Amy

by Peggy Savage

  Amy looked up and smiled. ‘Perhaps you’ll be the first woman prime minister, Helen.’

  Helen laughed. ‘I can’t ever see that happening, a woman prime minister, but you never know.’

  Amy yawned and stretched. ‘It was so nice to see my father, but I’m glad to be back.’

  ‘Didn’t he try to persuade you to stay in England? My parents are always hinting.’

  Amy shook her head. ‘Not really. He’d like me to, but he knows I won’t.’

  ‘There are some letters for you,’ Helen took them out of her drawer.

  There were three. One was from Johnny; she knew his hand now. No doubt this was the letter he had told her about when he was trying to locate her. She read it briefly and put it away in her bedside table drawer. The other two were from Dan; she knew his hand too. She felt a faint reluctance to open them and put them aside until Helen had gone.

  ‘I’m on duty in five minutes,’ Helen said. ‘I expect you’ll be asleep by the time I get back.’

  Amy stretched again, straightening her back. ‘I need to have a bath and wash my hair. I’m covered in smuts from the train. I hope I haven’t picked up anything worse. No little visitors.’

  After Helen had gone she had her bath, rubbed her hair dry and combed out the tangles. No lice or fleas, as far as she could see, in spite of being cheek by jowl on the train. She put on her nightdress and got into bed. She picked up Dan’s letters and held them in her hand, wondering in a strange way whether the letters themselves, the paper and the envelopes, could convey to her what he was thinking when he wrote them. She wondered if Helen was right and Dan had feelings for her that were more than just friendship. She knew that Johnny had changed her. She was more aware now of such feelings in herself and in others. She was aware that Helen was in love, or nearly in love, with Peter. And she? She was still trying to persuade herself that she wasn’t sure, that she could hold back, turn away, retreat. But something was different now. Johnny had kissed her. She felt as if a door inside her had opened, as if a new, unsuspected part of her had come into the light. But it was a light that she was afraid of, a light that might lead to dark, painful places of loss and pain.

  The envelopes told her nothing, of course. She smiled wryly at herself. There were so many foolish fancies about now – angels, men who carried lucky charms into battle, men who had told her of their strange little rituals before going over the top. It seemed the real world was so impossibly dreadful that sensible people were falling back into worlds of fantasy.

  She opened Dan’s letters. They were much the same – his pleasure in seeing her at Christmas, his hopes to see her again. There were no protestations of love but the words again seemed to have a certain warmth, a kind of yearning. Was that for her, she wondered, or just for the past, the way things used to be? He did once say that he missed his sisters, missed the life that was gone. Was that all it was?

  She put the letters down. She was fond of Dan and didn’t want to hurt him. She realized that she knew more about him than any other man she had ever met. He had told her all about his family. More than that, he shared her world, the world of medicine. Even though he didn’t know about her past, they understood each other. In many ways she knew him better than she knew Johnny. Helen was wrong, she was sure. Dan had never approached her in that way.

  Helen came back at ten. ‘I thought you’d be asleep.’

  ‘Mind going round and round,’ Amy said.

  Helen undressed and washed and got into bed. ‘What’s it going round and round about?’

  ‘I saw Johnny in England.’

  Helen sat up. ‘Amy! How?’

  ‘He wrote to me. He took me to tea at the Ritz.’

  ‘Goodness! How smart! And was he well, has he recovered, was he on his feet?’

  ‘Very much so. You know, I’d never seen him standing up before. It was quite a shock. He’s so tall. He’s in the Flying Corps now and he’s got his wings already.’

  Helen’s eyes sparkled. ‘Tell me all. What happened? Did you see him again?’

  Amy laughed. ‘You’re as bad as my father. Yes, I saw him again. It was absolutely marvellous. He took me flying.’

  Helen’s mouth dropped open. ‘What? In an aeroplane?’

  Amy laughed again. ‘Of course in an aeroplane. What else?’

  ‘How wonderful! You lucky thing! What was it like?’

