“How did you meet her?” Grace had asked, still curious.
Iris had looked vague and said she couldn’t remember. Then she said, “Oh yes, through Al. We were still in Stanthorpe but he’d started back at the Mater ahead of moving to Brisbane. Violet worked at the hospital. Rose was just a baby.”
It hadn’t made sense to Grace, even at the time. Iris had said she’d got the knife as a girl and then she’d said she’d got it when Rose was a baby. But Grace couldn’t get more information from Iris, no matter how hard she tried. Iris just changed the subject. Whenever she saw the knife now, Grace remembered the way Iris answered questions. It was as if she wasn’t telling the truth.
Grace went back into the house now and picked up the invitation. Violet Heron. That was the name inside, Dame Violet Heron. This friend, Violet Heron, whom Iris said she’d met in Brisbane and who was supposedly dead, had not only been at a place called Royaumont during the First World War with Iris but was alive enough to speak at a reunion Iris was hell-bent on attending.
Grace went back outside with the invitation. “That’s the knife your friend Violet gave you,” she said, feeling triumphant finally.
Iris looked at the knife as if she’d only just learned this. “So it is,” she said.
“You also said you knew Violet Heron here in Australia.”
“Did I?”
“You did. And you told me she’d died. But she’s the person on this invitation. Was she at Royaumont?”
“She was,” Iris said. “I’m so muddle-headed.” She squeezed Henry again and smiled. Grace knew there was more to it. “I’m like that muddle-headed wombat in your book, Henry. Come on, let’s see if our biscuits are ready.”
Iris
Senlis was the last town taken by the Germans in September 1914, just before their failed assault on Paris. Many houses were still in ruins and we couldn’t drive the streets because of the holes left by the bombs so we parked outside the town where soldiers had set up a barricade. We quickly found the command post, such as it was, a tabac converted for the purpose. A British soldier was standing at the counter. I went up to him. “I’m looking for my brother Tom Crane, who’s with the Engineers up north,” I said. “Can you help me?”
The soldier looked at me as if he thought I was mad. “Calm down a minute,” he said, one hand raised. “Now who are we looking for?” He looked at Violet.
“Hello there,” she said. “I’m Violet Heron and this is my friend and colleague Iris Crane. Iris is quite worried about Tom and so we’re looking to see if you have records of where soldiers are.”
“You don’t want us,” the soldier said. “We’re just signallers. You need to go back to Chantilly. That’s Command HQ now. They’ve got more chance of finding your man. Else you can write to London. There’s an office there finds soldiers.”
“He’s in Amiens,” I said.
“He’ll have been in the thick of it then,” the soldier said. He looked stricken suddenly and it frightened me. “Really, all we do here is get advice from the French and pass it up to our officers.”
I felt faint and had to bend over and take a breath.
The young soldier was not unkind. “I just can’t help you,” he said to Violet. “The Royal Engineers are everywhere. I can’t find one. He might be in signals. He might be a sapper. I can’t just find a fellow like that.” He clicked his fingers. “But you girls really ought to get back a bit further behind the lines now,” he said. “It’s volatile at the moment. We’re evacuating Senlis tonight.”
“Thank you anyway,” said Violet. “Come, Iris, we must get away.”
I stood and followed Violet. We walked back outside. It had started to snow, just softly, tiny flakes that fell to the ground quickly. “What now?” I said.
“Now we go back to Royaumont,” Violet said. “And we don’t delay.”
“No, Violet, we must find Tom first.”
“Iris, you need to get ahold of yourself. We will find Tom but it’s going to take some time. There’s just nothing you can do right now and we need to get out of here quickly. We’ll wire Command HQ in Chantilly from Royaumont. We can even stop there on the way back if it’s safe. I should have thought of that before.”
“I could have been finding him before this. Here I’ve been—”
Violet took me by the shoulders and shook me gently. “You’ve been making an important contribution to a war hospital. There’s no better thing to have done. There would be no Royaumont right at this moment without you. Do you understand that? Do you have any idea? I know you are worried about your brother. But your job right now, Iris, isn’t to look after him. It’s to stay at Royaumont, to get back there safely so you can keep doing what you’re supposed to be doing. Are you on in the ward tonight again?”
I nodded yes. “Are you sure we should just go back?” I said.
“Absolutely,” Violet said.
I wasn’t convinced but knew there was nothing else to be done. As we headed for Violet’s car, I continued to have an awful feeling of foreboding, a feeling that I had gone wrong now, so wrong, and nothing could make it right.
We were on the road to Chantilly, about three miles out of Senlis. The snow was still falling but the sun was out; it shone brightly on the white all around us, and Violet began to sing “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” not a song I knew but as I listened to her beautiful voice I started to feel a little calmer. Violet had a quality in her singing voice I’ve never heard since, a warmth combined with a sadness that made the listener feel the song, in this case all the sad longing in the world for home, and yet feel at peace, almost happy about yearning.
We came upon a convoy of trucks heading in the opposite direction, back towards Senlis. We passed march-ing soldiers too, their ragged blue coats and muddy boots and hopeless faces telling a story. Before long, we were flagged down by a young French officer. “What’s your destination?” he asked us. Violet told him we needed to get back to Royaumont Hospital and might stop in Chantilly.
