Remembrance

by Theresa Breslin

  ‘Actually,’ said Maggie, ‘I don’t read enough about that “nonsense”, as you call it.’

  ‘There you are then,’ said her father. ‘You’re not in a position to make decisions about your life. You don’t have sufficient knowledge of what is going on in the world.’ Maggie’s father put down his knife and fork. ‘I am not prepared to allow you—’ he began, when John Malcolm interrupted.

  ‘I think it’s a great idea, Maggie. It’s terrible to be stuck here when our friends are fighting their hearts out for us. Everyone should be doing all they can. There isn’t much time left now until I join up, but I’ll help out so that you can go and do war work.’

  Maggie’s father looked from one twin to the other, and then he closed his mouth.

  In a way her father was right, Maggie thought as she washed up after dinner. She didn’t know about the things that the men discussed. Francis had mentioned an article about the lack of munitions. No-one had told her about that, hence her ignorance. She relied on others to tell her what was going on. It suddenly occurred to her how vulnerable that made her. In her situation others could decide what she should know, and more importantly not know. What was it Francis Armstrong-Barnes had said earlier in the shop? ‘You must read the news and interpret it in your own way.’ Her father and brother usually read the newspaper after dinner while she cleared up. Then they discussed it with each other while she and her mother knitted or darned and sometimes listened to them talk. Why was that? She could read, as well, if not better, than any of them. Was it because she had much more to do in the evening, or was she unconsciously following her mother’s behaviour in deferring intellectual activities and decisions to the males in the house?

  Later that evening, when her father and brother had finished with the newspaper, Maggie spread it out on the kitchen table. For the first time in her life she read a newspaper from front page to last.

  Francis, on his way home, head down, reading his own newspaper, almost let Charlotte run into him on her bicycle before he noticed her. She dismounted and he pushed the bicycle for her as they walked home together.

  ‘More bad news?’ She nodded towards the newspaper he had tossed into the basket at the front of her cycle.

  Francis sighed. ‘I’m afraid so. Despite trying to return the favour, by us trying to gas them this time, it looks as though the engagement round Loos has been a costly mess.’

  ‘Matron was told today that we have to double our bed capacity,’ said Charlotte. ‘We must take more civilian patients. There are so many wounded coming over from France that the hospitals elsewhere cannot cope.’

  ‘How many thousands will it take before this folly is seen for what it is?’ asked Francis wearily. He propped Charlotte’s cycle by the main door and followed her inside.

  Charlotte didn’t answer. Annie was standing in the hallway turning a telegram over and over in her hands.

  Francis frowned at the stunned expression on the old housekeeper’s face. ‘Is that telegram for Mother?’ he asked. ‘Do you want me to take it up to her?’

  ‘No, Master Francis,’ said Annie. ‘It’s for me.’ She looked up at him and her face seemed to age as she spoke. ‘Would you read it out to me? I don’t think I understand what it says.’

  Francis took the telegram and read it. He raised his eyes and Charlotte saw his stricken face. ‘Annie,’ he said gently. ‘It’s about your boys.’

  The older woman’s eyes searched his face. ‘Yes,’ she said dully. ‘Ewan and Rory.’

  ‘It says that …’ Francis cleared his throat, ‘that … Rory and Ewan are missing, believed killed in action.’

  ‘Why do they say “believed killed”?’ said Annie. ‘Don’t they know if they have been killed or not? That’s the bit I don’t understand.’

  Charlotte stared at Annie and then her gaze went back to Francis. Her mind tried to close around and comprehend what she had just heard. Rory and Ewan, Annie’s two boys who had taught both Francis and her how to ride and fish, could now be dead.

  ‘Tea, I think,’ said Francis. He took Annie by the arm. ‘Let’s go down to the kitchen and sit for a bit.’

  Charlotte made tea while Francis settled Annie in a chair. He sat down beside her.

  ‘Charlotte will fetch Mother in a minute. We have a cousin who is a major; he might be able to find out a bit more. You wouldn’t, by any chance, know where they were stationed?’

