The Lily in the Snow

by Jackie French

  She put her teacup down and stood. ‘Will you see him now?’ It was not really a question. ‘Mrs McDonald is with him, and her brother-in-law.’

  ‘Her brother-in-law?’ echoed Sophie. ‘You mean Major McDonald’s brother?’

  ‘Stepbrother, I gather. They have different names.’ Once again Mother Antill hesitated. ‘Mrs McDonald is sure that Matthew is her husband. Dr Greenman, her brother-in-law, is not. Matthew shows no sign that he recognises either of them.’

  ‘A head injury might mean he has lost his memory,’ Sophie pointed out.

  ‘Yes, of course. But it’s more than that.’ Once again Mother Antill paused, clearly troubled. ‘Matthew does respond when other patients speak to him, and also to us. But he doesn’t even seem to hear Mrs McDonald or Dr Greenman.’

  ‘And that troubles you?’ asked Nigel quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mother Antill. ‘If you follow me, I will take you to him.’

  The corridor again and an even stronger scent of turnips, with a hint of what might be bacon and potato. The next door opened to the cobbled courtyard, and a smell of live pig, instead of meat. The perambulating legless man had vanished. Mother Antill hesitated. ‘It will look less dreary in a few months. The broom bushes flower in spring, and in summer we can take the men on walks down the lane.’

  ‘What would make it less dreary now?’ asked Sophie.

  Another grin, more suited to Australian paddocks than a convent. ‘A lot more money,’ said Mother Antill. She led them across the mud and into what must be the ward for men who needed less intensive care.

  The building had been stables. Now each of the four stalls held a narrow wooden bed, a curtained cupboard, a chamber pot, a man. One looked up from a newspaper that was propped up on a kind of cage so his fingerless hands could turn the pages. Another, seemingly intact, watched the ceiling, not even registering their movement as they passed. A mumble of voices came from the cubicle at the far end.

  Sophie’s skin prickled. For some reason it was hard to breathe.

  It was impossible. Not here, not now. It could not be . . . he could not be . . . She forced herself into a state of calmness. I am a swan, she thought. I am a swan, gliding on the water . . .

  The man in the cubicle raised white eyes towards them as he heard their footsteps. Sophie made herself look only at him. Too many must already have instinctively looked away. And watching him gave her an excuse not to meet the eyes of the man beside him.

  Matthew’s scars were bad, though Sophie had seen worse. He did have eyes, even if they were grey-white within the shiny redness of what was left of his face. No nose, but someone had ensured he kept his nostrils. His ears were stubs, the left almost entirely gone, but evidently he could hear. No hair, except a patch of brown and grey on one side of his skull, though Sophie thought that scarring looked different from his facial scars, from a fire after the hospital was bombed, perhaps. His forearms were covered by the white sheet, topped with a much-darned patchwork quilt. Sophie imagined the sisters spending their nights mending, patching . . .

  It was . . . more peaceful . . . to imagine that, than to face today. She took a breath, created a smile, was aware that both Nigel and Green knew of her distress, even if they did not know why.

  She let her gaze turn at last to the two figures sitting on hard-backed chairs beside the bed. The first was a woman, thirty-five perhaps. Sophie had expected the hopeful Mrs McDonald would be wearing sensible grey serge or flannel. Instead she wore a wool dress of a blue that suited her blonde hair. Her matching open coat was trimmed with gold embroidery. Silk stockings, good pearls and matching earrings.

  Why? Mrs McDonald must know the man on the bed could not see her clothes. Had she dressed for her brother-in-law, or because today she would meet an earl and a countess? And yet she hardly acknowledged their approach, her gaze intent upon the patient lying in the bed. She had dressed for him, Sophie realised. She wishes to look beautiful for the man she loves, even if he cannot see her clothes.

  She turned reluctantly to the other man, who had been sitting on the chair next to his sister-in-law.

  He had stood at their approach. He carefully did not gaze at Sophie nor even show surprise. But of course Mother Antill must have told him that the Earl and Countess of Shillings would arrive today. He’d had more than a week, or even longer, to prepare for this.

  ‘Lord Shillings, Lady Shillings, Miss Green and Mr Jones, this is Mrs McDonald and Dr Greenman, and this of course, is Matthew. Matthew, Lord Shillings has come to help see if we can find out who you are.’

