Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
From Theresa Breslin’s Research Notes
Epigraph
1915
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
1916
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
1917
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
1918
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Book Notes and Photographs
Introduction
Research
Book Notes
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Theresa Breslin
Copyright
About the Book
It’s the summer of 1915, and the sound of gunfire at the Western Front can be heard across the Channel in England. And in the little village of Stratharden, the Great War is to alter the course of five young lives for ever.
A powerful, engrossing and truly epic novel, now with special new material from multi-award-winning author Theresa Breslin.
Read it – and remember . . .
This book is for Caroline
At the battlefields in France and Belgium teenagers wander soberly around the monuments. They push their poppies into the spaces between the stones of the Menin Gate and the little wooden crosses purchased in Ypres are crowded onto the grave of a young soldier aged fifteen – their age. Nearby runs the Yser Canal where the Canadian John McCrae wrote his poem ‘In Flanders Fields’.
At the Somme, around Thiepval and in Beaumont Hamel, they walk through preserved trenches and stand looking into the huge mine craters. By the roadside and on the hills they see cemetery after cemetery, collections of headstones among fields fertile with crops.
The white clay clings, and they spend time wiping boots before reboarding the coach.
‘Came over this morning, back home to Britain tonight,’ the driver tells me.
One is aware of great lies and great truths, a sudden consciousness of youth and vulnerability and a tremendous sense of loss.
from Theresa Breslin’s research notes, 2000
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you’ll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
Siegfried Sassoon,
from ‘Suicide in the Trenches’
Chapter 1
‘IT’S JUST NOT quite respectable.’
Charlotte took off her cape, hung it on the hall stand and faced her mother’s disapproving look. ‘It is a Red Cross uniform, Mother, and we are at war. I’m not trying to look respectable. I’m trying to be useful.’
Mrs Armstrong-Barnes frowned. ‘It is not just the uniform, Charlotte dear. I dare say you think me old-fashioned, but in my opinion it is not quite seemly to bicycle through the village dressed like that. When I was fifteen, young ladies—’
‘Mother,’ Charlotte interrupted, ‘it is a new century and our country is at war. Everyone should help in whatever way they can, and it is quite acceptable now for a young lady to train as a nurse.’ Charlotte moved in the direction of the drawing room. ‘Has Helen served tea?’
‘You are changing the subject,’ Charlotte’s mother protested as she followed her. ‘If you feel the need to help out you could easily become involved in a different type of war work.’
Charlotte knew what her mother had in mind for her, and as they sat down on the sofa together she tried to think of a way to forestall the argument. ‘Please accept that this is what I want to do,’ she said gently. ‘It would not suit me to organize charity functions, I want to contribute in a more direct way, and taking a nursing certificate is a very practical thing to do.’
Her mother gave a little shake of her head. ‘It might become too practical,’ she said. ‘One hears things about hospitals …’
‘Oh, Mother,’ said Charlotte, pulling off her cap and causing her hair to loosen and fall about her face. ‘You have no need to worry about my being upset. I am not allowed to do any advanced nursing, and we have no war wounded. The Cottage Hospital takes civilian cases only.’
‘Even so …’ her mother sighed. ‘I wish your father were still alive so that he might talk to you. You are so very young …’ she reached over and tucked a strand of Charlotte’s blond hair behind her ear, ‘… and so very determined. You were always such a gentle child, and yet when we discuss this subject I cannot persuade you to change your mind.’
‘Because I think it is the right thing to do.’ Charlotte spoke urgently. ‘The War wasn’t over by Christmas last year as people said it might be. We are now in the second summer of fighting and trained nurses will be needed if it lasts another year.’
‘Who is talking of war?’ said a voice in amusement. ‘Not my little sister, pretending to understand politics?’
Charlotte looked up as her brother, sketch-book under his arm, came into the room. ‘Stop teasing, Francis,’ she said. ‘Everyone talks about the War situation. And although I do not read of it as much as you do, I hear enough to know that the Allies are not advancing as quickly as expected.’
‘We won at Neuve Chapelle, didn’t we?’ Mrs Armstrong-Barnes looked at Francis. ‘I read that in the newspaper.’
‘One has to do more than read the headlines and the official news in order to find out what is going on over there,’ said Francis, helping himself to a scone from the tiered cakestand on the table. He took a teacup from his mother. ‘We lost a lot of men at Neuve Chapelle. I agree with Charlotte. I think the War will last longer than another year.’
‘Well, I only read the interesting bits of the newspaper,’ said their mother. ‘The part that tells you what is happening here – that is what concerns me. Did you know that your cousin Eugenie has become engaged to Adrian Vermont? He is one of the Vermonts of York, a very well thought of family.’ She bit daintily into her cake.
Charlotte stirred her tea briskly. ‘Well, good luck to Cousin Eugenie,’ she said. ‘If it is the same Adrian Vermont I recall meeting at their Midsummer Ball, then she is very welcome to him. His family may be well thought of. I thought he was very spotty and incredibly dull.’
