Somewhere in France

by Jennifer Robson

  “I beg your pardon. I spoke out of turn.”

  He was an idiot not to have realized straightaway. Of course her mother had concocted the fiancé, just as she had censored his correspondence with Lilly. Anything to keep her daughter well away from the street urchin, as she no doubt regarded him.

  Robbie wasn’t a man given to anger, or indeed to acts of violence. But at that moment he could have strangled Lady Cumberland and taken grim pleasure in the act.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, of course. I was woolgathering just now,” he answered, struggling to regain a measure of composure.

  “I understand. You must be very tired.”

  “Not at all. I’ve been on holiday for a week now.”

  “A very short holiday, if you ask me.”

  “It’s better than nothing. Have you had any holidays?”

  “A few days, here and there. But I’d rather be working,” she said with a smile.

  “Forgive me for asking, but have you been able to, ah, manage? I don’t mean to be crass, but I can’t imagine that clippies are paid very well.”

  “I’m quite comfortable, Robbie. Don’t worry about that. And working is good for me. When I think of how I lived, how I used to spend my allowance on books and clothes and whatever else took my fancy, when there were so many who hadn’t enough even to eat, I feel so ashamed of myself.”

  “You were never like that, Lilly.”

  “You’re too kind. Did Edward ever tell you what happened to the Pringles?”

  “In one of his letters he said your parents sacked Mr. Pringle, then evicted him and his family, but that you sold your jewelry to provide for them. He was very proud of you.”

  “I helped them because it was my fault they lost their home. My carelessness was responsible. They said it wasn’t my fault—Edward, too—but I know it was.”

  “I think you’ve been too hard on yourself. Life is short, you know. I see the truth of that every day.”

  “Of course it is, which is why—”

  “Let it go, Lilly. You’ve atoned for what you believe you did wrong. Let it go, and stop punishing yourself. Promise me?”

  “I promise. But if you ever think I’m behaving like a spoiled child—”

  “I’ll be the first to let you know.”

  “That’s enough of me. I want to hear about your trip home. Auchinloch, was it? Did I pronounce it correctly?

  “You did. It’s a small village not far from Glasgow.”

  “Your mother has a house there?”

  “A cottage. Known as a ‘but and ben’ in my part of Scotland. Two wee rooms, with the privy at the bottom of the garden.”

  “That’s where she lives? Even now . . . ?”

  “That I’m a professional man, and presumably can afford to move her to something grander? I’ve asked, believe me. But she won’t move, won’t even consider it.” He searched her face carefully for signs of disgust, but saw nothing but sincere, unprejudiced interest.

  “Your father died when you were little, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, when I was six. Run down in the street by a wagon.”

  “Do you remember him at all?”

  Robbie poured his tea, checked to see it was dark enough, and drank deeply from his mug. “A little. None of it good. I remember his being drunk. He was a mean drunk. Would lash out if we so much as looked at him. Did terrible things to my mam. He never hit my sister, though.”

  “You have a sister?”

  “Had. Her name was Mary. She died when I was seven. Diphtheria. We were both sick from it.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice warm with sympathy.

  “It was a long time ago. Why don’t you ask me about my visit home?” he asked, hoping to paper over the awkwardness that had arisen again.

  “Yes, of course. Well, ah . . . your mother must have been delighted to have you home.”

  “I suppose she was. She certainly made a fuss over me. But then, she hadn’t seen me in a long time.”

  “How long?”

  “Not since just before I left for France . . . two years? I’ve had leave since then, but never enough to manage the journey back to Lanarkshire.”

  “She must miss you.”

  “I haven’t lived with her in donkey’s years; not since I was eight, when I won that scholarship and went off to school in Edinburgh. But I know she worries. I doubt she’s had a moment of peace while I’ve been in France.”

  The expression on Lilly’s face told him she understood exactly what his mother endured.

