The Shadow of War

by Stewart Binns

  ‘I hear … you … you’re … a friend … o’ mine?’

  Bronwyn’s speech is slurred and she seems to have aged ten years. She has lost a lot of weight and her once shiny black locks are lank and knotted. The flawless pale skin of her face has become dappled and acned. Her eyes are bloodshot, her clothes grubby and she has the seedy aroma of destitution about her.

  ‘I need to talk to you privately.’

  ‘Are you … the Sally Army?’

  ‘No.’

  Margaret notices that the landlord is staring at the two of them very intently.

  ‘Can we go somewhere?’

  Bronwyn smirks at Margaret.

  ‘Is that what yer after? I’ve ’eard ’bout women like you. It’ll cost yer five shillin’.’

  Margaret has to think quickly, the landlord is on his way over to them.

  ‘Agreed, but four shillings.’

  ‘Give it t’ George … the landlord. Wait five minutes, then … come up.’

  When Margaret hands George two florins, he grasps her wrist tightly.

  ‘I ’ope you’re not one of them do-gooders lookin’ for “fallen women”. Because if y’are, I’ll come up an’ fuck you myself. It looks like you could do with it.’

  Margaret pulls her hand away and gives him a withering look.

  ‘Take your money and get out of my way.’

  When Margaret enters Bronwyn’s room, the girl has already stripped to her petticoat and chemise; her skirt and bodice are discarded on the threadbare carpet. The bed is unmade, the sheets stained and the room reeks with an unpleasant mingling of cheap scent and human body odour. Bronwyn starts to unbutton her chemise, but is finding it difficult in her drunken state.

  ‘What’s yer name?’

  ‘Margaret.’

  ‘Come here … Margaret …’elp me wi’ these.’

  ‘You can stop undressing. I’m here with some things from Philip Davies.’

  Bronwyn’s fingers stop fumbling. She glares at Margaret and tries to clear her head.

  ‘I don’t know anyone called … Philip Davies.’

  ‘Here’s a letter from him.’

  As Bronwyn accepts the letter from Margaret’s hand, she collapses to the floor in a heap and begins to sob uncontrollably, her tears only adding to her pitiful appearance. Her hands shake as she tears open Philip’s letter. It takes her several minutes to read the three pages of small, precise handwriting.

  Margaret watches the girl closely. She does the mental arithmetic on the timing of Bronwyn’s descent and shivers when she realizes how dramatically sudden it has been – just a few short weeks. She is worried about drug use of some sort in addition to the girl’s palpable drunkenness. She looks around the room and notices a squat brown bottle of Papine on the mantelpiece, a well-known opiate used by doctors to treat pain but also in widespread use in the opium dens of Britain’s docklands.

  Her other concern is the likelihood that Bronwyn has contracted at least one venereal disease. If she has, she hopes that it is something treatable, like gonorrhoea, which she sees regularly in her army patients, rather than something like syphilis, which she sees more rarely and for which the treatment is prolonged and usually unsuccessful.

  Bronwyn has finished reading Philip’s letter and is crushing it into the palm of her hand. She has her eyes squeezed tightly shut, as if trying to purge her memories.

  ‘We need to get you out of here.’

  Bronwyn opens her eyes. They are just red-rimmed pools of tears. She looks totally devastated.

  ‘And go where? I belong here. Philip’s wife was right, I’m just a whore.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’ve just been knocked down by some terrible events. We can get you back on your feet.’

  It takes a long time for Bronwyn to answer. She is rocking herself and shaking her head; her tears are still flowing down her cheeks, blurring her make-up.

  ‘You don’t know what I did. If you knew, you would agree with Clara Davies!’

  ‘Listen, you are not the first and you won’t be the last woman to have gone through what you’ve experienced. You need to be strong. If you are, you can get over this.’

  ‘Leave me be! There’s no way back for me. When I left Presteigne, I walked and walked, until I couldn’t walk any further. I had no money, so I stole food and milk, anything I could find. I was at my wits’ end. I managed to get to Brecon, sleeping rough. I must have looked dreadful; dirty clothes, hair all over the place. It was late and I was exhausted –’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me this.’