  ‘Wonderful is the word. Like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Out of this world. Being up there, away from everything, being separate from everything, the war seems so stupid, so ridiculous. It’s as if you’re on another planet. England looked so beautiful, so calm and peaceful.’

  Helen looked at her expectantly, waiting for more. ‘And are you going to see him again?’

  Amy felt a kind of withdrawal, a touch of fear. ‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘Who knows? You know what it’s like now.’

  Helen lay down and pulled up the covers. ‘Yes. I know.’

  Amy lay back, looking at the ceiling. ‘Are you going to see Peter again?’

  ‘Yes,’ Helen said, ‘When he comes back to Paris.’

  The word ‘if’ hung in the air.

  There was a buzz of excitement the next day. ‘What’s going on?’ Helen asked.

  Sister was mysterious. ‘Dr Hanfield will tell you all shortly.’

  There were three new admissions on the general ward – men with complicated injuries. They had all been scythed down by the same exploding shell and their legs were so peppered with shrapnel it had been impossible to find all the pieces. All three had numerous entry wounds, already suppurating. Amy helped one of the nurses to swab and re-dress them. When they were out of hearing the nurse shook her head. ‘They’re going to lose their legs for sure,’ she said. ‘We can’t stop the infection without getting the shrapnel out. And even that probably wouldn’t save them.’

  ‘It’s awful,’ Helen said, on the way to lunch. ‘Sister says they are all critical. Dr Hanfield has got some of the bits out but she just can’t find them all.’

  Amy was all too well aware of what would happen. Each piece of shrapnel carried in dirt and mud and bits of filthy clothing. Each piece was a focus of deadly infection. If they were not removed the men had little hope. They were not even men; they were boys with anxious mothers at home waiting for news.

  She realized with a kind of shock that she was back again in reality. The time she had spent in England now seemed like the dream; undisturbed sleep, the quiet peace of home, the smells only of lavender furniture polish in the house, and winter bonfires in the gardens. Had she really been flying? Had Johnny really kissed her?

  Dr Hanfield came into the dining-room. She tapped a glass with a spoon to gain silence. ‘I have some news,’ she said. ‘I am delighted to tell you that Madame Marie Curie is coming here to the hospital tomorrow with her Rontgen machine. She is going to help us to locate the shrapnel in the three young boys in the ward. It could make all the difference in the world. It could save their lives.’

  There was a murmur of excited conversation and Amy looked around her. It seemed that very few of them had ever seen an X-ray photograph before.

  ‘Perhaps you know,’ Dr Hanfield went on, ‘That Madame Curie takes her machines to the forward hospitals at great risk to herself and has been of enormous help to the surgeons. She has saved many lives. So please give her every welcome and respect.’ There was a little outbreak of applause.

  ‘That’s amazing,’ Helen whispered. ‘I hope we get a look at the films. Fancy being able to see someone’s bones.’

  As she left, Dr Hanfield noticed Amy and smiled. ‘Nice to see you back, Amy.’

  Amy had seen X-ray photographs before but they were certainly rare here in France. The Rontgen Machines only existed in a few of the larger French hospitals. But she was truly excited at the prospect of perhaps meeting Madame Curie, the woman who had won the Nobel Prize, the only person in the world who possessed a gramme of radium. She had read in a newspaper t
hat when the French Government had decamped to Bordeaux she had taken her precious radium in a lead box to Bordeaux to prevent it from falling into the hands of the Germans, and when Paris seemed safe again, she had brought it back. Meeting her would be a great privilege, a once in a lifetime.

  The doctors and nurses and most of the staff were waiting in the hall when Madame Curie arrived the next day. She came into the hall with her driver.

  ‘Goodness,’ Helen whispered. ‘She’s so famous and you wouldn’t look at her twice, would you?’

  Her grey hair was drawn back neatly over pale grey eyes and her clothes were quiet, dark and unremarkable – serviceable clothes and boots for the work she was doing. She smiled and touched hands with Dr Hanfield. Dr Hanfield had warned them all not to shake Madame Curie’s hand if they were introduced. Apparently her hands had been damaged during her researches, and were tender. Her driver and some of the men carried in her equipment.

