In Falling Snow

by Mary-Rose MacColl

  “Cicely wired Edinburgh again today,” Dr. Savill said. “No one will freight for us. As soon as they know who we are, they tell us there’s no room.”

  “Well, let’s just tell them we’re someone else,” Miss Ivens said. “Is it the Scottish or the Women they object to? I assume Hospitals are all right.” She bit into the bread.

  “Either? Both? Elsie’s got a bit of a reputation, you know. She wouldn’t come out against the hunger strikes.”

  “Elsie Inglis runs our organisation,” Miss Ivens said to me after she’d swallowed the bread. “The Scottish Women’s Hospitals. You’ll meet her soon.” And then, to Dr. Savill, “Let me see what I can do tomorrow. My father’s company uses a Greek shipping group. They might be able to carry the heavier equipment. We’re not fools, just women. If I get a chance . . .”

  “Did you want me, Frances?” A new face had appeared at the door. It was another woman, tiny and slight, younger even than Dr. Savill by the look of her. She smiled over to me, pursed lips, raised eyebrows, like a little pixie.

  “Ah, Violet my love. Mattresses,” Miss Ivens said. “We left them at the station. Can you go up in the car?”

  “For a mattress, I’ll drive to Paris,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly deep for such a little thing. She looked at me. She had green eyes like a cat, with blonde hair that fell to her shoulders in soft curls. “You must be Iris.” She read the surprise on my face. “Word travels fast in a house full of women. Cicely Hamilton’s got your name in her book. Want to come back into town?”

  I didn’t. I was exhausted. “Of course. I’ll get my coat.”

  I used my bread to mop up the rest of my soup—when in Rome—then got up, pulled on my coat, and followed the woman out into the cold abbey.

  “I’m Violet Heron,” she said just outside the kitchen door.

  “Iris Crane,” I said, taking the warm dry hand she offered.

  “Flower bird,” she said. I must have looked puzzled. “Our names—we’re both flower birds.”

  I laughed. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

  “Well, come on, Miss Flower Bird. Let’s flit.”

  We walked back through the abbey, taking a different route from the one I’d taken with Miss Ivens. Violet carried a lantern. “What did you mean, Cicely Hamilton has my name in her book?” I said.

  “She keeps a book on troublemakers,” Violet said. “She thinks you’re a troublemaker. But don’t worry. My name’s the first entry. Yours won’t be the last. Eventually we’ll all be in there and then she’ll be alone, won’t she?”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows? Cicely’s an actress.” Violet said this with considerable emphasis, as if it would explain everything. “She thinks she’s in charge. Frances and the rest go along with her because she’s a good bookkeeper. But she doesn’t like anyone getting between her and Frances. If Frances likes you, and she does, apparently, you’re doomed.”

  “I think I went to school with girls like Cicely. You can never please them. You’re better off ignoring them.”

  “You got that right, my dear.” Violet’s voice had started to echo. We’d moved into a large space.

  “I can smell horses,” I said.

  “We’re in the refectory. The Uhlan used it as a stable, dear hearts.”

  “The Uhlan? I thought Miss Ivens said they were Cistercians.”

  “You’re out by five centuries and a mile of vocations. The Uhlan are the German cavalry. The Cistercians are the monks who built the abbey.”

  “The Germans were here?”

  “My word. Two months ago, Royaumont was between them and Paris, more or less. The mayor of Asnières fled and left the local priest to meet the Germans. Even the government of Paris evacuated. And then, some French general commandeered all the Paris taxicabs to take more soldiers to the front. The Germans retreated. I’d retreat too if I were up against a Paris taxicab. They’re even more daring than the ones in London.”

  The smell of horses, which had always seemed to me sweet and honest, was suddenly associated with the thing I most dreaded, the Germans who’d started the war. I dared not breathe lest I took some of their evil into my lungs. I thought of Tom again suddenly. I had a picture of him in my mind as clear as day, younger than he really was, a boy of twelve, out there on his own in the snow, cold and alone, and I felt a pull at my heart.