  “I haven’t been much of a son to her,” he continued, drawing strength from her empathy. “Before the war, I hardly ever visited, hardly ever wrote. But I’m all she has.”

  “How did she react when you asked for the transfer from Versailles?” Lilly asked.

  “If you’re thinking I was playing the hero, I wasn’t. I was bored, that’s all. My talents, such as they are, lie in trauma surgery. All those years spent in the receiving room at the London. I felt I could do more good in a frontline unit.”

  “There was an article in The Times. Last year, I think. It described the line of evacuation for our wounded. It said the enemy keeps shelling our field hospitals.”

  “I’m not convinced it’s deliberate. Bear in mind we treat German prisoners as well as our own men. But, yes, some of the clearing stations have been hit, mine inclu—”

  So she had been thinking of him. “Were you worried about me?”

  Would she answer honestly? Or would she laugh off his question with a flutter of eyelashes and a demure smile? The minutes were ticking by; soon he would be gone from her again.

  “No. That is . . . I mean, yes. Yes, I was.” She was blushing now, the merest flush along her cheekbones. “Is it . . .”—and here her voice faltered—“is it very bad?”

  How could he answer such a question? The truth was too cruel. He could not burden her with it.

  “Robbie?” she prompted.

  He tried to collect himself, began to say something, but the words died in his throat. At last he spoke, his voice hardly more than a whisper. She leaned forward, straining to hear above the din from the surrounding tables.

  “It’s so bad that I’m not sure I can talk about it. I’m not certain I want you to know.”

  Silence fell between them, lingered painfully. Then he felt her hand upon his, holding it securely, the warmth of her touch the benediction he sought.

  Chapter 12

  “Why don’t you begin by telling me about where you work?” she prompted. “Where is it? Your letters only say ‘somewhere in France.’ ”

  “Just outside Aire-sur-la-Lys, a small village a few miles from Béthune. Though there’s been talk of moving us east, closer to the Front.”

  “How close is it?”

  “About seven or eight miles. But the guns are so loud you’d swear we were nearer than that. At first I couldn’t sleep for the noise, but now I hardly hear it.”

  “What do you do?”

  “We’re one of dozens of casualty clearing stations along the Front. If I had to sum it up, I’d say we save the men who can be saved. If their injuries are minor, we patch them up and send them back to their units. If they’re badly wounded, we stabilize them and send them on to a base hospital for further care. And if they’re too far gone for help, we keep them comfortable until they die.”

  She nodded carefully, taking it all in. “What do you do?”

  “I’m one of seven surgeons. As the wounded are brought in, one of us assesses them. If surgery is required, we perform it immediately, day or night.

  “Before I came to France, I thought I’d seen everything. After all, I’d worked at a hospital in the East End. I’d operated on stabbing victims, people who’d been trampled by horses, men who’d been crushed by falling crates on the docks. But none of that comes close to what I’ve seen at the Fifty-First.”

  He hesitated, wanting to give her a chance to ask that he ch
ange the subject to a safer, more anodyne topic.

  “Go on,” she said, squeezing his hand.

  At that moment he’d have given every shilling he possessed to be somewhere else, somewhere private, and to be free to embrace her. Just hold her gently, carefully, and in her arms know the bliss of forgetting.

  “Since July, we’ve hardly had a break. The ambulances come in, and if I’m on triage, I assess the condition of the wounded. I only have seconds to decide who will get a chance to live and who will die. A straight amputation, you see, is quick; I can get through two or three in an hour. But anything more complicated . . .”

  He took a fortifying gulp of his tea. “A man is brought in and there’s hardly a scratch on him. But his pulse is shallow, his breathing is labored, his color is poor. Clearly he’s in trouble. So the orderly and I look him over, examine him from top to bottom, and we find it: a tiny hole where a bullet, or a piece of shell casing, has gone in. His only hope is surgery. For me to cut him open and find out where it’s gone. When I do, I find that it’s ricocheted off a rib, or his spine, and has ripped open every vital organ, every artery, in its path. Damage like that can take me hours to repair, assuming the wounded man doesn’t die of shock or straightforward blood loss while I’m working on him. We are able to transfuse blood, after a fashion, but it takes ages and there aren’t always enough men who are well enough to act as donors.

