The Lost Ones

by Anita Frank

  I rang for her in the afternoon and insisted she sit with me for a while, to escape the multitude of menial chores Mrs Henge was punishing her with. She rested, diffident, on one of the chairs flanking the bedroom grate, while I took the other. I wasted no time in relaying the curious information I had gleaned from my morning’s unintentional eavesdropping. Her snub nose wrinkled in concentration and when I was done, she sat back, her self-consciousness easing as she chewed over my account.

  Miss Scott, it turned out, was an infrequent visitor below-stairs, but Annie had noticed when she did appear Mrs Henge was most attentive, though a discord clearly existed between the two. Miss Scott’s integral sweetness soured in the housekeeper’s company, while her visits always left Mrs Henge looking disappointed, as if a tempting piece of cake had failed to live up to expectation.

  Annie’s observations, added to my own, drew me to the conclusion there was a long and complicated history between the two women, and I was beginning to suspect their present breach had its roots firmly in the past. For the time being we appeared unable to make any greater in-roads into the whole mystery. Annie expressed a hope that her new friend, Billy, might be able to assist us further on the matter and I encouraged her to speak to him as soon as an opportunity afforded itself.

  I paced my room after she left me, navigating its edges, crossing its width, like a caged tiger. I was too preoccupied to remain confined. I decided to make the most of the dipping light and headed outside for a snatched cigarette before it leached away completely.

  The restorative solitude of the parkland to the front of the house beckoned me as I heaved open the front door. Dusk was settling in, and I wouldn’t have long before the ink of night swallowed me, so buttoning up my cardigan, I scuffed down the broad stone steps, my eyes set on the horizon.

  I was surprised to hear my name called, and I turned to see Mr Sheers propped against the porch wall, a smouldering pipe in his hand, the collar of his tweed jacket turned up against the bite of the evening air. He righted himself and crunched across the gravel towards me. He gestured with the pipe, admitting he too had needed something to settle his discomposed nerves – it had not, he informed me, been a good day. It turned out that the gramophone had not captured the crying. When he listened back to the shellac disc that had spun so promisingly, he had heard only the harsh crackle of static.

  When I enquired about the photographs, his expression flattened with disappointment once again. The film, developed in the newly established darkroom, had merely revealed overexposed images.

  ‘So, we have nothing?’ I cried. I hadn’t intended for there to be any criticism in my voice, but he winced as if I blamed him personally for the failure.

  ‘We will have to try again – if we get the opportunity.’

  I couldn’t hide my frustration. I would have relished being able to confront Lady Brightwell and the others with some tangible evidence, but we were chasing little more than will-o’-the-wisps, what had I expected? Angst churned in my stomach.

  ‘There is a story here, and we must get to the bottom of it. We must decipher these clues. Madeleine will never be able to return if we don’t.’

  ‘You are very worried about your sister.’

  ‘I promised I wouldn’t leave until it was safe for her to return.’

  ‘Miss Marcham, it may simply prove impossible to unveil the truth.’

  I refused to shoulder his negativity. ‘No, Mr Sheers, I will not rest until I have discovered what happened. I must – I owe Madeleine that. You couldn’t possibly understand but without her …’

  ‘I think perhaps I understand more than you might appreciate.’ He paused before proceeding with caution. ‘Hector did his best to explain your sense of debt.’

  My flare of embarrassment was damning and instant. I nudged the toe of my shoe into the gravel, unable to bear the compassion I saw drawn across his aquiline features. He cleared his throat, realising he had crossed some invisible line and was now regretting his blunder.

  ‘I suspect we are both tortured souls, Miss Marcham.’

  A harsh bark escaped me, a strange chimera, half-laugh half-sob, which, to my relief, I managed to quell. ‘I’m sure we both have our stories to tell, Mr Sheers.’

  He reached to the side, and for a bizarre moment I thought he was going to put his arm around me, but instead he tapped his pipe against the pillar of the porch beside me, knocking the spent tobacco to the ground.

  ‘Well, if you will tell me your story, Miss Marcham, I will gladly tell you mine. We can be tortured souls together, for once.’

