Remembrance

by Theresa Breslin

  ‘A hospital train has just pulled in at Waverley Station. The wounded men are being brought here. The other city hospitals are full.’

  ‘We’re full too,’ protested Sister Bateman.

  ‘Well, now we’re going to be fuller,’ snapped the Matron. ‘This is an emergency, the ambulances will be here in minutes. We will use Drill E. You all know what to do.’ She looked at Charlotte as everyone else hurried from the room. ‘Apart from you, Miss Armstrong-Barnes, and there is no time to instruct you. Let us hope that you prove an asset rather than a liability.’

  She assigned Charlotte to basic duties of removing the soiled bandages of the incoming wounded men. ‘Unwrap the dressings,’ said the Matron, ‘and a nurse will come to clean and redress the wound. If you need help, ask. Do not try to cope if you cannot. It only creates more problems.’

  The dressing on Charlotte’s first patient was days old, and had clearly been applied in a hurry. The blood had congealed to the bandage and as she tried to ease it away a piece of skin came with it. Charlotte felt her insides quiver. She glanced at the man on the bed. His eyes were shut, but she knew by his breathing that he was conscious.

  Orderly Martin, who had helped her that morning, was working at the next bed. Charlotte managed to catch his eye.

  ‘Help’ – she mouthed the word at him.

  He came as soon as he could and began to help Charlotte.

  As the afternoon passed Charlotte lost all awareness of time. There were so many of them, and they kept coming. Men from all different regiments, Irish Horse, Coldstream Guards, North and South Lancashires. At one point she raised her head and saw that they had begun to place beds down the centre of the ward. If this is happening so far from the Front, what must it be like then in France? she wondered.

  ‘Do you think these are the worst?’ she whispered to Orderly Martin as they struggled to cut soiled bandages from one man.

  The soldier opened his eyes. ‘No darlin’,’ he said in a broad Yorkshire accent. ‘The worst lie where they fall. Some have been lying where they fell in 1914.’

  Charlotte stared at him, not comprehending. What could he possibly mean? He must be delirious. The Army would not leave their dead soldiers just lying around. It was ridiculous. They had their own medical teams: the Royal Army Medical Corps, who attended to the wounded during and after engagements. What the man said could not possibly be true. Charlotte knew that war must be more bloody than shown in her history books at school where there were paintings of the British Army fighting in the Zulu Wars, Crimea, Waterloo. The orderly ranks were lined up for battle, guns and swords gleaming, horses and men together. It had always looked glorious and exciting. Now that she was grown up, she realized that it couldn’t always be like that. She wasn’t naïve, she knew that there was blood and gore, and that men died, and horses too. There had been terrible losses in the Crimean War. It was partly reading about Florence Nightingale’s work to help the soldiers there that had made her consider doing some nursing. In school they had learned Lord Tennyson’s famous poem off by heart. ‘Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, cannon in front of them volleyed and thundered …’ It had excited her to think of the spurs jingling, the cries of the men urging their horses on … the honour and the glory. But … her thoughts faltered, the men of the Light Brigade had been wiped out, and for what? The order to charge should not have been given. It had been a terrible mistake. And yet a poet had turned this dreadful scene into a thing of terrible beauty. She shook her head. Now she was starting to think like Francis. Was all war wrong? Was this war in particular a terrible mistake?

  By late afternoon Charlotte was exhausted. She was working alone and began to unwrap a dressing when she saw at once there was something seriously wrong. The soldier’s leg had been cut off above the knee, but the edges of the wound were moist, swollen and purple. A musty-smelling discharge oozed from between the sutured skin flaps. Charlotte’s stomach rose and she thought, I can’t cope with this. And then another thought came to Charlotte, clear and distinct. And what is more … she thought, I don’t have to. Her hands paused in mid-air. I will return home, she decided, and that is where I will stay. I can go about with Mother, visiting, and organizing teas. That would be equally helpful, and less distressing for me. She stared at the suppurating wound, and thought, I won’t need to see anything like this ever again in my life.