  ‘They’re not supposed to say,’ said Annie, ‘but some of the lads write home using codes, and Helen’s brothers told her the name of the place. It is somewhere in Belgium – near a place called Loos.’

  Charlotte brought the tea to the table. She saw that Francis was avoiding her gaze.

  ‘It says “missing”,’ Annie repeated again. ‘It doesn’t say that they’ve actually been killed, does it?’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ Francis said, ‘but …’

  Charlotte looked at her brother desperately. He caught her eye, and did not continue. Charlotte noticed his hand shake as he lifted the teapot.

  Chapter 8

  AT THE END of the village, on a cold grey day in January 1916, Charlotte got on the morning bus to Edinburgh. She was due to begin work today at Springbank Military Hospital for three days a week as a nursing assistant. It was an appointment secured for her by the Matron at the Cottage Hospital who had written a strong letter of recommendation.

  ‘They will take you, though they think you very young,’ she had told Charlotte, ‘and part of me agrees with them.’ As Charlotte opened her mouth to protest, the Matron raised her hand and continued, ‘I know that you will soon be sixteen, but we have protected you somewhat here, and you will not find that in a bigger, busier hospital.’ She frowned, and gave Charlotte a slightly worried look. ‘Indeed the opposite might be the case. All I can say is good luck, and if you want to return I will be happy to see you.’

  Despite the bleak January weather Charlotte had been almost glad when Christmas and New Year were over and she could begin real war work in the hospital in the city. It had been such a dreary time compared with previous winter holidays Charlotte had known. Her memories of the Christmases when she was small were of days crisp with excitement. Going with Francis and the gardener on Christmas Eve to pick out a tree. Walking beside the donkey cart, her hand on the bridle. The crackle of the frosty earth beneath the wheels, the little donkey’s breath puffing in the cold air. Running home ahead through the gathering gloom with the house all lit up at the top of the drive. Baking ginger-bread biscuits with Annie, and hanging them on the tree with the paper decorations and striped candy sugar canes.

  Now everything had changed. Their summer picnic seemed an age ago, and Christmas would never be the same again. Her birthday came in early January, and Charlotte was acutely aware that it was not just she who had altered. The end of 1915 and the beginning of 1916 marked a distinct shift in attitudes and manners of the people she knew.

  John Malcolm had celebrated his eighteenth birthday in November, and he and Eddie Kane had enlisted at once in the King’s Own Scottish Borderers. His training was completed and he was now wildly eager to be away, and talked about the War with a reckless enthusiasm which infected Alex and frightened Charlotte a little. Nevertheless, her first sight of him in uniform had caused her heart to quicken within her. She was terribly proud of him, and felt some sort of reflected glory when she found out that he had recently been promoted to lance-corporal.

  In Stratharden House itself there was an uneasy quietness. Charlotte was more sympathetic than her mother to Francis’s anti-war stance. She knew her brother to be a thoughtful person and believed that he would have considered all aspects carefully before adopting this position. But there was now a definite tension among the remaining members of the household. Helen was in a constant state of worry about Ian, her young man, and although Annie, the housekeeper, went about her work cheerfully enough, she didn’t sing as she used to. She no longer joked with the delivery boys, and only smiled if someone smi
led at her first. Mrs Armstrong-Barnes realized that she was no longer able to communicate fully with either of her children. She worried that Charlotte, on her regular walks to the village with Francis, was perhaps seeing a little too much of John Malcolm Dundas, but she could remember being young herself and, as Francis had pointed out, the young man wasn’t entirely unsuitable. As for her son, she found it most difficult now to have a conversation with him. She suspected that he busied himself with estate business to avoid her company, indeed any company. She felt that her children had entered adulthood without her, and that the world was moving too swiftly for her to cope with. Christmas had been strained, with news of Allied setbacks and a great number of casualties.

