by Anne Perry
The ambulance jolted over the rough road and Judith woke up and straightened in her seat. She had begged a lift from a lorry carrying supplies about thirty miles back in France, where the train had stopped. Now the familiar stench was in the air and she knew she was almost up to the lines. She looked out of the window and saw the flat country stretching out on every side, pale green poplars along the roads, here and there two or three dead and bare.
“Thought that’d wake yer,” the driver said cheerfully. He was a man in his late thirties with a toothbrush mustache and a finger missing on his left hand. “Nose tell yer yer ’ome, eh?”
She smiled, pulling the corners of her mouth down. “Afraid so. It isn’t exactly that you forget what it’s like, but it has a renewed power when you’ve been away for a night or two,” she agreed ruefully.
“Was Blighty good, then?” There was a suppressed emotion in his voice, things he dared not allow too close to the surface of his mind.
She hesitated only a moment. If there was no home to return to, no ideal to fight for, what was the meaning of all this? “Wonderful,” she answered firmly. “Same old traffic jams in Piccadilly, same scandals in the newspapers, same things to talk about: weather, taxes, cricket. I even got home for a couple of nights. The villages are just the same, too: farmers complaining about the rain, as usual, too much or too little; women quarreling over who’s to arrange the flowers in church, but they always get done, and they’re always gorgeous; someone’s riding their bicycle too fast down the street; someone’s dog barks. Yes, Blighty’s just as it was, and I wouldn’t change it, even at this price.” Now she was intensely grave. “At least I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t.”
“Me neither,” he answered, looking straight ahead at the road running like a ruler between the ditches. A windmill in the distance was the only break in the tablelike flatness of it. “Where yer want ter stop off then, love?” he asked.
“Poperinge,” she answered without hesitation. “Or as near as you can get.” She was going to find Cullingford, give him Mrs. Prentice’s letter, and then take up her job as his driver again. She realized how eagerly she said it. She was sitting forward, already half prepared to get out, and they were still at least three miles away. She knew all these roads probably better than the driver beside her did.
He glanced at her. “Yer got a boyfriend here, ’ave yer?” he said with a grin.
She felt the heat wash up her face. He must wonder why she was pleased to be back when she had just been home. What other explanation could there be?
“Sort of,” she answered. That was near enough the truth for him to believe her, and she did not want to be questioned more closely. There was no truth that she could tell, even to herself.
He laughed. “I bet he ‘sort of’ thinks so, too!” He took her all the way into Poperinge and she thanked him and got out in the square. It was a warm day, a few bright clouds sailing along the horizon, the sunlight gleaming on the cobbles. A couple of bicycles were parked against the tobacconist’s shop window. Women were queuing at the bakery. She could hear the sound of voices from the Rat’s Nest on the corner of the alley, and a snatch of song. She walked over, and as the group of a dozen or so soldiers saw her, they sang more loudly, clapping on the beat, and finishing with a rousing chorus of an extremely bawdy version of “Good-bye, Dolly Grey.”
“ ’Oo are yer lookin’ fer, love?” one of them asked her hopefully. He looked about twenty, with bright blue eyes and a lopsided face.
“ ’Ave a glass o’ beer!” another called out. “Drink enough of it, an’ yer’ll forget this is a bleedin’ slaughter’ouse an’ think if yer go round that corner you’ll see a couple o’ cows, an’ a village pond wi’ ducks on it, not some stinkin’ crater full o’ the corpses o’ yer mates.”
Someone told him abruptly to shut up.
“It would take more than beer to do that for me,” she answered with a quick smile. “I’m looking for General Cullingford. I’m his driver. At least I was till I went on a couple of days’ leave. But I’m back now.”
One of the men looked her up and down appreciatively, and muttered something under his breath. Someone jolted him hard, and he did not repeat it.
“Sorry, love,” the first man said. “Looks like yer lost yer job. The general went out of ’ere yesterday evenin’ wi’ a new driver. Dressy little feller, ’e were, in a smart uniform an’ a face like a schoolboy, but civil enough, an’ could ’andle a car like ’e’d built it ’isself.”