  The man on the bed remained motionless, as if he hadn’t heard.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs McDonald,’ said Sophie, wondering at the steadiness of her voice. ‘I so very much hope that we can help in some way. Good morning, Matthew. Please excuse our interrupting you. It is with the best of intentions.’ She forced her gaze once again to Dr Greenman. ‘Good morning, John,’ she said.

  Mrs McDonald looked at them in surprise. ‘John?’

  ‘That was the name I used for a while up in New South Wales. Good morning, Sophie. Congratulations on your marriage.’ Dr Greenman’s voice was casual, as if they had met briefly, once or twice, for afternoon tea perhaps. And yet it was the same voice that had spoken with comfort and compassion to so many at Thuringa. It was the voice that had once whispered passion, even love.

  ‘Thank you for coming. Thank you, too, your lordship.’

  Nigel held out a hand to Dr Greenman, who shook it.

  He was still John, despite a touch of grey — less tanned perhaps, his face closed where two years ago it had been open. A tweed suit, a good coordinated tweed coat, his hat and leather gloves on the small cupboard by the bed. She was shocked how little difference the formal clothes, the haircut made. This was still John, in every way that counted. She could feel it, as if a telephone cable connected them.

  ‘You know each other?’ asked Green, then stopped abruptly. Sophie could sense the moment she made the connection.

  ‘We last met when Dr Greenman occupied a hut on Thuringa. Yes, we know each other,’ said Sophie.

  Chapter 8

  LONDON, FEBRUARY 1929

  VIOLETTE

  The room the pennies allowed her to sleep in stank of rats, damp cloth and urine. Fungi grew from the walls. Five other women slept there, their ages ranging from (possibly) ten to (possibly) one hundred and four, though poverty, filth and starvation made it difficult to tell. All had to huddle on three small mattresses that were little better than rags. But the room provided safety from men, blizzards and the fog that was so thick you could almost slice it.

  It did not protect you from the thefts of the other women, but the cold made it necessary to sleep in all her clothes anyway, and Violette kept the coins and her few pound notes between the layers of her clothing. She also kept her knife in its leather holder carefully anchored to her body with her knicker elastic, and made sure she let the other women see her use it, carefully peeling an apple with its sharpness.

  The knife meant Violette slept undisturbed except for the scampering of rats and the occasional grey drip from the sagging ceiling. That night, however, she would not need to sleep with rats. She most probably would not even need her knife.

  Violette’s second meal of the day had been provided by a woman. This was not unusual — London, like all cities, had its ‘kind ladies’ eager to give a girl from the country a bed — and employment in that bed. This woman was different.

  Violette had found her watching her with an almost hungry stare. Forty years old, perhaps, which was very old, and dressed sensibly but not fashionably in a blue cloche hat and well-darned gloves. The woman had listened to two songs — no longer Christmas carols and so less lucrative — before dropping a sixpence in the hat.

  ‘I wonder,’ she had asked tentatively, ‘if you would like to have tea with me?’ The woman gestured to the teashop behind, a Lyon’s Corner House this time, not a Worthy’s.

  ‘Thank you
, madame.’

  ‘You are Belgian?’

  ‘Yes, madame,’ said Violette, surprised. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I . . . I recognised the song you sang. A Belgian family stayed with us during the war. The Maillots. Do you know them?’ The woman shook her head, answering her own question and smiling. ‘But Belgium is a big place.’

  ‘I am desolate, madame. I do not know them.’ Violette waited till they had sat down and her companion had ordered cocoa and a selection of sandwiches before asking, ‘You were fond of that family, madame?’

  ‘I married their son,’ she said. ‘I am Mrs Philippe Maillot. He and his father and brother died at the Somme, and our daughter and Philippe’s mother of the influenza.’

  ‘Madame, I am so sorry.’

  Mrs Maillot dabbed her eyes — the handkerchief was embroidered with flowers, but mended too — and smiled. ‘You remind me of Daisy, a little. She would be about your age. Her voice was sweet too,’ she added awkwardly. ‘My dear, you are very young and it is very cold. Are you . . . have you anywhere safe to go?’