  Violet said she’d been in Paris in the summer but now it was like a different city. “Miss Ivens says they’ve only just got over the last war with Germany. Life’s just dismal. You can’t even get absinthe these days.”

  “Absinthe?”

  “Marvellous stuff, better than champagne,” Violet said. “But it’s been banned because it makes you feel so good. We’re not supposed to feel good.”

  We emerged into the cloister and I was relieved to breathe the clean air. It was colder than within the abbey now and the stars were out, the snow a white so bright it was nearer blue. I wrapped the two lengths of my scarf around my neck.

  Violet turned to me and smiled. “Who taught you to wind a scarf?” She pulled at the scarf gently and repositioned it, making a long side and wrapping it twice. “There,” she said. “Snug as a bug.” It was something Daddy would say as he tucked Tom and me into bed at night, and I felt a twinge of homesickness.

  We were walking down one side of the cloister. Violet pulled a pack of cigarettes from her coat pocket and offered me one. I took it. She pulled one out for herself and stopped and struck a match and held it. I put my face forward and sucked on the cigarette as I’d seen others do. I leaned back and breathed it in and coughed violently and pulled my face away. Violet extinguished the match. “Do you smoke?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, through my cough, holding the foul thing away from me.

  “Oh for goodness’ sake, you don’t have to,” she said, taking the cigarette from me and putting her own back into the pack as she nursed mine between her lips. “Aren’t you a trick?” She led me out of the cloister, around the back of the abbey. “These are our garages,” Violet said. “Mine’s this one.”

  “You can drive a truck?” It was an enormous contraption, two seats in front and a canvas-covered tray behind.

  I’d driven a car just the once, the Carsons’, over their top paddock, which was big enough so I wouldn’t hit anything, or at least that’s what Tom had said. The steering wheel rattled under my hands. The engine was louder than anything I’d ever heard. It was nothing like a fast horse, which was the way Tom had described it. I screamed at him to tell me where the brake was, slammed on it as soon as he did, stalled the car, and never asked for a drive again. Tom was the opposite, of course, loved anything with a machine in it, drove the car whenever he could, much to Daddy’s consternation. They would have fought about cars, Daddy and Tom, if they’d ever got to it. But they had plenty of other things to get through first.

  “This isn’t a truck,” Violet said. “It’s an ambulance, or it will be.” She pulled herself up into the cabin, holding her cigarette between her lips again to free up her hands.

  “I might be a trick,” I said, “but you’re amazing. Did you study with Miss Ivens?”

  “Study? Oh God, no. I’m not a doctor. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “I don’t know. You called Miss Ivens Frances.”

  “Frances is her name, darling. No, I’m a driver. I’m going to drive this ambulance.”

  “So, did you know Miss Ivens from before?”

  “No. They advertised for drivers so I thought I’d come along. You had to bring your own car.”

  “So how old are you?” She seemed so young to have so much experience.

  “Twenty-four. You?”

  “Twenty-one. You own a car?” I said.

  “It was a friend’s, but yes, it’s mine now. I don’t think he’ll want it back when he sees what they’ve done
to it.”

  “Are all the drivers women?” I asked.

  “We’ve brought two men because the Croix-Rouge said women can’t drive in a war zone. Frances says we’ll see about that and they’ll just need to get used to us. But as for the rest of us, we’re women, yes, last time I checked.”

  “How on earth are they going to make that abbey into a hospital? It’s a wreck.”

  “You’re not supposed to say that. We all have to pretend the abbey ‘just needs a little work.’” It was a perfect imitation of Miss Ivens, complete with the little shake of the head. I laughed.

  “So, tell me about Australia.” Violet had her right arm over the back of my seat as she reversed. She smelled like flowers and spoke like my English teacher had implored us to speak. I wondered how you could muster up the energy for such perfect diction all the time, but I suppose it was what she was used to. “My brother had a book about Australia and I’ve always wanted to go there.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Is it true the men are giants?”

