1 November
Very despondent lad from Canterbury, Private Prescott, told me he was conscripted six months ago, and barely reached the War before it ‘bit him’. I told him he was lucky, and should think of those who it bit rather harder. He looked quite taken aback.
2 November
Valenciennes has been taken by the Allies. At last it begins to feel as if success is in sight, though the general feeling is that it will be next summer before things are wound up.
Sunday 3 November
Half a day off, and who should call for me but Arthur! He came down yesterday, apparently, and this morning went to see Matron (from whom he received ‘a very thorough going over’) in order he might secure permission to take me to tea. We found a rather ugly little café that nonetheless did the trick. Though initially disconcerted, I am now rather glad he did not send advance notice, as I should then have been up half the night with nerves. As it was, we slipped perfectly easily into our usual routine. I suspect Winifred quite wrong; we are simply friends. He is staying in London for a few days and will call again on Wednesday evening.
4 November
Weather rather bleak. I am glad to be beneath a solid roof and beyond the reach of sleet, snow and Gothas. Edmund was sitting up when I called into his ward. He is painfully thin; I told him firmly that he must eat, which caused Sister to laugh.
5 November
Private Prescott proposed marriage as I changed his dressing. I told him he was far too young to consider such a thing, to which he gamely replied that he would consider it if I would. The shadow of Charles passed over me. One of the older men, perhaps seeing it, told my young suitor that enough was enough, and we all went about our business.
6 November
A dozen new amputees, including a very sweet young Lance-Corporal from Wellington, painfully shy, and one man who has lost both hands. Also a Sergeant, older than the rest, who it transpires has lost not only a leg but two sons to the War. Then there is Private Evans, who is at one moment the life and soul and the next completely downcast. He has lost both legs. Sister told him he was lucky to be here and able to get his prostheses so quickly, as there is apparently a long waiting list. He did not appear greatly soothed.
Later accompanied Arthur to a musical soiree at the Church hall; it was not up to much but at least made a change. Walking back he smiled tolerantly as I described the concert party in Abbeville, but did not find at all funny (as Edmund did) the story of my recent proposal of marriage.
7 November
Sister wonders whether I might be interested in the School of Massage, opened on site in response to the increased demand for Therapists. I have told her I will think it over, but that at present I am happy as I am.
8 November
I am somewhat a-fluster! A note was delivered to me late this afternoon. It was from Arthur, requesting I meet him ‘with some urgency’. Sister gave me leave and I hurried to the YMCA hut, where he said he would be waiting. On my arrival he sprang up, very agitated, to the great interest of a crowd of spectators. To secure a little privacy, and despite the cold, we stepped outside, and Arthur proceeded to explain the reason for his summons. It seems the thought of an offer of marriage made by another has caused him ‘considerable agitation, such that he knew he finally must speak, even should it cost him my friendship’. Winifred’s words were by now echoing in my ears. Arthur took my hands and avowed his very great affection; I stuttered and spluttered and blushed like a beet. Heaven knows how we should have gone on, had a voice from inside the hut not called, ‘Give her a kiss then!’ Spurred on, Arthur plunged in. And all is changed. It is as if a further aspect of our mutual regard was simply lying in wait. Cheers and whistles came from the hut while Arthur’s smile jumped all over his face. With nothing further said he tucked my fingers through his arm and escorted me back to the ward.
Over tea I was obliged to field enquiries as to what had ‘brought me out in smiles’ — to which I replied that my brother is much improved (which is true after all).
9 November
Apparently some miraculous change is apparent and I have come in for a good deal of ribbing, to which I smile (in truth I seem able to do little else) and attend my work. Sister read aloud an extract from the newspaper; it seems an end is entirely possible, and far sooner than the War Office expected. It cannot come soon enough.
Sunday 10 November
When I received word I had a visitor I flew to reception, but it was Father, come to visit Edmund. So I must then compose myself and discuss the War and the Hospital and my little brother William’s health, and chat with Edmund (who cast me a rather shrewd look), and politely decline Father’s invitation to lunch as I must get back to the ward. He walked me across, chatting about this and that, and really, I don’t know why I was so keyed up, as Arthur is not coming until I am off duty at four.
