Francis went back up to the Front.
His men were digging assembly trenches, constructing dug-outs, laying cable. They worked knee deep in slimy water, their feet dragging in a bottom coating of mud, the depth of which was rising daily. Day and night the air shook and the earth trembled with the sound of the guns. The utensils and equipment on the table and shelves in the dugout rattled continuously. A deep raw pain settled behind Francis’s eyes. He felt as though his brain was slowly detaching from inside his skull. The fine tenuous membranes which held it in place were tearing away one by one.
As the staff car carrying Francis made its way towards Brigade Headquarters, the 11th Battalion of the Durham Light Infantry marched to their billets in a barn in the Ypres Salient. The Private known as Kenneth Kane crept into a corner, utterly exhausted.
‘Sleeping like a babe,’ said the Sergeant.
‘That’s because he is a babby,’ said his Corporal, Eric Kidd.
‘He’s supposed to be with the Nineteenth. He’s a Bantam, that’s why he’s small. His papers say he’s the right age.’
‘Dinna care what his papers say. Just need tae look at him.’ Eric Kidd went over to the young boy he had befriended. Pulling some straw from a bale, he threw it over Alex. ‘Criminal, that’s what it is.’ He went to the door of the barn and stood with the Sergeant looking out at the heavy skies emptying rain. ‘Weather just like home.’
The Sergeant looked at the sky and then at the land. ‘Yes, but at home we’ve got the hills for it to run off, and the sea for it to run into. Here they’ve to break their backs digging ditches to gain a field of useable farm soil. If this doesn’t get drained off as it’s coming down, by a week or two we’ll be fighting in a swamp.’
Chapter 32
RETURNING FROM HIS training in England, Francis made a detour to see Maggie and Charlotte.
He took them both to tea in Le Touquet, where they ate cake which Francis had brought from England and drank the local delicacy of chocolat chaud served in wide earthenware bowls. After an hour or so, Charlotte declared herself tired out and opted to return to Rienne, while Francis and Maggie went for a stroll in a little copse which overlooked the beaches. The woods were full of early bluebells, so thickly clustered under the trees that their definition blurred to a haze of azure. It reminded both of them of home.
‘If it weren’t for the sound of the guns we might be in Stratharden,’ said Francis.
‘When this is over,’ said Maggie, ‘I hope never to hear the sound of guns again. The Matron says that gas gangrene and septicaemia claim more lives than direct gunfire. War has become an industry, and yet the medical advances are enormous. We can transfuse blood, halt infections and sometimes save those with sepsis. Should we be glad that a positive good has come out of it all?’
‘I think that increasingly war will be industrialized,’ said Francis. ‘Who knows, it might even become helpful to the economy. But let’s not talk of war. It’s almost too real to be discussed.’ He put his head on one side. ‘You have cut your hair.’ He studied the brown hair curling softly from under her nurse’s cap. ‘Yes,’ he said finally, ‘I think it suits you, very up to date and in the mode.’
‘It was not a decision made with fashion in mind,’ said Maggie. ‘Short hair is much easier to keep clean. You soldiers are very generous with your presents, and bring lice on every visit you make to the hospital. They are resistant to anything and everything we try to use to overcome them.’
Francis said teasingly, ‘I thought nursing was a genteel business. The journals and newspapers show wonderful images of our nurses looking very fine in starched whites; decorous ladies quietly tending to our stricken soldiers.’
Maggie laughed as she thought of the rush in the wards when ambulances full of wounded men arrived. ‘My mother says that you can always tell a lady by her hands.’ She held her own hands out in front of her. ‘I am a lost cause.’ Her hands were red and chapped with many little cuts and sores. ‘To avoid infection we swab our hands with disinfectant rather than cold cream. It doesn’t enhance their appearance at all,’ Maggie said ruefully.
Francis stopped, took her hands in his and turned them face upwards. ‘They are the loveliest hands I have ever seen,’ he said.
