by Liz Trenow
When she saw his face soften she knew she had won.
*
‘Lloyd’s fine with me going to Flanders,’ Alice told her parents now. ‘I’ll only be gone a couple of weeks, after all. He’d have come with me but for the physio.’
‘I don’t see why you can’t wait till after you’re married,’ her father grumbled. ‘Then you could travel together.’
‘I have to go now, don’t you see? The longer we leave it . . .’ She hesitated. Best not to harp on about Sam, in front of her mother. ‘Anyway, we’ve decided to have a proper honeymoon, perhaps in the Caribbean, or Florida, somewhere nice and sunny where he can relax and get really well.’
She handed her father the Thomas Cook brochure. ‘Look, you can see for yourself. These tours are all above board and very respectable, Julia’s father says. And he should know.’
‘Seventeen guineas! That’s nearly ninety bucks just for that week, let alone the cost of the transatlantic steamer, which is not going to give you much change from a hundred. And with your wedding next year? How in heaven’s name can you expect us to afford that?’
‘I am not expecting you to afford it,’ Alice replied. ‘I have my own savings, and Lloyd’s promised to help. I will stay with Julia in London so there won’t be any hotel costs.’
‘What do you say, Mother? We can’t let her go, can we?’
Her mother shrugged. Her daughter was never one to accept compromise, even as a small child. ‘If she thinks it’s our only chance of finding out what happened, then at least we’ll know we’ve done everything we can.’
‘Well, I disagree,’ he said. ‘In my view it would be a scandalous waste of time and money. In the chaos of that country you’ll never find anything. Far better to concentrate on tracking him through diplomatic routes.’
‘But you said yourself it’s like hitting your head against a brick wall.’
‘Don’t answer back, young woman. You’re over twenty-one now and I can’t stop you. But when you return without a dime to your name don’t come whining to me about paying for your wedding.’
Alice didn’t really care. She was going to Europe, no matter what. He’d come round in a few days. It wasn’t only her desire to find out what had happened to Sam and assuage her conscience – if possible, to bring him home.
There was something else. Another thing, a crazy notion that made her heart race just thinking about it. She’d shared it with no one except Julia.
Hey, it’ll be great to see you, her friend had written. I need cheering up. London is sooo gloomy these days. I can understand why you think that going to Flanders is your only chance of finding Sam. They say it’s still quite a mess over there, and people turn up every day. You never know. At least you will have done all you can.
Boy, what a cheeky notion to get in touch with D. I ought to tell you off, but secretly I’m a bit envious. I’m sure he should be able to help you with local leads to find Sam. But don’t for heaven’s sake fall in love with him all over again. Promise?
Alice had imagined that travelling alone would give her a sense of freedom; she had romantic visions of chatting to strangers or reading in deckchairs, undisturbed by social or family expectations. Her life in Washington was so packed with commitments: her mother supported at least a dozen charities and because her husband was usually too busy with his politicking she expected her only daughter to accompany her to endless cocktail parties, dinners and launch events. Recently, her mother’s frequent ‘headaches’ meant that she’d been increasingly required to attend these functions alone.
At first it was fun – Alice developed a taste for exotic cocktails and sophisticated dishes – but after a few years the novelty wore off and she began to crave something more demanding than tennis tournaments and bridge matches to fill her days. Some of her girlfriends, after leaving school, had taken jobs as teachers or personal assistants to chief executive officers, and their excited chatter filled Alice with envy. Of course, once they were married they would have to give it all up, but that didn’t stop her longing to share their few years of fun: to meet people with interesting ideas about the world, to earn her own money, to have a life of her own.
‘Absolutely no,’ her father had said. ‘I won’t have a daughter of mine going out to work. People will think we’re short of money.’ That was absurd, of course. Her mother’s handsome inherited fortune ensured that they lived in some luxury in a beautiful brownstone in the historic village of Georgetown. Pa was so old-fashioned, clinging to the belief that women should stay at home and devote themselves to good works.