Later
All is the same and all changed. Arthur and I spent a pleasant evening, just as we might have before, but also held hands, which set me a-shiver.
11 November
Sister rushed into the ward and announced the War is over. No one spoke. It is so hard to imagine.
Eventually Evans said, ‘Shame they didn’t call it off a week ago and I’d still have me legs.’ It was somewhat unfortunate as it started everyone thinking of what they had lost, which was not at all the right tone. Then my lovely little Lance-Corporal said, ‘And now it won’t have to happen to anyone else. We should be celebrating.’ He didn’t sound much as if he cared to, but it worked a treat in changing the mood.
Sister disappeared and came back with champagne just as bells began to ring, and we drank a toast to Peace, and to no more Wars, and then the men drank a toast to us and we drank one to them. ‘And one to the bloody lice,’ Evans said, so we drank to that as well. By which time we were all more than a little tipsy!
12 November
We are down to a skeleton staff so that as many as possible might attend the parades; apparently London has gone quite mad. Sister says I might have tomorrow off as long as ‘my young man promises to take good care of me’. So it seems there are no secrets after all.
13 November, London
The streets were jammed wall to wall, flags and hats waving, and quite a number looking as if they had begun their celebrations two days before and not yet stopped. But all were smiling and cheering. It was not long before we reached a point beyond which we could not go, and then the official convoy arrived and the crowd surged and I lost Arthur — he had been by my side one minute and was gone the next. I called out, but no one could have heard over the roar of the crowd, and another surge swept me along and I began to feel rather panicked. Then heard Matron from 1st Eastern, as clear as if she was standing beside me, saying: ‘She is a very sensible girl, not prone to losing her head.’ And that stopped me. I asked the men on either side whether they might lift me up and they cheerfully joined their hands to make a step and I was hoisted on high, staring down at the heaving mass of the crowd.
It was astonishing — a sea of people from Admiralty Arch all the way to the Palace. I was quite sure I had never seen so many gathered in one place. And then came a terrible thought: that there were as many dead, men and women, soldiers and civilians, Allies and enemies, that in a single battle we had killed all these and more, and then again, and again. My heart stopped. I could not breathe. I had a hand on the shoulders of each of the men lifting me — I do wonder if I left bruises. Suddenly I wanted to be down, to be out of it. I twisted, to try to get them to understand, and then I saw Arthur. He was a dozen feet away, looking around rather wildly. Our eyes met and his expression registered such relief and happiness, and I recognised the same feelings in my own breast. And knew.
I raised one arm — precarious balance! — and he began to wade towards me. I stepped down from my perch and he swept me up.
‘I thought I had lost you,’ he said.
I nodded, unable to speak.
‘Better hold on to
that one, Jack,’ one of the men who had lifted me said.
Arthur’s arms were tight about me, so that I could feel the tension running through him.
‘It is over,’ I said. ‘Really, finally over.’ And lifted my arms to his neck. ‘And just beginning.’
Acknowledgements
The First World War, ‘the Great War’, is part of the fabric of my family heritage. Through my childhood we marked ANZAC Day, 25 April, with a family ritual that acknowledged the sacrifice and suffering of a generation gone, and understood from a young age the significance of the day.
Evie’s War grew out of that rich family heritage. A conversation with my aunt, our last living link with the WWI years, led me to turn a question in my mind and eventually to launch into research that grew exponentially, continuing — and diverging — as the novel took shape.
Reference material of specific relevance to this novel includes Lieut.-Col. A.D. Carbery’s The New Zealand Medical Service in the Great War (Whitcombe & Tombs, 1924), While You’re Away by Anna Rogers (AUP, 2003), The Other Anzacs by Peter Rees (Allen & Unwin, 2008), Women in the War Zone by Anne Powell (The History Press, 2009). Additionally I immersed myself in diaries, letters and memoirs, and specifically mention the writings of NZANS Matron-in-Chief Hester Maclean, Sarah Macnaughtan, Ruth Cowen, Olive Dent, Vera Brittain, Lady Dorothy Feilding, Ida Willis, Mary Bordan, BEF Matron-in-Chief Maud McCarthy, Ellen Newbold La Motte, Elsie Knocker, Louise Mack, Leslie Buswell, Arthur Anderson Martin, Sir Gordon Bell. General histories I have found useful include works by Glyn Harper (in particular Dark Journey, HarperCollins, 2007), Max Arthur (especially Last Post, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2005), 2nd Lieut. O.E. Burton’s The Auckland Regiment (Whitcombe & Tombs, 1922), Col. H. Stewart’s The New Zealand Division (Whitcombe & Tombs, 1921), together with other histories of the War and collections of letters and diaries. Museums, archives and the internet additionally proved rich sources of information, both generic and obscure.