  Christmas had made Charlotte think of the same time last year when they should have been celebrating the promised Allied victory. No-one spoke like that now, except perhaps her mother, who clung to the belief that it would soon be cleared up. It was as if her mother considered the War a nuisance to be got rid of as soon as possible, and it was becoming irksome to her that it seemed it was not being dealt with properly. Her friends in London told her that now the fiery Welshman Lloyd George was the new Prime Minister, and as Sir John French had been replaced as British Commander-in-Chief by Sir Douglas Haig, things would improve. Haig was a distant relative of her cousin, and she felt that he would take a much firmer line. She had said as much to Francis at breakfast this morning. It was her belief that Haig would ‘soon sort things out’.

  ‘Haig’s idea is to put all manpower to the Western Front,’ Francis replied. ‘Do you know what that means?’

  ‘Francis, dear, I’m not completely ignorant in these matters,’ said his mother. ‘He’ll concentrate on one area, break through there, and then …’

  ‘And then?’ demanded Francis.

  ‘They should never have started it in the first place.’ Mrs Armstrong-Barnes’s face was uncompromising. ‘They’ll get what they deserve.’

  ‘And supposing Haig doesn’t manage to get the Army to “break through”?’ persisted Francis. ‘It has been tried already without success.’

  ‘He will eventually,’ his mother said patiently. ‘Our men will just keep trying until they do.’

  Francis opened his mouth to reply, but at that point Annie came into the room to clear the table. Francis heard Charlotte’s indrawn breath and caught her warning look. Francis looked at Annie and his gaze softened at once.

  His mother too was affected by Annie’s presence in the room. ‘No news with the post today?’ she enquired gently.

  Annie shook her head. ‘I am not giving up on them, though. I’ve heard that dozens of families from their battalion got the same telegram. We’re hoping that they’ve all managed to stick together somehow, maybe help each other along. Even if they’re badly wounded, as long as they’re with each other they’ll get by.’

  Francis stood up, mumbled an excuse, and went quickly out of the room. His eyes were filled with tears.

  Mrs Armstrong-Barnes folded her napkin carefully and laid it beside her plate. Then she raised her head and gave her daughter a bright smile.

  ‘Do wrap up well for your walk to the village,’ she said.

  Charlotte got up, came round the table and kissed her mother. They held hands for a moment. Charlotte had been a little surprised that her mother had raised no objection when she told her of her intention to seek nursing work in the military hospital in the city. She knew that Charlotte did not want to join her round of afternoon teas, and sewing circles. And at first this had been a disappointment to her, for she had imagined that as Charlotte grew older they would shop and socialize together. She had planned to secure her invitations to elegant balls, and that there would be shared card afternoons where Charlotte could be looked over and assessed by prospective mothers-in-law. But many of the young men were on active service, and Charlotte felt that her mother was now secretly proud that her daughter was contributing, especially when Francis was not.

  On her bus journey to the city, Charlotte’s mind was troubled by thinking of her brother. To begin with it had been assumed that his commission had been held up, but now she feared that perhaps the village was beginning to gossip about him not being in uniform. His manner worried her. Either he shut himself away with the household accounts or went out early with his sketch-pad, wandered the hills all day and came home with nothing. Francis was still in her thoughts when she got off the bus at the gate of the hospital, and asked the porter the way.

  He had to repeat his directions twice, and eventually left the gatehouse and walked across the quadrangle with her to point out the part of the hospital where she was due to report. The porter watched Charlotte’s slight figure hurrying across the great open square. ‘This damned war has taken our children’s innocence,’ he muttered as he returned to his post, and picked up his newspaper. ‘That one should be at home playing at nursing her dollies. She’s too young to see what she’s going to see in the wards.’

  Chapter 9

  LATER THAT DAY, Charlotte, had she been asked, would have agreed with him.

  Things went badly for her from the beginning. The hospital was huge and she lost her way. It was fifteen minutes after the appointed time before she found the room where the Staff Sister was briefing the new staff.

  As Charlotte tried to slip in unobtrusively the Staff Sister stopped in mid-sentence. She lifted her register. ‘You are?’

  ‘Charlotte Armstrong-Barnes. I am sorry I am late.’