  The man on the bed groaned and Charlotte’s eyes swivelled from the stinking wound to his face. His skin was ashen, his cheeks and eyes sunken, there was a line down the centre of his forehead where he had set his face against the pain. It was the face of a man aged with suffering, but the patient information card which had arrived with him declared him to be twenty-two years old. She looked around her desperately. The only person she could see was a young doctor, further down the ward. Charlotte signalled for him to come, breathed in and out quickly a few times, and then set to again to remove the old dressing. The soldier grabbed the sleeve of his tunic and bit into it with his teeth.

  ‘This man needs morphine.’ The young doctor suddenly appeared by the bed. He put his hand on Charlotte’s arm. ‘Matron is at the other end of the ward. Fetch her, and have her bring morphine.’ He grinned at Charlotte. ‘Two Ms. Got it? Matron and morphine. Go.’

  For the next half hour or so Charlotte worked with the Matron and the doctor to clean the wound, pack it with sulphonamide powder and set up a drain to take the infection away. When they had finished, the doctor spoke first.

  ‘Sister’s office,’ he ordered. ‘Tea. Now.’

  He followed close behind Charlotte and the Matron, and as he entered her office he slammed the door behind him. ‘That man is very likely to die! He should not have had a straight-across guillotine amputation. Gangrene tracks back along the muscle. If he had been operated on properly then that wound would have remained clean. What the hell are they doing out there?’ he demanded. ‘Letting wounded soldiers amputate themselves with their own ruddy bayonets?’

  ‘I’ve heard they are running out of supplies and are short of staff,’ said the Matron as she took the teapot from the little stove in the corner. She waved Charlotte to a seat and handed her a cup of tea.

  Charlotte felt her knees begin to tremble and her hand shake so that she could hardly hold her cup.

  ‘You seem calm in a crisis, Armstrong-Barnes,’ said the Matron when the doctor had left. ‘I think you might be more useful on the wards than in the sluice room. When you are next on duty report directly to me.’

  Later when Charlotte went off duty her whole body was trembling with fatigue and nervous strain but there was a glow of triumph within her. She had coped; she had proved herself. She was going to be of use after all.

  Chapter 10

  A FEW MORNINGS later Charlotte went into the library where Francis was sitting reading. He glanced up, acknowledged her presence with a brief grunt and went back to his book. Charlotte wandered over to the window, looked out for a moment or two, and then crossed to the fireplace and began examining objects on the mantelpiece. Francis kept reading.

  Charlotte cleared her throat and said, as casually as she could, ‘Francis, do you think it at all possible that people from different social stations can get along together?’

  Francis didn’t lift his head. ‘Well, obviously,’ he replied. ‘We do. In this house, and in the village.’

  ‘What about a deeper, or say, more permanent relationship?’

  Francis turned a page. ‘Such as?’

  Charlotte brushed the skirt of her dress with her hand. ‘Ermm … marriage for instance.’

  Francis barely looked up from his book. ‘There is nothing in the law of Church or State to stop them.’

  ‘But does it actually happen?’

  ‘Well, yes. People have in the past, at any rate.’

  ‘I don’t mean just technically,’ persisted Charlotte. ‘I mean, do you think it would work out? Could they be happy?’

  Francis closed his book over, f
inger still in his page. ‘There would be huge difficulties … money, lifestyle, outlook.’ He thought for a long minute. ‘But I don’t think that is the real issue. It’s a huge commitment for two people to agree to be true partners for the rest of their lives, so I think they would both have to have something in common, a shared moral outlook that would bond two people together.’

  ‘Other differences wouldn’t matter so much then?’

  ‘Differences can be exciting and stimulating. But when all that first fizzling romance and infatuation burns down, then you need to be able to plant your feet firmly on the bedrock of belief and values.’

  ‘Religious beliefs?’