Maggie was aware of her heart thudding, slow, deliberate and heavy in her breast. She took a step back and looked up at him. He is my friend, she told herself, nothing more.
Francis lifted her right hand and placed it along his cheek. Her fingers stretched almost to his ear, her palm cupped his chin.
His face was gentle, pliant to the light pressure of her touch. Maggie had always supposed that a man’s face would be rough with constant shaving, but the skin under her hand was as soft as chenille.
Francis laid his own hand over hers and slid his fingers out to cover each of hers. He closed his eyes, his lips barely parted as he whispered, ‘I want to remember your touch.’
For a moment Maggie held the warmth of his face in her hand; his breath fluttered at her wrist. Neither of them spoke. Then he opened his eyes and smiled.
‘We had better return,’ he said.
She didn’t reply. Was this falling in love? Why didn’t she know? With Charlotte and John Malcolm it was plain to them and everyone else. They were flying, able to see stars, high, bright and clear in the sky. Why had she, Maggie, then this upside down sensation? The more she thought to try and analyse the situation, the more confused she became. Should she not think about it, just seize the moment? But that was not her way. Nor his.
‘Yes,’ she replied finally. ‘We had better return.’
The one thing she did know, whether this was love or not, was that she had the best friend that it was possible for her to have. She had bonded with a person who sought to understand her. Francis had made her see that horizons were for going beyond. She had learned from him, and unbelievably, he from her. It was not one feeling but many, sensations which she found intellectually and physically moving. All this was humbling yet, in a quiet way, exciting.
On her return to the hospital at Rienne, the moment on the path in the woods with the bluebells at her feet stayed with Maggie. And helped sustain her through a long and difficult week when she and Charlotte sat with one of their youngest patients, a boy of eighteen, aware that he was slipping away from them. Towards the end he spoke some words, and died. Both Charlotte and Maggie were badly affected, and readily took the offer from the other members of staff who volunteered to lay out the body if they would sort through his things.
In the breast pocket of his tunic there were some muddied pieces of paper. Maggie was about to discard the sodden bundle when Charlotte took it from her hand.
Charlotte carefully unfolded the crumpled packet. She separated the pieces and laid the letters out, one by one, along the window ledge.
‘They’ll dry off there,’ she said.
Maggie shook her head. ‘He must have carried them with him when he went over the top,’ she said. ‘He had lost his boots but not these.’
‘I think all soldiers appreciate any form of contact with the rest of the world,’ said Charlotte.
‘These letters in particular must have meant a great deal to him.’
Charlotte looked across at Maggie. ‘My brother appreciates your letters in particular. He tells me that you preserve his very sanity.’
Francis knew that he was losing his mind. It would not happen in any acute dramatic way, as when once he had seen a man throw down his weapon and begin a hysterical, screaming, babbling rant. For himself, he had embarked on a slow terrifying journey into madness. As the mud from Salient to Somme swallowed tanks, men, and horses, Francis felt it suck at his mind, pulling him down inexorably. He travelled up and down the road between Brigade and Divisional Headquarters, briefing and debriefing the pilots on the reconnaissance flights, interpreting the photographs and compiling his maps of death. Conversations and meals with others were required routines which he performed with his body while his min
d functioned elsewhere. At night when he lay in bed he could neither recall whom he’d spoken to, nor what food he had eaten that day. He knew that the photographs of the devastation which he studied were accurate recordings of what was happening on the ground, not an imagined scene or an artistic interpretation. Rather than being pleased that his particular skill for drawing was being utilized, Francis saw his work as some hellish punishment for his talent.
He imagined how it must be for the troops trying to advance in these conditions. The infantry struggling to breathe in a gas attack, blinded, and in terror of leaving the safe path. He dreamed of the mud, and all life suffocating in it. Images moved in front of his face as he lay on his canvas trestle bed. He stared at the night sky through his uncurtained window and the pale drum-skin of the moon beat inside his head.
