The house had become unutterably gloomy, more like a tomb than a home, with the curtains perpetually drawn and a permanent shrine to Edward set up in the front hall. His portrait, draped in black, was propped on a walnut table in the center of the foyer. His medals were arranged on a velvet-lined tray, which in turn was flanked by half a dozen framed photographs.
For her part, Lilly could not bear to admit that Edward was dead, though no news had ever come to explain his fate. Even after the Armistice, when prisoners began to return from the camps where they’d been held, her parents hadn’t heard from Edward, nor had any account of his whereabouts been forwarded to them.
It had been two months since peace had been declared, two months to the day. She and Charlotte had passed the evening at home, sitting by the fire in her room, a half-empty bottle of sherry their replacement for champagne. They had toasted the war’s end quietly, without jubilation, for what was there to celebrate? Millions had died on the battlefields; millions more were dying as the Spanish flu swept around the world.
Back in August, back when influenza had been the sort of thing that only made one miserable for a week, she and Charlotte had fallen ill. They’d both been confined to bed for a few days, feverish and racked with pain, but that had been the worst of it. At the 51st, which had been relocated to Coyecque, nearly everyone, Robbie included, had caught the flu in the early summer. None of her friends there had died, although some of the weaker patients had succumbed.
The influenza that struck England in the autumn was an altogether more lethal and frightening disease. It killed in hours; it killed strong young men and women, people who had survived the war and ought to have lived for many more years; and it emptied London’s streets and public places as not even the zeppelins and Gotha bombers had managed to do. Roads and sidewalks had been sprayed with disinfectant, masks had been as ubiquitous as hats, and handshakes had become a thing of the past. But still the epidemic had rolled on, striking down thousands upon thousands of Londoners in October and November alone.
And then, in December, fewer people had died, and it seemed that fewer still were dying in January. No one could pinpoint the reason; certainly no treatment had emerged to beat back the disease. Likely enough it would roar back again, an enemy retreating so it might regroup and attack again.
The flu had kept Robbie in France for longer than she had expected, for after the Armistice he’d been sent to one of the base hospitals in Saint-Omer, where nearly all the staff had fallen ill; and then on to Belgium, where similar conditions prevailed.
He had told her not to be frightened for him, since he was quite certain that, having been sick in the summer, he had acquired a degree of immunity to the second wave of contagion. He had also warned her that the tonics, potions, and remedies being touted for their flu-repellent properties were nothing more than quack medicine. Vinegar, quinine, spirits, morphia: all were useless. The only thing that worked, in his opinion, was frequent hand washing, avoidance of large gatherings, and the use of a mask when forced into close quarters with other people.
His letters arrived frequently, each one ending with a promise to return to her soon, but they were never long enough, and included few details of his work. Altogether it was terribly dispiriting, for it had been nine months since they’d been parted. How long would it be before she saw him again?
Her train had arrived at Camden Town. She made her way outside, pulling off her mask as she left the station, and walked west through darkened side streets. Arriving home, she opened the front door and crouched to remove her boots. Before she had so much as loosened a lace, her landlady came rushing down the hall.
“There you are!”
“Good evening, Mrs. Collins. How was your day?”
“Nice enough, thank you for asking. A telegram’s come for you, not a half hour ago. Thought you’d want to see it straightaway.”
She took it from Mrs. Collins, tore open the envelope, and read the single sheet inside.
ABOUT TO BOARD FERRY TO DOVER. WILL ARRIVE VICTORIA STATION HALF PAST SIX 11 JAN. LONGING TO SEE YOU. ROBBIE.
“What time is it, Mrs. Collins?”
“It’s just gone six o’clock, my dear. Is anything the matter?”
“Not at all. It’s Captain Fraser—he’s coming home!”
“When does he arrive?”
“In a half hour. I’ll never make it to Victoria on time,” Lilly fretted.
“There’s sure to be a taxi or two outside the Underground station,” Mrs. Collins reminded her. “Run up there and hop in. Do you have enough to cover the fare?”
“I think so. Oh, Mrs. Collins—I look a fright!”
“Never mind that, be off with you. And wear your mask!”
A panicked dash, back the way she had come, to the Underground station, then a flash of despair when she saw that the taxi rank outside was deserted. A moment later a motorcar came round the corner, by luck a taxi, and Lilly hailed it with a wild wave and a most unladylike whistle, with no regard for what passersby might think.
Twenty minutes later, just as the station clock at Victoria struck the half hour, she reached the barrier as Robbie’s train pulled into Platform Three. At first it was hard to see much of anything, what with the clouds of steam still swirling around the platform and the jostling, anxious crowd that surrounded her. Little by little the air cleared, and the people around her found their loved ones, greeted them, and departed.
It dawned on Lilly, then, that perhaps she’d missed him; perhaps he’d missed the train in Dover. It was perfectly possible that he’d been delayed.
She might as well return home and wait for another telegram. Wait, though her heart was breaking from the agony of having already waited so long.