“You carry wounded?” he said.
“No. We’ve been in Senlis,” she said.
“You can’t get through this road,” he said. “The Germans are behind us. You’ll have to go back.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Violet said. “This is an ambulance.”
“Tell that to the Kaiser. You can do as you wish. But we’ve been ordered back.” Violet thanked the officer and drove on a while and then pulled off, stopping at the crossroads where she could turn around. “We have to get back, Iris,” she said. “What will we do?”
“He said the Germans are on the road in front.”
“But if we go back to Senlis and the line changes, we might be cut off for weeks. We need to think.” She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “What about the forest road?” she said. “The Germans can’t be everywhere. Surely they’ll keep to the main road. It’s worth a try.”
“Can we can get there from here?” I said.
She nodded. “This is the turnoff. It’s the same road we walk on near Royaumont. I took it once to Senlis. It’s a bit rough for a while but then we’ll be back towards Royaumont. We need to get out of here, darling.”
Violet was right. Royaumont was already short-staffed. We must get back if at all possible. “Go,” I said. “We’ll have to wire Chantilly when we get back.”
“Good girl,” Violet said. We turned right and drove towards the forest. For the first few miles, it was quiet and I felt we’d escaped the danger. We saw no other vehicles and I was relieved. Before too long though, we heard the guns, so much closer than they had ever been so far at Royaumont, where we’d heard only occasionally what sounded like distant thunder. I didn’t know if the guns were from the Germans or the French but they were very loud. “The fighting must be close,” I said.
“I suppose so,” Violet said. “Here we go.” She put her foot
down and we bumped along as quickly as we might.
We met no soldiers on our back road, but the noise of the guns became louder and louder and so either it was getting closer or we were driving towards it or both. I started to feel a tight knot of fear in the pit of my stomach. We were driving into the Germans, I felt sure. Every bend became a nightmare. I expected to see a company of men marching towards us. It was my fault we were here, looking for Tom. I could see now what a mad quest it had been. If we were captured, we would never return to Royaumont and it would be my fault.
“Oh goodness, Violet,” I said finally. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s an adventure, Iris. We’ll be all right,” she said. “After all,” she grinned, “we’re women.” I couldn’t help but laugh.
Suddenly Violet started singing “It’s a Long Way” again. She smiled across at me, encouraging me to sing along with her for the chorus. This I did and as we sang on that winter afternoon in the dark of the forest, the knot in the pit of my stomach unwound itself and I began to feel strangely safe. We drove into evening, the sky around us flashing white now, the noise of the guns sometimes closer, sometimes farther away. Violet sat at the wheel peering ahead, not speaking. The road was terrible, and as we hit bump after bump I wondered if the car would fly apart. We slid around bends in the snow, which was falling again now. I thought any minute a shell would hit us. The road we were on was hidden by trees, but that just meant that whether we got hit or not would depend on pure luck.
At nightfall, we came upon the village of Baillon, which we’d visited once or twice on our walks from Royaumont in the early days. “Can’t be far now, Iris,” Violet said. “But we should stop and rest.” No lights shone in any of the houses—they were in blackout—so we went to the first house at the edge of the village and knocked on the door. An older woman answered. I explained our situation.
“Royaumont,” the woman said, and smiled warmly. “You are the crazy Scottish women? Come in, quickly.”
It was a small house, kitchen and two bedrooms, and the woman was on her own with two children, her husband away fighting. I could see they had little food yet they shared what they had with us, a soup that made me think of home, wine, and bread. The bombs continued through dinner. The woman jumped every time we heard a loud boom but the children played happily enough. Their father was a brave soldier, they told me.
The woman put Violet and me in the main bedroom and slept on the floor of her children’s room. I tried to tell her we’d be fine on the floor but she insisted. Through the night the guns pounded. I thought of the children’s father, somewhere out in the middle of it. I thought of my brother Tom. This was lunacy, pure lunacy.
Violet lay awake next to me. “What’s that you’ve got?” I said. She was gripping something in her fist.
“It’s my knife,” she said. “If they come near us, I swear, Iris, they can have me, but I’ll kill every one of them if they try to touch you.”
I looked at the knife, glinting silver in the moonlight. Its tiny blade couldn’t even kill a rabbit, I thought, let alone a troop of German soldiers. I laughed then, a picture in my mind of little Violet defending my honour against an army. “I think they’ll prefer you, Violet. I’m not much of a spoil of war.”
“I’m serious, Iris. I won’t let them have you. I won’t.” But she started laughing too, and then we were both giggling and for some minutes, we couldn’t stop, releasing the tension of the day into the forest night. Eventually our laughter subsided and we said good night. I fell into the easy sleep of one too young to really know what danger she might be in.
But when I woke in the morning, all was quiet. I knew we weren’t far from Royaumont. I woke Violet and we got up and dressed quickly. I made the bed.
We thanked our host—she tried to send us off with the rest of the bread and soup but I explained we were nearly home—and made the journey in perfect weather with nothing but birdsong for company.