And then the child Louise-Marie was killed. A shell landed in the yard of their little dwelling and buried her and her mother alive. Soldiers dug with their bare hands to reach them. It was a day when he was in Poperinge and had gone to see his friends in his old billet. Francis arrived at the house as they were bringing the bodies out. Their cow had somehow survived. The sight of the beast dragging grass from the remainder of the wall enraged Francis and he wanted to kick it. Soldiers who had seen every type of horror over the last three years stood about, useless and grief-stricken.
‘For God’s sake, get rid of that animal!’ he heard himself yelling, and then he turned away and vomited in the road.
The incident acted as a catalyst for Francis. Men were dying in their hundreds daily. High Command would not let up on the Offensive. The infantry must struggle on and gain what ground they could before another winter set in. Francis resolved that he would ask to be allowed to return to a forward position. But first he would go and see Maggie.
Chapter 33
MAGGIE AND CHARLOTTE both went to the funeral of the eighteen-year-old boy they had nursed. A roughly made wooden cross with his name and age inked on it, Richard Chalthorpe, Age 18, was placed over his grave. Charlotte and Maggie waited behind after the grave-diggers had gone and laid some small stones around the edges to mark his place. Charlotte had pulled some violets by the roots and scraped a small hole with her fingers in which to place them.
Later that afternoon Charlotte and Maggie were sorting laundry when they were called to the Matron’s office. An elderly couple were sitting there. The Matron introduced them as the parents of the boy who died.
‘Mr and Mrs Chalthorpe, these nurses tended your son, and were in fact with him when he passed away.’
The boy’s mother spoke slowly. ‘He was our only son, our only child in fact. He was born when we had given up hope of ever having any.’ She looked at Charlotte and Maggie, a bewildered look on her face. ‘We got word that he was very badly wounded, not expected to live, but we thought if he saw us it would help. We came as quickly as we could …’
‘We booked a passage right away,’ said the man. ‘But we arrived too late. We are here now, and he is dead and buried.’
‘I knew that he was very ill,’ said the woman, ‘but I hoped …’
Charlotte crossed the room and knelt down in front of the boy’s mother. She took the old woman’s hand in her own. ‘Even if you had been here it would not have saved him. His time had come and he was very content as he passed away. He believed that his life had been fulfilled and that he was going to God. He was glad that he had not let anyone down, that he had done his duty.’
‘That is what he said at the end,’ added Maggie. The boy’s father looked at her. His eyes searched her face, desperate for any information she could give him. Maggie nodded. ‘Your son said, “I did my duty.” He was so proud of himself.’
‘As you should be too,’ said the Matron briskly, but not unkindly. She motioned for Charlotte to rise. ‘I will take Mr and Mrs Chalthorpe to visit the grave. I would like you both to gather up their son’s personal possessions and bring them here to my office where they can collect them before they leave to go back to England.’
Maggie and Charlotte went through the dead soldier’s haversack, separated out the army issue items, and collected together the boy’s personal possessions. It made a sad little bundle: his letters and some picture postcards, a hand-knitted balaclava, a pair of monogrammed nail scissors, a little leather pocket book and several family photographs. There was a tobacco tin with the words ‘To Richard, much love, Mother & Father’.
Charlotte and Maggie delivered the package to the Matron’s office and went to take some tea in the rest room.
‘That was such a heartbreaking thing to do,’ said Maggie.
‘Yes,’ said Charlotte, ‘but his parents will be so glad of it. When they come to look at all his things, it will give them time to think about him, and hopefully bring comfort …’ Her voice tailed off.
‘Unlike us.’ Maggie voiced their unspoken thoughts. ‘We have none of John Malcolm’s belongings returned to us, no grave to grieve over.’
‘I have very little to remember him by,’ said Charlotte. ‘His letters and a daisy chain.’