She’d made up her mind to leave, and was about to turn on her heel and walk away, when a man emerged from the very last carriage, so far away that she could see nothing of his features. He reached back into the carriage, extracted some bags, and then, hailing one of the station attendants, turned his attention back to the carriage interior.
Another man alighted, somewhat awkwardly, and even from where she stood Lilly could see that his right trouser leg was pinned up. Taking a set of crutches from the first man, he began to move down the platform, slowly, painstakingly, still so distant that she could see nothing of his face.
But there was something about the way the first man moved, the way he walked, and though Robbie had said nothing of traveling with a friend, a flame of hope ignited inside her.
Ignoring the protestations of the attendant standing guard at the barrier, she ducked under the gate and rushed toward the men on the platform. They were still in the shadows, so it was impossible to be sure, but it might be Robbie after all.
As the men passed under the light that marked the halfway point of the platform, she saw that the first man was Robbie, come home to her at last. And then, a fraction of a second later, the second man came into the light.
It was Edward, his dear face so sad and tired and old that she knew, oh God, she knew that his missing leg was the least of his injuries.
Tearing off her mask, she ran forward and flung her arms around him, though he was still holding his crutches and unable to embrace her in return.
“I thought . . . I always hoped . . .”
“I know, darling girl. I know.”
“But how? We had no news. How is this possible?”
“Robbie found me. I was lost, even to myself. But he found me.”
She turned to the man she loved, still not quite believing, and threw herself into his arms, her tears blinding her. He wiped them away tenderly, all the while whispering words of endearment to her.
“I don’t understand,” she said at last.
“I couldn’t come home without him. So I decided I would have to find him first. Or at the very least discover what had happened.”
“So all these months . . .”
“When I wasn’t working I was searching for Edward. They disc
harged me in December, but I had to try.”
“How long have you known?”
“A few weeks.” Robbie looked to Edward, as if seeking permission to speak further. “Edward was still quite unwell when I found him. I ought to have told you, let you know somehow. But Edward—”
She put her fingers to his lips and shook her head. “Not now. Now I only want one thing from you.”
A smile, almost shy, lit up his face. “And what might that be?”
“A kiss.”
“Here? In public? With you still in uniform? Someone might see,” he said teasingly. “What will your superior officers say?”
“Bother the lot of them. Haven’t you heard, Captain Fraser? The war ended months ago.”
Acknowledgments
I offer my sincere thanks to the following for their assistance:
The staff of the Great War Archive (Oxford), Collections Canada (Library and Archives Canada), the Imperial War Museum, National Archives (UK), the National Library of Scotland, and the Toronto Reference Library for their assistance as I researched this book.
Deborah Cooke, former writer-in-residence at the Toronto Public Library, for her very helpful advice regarding an early draft of this book.
Aaron Orkin, Division of Emergency Medicine, University of Toronto; Eric Webber, Department of Surgery, University of British Columbia; and Farah Valimohamed, Department of Anesthesiology, Royal Columbian Hospital, for their informed critiques of my descriptions of Great War–era surgery, anesthesiology, and postoperative care.
Professor Stuart Robson and professor Mariel Robson for their painstaking review of this novel at all stages.
My agent, Kevan Lyon, who saw the potential in Lilly’s story, found it a home at William Morrow, and talked me off the ledge every time I started to panic. I am honored by your belief in me.
My editor, Amanda Bergeron, for her sensitive and insightful approach at all stages of the editorial process, and for her warm support for me personally. Her colleagues at William Morrow and HarperCollins have also been a delight to work with, and I am most grateful for their assistance.
My dear friend Kelly Smith Wayland, who persuaded me to try again when I’d given up hope, as well as Denise Beaton, Rena Boniza, Jane Dimoff, Jane Evans, Elizabeth Felgueiras, Kelly Fruhauf, Ana Nascimento, and Jennifer Milligan. I am so grateful for your friendship and constant support.
Members of my family, both near and far, who have been my greatest cheerleaders, in particular Stuart, Mariel, and Molly; Regina and Gino; Sean, Maggie, and Grace; Michela, Jonathan, Emma, and Chiara; Terry and Graham; and John and Bunny. My grandmother Nikki Moir broke down many barriers in her own career as a journalist and was a key source of inspiration for me.
My late mother, Wendy Robson, who gave me my first copy of Testament of Youth, and instilled in me a passion for historical fiction that even graduate school could not extinguish.
My sister, Kate Robson, who was the first to read this book back when it was nothing more than a ridiculously elaborate outline. It would likely still be an outline if not for her relentless and unwavering encouragement. I owe everything to her.
My children, Matthew and Daniela, who were patient and loving as I worked on this book, and who have evinced nothing but delight and pride in its being published. You are my life, my light, and my joy.
But the greatest part of my thanks must go to my husband, Claudio. You’re Italian, not Scottish; you have brown eyes, not blue; you’re an engineer, not a surgeon. But I never would have found Robbie without you.
P.S.