Evie’s War is a work of fiction and its characters are entirely fictional. I have endeavoured to ensure historic accuracy throughout. Where conflict existed in source material or where details have become obscured by time, I have opted for the version of events that, in my opinion, best fits accepted facts. Where historic figures appear, attitudes and and characteristics attributed to them are my own invention.
Thanks to my first readers, Jan Clothier, Madeleine Ross, Kirsty van Rijk and Catherine Blake for feedback and encouragement, and to the team at Penguin Random House, particularly the ever-supportive Barbara Larson and meticulous Rebecca Lal.
In 2013 I was awarded a writing residency in Belgium by Passa Porta, International House of Literature. This wonderful opportunity allowed time for both writing and research, time to develop a feeling for the places for which so many fought and died, and for the dues still owed. For this I offer sincere thanks to the team at Passa Porta, and to Alessandra, Paul and Ann at Vollezele, who provided a warm welcome and wonderful workspace. I also gratefully acknowledge Creative NZ for assistance with travel costs to Belgium in 2013 and to London in 2014.
For providing safe havens, encouragement, logistical support and more, thanks to Ann Frankel, Sally Carlaw, Jane Clark and Arthur MacDonald. Additional thanks to all who shared in the innumerable conversations that led me down the path of this book; to Rachel Mackenzie for ‘techie’ support; John McIntyre for a timely question; and to Hamish for, among other things, understanding why it matters.
For anyone wishing to journey through this particularly fraught patch of history, Ieper (Ypres), Messines, Albert and Arras all provide an admirable starting point. But our understanding of this war does not lie so much in cemeteries, trenches and battlefields as in stories. Evie’s War aims to provide a voice for stories less frequently told, of families and communities in England and New Zealand, of women at home and at the Front, of children too young to serve but not to see, of the survivors and the scarred.
For more information about the background to writing this novel — research details, photos, useful links and notes — visit my new website: annamackenzieauthor.com
About the Author
Anna Mackenzie lives on a farm in Hawke’s Bay, New Zealand. For the past three years she has immersed herself in researching the history, experience and legacy of the Great War — she’s worried she might have become obsessed.
Evie’s War is Anna’s ninth novel. Her previous works have earned her numerous accolades including a New Zealand Post Honour Award, Sir Julius Vogel Award, six CLNZ Notable Book Awards, and more.
You can find out more about Anna and her books at her new website: annamackenzieauthor.com
Also by Anna Mackenzie
High Tide, 2003
Out on the Edge, 2005
Shadow of the Mountain, 2008
The Sea-wreck Trilogy:
The Sea-wreck Stranger, 2007
Ebony Hill, 2010
Finder’s Shore, 2011
Books of Elgard:
Cattra’s Legacy, 2013
Donnel’s Promise, 2014
Copyright
The assistance of Creative New Zealand towards the production of this book is gratefully acknowledged by the publisher and author.
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Longacre is an imprint of the Penguin Random House group of companies, whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published by Penguin Random House New Zealand, 2015
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Text copyright © Anna Mackenzie 2015
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Design by Carla Sy © Penguin Random House New Zealand
Cover photograph by Mark Owen © Trevillion Images
Maps on pages 6 & 7 by Anna Mackenzie
Typeset in Maori Sabon
Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press, an Accredited ISO AS/NZS 14001 Environmental Management Systems Printer.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.
ISBN 978-1-77553-765-6
eISBN 987-1-77553-766-3
penguinrandomhouse.co.nz
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