‘A daisy chain?’
Charlotte smiled. ‘You probably don’t remember that day in August. It is almost two years ago now, when Francis drove us all in the car to picnic. Your brother made me a daisy chain, and we laughed because he was so clumsy and couldn’t thread the stems properly.’
A sudden memory came to Maggie of that outing and of her jealousy as she watched Charlotte and her brother, close and laughing together. It seemed now to Maggie such an unworthy sentiment to be provoked by this girl who appeared to have no rancour against the world that had robbed her of her love. No bitterness nor resentment poisoned her mind. She directed all the love she had into looking after the wounded and dying. Her sympathy in going forward to take the hand of the mother of the dead boy earlier was so genuine, Maggie knew that although the Matron had not approved, she would find it difficult to reprimand Charlotte for showing such unaffected compassion. Her gentleness and sweetness were known throughout the hospital and village. The French staff and patients called her La Petite Sourire because she always smiled, no matter how grim the task she was performing.
Maggie left Charlotte to make the tea and went to her room. She searched in her suitcase until she found what she was looking for, then she returned to the nurses’ parlour.
‘I have something to show you.’ Maggie handed a picture of her brother to Charlotte. ‘It is a photograph of John Malcolm. I’m afraid I can’t remember exactly when it was taken.’
Maggie heard Charlotte’s sharp intake of breath. The young girl held the photograph in one hand and with the fingers of the other touched the face of the boy laughing out at her.
‘I think it may have been taken about two years ago,’ said Maggie, ‘so he looks a bit younger. In fact he would be about the age you are now.’
‘Oh.’ Charlotte bit her lip and her fingers clenched together.
Her face had such a piteous expression, that Maggie impulsively said, ‘You may have it, if you wish.’ And as Charlotte’s wide grey eyes looked at her disbelievingly, Maggie repeated, ‘Please keep it. He … I want you to have it.’
Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, ‘thank you.’ She swallowed, and as she did she felt the lump that occupied the cavity of her chest move a little. She had lived with it for so long that she had become used to its presence within her. But now it seemed as though the ragged edges which sometimes threatened to tear her apart when she breathed had dulled just a little. She stepped forward and kissed Maggie on the cheek, then hurried from the room.
Maggie put her hand to her face where Charlotte had kissed her. It was such a sisterly thing to do, and Maggie, who had never had a sister, was overcome by the gesture.
Maggie went back to her duties. Usually she regretted things done on impulse. In the past her quick temper often left her with an unpleasant aftermath of her words or actions. That afternoon as she worked she waited for th
e let-down feeling that would come with the realization that she had given away her precious photograph. It didn’t happen. She knew by Charlotte’s reaction that it had been the right thing to do, and within herself she felt only peace.
Chapter 34
IT WAS DIFFICULT for Maggie to concentrate on her work when her mind was constantly filled with thoughts of Alex. She, like her father, had feelings of guilt about the time she had spent with her younger brother. Perhaps if she had paid more attention she would have noticed what he was about. Why had she not thought his deep interest in her travel arrangements unusual? The words of the clerk in the War Office in London came back to her, and she tried to think of how Alex might plan his running away. Her father had written to her again saying that he was absolutely sure that Alex had gone to London because he himself had gone into Edinburgh and spoken to the guard on the train that Alex had travelled on. The man remembered inspecting the ticket as the train went through Berwick, and the boy saying quite specifically that he was going to London. Maggie pondered on this. It seemed strange that Alex, who had taken such care that no-one saw him leaving the village, should draw attention to himself in this way. Unless … Maggie gave a little cry aloud. Of course! Alex was clever and resourceful, as Charlotte said. They should not be contacting every London regiment asking for information, they should be trying anywhere but London. And then Maggie remembered the maps that she had shown Alex, and his interest in all the different regiments. It was so obvious! Somewhere on the journey south he had got off the train, after leaving them a false trail to follow.
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