  He was not smiling, and whilst his words had been delivered with some levity, shimmering under the surface was something else – a willingness to share experiences, an offer of understanding. The invitation to unburden myself to someone who had been there, been to hell and seen the death and devastation first-hand, was overwhelmingly attractive.

  Had I ever attempted to properly tell my story before? Perhaps, half-heartedly, but each time I had tried – with my parents, with Madeleine, with Dr Mayhew and his cronies, even – I could see the lack of comprehension – appreciation – in their eyes. They were incapable of recreating the scenes I described, those scenes that haunted my every waking hour. How could they? I was glad they had never endured the experiences I had been forced to endure. So when I spoke, I always halted, hesitated, edited and redacted – in short, I sanitised my story for their benefit, allowing them to continue life in blissful ignorance, free from nightmares and atrocious images that no man, woman or child should ever have to see.

  But before me now stood someone who did understand, who had seen such things, and who was offering to hear it all, to take from me my burden of death, blood and pitiless war. His mind’s eye would be able to conjure the images seared into mine. He would appreciate the horror of the film that played incessantly before me. Dear God, he would understand.

  ‘It’s chilly standing here, will you walk with me?’ He held out the crook of his arm, and I took it. He folded it against him, drawing me in to his side. I took warm comfort from the smell of his pipe tobacco – so redolent of Gerald’s – the wool of his tweed jacket, his sandalwood cologne. He offered a solidity that was irresistible.

  He tugged on me with each ungainly step, but neither of us mentioned it as we walked out into the twilight, away from the golden glow cast from the windows. We walked the length of the house in silence, then broke away from the building to take a path that led towards the arboretum. Somewhere, from across the park, a nightjar’s churring song pierced the fading light and a fox bark echoed from the woods in the distance.

  He did not encourage me to talk, but when I felt moved to do so, I began – stutteringly at first, then with increasing courage. I told him of Gerald and of our courtship. I told him how excited we had both been to give our services to our country – our naive enthusiasm for war. I told him of my various postings, the thrill of growing independence and self-determination, and how I had inched closer and closer to the action, seduced by the perceived drama of the front. I told him of the exhilaration, the exhaustion, the camaraderie, the humour – for there is always humour to be found in a theatre of war, a dark-souled humour that facilitates survival.

  And finally, I told him of that day, the day my nightmares were created.

  A big push was on the way and we were warned to prepare for casualties. We cleared the wards as best we could, then we waited, listening to the distant rumble of exploding shells, the prelude for what was to come.

  The convoys began to arrive early in the morning. A wave of wounded men, caked in mud and blown to bits, surged into the hospital, filling it with their agonised groans, calls for water and pleas for anything to take away the pain. We were soon overwhelmed, dashing from patient to patient, as exhausted orderlies left men on stretchers because there were no beds to be found. And yet still the convoys kept coming. Operating theatres became conveyor belts of hacking, filleting and drilling, as limbs were amputated, sp
ilt intestines reinserted, and skulls bored with drills. All effort was made to alleviate suffering, though in most cases it was futile. Too many of the poor devils were heading west.

  Sister called my name and hurried me to a side room of gravely wounded men.

  ‘The MO has had a quick look, but he doesn’t hold out much hope for any of them. Do what you can. He’ll come back when he gets a chance,’ she promised, racing away.

  The three of them at least had beds, I thought, as I took a deep breath and approached the first pitiful soul. Shrapnel had ripped away his side and from the smell that hit me I knew infection had already set in. I cleaned him, applied fresh dressings to his wounds and whispered some words of comfort before moving on – there was nothing else I could do. Brutal experience told me he would be gone before the hour was out.

  The next fellow was already dead when I got to him, so I covered him with a sheet and moved on to the third man, heaped on the bed by the far wall.

  He was mumbling to himself as I approached. Two field dressings had been crudely applied, one positioned to the side of his head, the other over his forehead and eyes. His uniform was stiff with mud and splattered with blood. Soil embedded the pits of his skin and his fingernails were black. I saw straight away from his shoulder straps that he was an officer.

