by Peggy Savage
‘I know.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘So you see, there’s nothing to worry about. You won’t have to work. You’ll have plenty to do, believe me. My mother does a lot of charity work – she never stops.’
Her smile faded. ‘But … what if I want to do it? I worked so hard to qualify, Johnny. It means a lot to me.’
His face changed a little. ‘I don’t quite see how it would be possible.’
She leant towards him, trying to show him how much it meant to her. ‘Other women do it.’
‘I don’t want other women, Amy, I want you. Wouldn’t you be satisfied and happy doing what other wives do, doing what my mother does?’
She began to have a strange feeling that something was shrivelling inside her, something that she couldn’t grasp. ‘I’m not the same as your mother, Johnny. Times are changing. Surely she would understand?’
He shook his head. ‘No, she wouldn’t. I don’t think there is any reason for her to know anything about it.’
She lowered her head and bit her lip, confused and distressed.
He bent down and looked up into her eyes, smiling. ‘I love you, Amy. Isn’t that all that matters? We’ll sort it out somehow. You might never get your licence back. There’d be no problem then.’
She smiled at him, a troubled smile.
‘Let’s leave it until the war is over,’ he said. ‘We can’t do anything about it till then.’
She looked into his handsome face, wondering how she could ever be without him, wondering at the same time how she could live her life without her job.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘When the war’s over.’
‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘Write to me, Amy. I’ll see you when I can. Don’t forget that you’re my girl.’
They walked out together into the fitful sunshine and walked to the edge of the camp. Two soldiers were waiting by his aircraft to help him. He climbed over the fence then leant across and kissed her on the mouth. He strode away across the field, putting on his helmet. He climbed into the plane and the two Tommies turned the plane round, into the wind. The engine spluttered and roared and the plane rolled down the field and then up into the blue sky and away.
She walked back to the hut. Nothing had been resolved, but at least she had told him. Surely, she thought, they could work it out somehow. If they truly loved each other surely they could reach some compromise – square the circle. At the end of this endless war.
She went back to the theatre, to the ruptured intestines, damaged livers and spleens. She removed a shattered kidney, hoping that the boy was young and strong enough to lead a normal life with just one. Time after time the putrid smell of infection dashed any hope of recovery. One day it will end, she said to herself, over and over. One day it will end.
That night Helen was excited and curious. ‘Fancy him flying in, just like that! Wasn’t that wonderful? What did he say?’
Amy lay on her back, looking at the ceiling. ‘He asked me to marry him.’
Helen gave a squeal and sat up in bed. ‘There you are, I knew he would. You said yes, of course.’
‘Yes.’ Amy was still troubled. ‘But I told him all about me and I don’t think he was altogether pleased with the idea of a working wife. I know his mother wouldn’t like it.’
‘You’re not marrying his mother.’ Helen was indignant. ‘Sooner or later everyone is going to have to accept that women are different now.’
‘He says we’ll sort it out after the war.’
‘After the war, after the war,’ Helen said. ‘All our lives are waiting until after the war.’ She lay down again. ‘I’m sick of it.’
‘Your friend was right about something brewing,’ Dan said, a few days later. ‘There’s been an attack by the Canadians at Vimy Ridge and another attack at Arras. Massive casualties, of course. We should be getting them any moment.’
The English newspapers arrived, several days late, and Amy began to read the accounts of the battle. The weather was appalling. Men had struggled through mud deep enough to drown a man. Then her heart leapt into her mouth. There had been a massive air battle over Vimy Ridge. In dreadful weather – rain and wind and a snowstorm – the planes had battled it out, and the Red Baron had added even more victims to his tally. She did her work in a constant fear for Johnny. She couldn’t sleep. Any snatched moments led to nightmares of aeroplanes falling and crashing and the terrible repeated dream of the young German pilot.
She got a letter from Johnny and almost collapsed with relief. He had been there.