  ‘No, not necessarily. But I suppose that would help, if it was true belief in the same thing by both parties, and not religion of social convention, or mind-less repeated prayer learned by rote. I suppose I really mean common values.’ Francis laughed. ‘Though there are lots of other things too, like a shared sense of humour, an ability to get along under duress …’ He stopped and looked at his sister curiously. ‘This is a very serious subject for so early in the morning.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charlotte in an offhand manner, ‘it’s something that interests me.’

  ‘Why?’

  Charlotte turned her face away. ‘No reason, in particular,’ she said carelessly.

  Francis put his book down at once. ‘Little sister,’ he said teasingly, ‘I know you too well. In the space of two minutes, you have asked me half a dozen questions one after the other. There is something on your mind.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing at all,’ said Charlotte quickly. ‘The subject was … was part of a conversation in the nurses’ rest room at the hospital.’

  Francis got up from his chair. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he sang out. ‘And I’m going to tell Mama, if you don’t tell your big brother the truth.’

  ‘It is the truth,’ Charlotte protested.

  Francis came over to the fireplace. ‘You always were a hopeless liar, Charlotte. Even when you were little, you could never tell the simplest fib. You were always getting me into the most dreadful trouble. There I would be, making up beautiful stories to cover up for our wrong-doing, and our parents would just turn to you and ask, “Is that correct, Charlotte?” and immediately you would give the game away.’

  ‘Yes, but as I recall, it was mostly you who got us into mischief in the first place,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘True, true,’ said Francis with mock sadness, ‘but now you are catching up on lost time.’ He folded his arms. ‘Tell me, what mischief are you up to today?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Charlotte, as calmly as she could.

  Francis peered at her closely. ‘Then why is your face pink?’ He walked around her. ‘That is a very pretty dress you have on. Could we be on our way to a secret assignation?’ He clapped his hands together. ‘I know! John Malcolm Dundas is home on embarkation leave, and you’ve arranged to see him.’

  ‘Shhh!’ Charlotte put her finger to her lips, and glanced anxiously towards the library door which stood ajar.

  Francis gasped in pretended horror. ‘You mean Mother doesn’t know that you are going out unchaperoned to meet a young man!’

  ‘He has so very little time, and has to spend most of it with his family, but he said he would take a walk out to the bridge this morning after breakfast.’

  ‘And you thought that you might just take a stroll down there yourself?’ Francis laughed. ‘Fortunately it is a bit of a way out of the village, so the gossips won’t see you. And Mother hasn’t mentioned going out today.’

  Charlotte’s hand went to her mouth.

  Francis laughed. ‘Don’t worry, little sister. In the unlikely event that Mother decides to go visiting or shopping this morning, I shall ensure that the car won’t start until the afternoon.’

  Charlotte kissed her brother on his cheek, and darted from the room.

  Francis laid the palm of his hand along his cheek where his sister had kissed it, and as he looked after her there was a terrible sadness in his eyes.

  Charlotte saw the figure in uniform sitting on the parapet of the bridge, and with a skip of her heart knew that it was John Malcolm. Immediately she slowed down to a demure walk. He must have been looking out for her, for he got to his feet at once, and watched her approach. When she reached him she was still a little out of breath and they stood there, both suddenly shy.

  ‘Hello,’ said Charlotte.

  John Malcolm only nodded his head, as if the sight of her had made him lose his power of speech.

  Charlotte walked all around him as Francis had done with her earlier. ‘You look wonderful,’ she said sincerely. John Malcolm nodded again. He was achingly handsome in his uniform, and her breathing felt constricted. ‘I brought you something.’

  He dragged his eyes from her face to look at her gift. Then he fumbled so awkwardly with the wrapping paper that eventually she took it from him and undid the string herself.

  ‘It’s a tea and sugar tin. Look, it has a lid at both ends and is divided in the middle to keep them apart. One side holds tea and the other sugar,’ she explained. ‘The assistant in the store where I bought it said he had it on authority they were a real boon in the trenches.’

  ‘It’s exactly what I need,’ he said. He did not tell her that he had already been given two.