But the reality of the transatlantic crossing was disappointing; in fact, it was rather lonely. The ship turned out to be half empty, her fellow passengers mostly dull couples and even drearier businessmen. It was nothing like her first trip to Europe, six years ago. She’d been eighteen, just out of high school, and Julia – whose diplomat father had recently been transferred from Washington to London – was about to spend three months at the Sorbonne to learn French.
‘Come to Paris with me!’ she’d said. ‘We’ll have a ball.’
The ball had started the very first evening on board ship as several handsome young men vied for their company on the dance floor, and on the quoits deck the following day. It continued in London which, after a whirl of cocktail parties, they declared to be the most glamorous city in the world – until they discovered Paris.
At the Sorbonne, both she and Julia became infatuated with one of their teachers, whom they thought the sexiest man they’d ever encountered. Floppy-haired, casually dressed, moody and usually late, he smoked untipped French cigarettes incessantly. His habit of slowly, sensually removing small strands of tobacco from a pouting lower lip would send them into paroxysms of delight.
Fortunately their attentions were soon drawn instead to a group closer to their own age – a multilingual band of English, American, French and German students. They gossiped, argued and flirted late into the night in street cafes, nursing expensive chocolats chauds or half-litres of pale fizzy beer. The girls swooned over a dark-eyed Belgian architecture student called Daniel, who seemed more articulate and well-read than the rest. Romances flared and faded. At the end of the course they all wept in each other’s arms and swore to keep in touch.
Alice returned to America and shortly afterwards, in August, Britain declared war against Germany, which put a stop to their letters. The promised reunion had never happened.
*
Now, as she watched the white cliffs of Dover slowly disappearing into the horizon, Alice found herself smiling at the memories. What a different world that was, all now lost.
The cross-Channel ship, so much smaller than the transatlantic liner, was starting to pitch in the open sea. A stiff breeze whistled around the deck, threatening to unseat her hat despite the three pins she’d skewered into it.
Nearly everyone else had sought shelter below and Alice was about to do the same when she spied a drab-looking figure at the rear of the deck. It must be the plain-faced girl from the train from London whom she’d imagined to be the daughter of the couple she’d sat with in second class. Either way, she was most definitely a Brit: you could tell by the long skirt, the sallow complexion and that mousy hair dragged back beneath a black felt cloche like something her old nanny would have worn.
She was alone, clasping the railings with a white-knuckled hand while trying to hold down her hat with the other. Alice made a passing remark about the view and the girl turned, wide-eyed with surprise.
‘Alice Palmer. Pleased to meet you.’ She held out her hand in greeting.
At first she seemed flustered, but then gathered herself. ‘Hello. I’m Ruby. Ruby Barton.’ As she went to return the handshake her hat lifted and blew away, bowling down the deck like a leaf in an autumn storm.
‘Holy cow!’ Alice shouted, running after it. A flock of seagulls wheeled overhead, mocking her. The hat flew on, rising on the wind. Any minute now, she thought, it will fly off into the s
ea, I’ll have to apologise to the poor kid and she’ll be bare-headed for the rest of her journey. Then, just as she’d feared all was lost, the hat snagged against the canvas of a life raft and, with a final sprint, she managed to reach out and grab it.
‘That was a close call,’ she hollered, waving it lasso-style around her head.
The girl was right behind her. ‘Thank you so much. I’m an idiot.’
‘Here, borrow one of my hat pins,’ Alice said, pulling one from her own head.
‘No, really.’
‘Go on. I’ve got a couple more.’
‘If you insist. That’s very kind. I never thought. It’s my first time at sea.’
‘You never went on a ship before?’
The girl shook her head.
‘First time out of the UK?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Was that your folks you were with on the train?’
She looked confused.
‘Sorry, I mean your parents.’ It was a constant mystery to Alice how English people frequently failed to understand the language they’d invented.
‘Oh no. They’re just other people on my tour.’
‘Thomas Cook?’
The girl nodded.
