a trice; all you need do is supervise.’

  It was Ben Holden who took the frying pan off me. As I did the temperature round, I watched him set Ginger to the peeling and slicing while he melted the dripping over the stove. A delicious aroma soon filled the marquee and I could hardly stop myself laughing at the look of satisfaction on Ben Holden’s face as he deftly flicked and turned the chips to a golden crispness. I said teasingly, ‘My, what a good cook you are, Ben!’ And Ginger chipped in, ‘Aye, Ben’ll make some lucky lass a fine ’usband one day – fully trained he is – you could go further and fare worse, Sister!’ One eye dropped in a wink and his expression was so full of mischief that I burst out laughing. Ben Holden’s face turned brick-red and Ginger said quickly, ‘By the colour o’ you Ben I reckon that job’s too hot for you – fancy a swap?’

  Ben growled, ‘Tha’d slice them taters a sight faster me lad if tha’d shut thy gob and stopped cackling like a parrot. Lofty, bring us plates, an’ you can tek ’em round – these first’uns are for Lennie.’

  Young Lennie’s face lit up and he touched the hot chips delicately with his fingertip as if he could scarcely believe th
ey were real. Lofty offered some to Sister and myself and we ate them guiltily – of course, it was against the rules, but they were delicious. When he had finished frying, Ben Holden limped over to Lennie’s bed and played simple, childish games with him; they were like two little boys together over their cards.

  Sister sent me to early supper and Tilney came across to the mess to get warm before her night duty. She asked me how Young Lennie had been over the day, and I told her that although his shoulder was no better he had seemed more cheerful in the evening. ‘He and Ben Holden were like a pair of children together over their game of snap – the men are so easily amused, aren’t they?’

  Tilney looked at me with her small, sharp eyes. ‘Don’t be so patronizing, Girvan. They all know Lennie’s not more than ninepence in the shilling and so they make an effort – that doesn’t mean the rest of them are without intelligence.’

  I tried to protest, ‘I never said…’

  ‘But you think it, don’t you? Officers are brave and clever, other ranks may be brave but they’re not very bright – good enough for footmen or gamekeepers, but – there’s always a but with women like you, isn’t there?’ I stared at her angry face; she stood up and shook out her skirt and bent over me. ‘It was quiet last night so I was catching up on my reading – Carlyle’s French Revolution – Holden got up to fetch a bottle for Lennie and when he’d taken it back he stopped to have a word with me, and before I knew it, there we were arguing the rights and wrongs of Robespierre, in whispers. He’s read his Carlyle, you know, and understood it.’ She stumped off.

  I looked down at my enamel bowl of stew; Miss Ling had suggested Carlyle to me once, but I had never got beyond the first page. As I chewed another gristly mouthful, I wondered uneasily if there could possibly be any truth in what Tilney had said of me.

  Next morning Captain Adams came round with us as we were doing the dressings. He studied Ben Holden’s arm as I uncovered it, then said, ‘It’s healing quite nicely, Sergeant.’

  Ben Holden asked hesitantly, ‘I were wondering, sir, if I’d get back full use o’ me arm you see I’m a left-handed shoveller, it’s important in me job.’

  Captain Adams pursed his lips a moment, then said, ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t, by the look of it now – what did you do before you enlisted, Sergeant-Major?’

  ‘I were on the footplate – a fireman with the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway.’ And as he spoke his glance swivelled to me for a moment – and then I knew.

  After I had finished the dressings I went back to Ben Holden – he was sitting on his bed writing a letter. He looked up as I approached and I said abruptly, ‘I saw you, just before the war – you showed my nephews round the footplate at Manchester.’

  He nodded. ‘Aye, that’s right – I were firing to old Jacky Spence.’

  And as he spoke, for a moment I was back again under the echoing cavern of Victoria with Gerald tall and straight beside me, tipping a grimy young footplateman before turning to me and holding out his arm, smiling his beautiful, ethereal smile. Then I returned to the gloomy marquee with the canvas flapping dolefully, and pain and sickness all around me. I said at last, ‘He was killed, my fiancé, in the spring of ’15.’ There did not seem anything else to say so I turned and walked away, fighting to control my tears.

  Young Lennie was very feverish that day, so Sister sent me to sponge him down in the afternoon. He was childishly pleased with the extra attention and I pretended to splash him and he squealed with delight. But his small store of energy was soon exhausted and he was already half-asleep by the time I had towelled him dry. Then I heard Ben Holden’s voice: ‘Sister, look who’s here!’ He sounded excited so I pushed the screen quickly aside, ‘Who is… Oh!’ There, at the end of the ward, with a dusting of snow on his greatcoat and his cane tucked elegantly under one arm – was Robbie. I picked up my skirts and ran between the beds, my eyes never leaving the smiling face until I was safe in his arms.