  Dr Hanfield led her to the operating theatre and they all watched as the men carried in her Rontgen machine and the baths and chemicals for developing the films.

  ‘You have electricity, I see,’ Madame Curie said as she followed them in. ‘How convenient. I usually have to take my own dynamo and run it off the car engine.’

  The first of the three young soldiers was wheeled in. Dr Hanfield put her head out of the door. ‘No one is to come in for the moment,’ she said, ‘until Madame Curie has taken her pictures.’ Amy was about to walk away but Dr Hanfield called to her. ‘I shall want you, Amy. We’ll need another pair of hands.’ Amy was surprised, and delighted, delighted to be in theatre again, and to see such modern equipment being used. She was missing so much, she thought, so much experience, so much learning.

  After a while the door opened and Dr Hanfield gestured to the theatre staff to come in. Amy followed them. Madame Curie displayed her films, holding them up to the light, showing the pieces of shrapnel scattered through the muscle. The anaesthetist placed a mask over the young soldier’s face, and began the chloroform. ‘I want you to hold this dish, Amy,’ Dr Hanfield said, ‘to take the pieces, and hold the bucket when I irrigate the wounds.’ Guided by the films, she removed the first piece of shrapnel, inserting long forceps through the wound, and then inserting a tube to wash out the pus and dirt. ‘Hypochlorite solution,’ she said. ‘Sir Almroth Wright prefers saline. He says that harsh antiseptics can damage the tissue without killing the bacteria, but we’ll be on the safe side, I think, for the time being. But things might change. He and Alexander Fleming are working on infection all the time.’

  Amy watched, fascinated. The films made it so easy. Without them one could poke about blindly in the wounds and still not find the pieces. A task that had seemed almost impossible was completed in a very short time. At least, she thought, this was one modern invention that could not be used to destroy. One by one the bits of steel dropped into her dish, the dressings applied, and the young soldier taken back to his bed. They worked through the morning and into the afternoon until all three men were free of the killing splinters.

  ‘I think we all need a cup of tea,’ Dr Hanfield said. She led them to the dining-room.

  Madame Curie was eager to get away. ‘I have so much to do,’ she said. ‘I cannot stay.’ After tea they went back to the theatre to help Madame Curie pack up the machinery. Dr Hanfield touched her hand again. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘It has been wonderful. Those boys have a chance now.’

  Madame Curie’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘I am glad to help.’

  Amy looked at her, at this compassionate woman who looked so ordinary and was so extraordinary. She was one of the great, one of those exclusive few whose name would never die, who had done so much for the greater good of mankind. Madame Curie had already suggested that radium might be used in medicine – might even be able to treat cancer. Amy felt humbled in her presence. She felt a new surge of determination, to get her licence back, to help where she could. Marie Curie had never given up, and neither, she determined, would she.

  Some of the men carried the equipment to the door and Amy followed to say goodbye. An officer in uniform was standing just inside the door, his cap in his hand. ‘Madame Curie,’ he said. He bent down to her and she stopped and smiled and listened to what he was saying so earnestly. She took a notebook out of her pocket and wrote in it. She nodded and patted the officer on his arm. He turned around, and Amy saw with surprise that it was Dan.

  Madame Curie left the hospital and Dan looked around him. When he saw Amy his face lit up in a surprised smile and he came quickly towards her. ‘Amy!’ he said. ‘I thought you were in England. How very nice to see you.’

  She smiled and took his outstretched hand. ‘I’ve just come back.’

  ‘How is your father?’

  She was surprised he knew that her father had been ill. ‘He’s much better,’ she said. ‘But how did you know…?’

  He grinned. ‘Helen writes to Peter, so I get all the news. I’ve got my spies, you see. I’m keeping track of you. I know what you’re doing.’

  She looked at him. I hope you don’t, she thought. Not everything.

  He smiled down at her. ‘I’m only joking.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said. ‘More army business?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not this time. I heard that Madame Curie was going to be here and I wanted to ask her to come to us. She says she will. If only we had more X-ray machines. It would be infinitely useful. Sometimes it’s almost impossible to see what you’re doing.’ He turned his cap around in his hand. ‘I don’t suppose it’s possible for you to come out tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m off at eight, but I’d have to ask Matron.’