‘Gee, I’m with them, too. To Ostend and the battlefields? You travelling on your own, then?’
Another sharp gust threatened to dislodge their hats. ‘What do you say we go below and get a coffee or something?’
The girl was hardly likely to be the most scintillating company, Alice thought to herself as they made their way unsteadily to the stairs which, she knew, would bring them to the first-class lounge. But at least she was close to her own age, and travelling alone. It was better than having no one to talk to.
At the entrance to the lounge Ruby held back. ‘I can’t go in there,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t have a first-class ticket.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Alice said. ‘You’re with me, aren’t you? They never check. The other lounges are nothing like so nice. C’mon, I’m starving and it’ll be hours before we get to the hotel for supper. What do you fancy?’
Alice insisted on paying for their drinks (coffee for her, tea for Ruby) and a plate of buttered toasted tea cakes, and watched her companion swallow them down like a starving child. Even though she looked barely old enough to be out of school, Alice noted the wedding ring.
‘Do you want to tell me why you’re on this tour?’ she asked. ‘I’m guessing it’s not because you want to see the beauties of Bruges, or sun yourself on the beach at Ostend?’
The girl looked down into her lap and there was an uncomfortable pause.
Oops. Put my big feet in it again. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. My English pals are always telling me I’m just too forward.’
Silence fell again. Jeez, this was going to be hard work.
‘Would you like to know why I’m on the trip?’
At last, a response. The girl looked up with the wisp of a smile which Alice took for a yes. She took out the photograph of her brother, taken on his eighteenth birthday, five years ago. How young he looked, how happy-go-lucky, with Amelia by his side and not a care in the world. It seemed like a different age.
‘He’s very handsome. Was he your . . . ?’ Ruby hesitated, flustered, her cheeks flushing. ‘I mean, is he . . . ?’
‘Oh no,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s my kid brother Sam, with his girlfriend. Soon after this photo was taken she travelled to Europe to visit friends and see the sights, you know, and then the war started and she had to get home. The Germans blew up her ship, the Lusitania – you heard about that?’
A nod.
‘We all thought the US would join the war after that but our great president dithered and poor Sam was devastated; he just didn’t know what to do with himself. She was such a beautiful girl and he was dotty about her; we could none of us quite believe she’d gone. He quit his college and started talking about going to fight the Germans. He told me he felt there was nothing else to live for. Of course, Pa was right against it and my ma, well, she was having fits at the very idea. I guess they hoped Sam would get over it, and he did go quiet about it for a month or two. But then he just left home. Signed up with the Canadians, under a false name, we think.’
‘How terrible,’ Ruby said at last. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘Christmas 1916.’
‘And you haven’t had a word since then?’
‘Only this.’ Alice pulled out the leather wallet in which the precious letter was safely stored.
‘Here, you can read it.’
The girl hesitated. ‘Are you sure?’
‘The more people know about him, the more chance I have of finding him, that’s what I reckon.’
Ruby took the envelope and pulled out the single page of lightweight paper, reading quickly. ‘Golly. He sounds so brave,’ she said, carefully refolding and slipping it into the envelope. ‘But if he really did sign up under a false name, wherever would you start looking?’
The sympathetic gaze of the girl’s dark brown eyes – eyes which, now Alice looked at them properly, seemed to contain a world of sadness – brought a pang of self-doubt, a realisation of the ambitious, perhaps even hopeless task she’d set herself.
‘All we have is that mention of Hops. I’ve done some research: it’s what the soldiers used to call a little village close to Ypres called Hoppestadt. There must be people who . . .’ Unaccountably, a lump in her throat blocked the rest of the sentence.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Ruby jumped in. ‘There are all kinds of reports about men still turning up safe and sound. Men who got stuck there, or got a bit lost, for one reason or another.’
‘Even if I don’t find him alive, at least I’ll feel I have done everything I can,’ Alice managed to finish.
‘Do you want to tell me about him?’ Ruby asked gently.