It couldn’t be. She was stunned, as if she had driven into a wall and she was bruised to the bone. He wouldn’t do that!
“Sorry, love. Looks like yer back ter ambulances, or whatever.”
“What?” She looked at him as if she had not really seen him before. He was slim and dark, perhaps in his middle twenties, older than many of the men, and the insignia on his sleeve marked him as a corporal.
“What did you drive before you took the general?” he asked. “Ambulances?”
“Yes.”
“Then yer’d best get back to ’em. As a volunteer yer can do wot yer like, I s’pose, but that’s w’ere yer needed most, if yer can drive.”
She nodded. It was ridiculous that it should hurt this much. If she thought about it honestly, she knew perfectly well that she could not go on driving a general around. It was a man’s job. “Thank you,” she added absently.
“Yer all right, love?” the corporal asked with concern. “You look a bit—dunno—off.”
She forced herself to smile at him. “Yes, thank you. It’s just funny—coming back. You have to get used to the smell again.”
“In’t that the truth! ’Ere, sit down a mo’. Wally! Get ’er a quick brandy, eh? We’d better get ’er right an’ on the road. I couldn’t drive them damn great ambulances, an’ neither could you. We might need ’er—though please Gawd we don’t!”
There was a bark of laughter, and a moment later a glass was put into her hand. The raw spirit burned down her throat, jolting her awake and into sharp attention. She realized their kindness, and felt slightly guilty for acting a lie as to the reason for her lapse. But the truth was secret—it had to be. She did not want to recognize it herself. She thanked them, finished the brandy, and went to look for a lift to the VAD ambulance headquarters.
She arrived in the early afternoon. It was a quiet time when most of the drivers were doing small maintenance and repair jobs on their vehicles. She found Wil Sloan standing over the engine of the ambulance she used to share with him, looking ruefully at the filthy commutator. His face lit when he saw her and he put the oilcan down and threw his arms around her.
“Hey, sugar! Where’ve you been?” He pushed her away from him, holding her by the shoulders and looking earnestly into her face.
“All around,” she answered. “Then home to London for a couple of days.”
“What’s wrong?” They had shared too many experiences, good and bad, for him to be blind to her feelings. They had laughed together, told awful jokes, split the last piece of chocolate, read each other’s letters from home.
“I went to see Mrs. Prentice, the mother of the war correspondent who was killed,” she replied. “I had dinner with my brother, then I went home to St. Giles for a couple of nights. That’s about all. I guess what really matters is, I had three hot baths. Let’s get our priorities right!”
“And dinner in a restaurant where you couldn’t hear guns?” he added. “What did you have?”
“I know I had ice cream for pudding!”
“Torturer!”
She smiled. In spite of driving Cullingford, she had missed Wil. “Yes,” she agreed with a smile.
“So what’s wrong?” he persisted.
“Are you going to clean that?” She indicated the commutator with a jerk of her head. “You won’t get far with it as it is!”
He understood and handed her the oilcan, then bent his attention to cleaning the grit out of the commutator. They worked together for several minutes, put it back, th
en lubed the spindle bolts on the tie rods and oiled the steering post bracket. Finally the whole job was accomplished, polished and clean, and they were correspondingly filthy.
“So what are you doing back here?” he said at last, looking at her so directly she could not avoid his eyes.
“Driving ambulances, I expect,” she answered, wiping her hands ineffectively on one of the discarded rags.
“Is that what’s wrong?” he persisted.
“I suppose so. He’s got a new driver, practically straight out of school, from what I hear. But I was only ever a short-term replacement anyway.”
He looked at her, an oil smudge on his cheek. “You’re sure burned about it. Why? That your pride speaking?”
She looked away. “No . . .” Then she did not know how to finish. She was afraid Wil knew her well enough to guess without words, but it was still something she would prefer not to make so honest between them. There were some things you did not discuss, even with your best friends.