  “Well, I’ve nothing to compare them with except the few little Frenchmen I met at the railway station. But based on Miss Ivens, I’d say women from Warwickshire are giants.”

  “Amazons. She is truly wonderful, isn’t she?” Violet said.

  “Is she a bit mad?”

  “Oh yes, completely, but don’t you find mad people interesting? They go out in the deep where something’s happening. The rest of us just bathe in the shallows. I’d like to be mad. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “No, thank you.”

  “Well, I don’t think you’re too much at risk, at any rate,” Violet said. “Nor me, more’s the pity.”

  “So, what made you decide to come here?” I said. Violet was so charming and sophisticated. I couldn’t imagine her working for a hospital.

  “What else would I do? Sit at home? We’re at war. I don’t know. Why did you come?”

  “It’s complicated,” I said. “My young brother ran away and signed up. Our father told him he wasn’t to go but he went anyway. He’s very headstrong. So I’m to find him and bring him home.”

  “Is your father a pacifist? How exotic.”

  “I don’t know. What’s a pacifist?”

  “You know, peace at any cost. Lay down your weapons. I wouldn’t tell anyone else if I were you. We’re all pretty patriotic at the moment. God save and all that.”

  “I wouldn’t say my father’s a pacifist,” I said. “Actually, he has a pretty bad temper if it comes to it and doesn’t mind taking anyone on. But he doesn’t believe we should go to war.” Daddy’s older brother had been killed in the Boer War and it broke their mother’s heart. He said Australia wasn’t Britain and shouldn’t be in a British war.

  I peered into the snow ahead of us. “It’s very dark.”

  “Night tends to do that. Cicely said you were supposed to be in Soissons with the hospital there. Frances has told her to ‘fix it, will you, dear.’ I think Cicely’s planning to ship you off as soon as she can.”

  I smiled. “I think you’re right about that. The Red Cross gave me a choice—a hospital ship in the Aegean, nursing typhoid cases, or France, where there were vacancies in Soissons. When we last heard from Tom, he mentioned Amiens so I asked to go to Soissons because it’s close. To be honest, I don’t quite know what possessed me to follow Miss Ivens,” I said.

  “I do. She’s put one of her spells on you,” Violet said. “Frances could convince rain to fall upwards.”

  “She probably could.” I laughed. “And I’m very glad to have come to meet you all. It sounds marvellous, what you’re planning to do. But I really must go tomorrow. I’m supposed to be looking for Tom, not having fun.”

  “Surely you can do both,” Violet said. She paused. “We’re just as near Amiens as Soissons is, and we’re a good deal nearer Paris, more to the point. It’s criminal to be too far from Paris when one is living in France, my dear. Perhaps you could just stay with us until you find him. That wouldn’t hurt.” She looked over at me, screwing up her nose and giving me a little pixie smile.

  “Perhaps I could,” I said. “I mean, it’s not as if I’ll be able to locate him just like that anyway.”

  “Exactly. I imagine it might be quite difficult to find one young man in all this war. Even if he started in Amiens, he would have moved south with the troops by now.” I was nodding agreement. I hadn’t given much thought to how I’d actually locate Tom, and Violet was right. It might take quite a bit of time. “Hurrah,” she said, although I hadn’t said anything. “Someone I can have a laugh with. I have to warn you, Iris, the others take everything very seriously. And don’t get me wrong. I like being at Royaumont and I’m frightfully serious, but goodness me a little fun now and then never goes astray.” I didn’t reply.

  “So why does your father want you to take your brother home?” Violet said after a pause.

  “He’s only fifteen,” I said. I felt a pull of emotion. “We’re very close, Tom and I.” Suddenly I thought I might cry. I narrowed my eyes to stop the tears.

  “Oh, that is young,” Violet said, failing to notice my upset. “And so you’ve come all this way, all by yourself?”

  “Yes,” I said, recovering my composure. “Actually, the ship journey was fun. But then we were held up in Folkestone because of the Channel storms, then Boulogne, then Paris. I’ve been to the train station for three days running but there were no trains to Soissons. The line’s been blown up.”