  ‘A room. But I am searching for my mother.’

  For the first time the look of enquiry was genuine. ‘You were separated in the war?’

  Violette nodded. ‘Her name was Lily Shillings. I have rung many Shillingses, but no one knows of a Lily.’

  ‘Hmm. You could place an advertisement in the newspaper,’ suggested Mrs Maillot. ‘Ah, cocoa, lovely.’ She offered Violette the sandwiches, then bit into a corned beef and pickle one. ‘Perhaps say Mrs L Shillings: please correspond care of this publication. Your daughter wishes to contact you.’

  ‘It is Miss Shillings,’ said Violette evenly.

  ‘Ah.’ Mrs Maillot put down her sandwich. ‘How did you part?’

  ‘She left me, madame. I was only a baby. I do not remember her.’

  Mrs Maillot took a sip of cocoa before she spoke again. ‘My dear . . . what is your name?

  ‘Violette, madame.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Violette Shillings.’

  ‘Violette, you must know . . . if your mother wasn’t married perhaps she had no choice but to leave you in Belgium. The life of an unwed mother . . .’ Mrs Maillot shook her head. ‘It is not easy, for her or the child. She may have thought you were better off with a family. Did she make provision for you? Leave money?’ she added, when she saw Violette didn’t understand.

  ‘I do not know. My grandmère — I called her Grandmère even though she was not my grandmother — rented a cottage. We were happy until she died.’ Violette did not add that Grandmère had taught her adopted granddaughter a range of skills, from embroidery to how to dispatch those who had collaborated with the hated Boche. But practising both had made them happy.

  ‘And then?’ asked Mrs Maillot sympathetically.

  Violette’s look hardened. ‘An orphanage. The Sisters sent me to be a servant, but it was not as a servant that the house they sent me to wanted.’

  ‘So many orphans after the war,’ said Mrs Maillot apologetically. ‘I don’t suppose the Sisters could check each request.’

  ‘No?’ Violette shrugged. ‘I escaped. I lived. And then I thought —’ She stopped.

  ‘That your mother might offer you a home?’

  ‘Perhaps, madame.’ Violette did not want to lie to this good woman.

  Mrs Maillot bit into a cheese and tomato sandwich energetically. ‘Well, the first thing we must do is find her. What do you know of her?’

  Violette hesitated. ‘Grandmère said that she was beautiful. Her dress was beautiful too.’

  Mrs Maillot smiled. ‘That is good, but not much help in locating her.’

  ‘Grandmère said she came from a village called Shillings too. But I can find no Shillings on a map.’

  ‘It is too small, perhaps, or it may be an estate or even a big house. But there may be a Shillings telephone exchange. We could call the operator and ask.’

  Violette grew still. This was . . . useful. She had never considered telephone exchanges. She nodded and helped herself to a sandwich.

  ‘And churches. There might be a Shillings church. Or trains, perhaps.’ Mrs Maillot was increasingly enthusiastic. She opened a practical handbag and pulled out a train timetable. ‘Shillings Station!’ she said triumphantly after a brief pause. ‘It will be on the phone, perhaps. If it is, the stationmaster will be able to tell us if Shillings is a village, or just the name of the area.’

  Violette blinked. After all these years, it seemed that her mother might be only a train journey away. ‘My mother was an aristocrat, too, madame, a sister of the Earl of Shillings.’

  Mrs Maillot stared at her. ‘An earl is easy to find. He would be in Debrett’s.’

  ‘I do not know this book, madame.’

  ‘But surely your grandmother would.’

  Violette clenched her hands under the table. ‘Grandmère wrote to the earl, just after the war. He did not reply, only the man who called himself his agent. The agent said that there was no Miss Lily Shillings in the family.’

  Mrs Maillot looked at Violette with sympathy. ‘Possibly the family did not want the scandal of a child born out of wedlock. It happens, my dear. A wealthy family makes provision for a child, and then has no more to do with them. Your grandmother didn’t suggest you join your mother after the war?’

  ‘No, madame. Never.’

  ‘I see. Violette . . .’ The voice was awkward again. ‘This room you have I . . . I would be so very pleased if you would stay with me. Just until we have found your family, of course.’ Though Mrs Maillot’s hopeful tone made it clear she doubted that a mother who had given up her baby would want that baby to join her now in whatever life she had since made for herself.