With innate tact he assumed the truth, and evaded it. “You like the job, don’t you. You’re probably better at it than this guy anyway. What does he know?”
“Everything about cars, apparently,” she replied.
A wide grin split his face. “That all? Well, we can fix his wagon any time! This is Ypres, not Piccadilly Circus.”
“You’ve never been to Piccadilly Circus!” she pointed out. She was familiar with his adventures all the way from his hometown in Missouri where his explosive temper had lashed out one too many times, albeit in defense of someone smaller and weaker. But the ensuing fight had left two other young men hurt, one of them quite seriously. Wil had been advised he would be very foolish to remain around to face the unpleasantness that would undoubtedly follow. He should give people at least a year or two to forget.
The uncle who had given him the advice had also given him his sea fare to France, but Wil had had to make his own way to New England, and then New York itself. He had ridden the railways, worked where he could, and seen more of his own country than most of his fellows. But to serve in the war had been his goal, and although it had taken him nearly three months he had finally made it to Calais, and then north to Ypres.
Judith had listened with fascination to his stories of a vast land, of wonderfully varied people full of compassion and ingenuity. She had cried over their misfortunes, over those who had been injured in heart or body, laughed at their escapades. More than once during their bitterest nights, sodden, wind slicing across the unprotected land, she had realized that Wil was inventing things as he went along, to entertain her.
But the core of it was true, and it had not taken him to London. That was a dream he was keeping ahead of him, for before he finally went back to Missouri—London and Paris.
He was grinning at her now. “Aw shucks! I can read. I’ll get there one day. You’ll take me. You want your job back?”
“Yes.” She had said it too quickly, and it alarmed her.
He raised his eyebrows. “Can’t you make up your mind, then?”
She gave him a light punch on the arm, suddenly feeling tears prickle her eyes. “I can’t have it, Wil. He’s got a driver.”
“A greenhorn!”
“A what?”
“A guy who knows nothing,” he explained. “Still wet behind the ears. C’mon! Let’s get cleaned up and onto the road. We’ll find out where this guy is and get rid of him.”
She had a sudden stab of alarm, thinking of Prentice, “Get rid of him! How?”
He half shrugged. “I dunno, but we’ll think of something.”
“Actually I do have a letter I have to take to the general,” she said, walking beside him toward the water and soap. “And since it’s personal, and I should tell him about his sister, I really do need at least to find him.”
“ ’Course you do,” he agreed. “Never explain.”
She flashed him a broad smile. “Never. We aren’t army, right?”
“Right!” He saluted smartly. “Let’s go look for the general!”
It was a long task. The day before there had been a large offensive that had failed and the losses had been very heavy. General Plumer had been forced to retreat and there was a considerable amount of disorder; it was hard to battle against anger and despair. The second German use of gas had made it even worse.
“General Cullingford?” Wil asked a harassed sergeant major.
The man wiped his sleeve across his brow, leaving a smear of dirt and blood. “Jesus, I don’t know! Leave it to this lot and they’d ’ave all the bloody generals six feet under! And I’ll not argue with ’em. What d’yer need ’im for anyway? The injured’ve bin evacuated from ’ere, and most of the dead are buried—at least those we can find.”
Wil stood very stiff, his face pale. “Cullingford’s not bad, as generals go. We have a message for him. Lost a member of his family.”
The sergeant major’s eyebrows rose. “Go on! You mean generals have families? An’ here we was thinking they crawled up out of an ’ole in the ground.”
“Someone should teach you the facts of life, Sergeant Major!” Judith snapped. “Unlikely as it may seem, even you had a mother once, who wiped your nose—and the rest of you. And probably even thought you were worth it.”
The sergeant major blushed dark red, although it was impossible to tell whether it was shame for his attitude, or embarrassment at what she might be imagining about him. “Yes, miss. I ’eard he went toward Wulvergem, but I’m not sure.”
“Thank you,” she said stiffly.