It was bad, Amy. It must have been hell for the men on the ground. The weather was appalling. They were slogging through mud and shell holes filled with water. The air was filled with shells and bullets; I don’t know how we managed to fly through them unscathed. The ground was on fire with explosions and bursting shells. I was glad I was in the air.
He’s alive, she thought. He came through it. He’s alive. She slept that night like the dead.
The wounded arrived, endless, endless lines of men, soaked to the skin, covered in mud and lice, many with rat-bites. They toiled on.
A letter arrived from her father.
They’ve bombed London again. Fourteen Gotha bombers. Apparently you could see them from Kensington High Street; 162 people were killed and over four hundred wounded. They are killing women and children, Amy.
June was drier with occasional sunny days. ‘Thank God it’s stopped raining,’ Dan said. ‘Perhaps the men can get somewhere now. They can’t fight in the mud.’ He spoke too soon. The rain started again, torrential and continuous and the trenches and shell holes filled again. The army captured Messines Ridge and began the battle at Passchendaele.
‘The Germans are using mustard gas again,’ Dan said. ‘God help the men.’
‘The Americans won’t be coming until next year,’ Helen said, almost in tears. ‘You know what that means.’ There was nothing that Amy could say. ‘It means it isn’t going to end, not this year anyway.’
Amy felt overcome with weariness. Another year at least, and after that – who could know? They were all just waiting, endlessly waiting for any kind of normal life to come back again; Helen and Peter, she and Johnny, half the world.
That evening Helen bounced into the hut, her eyes shining. ‘Amy!’ she said. ‘Guess what!’
Amy laughed. ‘Whatever it is it’s obviously something good.’
‘We’re not going to wait any longer.’ Helen was excited and happy. ‘We’re going to get married now as soon as we can.’
Amy was thrilled. ‘What? When? When did all this happen?’
‘We decided today.’ Helen stopped bouncing around the room and sat down at the table. ‘We’re not going home; it would take too long. We’re going to get married in Paris. Peter wants Dan to be his best man, and I want you to be my maid of honour.’
For the next two weeks Helen was totally occupied with her wedding. She was given two days off to go to Paris to make arrangements. ‘I’ll have to let you go,’ Matron said, smiling. ‘You won’t be any use until you’ve done it.’
When she came back she was beaming. ‘I’ve organized the Embassy in Paris, and the English church, and I’ve booked hotels.’
‘Can your parents come?’ Amy asked, and for the first time Helen looked a little sad. ‘I’ve sent cables,’ she said. ‘My father is coming if he can get a passage, but they don’t think my mother or the girls should take the risk. Peter’s father can’t get away.’ She brightened up again. ‘That little dressmaker is making a dress for me.’
‘I’ll just wear my pink again,’ Amy said. ‘It’s come in very handy.’
‘After the war,’ Helen said, ‘we’ll have another blessing and a real party in England. We’ll really celebrate then.’
Somewhat to Amy’s surprise they were all given two nights off to go to the wedding and Helen and Peter were to have two extra nights in Paris. ‘I shall still have to share with you when we get back,’ Helen said. ‘Matron says we c
an’t stay together.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘It would cause scandal and set a bad example.’
‘At least you’ll have a long weekend,’ Amy said wistfully. It was more than she had ever had alone with Johnny.
They travelled to Paris on the train, the men decently housed in one hotel and the girls in another. Helen’s father was there to give her away.
The simple ceremony touched Amy in the deepest way, far more than a lavish wedding in England would ever have done. The men standing proudly in their uniforms and Helen in her simple dress seemed to pare down the service to its real meaning – the simple joining of two fine people who loved each other.
She and Dan travelled back together on the train. She sat with her head against the seat back, staring drowsily out of the window. She glanced at Dan and he was looking at her, his dark eyes brooding. Then he smiled at her, a cheerful, friendly smile.
‘Post, Amy.’ Helen put the letters on the table. Amy was dressing hurriedly; she was due in theatre. She glanced at the letters. One was from her father; she could see that. The other one she didn’t recognize. She slipped them in her pocket to read later.