  For the first time since Grandmère died, Violette allowed herself tears. ‘I . . . I would like to stay a little time with you, madame, until I find this Shillings.’

  But no more, she thought sadly. Mrs Maillot was so obviously longing to replace her daughter, the child with the sweet voice and, undoubtedly, with a nature as sweet as her mother’s. Mrs Maillot did not deserve a daughter who had helped kill collaborators, who had, perhaps, killed a ‘kind old gentleman’ back in Brussels (she had not waited to find out his fate) and who planned to kill again.

  For half a minute she allowed herself the fantasy of becoming Violette Maillot, daughter of a widow of limited means, but with enough money to order cocoa and sandwiches. They would go to church on Sundays and Violette would make madeleines for tea, and a tisane for her mother when she had a headache, just as she had done for Grandmère . . .

  But she was not that girl and never would be. But perhaps she would let herself pretend. Just for a while.

  Chapter 9

  Children belong to no one but themselves. We only borrow them.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  Sophie tried frantically to dredge up chatter to cut the silence, but already Nigel was breaking it. He put his hand on the pyjamaed wrist of the man in the bed.

  ‘Major McDonald? Colonel Vaile here. You might remember Jones too. He was my batman back then. He played forward in the rugger match.’

  The man on the bed looked straight ahead, as if he didn’t hear. Yet he heard us approach, thought Sophie.

  She couldn’t stay there, and not just because of John’s . . . Dr Greenman’s . . . proximity. Neither she nor Greenie could help identify this man. All they could do at this stage was clutter up a ‘do you remember?’ masculine conversation.

  As would Mrs McDonald and Mother Antill. There might well be things neither Nigel nor Jones nor even Dr Greenman would want to say in women’s company. ‘Remember the brothel in Egypt, old chap? That girl who did the act with the python?’ Not that Nigel or Jones would ever have visited a brothel . . .

  Perhaps.

  She smiled at Mrs McDonald and held out her hand, gloved and elegant, the kid skin hiding her own red scar tissue, the honour badge of the tens of thousands of women who had volunteered, unofficially and never counted, in
the war. Hands that touched infected wounds, hands that must be washed repeatedly in cold water and lye-based soap that cracked in the cold and became infected too. Mother Antill’s hands were marked with that badge too. The hand Mrs McDonald put in hers was not marked by wartime nursing, but neither was it soft and white. The woman worked, and her hands showed it.

  ‘Mrs McDonald, we have a hamper in the car. Mother Antill might possibly share her tea with us again?’

  Mrs McDonald glanced longingly at the man on the bed, even as she stood at Sophie’s urging. ‘I would rather stay here.’

  Mother Antill understood. ‘Miss Green, perhaps you would help me with the tea while her ladyship and Mrs McDonald fetch the hamper?’ It was a voice used to gently command.

  And suddenly Sophie and Mrs McDonald were outside in the courtyard, where two men from another ward walked slowly, one with a stick in his hand, the other gazing at the cobbles as he muttered under his breath. ‘My mother is a pineapple, pineapple, pineapple. My father is an orange . . .’ The mumbler did not glance up as they passed, though the man with the stick gave a polite greeting to Mother Antill.

  Sophie led the way to the car. She opened the back door then hesitated. ‘Mrs McDonald, would you mind if we talked in the car? It will be more private.’

  The woman stopped, suddenly suspicious. ‘Why do we need privacy?’

  ‘So I can ask questions that might embarrass any listeners. Like whether your husband was circumcised,’ said Sophie frankly. ‘Mother Antill has been married, but the other sisters . . .’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Mrs McDonald slid into the back seat next to her and accepted the travelling rug Sophie placed over their knees. Their breath flowered in small white clouds, even there in the car.

  ‘Coffee?’ Sophie unscrewed the top of a Thermos. She smiled encouragingly. ‘I don’t think Mother Antill’s tea has enough strength left to revive a mouse.’

  ‘Thank you. No, nothing to eat, thank you.’ Mrs McDonald sipped, then looked at the black coffee, not Sophie, when she replied. ‘Uncircumcised.’