About the author
Meet Jennifer Robson
A Conversation with My Father
About the book
Glossary of Terms Used in Somewhere in France
Women Ambulance Drivers in the Great War
Reading Group Guide
Read on
Suggestions for Further Reading
About the author
Meet Jennifer Robson
Natalie Brown/Tangerine Photography
JENNIFER ROBSON first learned about the Great War from her father, the acclaimed historian Stuart Robson, and later served as an official guide at the Canadian National Vimy Memorial at Vimy Ridge, France. A former copy editor, she holds a doctorate in British economic and social history from the University of Oxford. She lives in Toronto, Canada, with her husband and young children. This is her first novel.
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A Conversation with My Father
ANYONE WHO KNOWS ME will also know that I inherited my interest in the First World War from my father, Professor Stuart Robson, who spent much of his career focusing on the history of both world wars. From him I learned not only why the Great War matters, but also how I ought to go about trying to understand its history. As I was writing Somewhere in France, he was gracious enough to act as my sounding board as well as a near-encyclopedic source of information on the finer aspects of its history. The following is my attempt to turn the tables and discover what the First World War means to him, and why it continues to fascinate him after so many years.
Why the Great War? What first captured your attention about it?
As an undergraduate I specialized in the history of modern Germany. When I reached Oxford, however, the ubiquity and centrality of the Great War in that city caught my attention. This was in 1962, only forty-four years after the Armistice. Not long after arriving, I found myself in New College. The memorial to the dead of the Great War was in the entrance to the chapel, off to the side. I suddenly realized how huge it was and paced off its width, which was around thirty feet. I didn’t count the names at the time, but I later learned there are 263 in total.
From that point on I realized the tragedy of the Great War, and though I didn’t focus on it in my teaching until fifteen years later, it was always there, “the heartbreak in the heart of things,” to quote Wilfrid Wilson Gibson.
I think it’s hard for us to understand now, nearly a century later, how the war must have affected the people left behind. Thoughts of the war and all those who had died must have been omnipresent in those early years. But was it something that lasted?
In Juliet Nicolson’s The Great Silence, she describes how, during the two minutes of silence that were observed on the first anniversary of the Armistice, the only sound one heard was of women crying. That’s what we would expect from the death of so many sons and lovers. The young are not supposed to go first, and when they do, because that is what war is about, even a society comfortable with death is publicly unglued. Yet five years later the grieving had been sublimated. If the war really was “the heartbreak in the heart of things,” and I think it was, then the thing to notice is that the heart of things is hidden most of the time, and when it is not, it can surprise everyone.
Your Edward, I think, exemplifies all this. He’s a mixture of pain and sangfroid, a man who had a “good war” and who also was smashed to pieces. If he had PTSD, he coped with it as best he could because no one else knew how to help or even knew what PTSD was. The heartbreak would be in his heart, but that is a hiding place.
So much has been written about what happened to men like Edward during the war, but comparatively little about the effect that it had on women, I imagine because relatively few women were part of the armed services. And that’s always disappointed me, mainly because it’s such a fascinating period where women are concerned—this time when they were given a taste of so much freedom and responsibility, only to see it taken away in the postwar period.
It is true that most of the obvious positive changes women experienced during and because of the war were “meantime” changes. One, however, was not, and you capture it well in the figure of Lilly. The change I mean is one of self-consciousness, of how a person saw herself and the world. It’s not like having the vote. It’s hard to measure. But it happened.
To simplify, women were called upon to
fulfill novel and challenging roles, and having done so, were dismissed. “Normalcy” returned, or seemed to. In fact, in the minds of women, a huge change had taken place and was remembered, and when the balloon went up again in 1939 and women were again asked to serve, they remembered being fobbed off, they also remembered becoming independent and wonderfully competent, and resolved this time it would be different. Well, it wasn’t so different in the immediate postwar period, but then the combined ratchet effect of the two wars hit like a thunderclap.
Social change that comes quickly is not change; real change goes slow, like the tide or the hands of a clock. Nevertheless, to borrow from Galileo, it moves. The force moving history for women in the last century was the wars (plus a dose of inflation, to be unromantic). And that is what Somewhere in France captures beautifully.
Earlier you mentioned Edward and the mental agony he endures, and it is true that as I created his character I intended for him to be affected by battle fatigue in addition to other, more perceptible injuries. But I hope I’ve also captured the way that it was possible to suffer terribly, like Edward, but somehow carry on and endure—as he does, at least until he goes missing in no-man’s-land.
Understanding Edward brings up the problem with labels. In Edward’s case, and the case of millions of people coping with distressing memories, we yearn for clear definitions of conditions that have discrete qualifications and thus allow someone to be admitted to the club of sufferers. “Oh yes, she’s bipolar!” But what happens when the criteria aren’t clear?
All too often, then and now, we label one guy as untroubled because he had a “good war” while another guy is branded a mess because he broke down. In fact, the “good warrior” could be someone who healed and carried on, or someone too stupid to react, or someone like Edward, who proclaims himself “a shallow bastard.” And the man who becomes a wretched mess could be someone who snapped not because of the war but because of a straw that landed well after the war and broke his back.
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