  “Yet while I’m busy trying to save that one man, half a dozen are dying in the pre-op tent. Boys, no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, calling for their mothers. And our nurses and orderlies are so overrun they can hardly spare a moment to hold their hands as they die.”

  He looked up, did his best to meet her steady gaze. “I’ve seen terrible things, Lilly, but that’s the worst. Hearing them cry for their mothers as they die. And they try so hard to be stoic; would you believe they even beg my pardon for it?”

  He looked away then; had to, or else reveal the hot, shaming tears that had gathered behind his closed eyes.

  “I wish I knew what to say,” she said softly, her voice tremulous with emotion. “I had no idea it was so bad. You never said . . . in your letters you never said.”

  Of course he’d never written of it. Why would he do such a thing to her? He blinked hard, praying she hadn’t noticed his pitiful lack of composure. And then he found the strength to look at her again. She was weeping silently, her cheeks marked by the tracks of her tears.

  “I’m so sorry, Lilly. Truly I am,” he said, his guts churning with guilt. “I shouldn’t have been so frank with you. It was unforgivable of me to tell you such things.”

  “It was nothing of the sort.” She dashed at her eyes with her sleeve and opened her reticule to search, unsuccessfully, for a handkerchief. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, found the worn square of cotton his mother had tucked there the day before, and pressed it into her hand.

  “Thank you,” she said after she’d finished wiping her eyes. “You mustn’t mind these silly tears. I did tell you I would listen, no matter what. And I promise I can bear it.”

  That was true enough. She was the sort of woman who could bear anything. But he knew himself to be a coward, at least as far as it came to Lilly, and so he took the easy way out and changed the subject.

  “Has Edward mentioned anything of what he’s been through?” he asked, then cursed himself silently. How did that constitute a change of subject?

  “In his letters? Very little. Just the usual jolly Edward sort of remarks. I’ve thought about pressing him on it—”

  “For his sake, don’t. Life in the trenches makes my experiences look like a weekend at Cumbermere Hall. At least I have a reasonably comfortable bed to sleep in, with warm, or nearly warm, food when I’m hungry.” His voice shook with anger now. “And I don’t have to worry about being shot by a sniper, or drowning in a flooded shell hole, or getting tangled up in barbed wire and bleeding to death. That’s how they’re dying in this god-awful fucking mess of a war—”

  He broke off, horrified. “I beg your pardon, Lilly. My choice of language was indefensible.”

  “It’s not the first time I’ve heard that word. Remember where I work.”

  “All the same, I ought to have minded my words.”

  What a fool he was, to ruin what little time they had together. All he’d done was blather on about himself, terrify her with stories of the Front, curse like a navvy, and no doubt ensure she’d have nightmares of the worst sort for weeks to come. Well done, indeed.

  In the distance, the chimes at Westminster called the quarter hour. He pushed back his greatcoat sleeve and checked his wristwatch with a sinking heart.

  “It’s a quarter to twelve already. My train leaves in half an hour. Walk with me to the station, won’t you, and see me off?”

  He beckoned their waitress, settled the bill, and escorted her outside. He felt a jolt of satisfaction when she took his arm, and resolved to enjoy every last moment of their time together. There would never be enough time to say what really mattered, to tell her how he really felt.

  In a matter of minutes they had arrived at Victoria Station. He collected his kit bag from the left-luggage counter, slung it over his shoulder, and swung round to examine the departures board high above them. The train to Dover was leaving from Platform Three in ten minutes.

  “Will you come with me as far as the barrier?” he asked. She nodded shyly, likely feeling as awkward as he.