  ‘I do; I want you to understand what I’ve become.’

  ‘You haven’t “become” anything. You’re just a little girl lost.’

  ‘I’m not a “little girl” any more! Philip Davies saw to that. And then the landlord at the Boar’s Head in Brecon … It’s by the river. I was going to throw myself in, but I couldn’t do it. I ended up sleeping in the pub doorway. He found me the next morning, said I could trust him. He gave me money, cleaned me up. But, of course, he wanted something in return. First with him, then his regulars.

  ‘When I’d saved a few bob, I ran away and got the bus to Cardiff. But it was the same there. I had nowhere to go, but I knew what to do. It didn’t take long to find Tiger Bay. It was horrible, but the gin helped, and then my little bottle of Papine. So you see, that’s what I’ve become!’

  ‘Bronwyn, I’m a nurse, nothing shocks me. I’ve been in France with the army. Philip died in my arms. I know what happened between you. And your brother told me about what happened at Pentry. As for the shame in what you did, it’s a guilt you share with thousands of women. Including me.’

  Bronwyn turns to stare at Margaret. Her words have made a connection with her.

  ‘You didn’t do what I did, end up shaggin’ men, an’ worse, for two bob!’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I did … one day. But for now, we need to get you out of here.’

  ‘Was Philip badly injured?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was he in pain?’

  ‘Yes, he was, but he was very brave. His final words were for you.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He asked me to tell you that you made him very happy and that you should take wing and fly.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I think he meant that you were capable of doing good things, or important things. And that you should try to achieve them.’

  Bronwyn begins to heave with more sobs. Margaret takes advantage of the moment and grabs the bottle of Papine. She empties its contents out of the window, then does the same with the gin flask standing next to it. Finally, she pulls Bronwyn up and steadies her.

  ‘Is there a back way out of here?’

  ‘Yes, but George will see us.’

  Margaret looks at her fob watch; it is turned 10 p.m. She hopes the landlord is going to be busy at the bar.

  ‘Come on, let’s go. Do you have many things?’

  ‘They’re in a bag under the bed. I have fourteen shillings in my purse; it’s all I have.’

  Margaret helps Bronwyn to get dressed, then manoeuvres her down the stairs to the carriage she has asked to wait for her.

  The cab driver is suddenly roused from his sleep, his horse from its nosebag.

  ‘I nearly gave you up, miss. Is this the young lady you were looking for?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m very relieved you’re still here. Take us back to my boarding house, please.’

  As the carriage pulls away, Margaret looks back to the Bute Dock Hotel. The light from its windows is spilling on to the pavement outside, where dozens of men are drinking and smoking. She can hear English and Welsh but also several languages that she has never heard before, spoken by men who seem to represent all the nations of the earth. She turns to Bronwyn, who has closed her eyes and is resting her head in the corner of the carriage.

  Although she has tried to reassure Bronwyn, she reflects on how far and how disastrously the girl h
as fallen: a young and innocent farm girl from a quiet valley in Radnorshire just a few months ago, and now a two-bob whore in Tiger Bay. Getting Bronwyn’s life back to even a semblance of normality is not going to be easy.

  When they reach Margaret’s room close to Cardiff Castle, she gets to work with her usual expert efficiency. Bronwyn’s clothes are discarded and she is deposited in the boarding house’s bath for a prolonged soak. She washes her thoroughly from head to toe, brushes and combs her hair and then checks for lice. Fortunately, although there are a few nits, Margaret doesn’t find the infestation she had feared.

  When she gets the girl to bed, she gives her a small sip of laudanum to help her relax and then sits with her until she falls asleep – probably the first decent night’s sleep she has had in a long time. Margaret smiles to herself. Bronwyn already looks more like a young farmer’s daughter than a docklands’ tart.

  Margaret watches over Bronwyn until the early hours. After a while, the temptation to read Philip’s letter becomes too strong. She rescued it from Bronwyn’s grasp in her grimy room earlier and put it in her handbag.