The girl was a good listener, sitting silent and attentive as Alice poured out her memories of Sam, of their childhood, the holidays by the lake, how she’d taught him to read, to ride his bicycle, the adventures they’d had together in their teens. Talking about him lifted her spirits. It made him feel real again. He must, surely, still be alive, somewhere in this land which they were, even now, fast approaching?
‘But you haven’t told me anything about yourself,’ she said finally. ‘Why are you going to Flanders?’
Just then, the tannoy boomed, announcing their imminent arrival.
‘Another time,’ Ruby said.
‘Okay, let’s go up on deck. Get our first look at Belgium.’
*
As the ship drew closer to land the excited chatter of the passengers faded and then ceased altogether. As it came into view the once-grand seaside resort of Ostend, playground of the fashionable, wealthy and aristocratic, appeared almost abandoned. The beach was still broad and sandy, but littered with so much barbed wire, blocks of concrete and piles of rusting machinery that it was almost unrecognisable.
Alice had visited once before, that summer six years ago, when the sands were busy with families picnicking, children sitting under umbrellas, old men reading newspapers in deckchairs, young men and women playing beach tennis and, at the water’s edge, curious wheeled huts called bathing machines from which people emerged down short ladders into the cold grey sea. The seafront was lined with grand hotels and cafes, their terraces shaded by brightly striped awnings, where you could while away a few hours taking coffee, cream gateaux and delicious glaces à la vanilles, watching the world go by.
All this had gone.
From a distance, the promenade along the beachside had appeared relatively undamaged, but now they could see that many of the buildings were derelict, ripped by shell holes. The old royal casino, once such a feature of the seafront with its curving facade and high arched windows, was almost crumbled away.
‘Cripes, it looks like a ghost town,’ she whispered.
*
Their hotel, a grey, gloomy building in a side street s
et back from the seafront, appeared mercifully undamaged but the lobby, brown-carpeted and full of heavy, overbearing furniture, did little to reassure.
Upstairs in her suite, Alice paid off the bellboy and looked around. The two rooms were large enough and overlooked a street lined with plane trees, but that was about the best that could be said. The place smelled fusty and unaired, the upholstery and curtains were faded and threadbare, the bedroom dark and dominated by an enormous carved wooden wardrobe. In the corner a tap dripped, leaving a brown stain trailing down the side of a chipped white basin. ‘I thought this was supposed to be a superior hotel,’ she muttered to herself.
After supper they were summoned to the lobby by Major Wilson for what he called a ‘briefing’. It was the first time she’d had the opportunity to take a good look at the rest of the group. Everyone seemed weary and anxious. Apart from her and Ruby, most were middle-aged except for a man in his early twenties with an eye patch and a vicious scar across his cheek whom they’d seen seated on his own at dinner.
As they waited for a few stragglers to arrive, she caught his eye and gave what she hoped was a friendly smile. She felt sorry for him: he appeared so downcast. How tragic that a young man who’d obviously once been rather handsome should be so dreadfully maimed. He looked up, distracted by something behind her: a young woman who arrived, flustered, apologising for being so late. She took a seat next to the eye-patch man and he whispered to her, solicitously. Must be his wife. Thank goodness he has someone to love him, with that disfigurement. She was petite and pretty, with shoulder-length curly hair the colour of ginger ale (Alice remembered her ma once referring to it as ‘strawberry-haired’) and freckles dotting her nose and cheeks, but her skin so transparently pale it was hard to believe any blood lay beneath.
Major Wilson stood before them stiff-backed and sharp-eyed, as though he were about carry out a kit inspection.
‘Welcome, all,’ he started. ‘I trust that you enjoyed your supper, and that your rooms are comfortable enough?’ There was a mild murmur of approval to which Alice did not contribute. ‘As you probably noticed when we arrived,’ he went on, ‘Ostend was badly damaged by the fighting and I hope you will understand that hotel accommodation is a little thin on the ground at the moment, so please forgive any minor shortcomings in the provision.’