  When they reached his platform, he set down his kit bag and turned to her. “Write to me, Lilly?”

  “Of course. But before you go, Robbie, there’s one thing—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve always wanted to know . . . on the night I saw you last, at the ball to celebrate Edward’s engagement, why did you leave without saying good-bye?”

  God, no. Not now.

  “I thought Edward would have told you. Something came up.”

  “I was worried my mother might have said something, might have offended you in some way. Is that what happened?”

  “Please, Lilly, not here—”

  “I’m right, aren’t I? You must tell me.”

  “She did speak to me. She told me you were engaged to Quentin Brooke-Stapleton.”

  “It was a lie.”

  “I see that now. I think we both know why she invented a fiancé for you.”

  “If only I’d known. If only you’d mentioned it, I would have told you straightaway. There was never anyone else. Never. You do believe me, don’t you?”

  “I do,” he promised, wishing in vain for time to say more.

  At the far end of the platform, a whistle blew. “Lilly, I must go.”

  He reached out, smoothed a curl from her brow, and bent to kiss her cheek. But she turned her face at the last moment—by accident or by design?—and her mouth brushed against his.

  So soft. That was all he could think, at first. Her lips were so soft. When had he last touched anything so perfect?

  He framed her face with his hands, stooping as he deepened the kiss. At last her mouth parted under the insistent pressure of his, and he dared to trace his tongue along the delicate, satin-smooth interior of her lower lip. Her hands, clutching the lapels of his greatcoat, had begun to tremble.

  “Ahem.”

  Reality descended in a chilly blast. They were standing in the middle of Victoria Station. Kissing. Not a yard distant from the platform attendant, who didn’t trouble to hide his amusement. In front of, oh hell, at least a score of Tommies, all clearly delighted to be witnessing such a scene.

  Robbie took a step back, gently divesting Lilly’s hands from his coat, and attempted a reassuring smile.

  “Good-bye, Lilly,” he whispered, and turned away. He managed to find his ticket, was waved past the barrier by the attendant, and made it through to the platform.

  He knew she was watching and it killed him not to rush back to her, abandon all propriety, and kiss her again. He strode along the platform;
every bloody car he came to was full. Kept on walking, his heart pounding, desperate to turn back and see her one more time. And then, finally, an empty compartment.

  He climbed in, stowed away his kit bag, and let the train bear him away. Away from Lilly, back to the nightmare of his life in France.

  Back to a war that had lasted so long he could no longer imagine its end.

  Chapter 13

  16 December 1916

  Dearest Lilly,

  Have been given leave for Christmas—just enough to get me home for two days. You must have Christmas lunch with me at the Savoy. Miss Brown, too, if she is free. Shall we say noon?

  Love, etc.

  Edward

  Lilly arrived at the Savoy a half hour early on Christmas Day, expecting she would have to wait alone at their table, but to her delight Edward was already there, pacing back and forth in the lobby. He was thinner than when she’d seen him last, his cheekbones and high-bridged nose cast into stark relief by the electric lighting, his uniform hanging off his tall, too-slender frame.

  “Edward!”

  He turned and saw her, then swept her up in his arms and showered kisses on her hair. “Lilly, my Lilly. If you only knew how I’ve missed you.”

  “In spite of all my letters?” she teased, laughing as he finally set her on her feet again.

  “Yes, in spite of your jolly tales of life as a clippie. I couldn’t wait to see you today—I’ve been awake for hours. Happy Christmas, by the way.”

  “And the same to you. When did you arrive home?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. Just in time for a gruesome dinner en famille.”

  “You poor thing.”

  “I did my duty, no more. Shall we see if there’s a table free for us at the Grill?”

  It was a rhetorical question, of course, for the moment they entered the restaurant the maître d’hôte appeared out of nowhere, greeted Edward by name, and ushered them to their table.

  “Isn’t Miss Brown going to join us?” Edward asked as they were being seated.