  It begins not unlike many soldiers’ letters to their sweethearts. She has read several; men in her care will often ask her to proofread their stilted prose. Some even dictate to her what they want to say to wives and girlfriends back home because they cannot write themselves, either as a result of their injuries or through a lack of education.

  Philip’s immaculately penned letter is, at first, written in the formal Edwardian style of the day, almost as if composed by a town clerk, telling of the Welch Fusiliers’ journey to France and what they have been doing since. But then, towards the end, the language changes. Margaret guesses the latter part might have been written on the eve of battle, or after witnessing the death of a comrade. The final passage makes her weep.

  I know not what will become of me. This war is becoming a hell on earth and I fear many of us will not survive it. But what will be, will be. Far more important is what will become of you. I readily admit that my initial attraction to you was born of lust, which then became an infatuation of blissful proportions. However, I want you to understand that everything changed. I fell in love with you, and I’m still in love with you – a deep and abiding love that will never go away. You have a wonderfully inquisitive mind, a strong will and a shrewd intelligence – so much so that there is little you couldn’t do if you put your mind to it –

  The letter ends at that point. Philip must have intended to write more, but his wounds at Mons prevented it. Margaret eventually falls asleep in her chair as Bronwyn continues her deep slumber.

  The next morning, wearing Margaret’s clothes and make-up and with her hair brushed to restore a semblance of its dark lustre, Bronwyn could easily pass as her nursing colleague.

  ‘Are you ready for this, Bronwyn?’

  ‘No, I need a drink and a smoke.’

  ‘Sorry, you’re off the booze and cigarettes – and anything else you’ve been using.’

  ‘But I can’t cope without them.’

  ‘Yes, you can; you have to. If it gets too bad, there is something I can give you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A little laudanum. But in decreasing doses.’

  Bronwyn answers like a forlorn child.

  ‘I’ll try …’

  In contrast, Margaret responds like a stern headmistress.

  ‘You had better! If you let me down, I’ll let you go. You must understand that, Bronwyn.’

  Bronwyn composes herself and smiles at Margaret.

  ‘Please call me Bron. And tell me one thing: why are you doing this for me?’

  ‘Because of the promise I made to Philip. And because of what you have had to suffer.’

  ‘Doesn’t what we did disgust you?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’

  ‘And what about what I’ve become?’

  ‘That doesn’t disgust me either. But that was yesterday. Today is a new beginning for you.’

  ‘I can’t believe what’s happening to me.’ Bronwyn embraces Margaret and clings to her. ‘Is it really true?’

  ‘Of course it is. Come on, let’s get moving.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To Hereford General Hospital. I can get us into the nurses’ quarters there, where you can be looked after.’

  Bronwyn recoils.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Bron, I have to be blunt with you. You have head lice and, from the look of your pubic area, you have gonorrhoea and vaginal warts at least; you may have caught other things as well. You have a bad cough from smoking and drinking, and we have to get you off that Papine you’ve been taking. It’s liquid opium, highly addictive.’

  Bronwyn looks devastated.

  ‘One more thing; we need to make sure you’re not pregnant.’

  ‘I know I’m not pregnant.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I lost Philip’s baby two weeks ago.’

  Margaret pulls the girl more tightly to her.

  ‘You poor thing. Let’s get going, so that we can make you better.’

  Friday 25 September

  Boughton House, Kettering, Northamptonshire

  Kitty Stewart-Murray has spent the month of September organizing concerts and generally supporting Bardie as he prepares his Scottish Horse in Dunkeld for the long journey to France. However, in late September, the true horror of the Great War reaches the grandeur of Blair Atholl.

  When the old duke hears of Hamish’s wound and the ominous disappearance of Geordie, he retreats to the bosom of his mistress, Mrs Maud Grant, who lives in a small estate cottage high up Glen Tilt, leaving Lady Helen to run the house and the estate. Several Blair families, estate workers and people in the household have already lost loved ones. Of the reservists who were summoned to their regiments two have been killed, six wounded and two more designated missing. Everyone remarks that Scotland has not lost so many men since it fought the English hundreds of years ago.