  ‘Right, Lieutenant, let’s get you cleaned up, shall we? We’ll have you right as rain in no time.’

  I ran my scissors along the length of his uniform, snipping it away, trying not to recoil at the sight of lice crawling all over it. When I had cast off the filthy clothing, I began to wash him. I drew the sheet over his cleansed body as I finished.

  ‘I’m sorry … It’s a dirty business, this war …’ The words scratched from his throat.

  ‘Are you thirsty? I can get you a glass of water when I’ve done.’

  He attempted to lick his lips, already dry and cracking. He thanked me as I began to gently clean his face below the bandages, washing away the rusty blood and dirt.

  ‘My fiancée’s a nurse, you know. When you spoke … your voice … I thought …’

  And that was the moment I realised.

  My heart ceased to beat, and I began to quiver. I felt the blood drain from my face and there was a strange buzzing in my ears, as I stared at the bottom half of the officer’s face. My lips parted but I couldn’t speak, my throat too narrow.

  ‘I’m going to remove the dressing from your eyes,’ I managed at last.

  I was all fingers and thumbs. I steeled myself as I lifted the grubby lint away. It was sticky with blood and gore. The right eye had been shot through. What remained was a mushy mess all mixed into the eyelashes. The left eye though was perfect. My hand flew to smother my whimper.

  ‘Stella.’

  His exhaled breath carried my name. I began to shake, tears blurring my vision.

  ‘Gerald …’

  My fingertips tentatively touched his cheek, wiping away the tear that ran from his eye.

  ‘I’m so sorry …’ he said.

  ‘No, no, no, my love … please don’t …’ I tried to pull myself together. ‘It’s going to be all right … I promise … it’s going to be all right.’

  I forced myself to focus. I needed to see the extent of his damage. I set to on the second field dressing. I drew back. The bullet that pierced his eye had left the skull just beyond his right ear. From the ominous hole oozed bloodied matter and creamy fragments of skull. I gasped, snatching up a fresh dressing. I applied it the best I could, impeded by my trembling hands.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re here …’ Gerald whispered.

  I leant down to him, gripping his shoulders. ‘I am here, my darling, I am here. It’s going to be all right … it is …’ I choked.

  ‘Oh, Stella …’ His eye closed and I froze. For an awful moment I thought he was dead, but the dark lashes retreated once again. ‘I love you …’

  ‘I’m going to get the doctor,’ I said, righting myself and dashing away the tears from my cheeks. ‘I’ll be right back … don’t …’ But I couldn’t finish the sentence. There wasn’t a second to lose as I ran from the room.

  The corridor was heaving. Walking wounded propped themselves against the walls; sisters hurried past carrying steel kidney bowls, their contents hidden by cloths; and harassed VADs scurried to their next task, smears of blood on their tunics. I ran past all of them, glancing into the side wards until I found an MO, a young Scottish doctor who I knew and liked.

  ‘You must come now!’

  Taken aback, he hurried after me as I retraced my steps, my heart pounding, fear the like of which I had never experienced heightening my senses, as foolish hope bloomed.

  He looked at me in surprise as we entered the room, as if he could already see death waiting patiently in the corner. Detecting his change of heart, I seized his arm.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’ve already …’

  ‘You hardly looked at them.’

  He frowned. Against his better judgement, he allowed me to lead him to Gerald’s bedside.

  The doctor spoke kindly to him. Gerald, his voice weaker than before, struggled to reply. The doctor lifted the dressings and examined his wounds, his expression grim as he replaced them. He patted Gerald on the arm and throwing me a look, withdrew through the doorway. I joined him in the corridor outside.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, nurse, but …’

  ‘He’s my fiancé!’

  ‘Then for God’s sake, tell him you love him,’ he said gently, ‘and stay with him … he’s not long for this world.’ He laid his hand on my arm. ‘Be with him while you can.’ He looked so terribly careworn as he walked away.

  My knees crumpled, but I reached for the wall just in time and steadied myself. I managed to stand, still reeling from the unreality of it all. I would not believe him. I could not. There would be a miracle. My Gerald would show them all. I was sure of it.