As we pulled along the final drive to the abbey, I expected they’d be waiting, out of their heads with worry about where we were. But we didn’t even have a welcome home when we returned. The fighting had led to more wounded than Royaumont could manage. The French had held at Senlis but not without human cost. Violet went off to the garages to grab her things and head to Creil and I went up to the ward. “You’re late,” was all the ward sister said.
Grace
David was waiting for her just before ten in Ian Gibson’s rooms in the private wing of the hospital, where there was better carpet, softer lighting, nicer smells, and more pleasant Muzak than in the public. “Where’s Henry?” he said.
“I didn’t bring him.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Grace. How can you see a paediatrician without the child?” He was talking in a whisper so the receptionist, who was looking at them, wouldn’t hear, but it was a loud whisper because he was annoyed, so she probably heard anyway.
“I thought we could talk to Ian first and see what he thinks,” Grace said, without lowering her voice. “We’re both clinicians. We can describe the symptoms.”
“Not in paediatrics,” David said. “This is crazy.”
“No, it’s not. I rang Ian and he said it would be fine. Unlike you, he actually understood how unsettling this would be for Henry.” Just then the door to the office opened and Ian Gibson came out. He was a small, slight man with a quiet thoughtful nature and a playful side that only emerged when he was with children. He’d been there when Mia was born. With Phil, he was away and another paediatrician attended. Grace made sure Ian saw her as soon as he got back. He’d seen Henry too when they returned from Canada. Grace trusted him.
Ian and David shook hands and turned it into a hug, slapping each other on the back. He went to embrace Grace but she’d already held out her hand to shake his and ended up putting her hand into his belly and fumbling from there to a clumsy hug.
“How are you both?” he said, gesturing them inside. They sat next to each other. He sat behind his desk, spotless except for a photo of his wife and four daughters and several small but thoughtful toys—a Lego truck, a top, a pull-along car, and a puzzle.
“Good,” David said. “You?”
“Fine,” he said, nodding. “And Henry?” Not one for small talk. Grace had always liked that about him.
“We’re a bit worried . . .” David started. “He’s three now and slower than the other two with his milestones.”
“I don’t think that’s quite right,” Grace said. “He crawled earlier than both of the others. He was crawling at six months. I hardly think that’s delayed. I think he’s fine. You’ve seen him, Ian. He’s just different.”
“He hasn’t been here since he was one, I think, Grace, so that’s quite a while.” He looked up at her. “But if nothing’s wrong, what are you doing here?”
“David?” Grace said.
“I don’t agree he’s fine, and I’m sorry that Grace and I are not together on this. I know it makes things tricky for you. Henry gets exhausted from day care and can’t stand up from a seated position sometimes. There’s either something going on developmentally or in his musculature that’s just wrong. It will need correction.”
Ian listened to them argue back and forth for a few minutes and then held up a hand to stop them. He said, “David, nothing you’ve described is out of the ordinary necessarily.” Grace looked across at David as if to say, I told you so, until Ian added, “But, Grace, I can’t tell you Henry’s well until I see the boy himself. I do think we need to do that. I think David’s right. If one parent is worried, we need to rule some things out.”
“You think there’s a problem?”
“Asking me that question is like asking whether you think there’s a problem with a pregnancy after talking to the patient’s husband.”
Grace said she wanted to give it another six months. “He’ll be four by then. Is that okay?”
&nb
sp; Ian Gibson shook his head. “I think you two need to decide this. It’s not really for me to say. I’m happy to see Henry any time. I’m much better with his age group than yours, to be honest.” He smiled. “Maybe sooner rather than later, though,” he said.
As they were walking out, Ian Gibson asked Grace if they had her medical history. “I think so,” she said. “I think I provided it when we brought Mia for a post-birth check.”
“Well, I know David’s, so if I’ve got yours, all we need now is to see the boy himself. I’ll look forward to it.”
Iris
I saw Tom this morning, out on the back verandah. He was about six, Daddy’s face already showing through the simple youth of him, his long limbs and torso, the way he stood. I was beating the hall rug—I’d had Geoffrey lift it out there for me—and one minute Tom wasn’t there and the next he was, standing by me, watching what I was doing. I was still the old woman I am now but also a girl, which made sense in the way it does in dreams, and Tom took my hand in his to pull me down beside him and he brushed my hair behind my ear and put his mouth close and whispered, “There there, Iris,” like I might have done to him. He stood back and looked at me and smiled. “Haven’t we had a grand time of it? And aren’t we the lucky ones?” he whispered again. And then he turned away from me, still smiling. “Wait,” I said. He turned back. “Whatever do you mean, Iris?” A little laugh, a blink from me, and he was gone. All that was left was the rug and the lines of winter sun on the verandah.
It was Tom’s child self that would come to me like this in the first days after I arrived home from Royaumont. His child self would come and we’d be back in our childhood together, sitting on the leather chair on the verandah at Risdon where we read stories, the smell of summer grass, his arms around my neck. When it would hit me that Tom was gone, I would fall on the floor and hard bitter tears would come from me unbidden. I would hear noises, barely human, that were my own. They would pass, those fits of grief, and I’d move on in a fug until the next time I’d see him.
In Falling Snow Page 14