She spent the morning in theatre, and came back to the hut to tidy up her hair and get ready for the afternoon. She stood by the table and read her father’s letter. He tried to keep cheerful, bless him, but he constantly worried about her.
She slit open the other letter. Dear Amy, it began. Puzzled, she read on. In a moment she felt suddenly as if she were not alive any more, as if her heart had stopped beating and she was not breathing. It isn’t true, she thought, it can’t be; it’s some dreadful mistake, and for a few confused seconds she was comforted. Then she gave a cry, ‘Helen!’
Helen was beside her at once. ‘Amy, what is it? What’s happened?’
Amy couldn’t stand. She lowered herself slowly into a chair. Helen knelt beside her. She tried to take the letter but Amy wouldn’t let it go. She clutched it to her in despair, as if it was the last contact she would ever have, as if his name, written on the paper, was his last touch.
‘He’s dead, Helen,’ she whispered. ‘Johnny is dead. The letter is from his father.’
‘Oh no! Oh no!’ Helen put her arms around her. She burst into tears.
‘He can’t be,’ Amy said. ‘He can’t be dead.’ But outside the door, in the road and the railway and the hospitals, death was a living, breathing, insatiable monster. She couldn’t cry. She sat on the chair unmoving.
‘Stay here,’ Helen said. ‘I’m going to get someone. I’m going to tell them you can’t work today. Don’t move, Amy.’
She didn’t move. Slowly, very slowly, she had to realize, to accept the truth. Johnny was dead. Her bright, laughing Johnny was dead. She saw him standing before her, tall and upright in his uniform. She saw his smile, his shining hair as he walked to her across the field. She felt his arms around her and his kiss on her mouth. She saw his mother’s roses that she had named for him, the bright, flaming flowers dancing free in the garden. Her face felt frozen; she couldn’t cry.
The door opened quietly and Helen and Dan came in. Dan took her hands in his. ‘I’m so sorry, Amy. I’m so sorry.’
She looked into his kind, concerned face and held on to his hands.
‘I’ll tell them you can’t work for a while,’ he said.
‘I don’t want to stop working,’ she said dully. ‘It’ll be better if I go on. God knows I’m not the only one.’
‘You must take your time, Amy.’
‘I want to go to his funeral,’ she said. ‘The letter is from his father. He’s being buried in a week, when – when he arrives home.’
‘Of course,’ Dan said. ‘You shall go.’
‘I’ll stay with you today,’ Helen said. ‘You shouldn’t be alone.’
‘Call for me any time,’ Dan said. He released her hands. ‘I’ll sort out compassionate leave for you. Just leave it to me. Look after her, Helen.’
‘I’ll go to see Matron,’ Helen said. ‘I’ll get the day off to be with you. I’ll be back very soon.’
They left the hut, leaving her alone. She walked about the hut, restless, in pain. It didn’t seem possible that he had gone – a moment, a spark of time, and he was gone. She couldn’t bear to think of how he died – surely not like the German pilot. She put the letter down carefully on the table. How they must be suffering, his mother and father and his brother. She remembered his mother’s face, the fear in her eyes. This war – any war – takes the finest and the best.
Helen came back. ‘Come out with me,’ Amy said. ‘I need to be outside in the open air.’
They walked down their usual walk at the edge of the camp. Helen took her hand. ‘Do you want to talk about it, Amy?’
They walked a little further. ‘His father got a letter from his commanding officer,’ Amy said. ‘He was shot down. He said that Johnny died instantly. He didn’t suffer. I only hope that it was true.’ They walked for most of the rest of the day. Amy was too restless to stay anywhere.
In the evening Dan came. ‘I’ve arranged for you to go home,’ he said. ‘The day after tomorrow.’ She nodded her thanks. ‘Do you think you might come back, Amy? Or perhaps it’s too soon for you to make such decisions.’