  Violet laughed. “There is a war on, dear.”

  “So I hear. I didn’t mind at all. I loved the station, just watching all the people.”

  Gare du Nord had been exactly as I’d imagined it, the rafters thickly lined with pigeons, moving about aimlessly, mirroring the people milling about below. The uniforms were there, the khaki of the British, the blue and red of the French who looked so gallant wrapped in their greatcoats with their caps low. Ordinary French people were scattered among the soldiers, their baskets and bags and need to travel in front of them like signs against enchantment. Porters were moving about slowly as if there had never been a war. They looked at their watches, at their shiny shoes, and cast sly glances at the soldiers.

  On the second day, having confirmed the train was cancelled again, I’d left the station and wandered the city. “We weren’t supposed to be on the streets unaccompanied, but how could I stay inside?” I said. “It was Paris,” I added, trying to sound sophisticated like Violet. And it was Paris, the Paris that Claire had made so real for me. From the way Daddy had talked, I’d expected the city to be in ruins because of the war but it was nothing like that at all.

  I went to all the places I’d read about. I started to feel as if I could be someone else, not plain Iris Crane from Risdon but someone who might be present at important places and important moments, someone more like Violet seemed to me to be, perfectly relaxed in the world. This new Iris ate lunch in a café in Montmartre called Chartiers—baked ham with cabbage that tasted heavenly, like nothing she’d ever eaten at home—and drank red wine that came in a little glass bottle and tasted like the fruit it had once been. She stood below the Arc de Triomphe. In the afternoon, she walked along a street on her way back to the pension, kicking a little rounded black pebble that skipped along in front of her merrily. The street was empty but for an old man in a cap and a boy playing marbles. She kicked the stone and felt she had found perfection itself.

  Later I wondered if that girl, that Iris, was still there on the street in the Latin Quarter kicking the stone, and I could go back and find her, and change the rest of the story. But of course, you can’t do that. If I was to be that new Iris, I would have to give up the old Iris. There would be no going back. There never is.

  On the third day, I’d been fully ready to go to Soissons. At the station I remember seeing another nurse in a wool
coat like mine hurrying along the platform with a confidence I admired. She was older than me, perhaps middle forties. Nearer me was a young French couple, leaning towards one another, focusing on a bundle the woman held in her arms, an infant. They looked so forlorn, I was wondering whether I should ask them if they needed help when the man looked up past the woman and child and met my gaze. His eyes were dark and wet. He looked from my face to my shoulder, saw the red cross emblazoned on my coat, the red cross of hope. “Please, please, will you help us?” he asked in French. “Our little one is sick.”

  I went over immediately, with no idea what I might be able to do. “I’ll do what I can,” I said. I led the mother, whose gaze was fixed on the child, over to a bench. When she did look up at me finally I saw dark smudges under her eyes and tear lines down her face. I put a hand on her shoulder and smiled with what I hoped was reassurance. She kept both arms firmly around the child. Her husband remained a little distance away.

  I was trying to remember what I’d learned about newborns, for the child looked very new. A boy, his mother told me, her voice croaky. He’d been sick with a fever for three days and they’d come to Paris but there were no doctors available because of the war so they were going back home. The night before, the boy had gone completely rigid—they’d thought he was dying—and then he’d slept. He’d been asleep all night now. The woman’s voice shook with emotion. I kept my own voice as even as I could. “Is he on the breast?” I asked matter-of-factly. He was. “Was the fever very high?” She nodded, yes. The boy had had a seizure, I surmised, brought on by the fever, no bad thing but not really relevant to the underlying condition. “I’ll need to have a look at him,” I said. She brought the child down to cradle him in her arms. I felt his forehead. “The fever’s broken,” I said. “That’s good.” Gently, I peeled back the shawl and a blanket. I checked glands, no swelling; pupils, normal as far as I could tell; belly, no distension.