  ‘I expect that you’ve had lots of presents,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Maggie knitted me socks.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charlotte, feeling a little put out that she had been forced by her lack of domestic skills to buy him something rather than make it herself.

  ‘And my father gave me a watch.’ John Malcolm took the timepiece from his pocket and showed it to her.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Charlotte, leaning closer to him.

  Their fingers touched, his warm and strong over hers. He grasped her hand in one of his and with the other slipped the watch back into his pocket.

  ‘Charlotte,’ he said. ‘It might be months, years even, before we see each other again.’

  She said nothing, but her eyes began to fill with tears. Impulsively she flung her arms around his chest and felt the rough khaki against her cheek. He responded by holding her there imprisoned in his arms. Charlotte raised her head to look up at him. His eyes were the colour of dark green glass. Her own opened wider as she gazed into his. Then he bent his head and kissed her.

  Charlotte thought she would die.

  He broke away first, his face flushed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not.’ She laid her head back on his chest.

  He smiled and she felt the tension ebb out of his body.

  ‘I do like you an awful lot.’

  ‘I know,’ she whispered.

  ‘I was hoping that when I come back …’ He stopped. He looked at her, searching her face. His face was red again. ‘I was hoping—’

  She put her finger to his lips. ‘There will be time enough to talk about it when you come back,’ she said.

  ‘Will you write to me?’ he asked her.

  ‘You will need to write to me first, so that I will have the address.’

  ‘Don’t expect much,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t very good at school learning. Maggie and Alex are the clever ones in our house.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Charlotte. ‘Write anyway. I want to know everything you are doing. I want to imagine I’m there with you.’

  He gripped her hand tightly and they sat on the wall of the bridge, fingers interlaced, both believing it to be the happiest day of their life.

  Chapter 11

  JOHN MALCOLM’S LETTERS home to his family were brief, and with a very practical outlook. Despite the fact that she now worked in the munitions factory and had first-hand knowledge of armaments, Maggie couldn’t help but note that her twin brother addressed anything of import to her father or Alex. She and her mother received news about the weather or requests for items to be sent on. Her father and Alex discussed battle
tactics and how the world would be after the end of the War.

  ‘There’s never been a war like this,’ Maggie’s father declared, ‘and there never will be again.’

  This made Alex all the more determined to be ready to join up and he wished each night before he went to sleep that it would not be over before he was old enough to do this. He wrote to his older brother begging for every detail of his life in the Army. John Malcolm replied by copying out sections of his Recruit Training in special letters for Alex. Alex seized on the letters as soon as they arrived and read them out importantly.

  ‘A recruit must develop a soldierly manner and spirit. There must be smartness in turnout and in obeying orders. Personal cleanliness is to be maintained at all times, especially care of the feet.’

  ‘Well good,’ commented Maggie. ‘There will be no problems now in getting you to have a bath once a week.’

  Alex made a face at her and continued reading. ‘A recruit must learn marching, march disciplines, and running. A recruit must be able to take his place in the ranks of his company in close and extended order drill.’

  Alex was thrilled when John Malcolm eventually wrote to say that he and Eddie Kane had been passed as trained men. His father gave him sheets of brown paper from the shop and Alex drew dozens of sketches of soldiers and their equipment. He had made a series of diagrams showing the correct positions for saluting and presenting arms and practised these earnestly each day.

  Maggie also noticed that her father had moved automatically for conversation about the War and politics to her younger brother. It was not that he did not discuss events with her or her mother, it was just that the manner of his doing so was more of a lecture, with them being allowed to raise points or ask questions. This began to annoy her. Another source of irritation occurred on the occasions she still helped out in the shop. Charlotte often came in, and in her bright happy fashion chatted about the letters she received from John Malcolm. She would buy lots of little things to send to him, accompanying her purchases with remarks like, ‘I am going to send him some fine soap. John Malcolm mentioned that the army soap does not lather well,’ or, ‘I thought it would be nice to send him some chocolate. He says the food is very plain.’