  ‘Are you there, Stella?’ he asked as I hastened back to him, his voice so faint I could hardly hear it.

  ‘Yes, yes, Gerald, I’m here.’ I clasped his hand in mine and perched on the side of his bed.

  ‘I’m glad … I got to see you … one last time.’

  ‘You’re not … you’re not dying, Gerald,’ I insisted, though my tears belied the statement. The bandage at the side of his head was already soaked with blood and fluid.

  ‘Live …’ he sighed.

  ‘Yes! Yes! My darling!’ I gasped, leaning forward. ‘You are going to live!’

  His eyelid slipped shut again as a sad smile pulled at his lips. ‘No …’

  Every word, every breath was becoming an effort, I could see that. I urged him to save his strength, but his eyelashes fluttered open again.

  ‘You must live … Stella …’ A breath rattled in his throat. I could hear the tackiness in his mouth as he fought to form the words he was so desperate to speak. ‘I must go … but you must stay … and live your life …’

  A sob escaped me. How could I do that? I could not live – not without him.

  ‘Are you still there, Stella?’

  I gripped his hand tighter, closing the gap between us until my face hovered above his.

  ‘I am here, Gerald. I am still here.’

  He frowned, staring blankly at my face. ‘I can’t see …’

  I stroked his cheek and murmured his name, my tears dripping onto his skin.

  His chest lifted. I heard a slight breath slip in his throat. He was still. His eye darkened.

  I had lost him.

  And I hadn’t said ‘I love you’, when it mattered most of all.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Mr Sheers offered me no banal words of comfort. He just listened as I went on to tell him about the days after Gerald’s death: my disgraceful return home and the overwhelming grief that followed. I even confessed my desire to die, now the life I had planned and dreamed of had been taken from me by a single German bullet.

  When I finished, he look
ed ahead into the encroaching darkness, his breathing rhythmic. I thought I felt an almost imperceptible tightening of his arm on mine, but then again, I might have imagined it. When we had drunk in the silence, he spoke.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  So devastatingly simple, but so heartfelt, his words brought tears to my eyes. I was grateful for the low light.

  ‘And you, Mr Sheers? What’s your story? How did you end up with that burdensome leg of yours?’

  My delivery was deliberately brusque and insensitive, and I saw from the grin that exploded across his face that he appreciated it.

  ‘Shrapnel. Amiens, last year.’

  I waited. He snorted, amused I was not going to let him get away with such a brief summation after my lengthy essay.

  ‘It was an early morning advance. We’d been waiting for days, and finally the order came. The ladders went up and the whistles went off. I remember feeling relief when I blew mine, glad to be doing something, rather than just sitting around, waiting for death in the mud. I was sick of the trench, sick of the squalor, sick of the rats, the lice, the stench. I was even sick of the men – sick of being surrounded by them, never alone. I just wanted to get on with it, get it all over and done with, no more hanging about. I’d given a rousing speech, sent round the rum …’

  He stopped. Apologising, he uncoupled me from his arm, as if he didn’t want me to absorb his misery through some sort of osmosis. He took a couple of steps away, settling his focus on the band of trees in the distance, though a sharp plunge of his eyebrows suggested he was seeing a different landscape outlined before him, one where the only singing in the air was the whistle of descending shells and the zing of bullets.

  ‘I’d been over maybe ten minutes when I got hit. One of the men, a chap from Durham called Burns, was a few feet ahead of me. The resistance we were encountering was greater than expected, but then, it always was.’ The murky light shadowed him. ‘Anyway, Burns took one in the shoulder, the force of it jerked him round. He looked straight at me, grinned, swore, and turned back to carry on walking. Then he just disappeared, vanished, in a cloud of smoke, dirt spraying in all directions. I felt something slap into me, but I thought it was just, you know – clods, stones. My knees buckled, and I fell. I couldn’t hear a thing – my ears were just ringing – and the smoke was choking me. Then I felt the pain and I looked down and saw my leg, cut to pieces, just an ugly mess of flesh and bone, strips of torn cloth and blood – lots of blood. Are you sure you want to hear all this? It’s terribly dull, you know.’