‘Charlotte!’ cried her mother. ‘Don’t be vulgar.’
‘Actually,’ said Francis seriously, ‘home news should be the most important part of any newspaper. There is far too much patriotic drum-beating. It is quite wrong.’
‘Do you really think it is wrong?’ asked Charlotte. She looked across the room to where her brother stood, tall and handsome, with the same blond hair as herself. For all the banter between them she had a great respect for him. Older by almost seven years, he had always been her hero, her protector when the local children had called her names because they lived in suc
h a large house. She greatly valued his opinion.
‘Who in their right mind would want to go to war?’ said Francis. ‘Not the ordinary Prussian or Frenchman, I’ll wager. What makes a human being want to kill another who has done him no personal harm? Patriotism. The one thing that can unite people. It takes priority over religious differences, or class, or money, or social position. And then people can be manipulated by others for reasons of power or to gain a few acres of land.’ There was a high colour on Francis’s cheeks though his face was pale. ‘Men and women will die for their country, and unscrupulous leaders use this.’
‘Really, Francis,’ chided his mother. ‘You shouldn’t talk like that. It’s … it’s disloyal.’
Francis shrugged and smiled at Charlotte.
‘And there you have it,’ he said. He stood up. ‘It’s going to be another fine evening. Care for a walk down to the village before dinner?’
Charlotte jumped up at once.
‘Oh yes!’ she cried. ‘Give me some minutes to change.’
She ran quickly out of the room and up the stairs. Her bedroom looked out over the back of the house to the washing green, the kitchen gardens and the long glass houses by the end wall. She could see the gardener’s lad moving between the vegetable rows hoeing the dry earth. Annie the housekeeper came out from the back kitchen with a large wicker washing basket on her hip. She set it down and began unpegging the clothes, the white linen sheets and shirts. Charlotte heard the murmur of their voices. She stood for a few moments by her open window and inhaled the soft fragrant smell of summer.
There was a climbing rose trailing along her window ledge, in full bloom and heavily scented. She pulled a few petals and scattered them in the basin of warm water which Helen, the maid, had left on her night table. It would be good to get out of her starched clothes and away from the smell of disinfectant. When Charlotte had heard that they needed help at the hospital because so many nurses had gone to France she had volunteered at once. Most of her mother’s servants were now occupied with war work. Charlotte’s own governess had joined the Voluntary Aid Detachment, and to Charlotte this had seemed a more productive way of spending her days than learning housekeeping skills from her mother. Charlotte knew that her mother was unhappy with both her children at the moment. She had expected Charlotte to be a dutiful daughter content to remain at home, and as for Francis … Charlotte’s brow wrinkled as she thought about her brother who, since he had returned from University, spent his time helping manage the estate or sketching, and steadfastly refused to consider applying for a commission in the Army. Charlotte was aware that Francis was deeply troubled by the conduct of the War, and was at a loss as to how to lift his spirits. He seemed to enjoy being out of doors with his sketch-book, and it had become a custom with them to take a walk each evening before dinner.
Charlotte sponged herself and changed quickly into a day dress, choosing one of finest cotton lawn with a delicate pattern of muted blue flowers which brought up the colour of her grey eyes. The dress draped her slim figure from neck to ankle. She redid her hair, deftly sweeping it up and coiling it on top of her head. Now … she looked at herself in the mirror … a hat or not? This was an important consideration. Her mother would be faintly scandalized if her daughter walked out hatless. But she was probably resting before dinner and Charlotte would not be subjected to her critical gaze. And it was essential that Charlotte achieve exactly the right effect, for this was not the casual stroll that her mother might imagine it to be. Charlotte knew to the last detail in which direction their walk was going to take them, and precisely whom she was going to encounter. She rummaged through her hatboxes and eventually picked out a straw boater with a blue ribbon round the crown. She set it straight on her head. Mmm … too severe. She tilted it back a shade – that was better. Now if she felt a little overdressed she could quickly take it off and swing it idly in her hand.
‘Are you ready, little sister?’
Charlotte ran to the window. Francis was standing in the garden below calling up to her.
‘Yes,’ she called back.
She checked her appearance one more time, pinching her cheeks sharply to give them more colour. Then she skipped happily downstairs.
Francis was helping Annie carry the washing into the house. ‘And how are all your children, Annie?’ Charlotte heard him ask as he set the basket down.
‘Well, Master Francis,’ said Annie, handing him the end of a sheet. ‘The girls are in service, good houses all six of them, and my two boys, Rory and Ewan, enlisted together a few months ago. The news from the Front had them all fired up. They’re training in Shropshire now with a lot of other lads from the village, and desperate to be sent off to where the action is.’ She said this last part proudly.