  ‘I am the Staff Sister. When you reply to me, you will use my title.’ She waited a moment, and as Charlotte said nothing she demanded, ‘Miss Armstrong-Barnes, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Obviously not,’ said the Staff Sister.

  There was a long pause. ‘Say “yes, Staff Sister”,’ hissed a voice in her ear.

  ‘Yes, Staff Sister,’ Charlotte stuttered, and gave the girl beside her a grateful look.

  ‘Very good.’ The Staff Sister ticked Charlotte’s name on a register she held. ‘You have nursing qualifications?’

  ‘I have the First Aid, and part of the Home Nursing Certificate,’ said Charlotte.

  There was a giggle, quickly suppressed, from one of the other nurses.

  Charlotte’s face felt hot.

  ‘Take your place, and pay attention,’ ordered the Staff Sister. ‘When we have finished here we will go on a tour of the wards, then you will be assigned duties …’ her glance flicked over Charlotte, ‘… appropriate to your qualifications and experience.’

  The hospital was obviously very busy. The beds were so close together that staff could scarcely move between them. And as soon as the group of new recruits were familiar with the wards in which they had to work, they had duties assigned.

  The Staff Sister scrutinized Charlotte carefully. ‘I’d like you to report to Surgical for orderly duties. Sister Bateman will decide what you’re fit for.’

  In Surgical Sister Bateman looked Charlotte up and down and then at the paper in her hand. ‘You are the one from the Cottage Hospital …’ She gave a little shake of her head. ‘You do appreciate that here we do a bit more than rolling bandages.’

  Charlotte blushed but managed to reply in a pleasant voice. ‘I think I can cope with whatever you give me to do.’

  Sister Bateman raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Sister,’ Charlotte added hurriedly.

  The Sister’s eyes narrowed. ‘Let us go to the sluice room attached to the operating theatre,’ she said in an equally pleasant voice, ‘and we shall see if you can cope with the work there.’

  The sluice room was down a flight of stairs and when they arrived there was an older man scrubbing one of the big sinks. He raised his head as Sister Bateman entered.

  ‘Orderly Martin, Miss Armstrong-Barnes has been sent to assist us. Show her how to dispose of the contents of the lidded buckets.’ Sister Bateman turned to Charlotte and indicated the bucket she meant. Charlotte went forward and picked up the b
ucket. Sister Bateman was watching her closely. ‘Before disposing of anything, you should always check the contents.’ She waited, keeping her eyes on Charlotte’s face.

  ‘Sister, if it is her first day, let me—’ Orderly Martin began.

  The Sister silenced him with a look.

  Charlotte lifted the lid of the bucket. It contained a man’s arm, severed above the elbow. Charlotte gave out a choking gasp, and dropped the lid back on the bucket.

  The Sister nodded her head. ‘I thought as much,’ she said more to herself than anyone else. ‘I’ll see that you are transferred to somewhere else,’ she said in a louder voice. ‘Tea trolley duties would be more suitable for—’

  Charlotte had closed her eyes for a moment, but as she heard the Sister speaking she opened them again quickly. She looked up and met the Sister’s eyes, interrupting her with a smile. ‘This bucket contains an amputated limb,’ she said in a steady voice. ‘How would you like me to dispose of it?’

  The Sister stopped in mid-sentence and waited a moment or two watching Charlotte carefully. Then she nodded at Orderly Martin and turned and left the room.

  Charlotte worked in the sluice room all morning. This must have been what her own matron had meant when she had said that Charlotte would not be protected in the city hospital. If it had not been for the constant cheery presence of Orderly Martin she would probably have run straight back to the Cottage Hospital.

  ‘Don’t let Bossy Bateman get you down,’ he advised Charlotte. ‘She lost her man at Mons, in the very first of the fighting and she’s never smiled since, poor love.’

  The Surgical Department was busy, and as the operating assistants came and went Charlotte smiled determinedly, and tried not to look at, or think about, what she was handling.

  After lunchtime the unit staff were summoned to the Matron’s office for a meeting. She had hardly begun when her telephone rang. After listening for a few minutes she replaced the receiver.