  He nodded. ‘Could you ask her now? I’ll wait.’

  Matron sighed but gave her consent. ‘Be back by ten, Amy.’

  Dan gave a huge grin. ‘Well done. I’ll pick you up just after eight. We’ll go to the same hotel we went to before. I’ll get a cab if I have to hold one up like Dick Turpin.’ He put on his cap and left the hotel, waving briefly from the street.

  He’s changed again, she thought. Every time she saw him he looked, not older, but harder, leaner, more predatory. She could hardly remember the fresh-faced young man she had first met. His ears didn’t turn pink now when he spoke to her. He was different. We’re all changing, she thought. This war is changing us all: Dan becoming stronger, tougher, implacable; Johnny becoming perhaps more reckless. And she? She didn’t know. Life now for everyone was a jumble of emotions, of fear, and strength and superhuman courage. Nothing and no one would ever be the same.

  ‘What are you going to wear?’ Helen said that evening. ‘You can borrow my green dress if you like.’

  Amy was sitting in front of the mirror, putting up her hair. ‘Thank you, but no. I’ll wear my pink thing again.’

  Helen leant over her shoulder. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Amy took two long hairpins out of her mouth. ‘What about?’

  ‘You know.’

  Amy laughed. ‘You’re just a little old-fashioned romantic, Helen. I don’t have to do anything. They are both just friends.’

  ‘You can fool some of the people all the time,’ Helen said. ‘You seem to be determined to fool yourself.’

  ‘We have more important things to think about,’ Amy said. She took her cloak out of the wardrobe, said goodnight, and walked down the marble staircase to where Dan waited.

  The waiter settled them at their table and handed them menus.

  ‘I don’t know how they do it,’ Dan said, ‘producing food like this under these circumstances.’

  Amy nodded. ‘The French can make anything taste good. It makes one wonder what it would be like in normal times.’

  He was studying his menu. ‘Perhaps we’ll be able to find out one day,’ he said.

  She glanced at him sharply. It was the second time he had said something like that, something about the futur
e. But he didn’t raise his head, didn’t look at her.

  The waiter came back and they ordered, potage and a Chicken Marengo.

  ‘How were things at home?’ he said.

  ‘Lots of shortages, especially anything that has to be imported – sugar, oranges, bananas. There was even a shortage of onions for a while. We used to get the French onion sellers on their bicycles. They’ve gone now, of course.’

  ‘And how was your father?’

  ‘He’s well now, physically at least. But I know he’s filled with dread. I can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. It’s his boys at school, fine boys, seventeen or eighteen years old, and they almost all volunteer as soon as they can, as soon as they leave school. Several of them are already dead. He knows them all so well. He can hardly bear it. It can’t do his health any good.’

  He put his hand over hers. ‘Oh Amy.’

  Tears started in her eyes but she blinked them away. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Other people have worse things to deal with. I’m just being weak.’

  He pressed her hand gently. ‘You’re just being human, Amy. There’s nothing wrong with caring, even though it hurts sometimes. We can’t become automata, without feeling. If we lose the ability to care we lose everything and this dreadful evil has won.’ His hand on hers felt strong, comforting.

  ‘I know,’ she said. He was almost repeating her father’s words.

  The waiter came with their soup and Dan took his hand away slowly. ‘You look very nice,’ he said. ‘Is that a new dress?’

  She looked at him and laughed. ‘It’s the same one I wore last time.’

  He looked sheepish. ‘Is it really? I’m afraid I’m not very good at … fashion.’

  She laughed again and he smiled back. ‘You still look very nice.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We do our best.’

  They finished their soup and the waiter brought the chicken, and then a fruit pudding. Dan ate everything before him as if he’d been starved. The waiter cleared the table and brought their coffee.

  ‘Wonderful,’ Dan said. ‘Real food.’ He stirred sugar into his coffee, looking at her. ‘Amy?’ he said. ‘What do you intend to do after the war?’