  He told me he had been sent down to Boulogne, and had managed to wangle a lift in a staff car to Étaples, and now he was here. Sister smiled and said she could manage alone for a couple of hours, so I began to tug him towards the porch, but he pulled me gently back. ‘Just a moment, Hellie – I must have a word with the men.’ I clung to his arm as he walked round the ward. He chatted to all the L&CLI patients – he seemed to know each face and the name which went with it. He delighted Ginger by chaffing him about his tie being under his ear, and brought a pleased glow to Lofty’s face as he asked after his son. He talked very gently to Young Lennie, who gazed up at him adoringly, and then he went on to tell Dennison that his great pal had sent his best wishes – and thanks for the food parcel which had arrived after Dennison had been wounded, which they had all enjoyed – especially the contents of the tobacco tin! Dennison went scarlet: I guessed there had been illicit liquor concealed in that tin, and laughed with my brother at the private’s discomfiture until Dennison began to grin as well. All the way round the ward Ben Holden limped beside my brother, every inch a sergeant-major; he should have looked ridiculous in his ill-fitting hospital blues, and with his arm in a sling, but he did not.

  I looked up at Robbie, my Robbie – Captain Girvan, an experienced company commander, with his men. I could scarcely contain my pride and joy – then I saw the hollows in his cheeks and the tiredness in his eyes, and remembered that he was only just twenty-two. I shivered. He finished his conversation, shook hands with Ben Holden and then looked down at me, with his old sweet smile. I smiled back and thrust the war away from me and thought only of the next two hours.

  A few snowflakes were tossing gently in the wind as we left the camp and wandered down to the dunes near the estuary. Then we plunged over the shifting sand until we came to a sheltered hollow. We slipped and slid down to the bottom of it, and just as we sank down on to a hummock of rough grass the wintry sun broke out from between the clouds. I was so happy.

  We did not talk much as I sat in the shelter of Robbie’s arm and breathed in the cold salty air. It was enough that he was alive and warm and whole beside me; but all too soon he took out his watch, rose to his feet and pulled me up. We clung to each other for a moment, and then began to trudge back to the camp.

  Next morning Tilney called me into the kitchen before she went off. She had a copy of The Tatler in her hand, and she pointed at one of the photographs. I stared down at a pre-war picture of myself – in riding habit and glossy top hat, mounted on my beautiful Melody. The caption underneath read: ‘At a meet of the Cheshire at Hatton Park. Lady Helena Girvan is the second daughter of the Earl of Pickering, and is an enthusiastic follower of hounds. She is at present serving as a VAD in France.’

  Tilney said, ‘Dennison’s aunt is a lady’s maid – when he wrote to her he told her our names – and Auntie’s mistress kindly parted up with this. The men have been passing it round all through breakfast; they’re quite stunned at the idea of an aristocrat in their midst.’ She smiled at me maliciously: ‘Well, Girvan – it looks as if I’ll have to practise my curtsey before I dare speak to you in future!’ She went off to breakfast, and I put the magazine down as if it had burnt my fingers, then walked on to the ward.

  I could sense the change in the atmosphere at once; the usual morning greetings were very subdued, and eyes followed me warily as I moved about. I knew I should make some casual reference to that wretched photo – toss off a joke, let them see I was their nurse, just the same as ever – but I did not know how to do it, and the quieter I became, the more self-conscious they were. I felt a spurt of bitter anger at Dennison’s aunt and her interfering mistress, as Lofty carefully talked about the weather all through his dressing, and would not meet my eye. Ginger, lively Ginger, blushed scarlet as he dropped his trousers to let me dress his backside; he was totally tongue-tied – and so was I.

  I caught Sister in the sluice and asked her what I should do, but she was busy and only shrugged as she replied, ‘There isn’t anything you can do, Nurse Girvan – t
itles do make a difference.’ As she left she threw over her shoulder, ‘I’d rather not have known myself.’ I felt quite devastated.

  As I followed her out Ben Holden limped past on his way back from the latrines; although he smiled he did not speak, and now I was angry with him – he at least had always known who my family were – so why could he not treat me as usual? Then I felt ashamed of my anger – Ben Holden was acting no differently – he had never had the flow of easy chatter with me that Ginger and Lofty had.

  Aylmer was off duty with me that afternoon. ‘Are you coming to buy potatoes, Girvan?’

  I filled my basket too, but as we walked back I wondered whether they would be used – would the men be prepared to cook chips in front of a lady, an earl’s daughter? After tea I dragged on my mackintosh and picked my way reluctantly over the slippery duckboards to B.4.

  Dumping my basket in the kitchen I walked out into the ward – and sensed the suppressed excitement at once. All the men who were up were grouped round the stove in the centre, and the others were alert and watching from their beds. I stepped forward, hesitantly – and caught sight of Young Lennie’s eyes peeping over the edge of the blanket, round with delight. The screens were alongside his bed and as I stepped forward Ben Holden emerged from behind them – but it was a very different Ben Holden. His brown hair had been parted in the centre and ruthlessly sleeked back with water so that it clung to his square head; in place of his red tie he had knotted an enormous white bow, and two ridiculous trailing tails of gauze had been sewn to the back of his blues jacket. Pinned to the sling on his injured arm was a neatly folded white pillowcase, and in the other hand he was carrying one of the water buckets which had been burnished until it shone like silver – a fine wisp of steam rose from it. I stood astounded, and Ben Holden stepped forward, very stiff-legged, lifted the shining bucket and said, in a voice of the utmost solemnity, ‘Would you care for some tea, my lady? We have Indian or China – the Indian is a little strong, so if you would prefer China the footman will add more hot water to the pail.’