‘Let’s hope to God that they aren’t,’ said Francis fervently. He joined the sheet ends and walked towards her, folding it concertina-wise.
‘Now, now, Master Francis,’ said Annie, ‘you’ve been away at University too long to know what’s going on in the world.’ She took the folded sheet from him, and, doubling it up once more, placed it on the dresser. ‘Our country needs young men, and, thank God, we’ve got plenty. The Hun wants sorting out, and it’s up to Britain to do it.’
As Francis opened his mouth to reply Charlotte interrupted.
‘I’m ready,’ she said. ‘Look,’ she did a quick pirouette, ‘do you like my dress?’
Annie gazed at her fondly. ‘What a lovely young lady you have turned into,’ she said. ‘I remember when you were just a babe in your carriage. I always said that you’d grow up to be a beauty.’
‘Not just a beauty,’ added Francis as brother and sister walked arm in arm down the drive, ‘but diplomatic too, dear Charlotte. Don’t think I didn’t notice your timely interruption.’
‘Well.’ Charlotte laughed and patted his arm. ‘I don’t think Annie would have appreciated a lecture on the ethics of war. She is obviously very proud to have two sons in uniform.’
They had reached the end of the drive. To the right was the farm road going through a small wood and then into the gentle hills which surrounded their house. To the right lay the village of Stratharden.
‘Which way?’ asked Charlotte innocently.
Francis turned to her with a gleam in his eye. He patted his sketch-book which was tucked under his arm. ‘I want an interesting view to draw. You choose,’ he said.
‘Umm …’ said Charlotte, feigning indecision. ‘I don’t know … Didn’t you say you wanted a newspaper? There’s a shop in the village that is open just now – it would have the evening news.’
‘What a good idea!’ exclaimed Francis, joining in her play acting. He took her firmly by the arm. ‘Let us go at once and purchase a newspaper.’
Beside him Charlotte gave a little smile and quickened her pace. This evening, quite apart from the business of buying a newspaper, she, Charlotte Mary Armstrong-Barnes, was about to engage in some serious flirting.
Chapter 2
MAGGIE DUNDAS CLIPPED on the lid of the last biscuit tin and took a step back. All the tins lined along behind the shop counter were now closed over for the night. She glanced at the big clock that hung over the front entrance to her father’s shop. Nearly closing time, thank goodness! Normally she didn’t mind helping out behind the counter, but today she was tired. She was fed up walking back and forth weighing this and measuring that. The shop was so much busier of late, for despite being warned not to, people were beginning to stockpile non-perishable foodstuffs. Her feet were sore, and her head ached too. Listening to the constant talk of war depressed her. Her mother had been poorly for over a week now, and Maggie knew that after she had finished here she would have to climb the stairs to the house above and prepare the family dinner.
‘Our Alex had better have those potatoes peeled and on the boil,’ she said to her brother. John Malcolm Dundas was behind the counter making up butter portions and wrapping them in white greaseproof paper.
‘I’
m sure he will.’ John Malcolm grinned at her as he eased the wire cutter through the block of butter he had taken from the barrel. ‘He’s more afraid of you than our Ma. Lend us a hand here, Maggie, won’t you?’
‘’Deed I won’t,’ she replied sharply. ‘I’ve done my share here today, and I’ve got Ma to see to, and the dinner, while you and Dad will no doubt come upstairs, sit in the easy chairs, read the newspapers and talk politics.’
‘We’re awfully cross tonight, aren’t we?’ her brother teased. ‘You’ll be rushing off to join the Suffragettes if we don’t keep our eye on you.’
‘And why not?’ Maggie faced him, hands on hips. ‘Do you think it is fair and right that a woman is not treated equal to a man in this society today? Let me remind you that we are twins and Ma assures me that I was born first, and as such am older than you.’
‘What’s this! What’s this!’ Their father had come from the back shop, drawn by the noise of the argument. ‘You will disturb your mother. You are always sparring, you two, you’re worse than young Alex. Can’t you keep the peace for more than two minutes?’ He looked from one to the other in annoyance. They were so alike, he thought, and that was the trouble – like to look at with curly chestnut hair and eyes to match, and alike in temperament, quick to row, but fortunately also quick to forgive.
Maggie was already laughing. ‘Sorry, Dad.’ She came over and kissed him.
‘What are you arguing about?’ he asked, softening.
‘She’s going to join Mrs Pankhurst and break the windows of public buildings,’ her twin declared mischievously.
‘I’ll break that butter pat over your head if you’re not careful,’ said Maggie. ‘Will I close up now, Dad?’
‘Aye, just see if thon wee boy’s about first.’
Maggie crossed towards the door as her father got an old box and began to put some cracked eggs and bruised fruit in it. She went first to the window and glanced up and down the street, looking for the boy they only knew as ‘Willie’. He was one of a large family from the poorer end of the village, where the houses were unsanitary and children played barefoot on earthen streets.
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