The next person they asked was a major, and considerably less willing to help. Instead he directed them to take half a dozen men with shrapnel wounds or broken limbs back to Poperinge.
It was strangely familiar to be dealing with injured men again, ordinary soldiers who obey orders, made no decisions except to steel their nerves and go forward, live up to what was expected of them, not by the army or those at home who loved them, but by the men they lived with every day.
She had not meant to do it, except as a necessary act of obedience. Her mind was filled with finding Cullingford, telling him of her visit with his sister, the beginning of a softening in her, the first steps forward. She did not try to consider what she could do to replace his new driver, that was Wil’s idea, perhaps his way of making her feel better.
Among the wounded was a ginger-haired man with a head wound. His right ear was torn off and there was a deep gash across his cheek, but the side of his face that was still visible under the bandaging was cheerful enough. If it cost him a terrible effort, he did not show it. He was busy talking to another man whose leg was shattered at the thigh. It was bound in a splint, but he looked gray-faced with pain, and his teeth were clenched together so tightly his jaw muscles bulged.
Two others bore shrapnel wounds, one in the leg, the other in the shoulder. They sat quietly, side by side, waiting their turn.
“I’ll ’ave ter grow me ’air,” the ginger-headed man was saying, talking for the sake of it, perhaps to keep the most badly wounded man’s mind on something else, just to know he was not alone, or forgotten. “Me ma always said as I never listened anyway, so I s’pose an ear gorn won’t make no difference. Yer all right, Taff? There’s VADs ’ere, right enough. They’ll get yer ter ’orspital where they’ll fix that up for yer.”
Judith smiled at him, and then bent to the man with the shattered leg.
“We’re going to lift you up,” she told him. “We’ll be as gentle as we can.”
“That’s all right, miss,” he said hoarsely. “It ’urts, but not too much. I’ll be okay.”
“Of course you will,” she agreed. “But it could be a bit shaky for a while. I’ll do my best not to hit the potholes.”
“You drive that thing?” Ginger said with surprise. “I thought you was a nurse.”
“I’m a better driver than nurse, believe me,” she assured him. Wil was beside her, and one by one, with as much ease as possible, they loaded the woun
ded men in and drove back very carefully to Poperinge. There was a quiet companionship in doing their jobs together, working to exhaustion for a passionate common cause. They did not need to speak, but when they did it was almost in a kind of abbreviated language, references to past experiences, jokes they knew, a touch or a word of understanding.
It was nearly dark when they finally pulled into the central square in the town of Wulvergem and she saw the general’s car outside the Seven Piglets. Judith’s heart was pounding, her breath high in her throat as Wil parked the ambulance and she got out and walked over the cobbles, hearing her heels loud on the stones.
The laughter was audible even before she reached the door, men’s voices raised, cheerful, calling out across the room, a shout, another guffaw. She pushed the door open and the smells of beer and smoke swirled around her. The inside was lit by gas lamps, old-fashioned ones with glass mantles. The tables had checked cloths on them and there were half a dozen men to each.
Few of them turned to look at her, supposing it to be just another soldier, then someone noticed it was a woman, and one by one they fell silent.
She saw the lamplight on Cullingford’s fair hair and knew the shape of his head even before she saw the insignia of rank on his uniform. Opposite him sat a young man with a round, bland face. His skin was pale and his hands on the tablecloth looked soft and clean.
The boiling resentment welling up inside her was unreasonable and totally unfair. She knew that, and it made no difference at all.
The talk resumed again, but at a lower level. It was impossible now for her to retreat. However hard it was, she must go in, walk between the tables and speak to Cullingford, and give him his sister’s letter.
He looked up as her shadow fell across the table. His eyes widened very slightly and his expression barely changed, but he could not keep a faint color from rising in his cheeks.
“Miss Reavley?” he said quietly. For an instant she thought he was going to rise to his feet, as if they were both civilians, just a man and a woman met by chance at a dinner table. But he remembered the reality before he moved.