  When Bardie’s Scottish Horse is sent south to new barracks at Kettering, Kitty travels with him. When he subsequently hears that Hamish is on his way home from France to recover from his wound, he calls for a family gathering in Kettering.

  Fortunately, the Stewart-Murrays do not have to accept accommodation that is any less luxurious than Blair Castle. Indeed, in many ways their surroundings for the latest gathering of their clan are even more sumptuous.

  Old family friend William Montague Douglas-Scott, the 83-year-old 6th Duke of Buccleuch, has made his Northamptonshire home, Boughton House, available to them. Boughton’s Georgian splendour is grander and on an even larger scale than Blair. Situated only three miles from the Scottish Horse’s improvised, ramshackle Kettering barracks and stables, it is a world away from the awful reality of the war that is currently unfolding along the French-Belgian border.

  William Douglas-Scott is immeasurably rich – one of the wealthiest British landowners – and the Stewart-Murrays feel at home. In more normal times, the Friday dinner before a country-house weekend of much eating, drinking and debauchery would represent an enticing aperitif. But the Stewart-Murray gathering comprises only a small group of close family, and its mood is made sombre by the shadow of war.

  With the Duke of Buccleuch ensconced in his London home – Montague House, in Whitehall – Bardie and Kitty act as hosts for the weekend at Boughton. Hamish hobbles in, protecting his lame thigh. Lady Helen brings her ‘friend’ David Tod, about whom the rest of the family are highly dubious because of his middle-class origins, calling him ‘Edinburgh egghead’ and ‘lowly salesman’. Lady Dorothea, ‘Dertha’, is with her husband, Colonel Harold ‘Harry’ Ruggles-Brise.

  Harry is the only member of the family with something to celebrate. He has been given command of 20th Brigade, composed of the 1st Grenadiers, 2nd Scots Guards, 2nd Gordon Highlanders and the Border Regiment, and will soon depart for France. He is in two minds. Partly exhilarated at the prospect of command, he is an ac
complished soldier and musketry training expert who should be looking forward to his army pension, but now faces a long cold winter on the front line. He puts on a brave face.

  Bardie proposes a toast.

  ‘To Harry, congratulations and bon voyage!’

  Lady Helen then adopts the role of the surrogate Duke of Atholl. Despite being the heir to the dukedom, Bardie accepts her suitability as titular head of the family with equanimity. Helen stands with her back to the fire, as her father would.

  ‘Well done, Harry. I’ve also got good news from Evelyn. She has written a brief note to Father. Her apartment in Malines was ransacked when the Germans took the town, but she and her companion managed to get away to the coast with all their valuables intact. However, she did leave them some presents. She cooked a dozen steak and kidney pies and left them in her larder, but laced them with so much pepper that they were inedible. She also left two carafes of wine on her dining-room table, but half filled them with balsamic vinegar!’

  Evelyn’s antics raise a smile among the assembled company, but Helen’s mood then changes and she begins to make circles on the top of her wine glass.

  ‘Hamish, what do you make of the reports about Geordie?’

  ‘I have taken care to be positive in my letters to Father, but I fear the worst. For there to be no word of him, or those around him, suggests that a shell may have burst close by. There were also reports from men of the Black Watch I spoke to, confirming that the Germans executed anyone they found on the battlefield.’

  Lady Dorothea is visibly upset.

  ‘Hamish, please –’

  ‘Dertha, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid the truths of a cruel war are brutal.’

  ‘I know that, but Father is worried sick. None of us like it when he goes running off to Mrs Grant, but it is his way of dealing with distress. He can’t bring himself to show his emotions to us, so he goes to her. She mothers him, I think.’

  Bardie mutters under his breath, ‘Among other things!’ but only Kitty hears him.

  Helen asks for a few moments of silent prayer for Geordie’s safety, after which Kitty changes the subject and tries to inject some levity into the gathering.