‘Of course I’ll come back,’ she said. ‘I need to work. It’s the only thing I can do.’
After he had gone she got into bed, but she lay awake most of the night, only falling into a restless doze as dawn was breaking.
When she arrived in England it was raining. She sent a telegram to her father as soon as she left the boat: Have arrived in England. Johnny is dead. She took the train to London, to Victoria Station. The train was packed with soldiers. They sat in strained silence in the seats, or smoked, standing in the corridors, their eyes distant and guarded.
She arrived home exhausted. Her father met her at the door and put his arms around her and led her inside. The familiar atmosphere of home wrapped around her. She put her head on her father’s shoulder and for the first time, she wept.
‘What can I say, Amy?’ Her father held her as her sobbing quietened. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘There’s nothing to say,’ she said. ‘He’s gone; that’s all.’ Her head began to droop.
‘You’re exhausted,’ he said. ‘You must go to bed and rest.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just for a little while.’ She dragged herself upstairs and into her room and undressed and got into bed. She fell asleep instantly and slept until the next morning, without dreaming.
Her father was at the breakfast table when she came downstairs. He poured her a cup of tea. ‘Did you sleep?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’ She sipped her tea. ‘The funeral is on Friday. At their home in Berkshire.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No, dear,’ she said. ‘I’d rather go alone. I’m only going to the service. I’m not going to stay. I couldn’t bear to stand around talking about him to people I don’t know and who don’t know me.’
‘Come straight home afterwards,’ he said. ‘You can rest here with me.’
On Friday she took the train to London and then a train from Paddington. She took a taxi from the station to the church.
The little church was filled with people, all, to her distress, dressed in black. There was so much black everywhere. Johnny would not have wanted black.
She found a place at the back of the church. She could see Johnny’s father in the front pew and beside him Johnny’s mother. She looked smaller than ever, shrunken and bent, and heavily veiled.
The organ began to play quietly and the congregation stood up. The coffin was carried in, draped in the Union flag. It passed so close to her that she could have reached out and touched it – touched him. The tears began and ran silently down her cheeks. There were tears all around her.
She didn’t hear the service. She stood up and sat down with everyone else. A few words came through from the prayers; courage, sacrifice, eternal life. I want him now, she t
hought. I want him now. The tears flowed. The service ended and the coffin was carried out into the little churchyard for the final goodbye.
Johnny’s father saw her and made a little signal with his hand, reaching out to her. When the service was over he came to stand beside her.
‘Amy,’ he said. He took her hand. She could see the agony in his eyes. ‘I want to talk to you,’ he said. ‘Will you come back to the house?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’
He seemed to understand. ‘Wait for me here,’ he said. ‘I’ll take my wife home and I’ll come back.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait.’
They climbed into their cars. Johnny’s mother didn’t speak to her, too devastated, Amy thought, to speak to anyone. She probably didn’t know anything about her real relationship with Johnny. He probably hadn’t told her yet. It was going to be after the war. Everything was after the war.
She stood beside the grave for a few moments with bowed head, saying her last goodbye. Then she went to sit in the little church. It was very quiet. The light slanted through the stained-glass windows, casting their colours on the stone floor. The ancient walls seemed to speak to her. She put out her hand and touched one of the stone pillars, solid, unchanging. Hundreds of years of English history folded around her. She could feel the presence of these ancient congregations. ‘Life goes on,’ they seemed to say. ‘We accept; we go on.’
Sir Henry came into the church and sat beside her. ‘My dear,’ he said. There were tears in his eyes. ‘I know that you loved him and I know that he loved you. I want you to know that I would have been proud to welcome you into the family.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘He told me,’ he went on, ‘about you being a doctor and about your troubles.’
‘It hardly matters now,’ she said.
‘Yes, it does, Amy. You must go on with your life. I believe what you say. I’m not without contacts. I’ll help you in any way I can.’
‘I can’t think about it now,’ she said.
