Emeralds & Ashes

by Leila Rasheed

  “Right, men, back on your feet!” came the shout down the line. Sebastian braced himself and struggled to his feet. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached out to help the lad up. It was strange to clasp his hand in a friendly way, he thought. Back in his old life, he would never have touched someone from a lower class like this so casually. They would never have had this simple, friendly conversation. Except Oliver—but then that was different.

  “Thanks, chum. I’m Joe,” the lad told him. “Joe Brown.”

  “Rupert Moore,” Sebastian told him. That was the one lie he had down pat. Rupert was his middle name, and Moore was an old family name on his mother’s side.

  He looked out to see the sparkling blue of the English Channel. He frowned, trying to work out what the distant, dull booming was. It sounded too powerful and far off to be waves.

  “Listen—hear that?” he found himself saying.

  Joe listened for a second in silence. “Odd, isn’t it? Like something big, rocks or something, dropping far off? What do you reckon it is?”

  “Oh…perhaps just artillery exercises,” Sebastian said, looking away. He had realized in just the last few seconds what the relentless, pounding noise was, and in a flash he decided it was better not to speak of it.

  They fell in and started off again. The crunch of boots marching along the road, the puffs and groans of the men, drowned out the distant noise. But Sebastian felt he could still hear it, as close as the blood in his head. He knew that he had heard the sound of the guns, the barrage of firing all the way from the trenches in northern France, where they were heading. The thought was stark: If it sounded this much like hell from here, all the way across the sea, what would it be like close up?

  London

  Charlotte trudged up the hill toward the hospital. A chilly rain spat down into her face; wind whipped her hair. She couldn’t be colder, she thought, or wetter. And despite the constant cold that she’d had ever since she started living in the hostel and working at the hospital, she couldn’t be happier.

  It was ridiculous, she thought, amused at herself. Really, Charlotte, said a voice in her head rather like her mother’s, what is the matter with you? You weren’t happy in a ball gown designed by Céline; you weren’t happy kissing the handsomest man of your acquaintance; you weren’t happy when your bed was made by someone else and you had a warm, scented bath whenever you liked it; you weren’t happy when you didn’t even know what a black beetle was, let alone had to squash several before you could have your morning wash. No. Clearly what you wanted was chilblains and blisters, scrubbing bedpans, preparing dressing trays, and treating the most repulsive wounds. What are we to do with you? She laughed out loud, and a man who was walking past her glanced at her nervously. It was such a novelty, she thought, to walk through the poorest area of London and have no one look twice at her. Perhaps this was what men felt—this confidence, this freedom.

  She remembered her interview; it already seemed like a long time ago, though it had only been a month. Portia had told her what she would have to say, but she had not been prepared to stand for the entire ten-minute period. The matron who interviewed her had looked like a folded paper crane in her pristine white uniform, and her voice had had as many sharp creases in it. At first Charlotte had found herself blushing angrily, resentful of being treated like a servant, but as the minutes passed, with her answers given meekly and received coldly, her feelings changed. She began to feel a certain amusement at herself. Am I really so concerned with my own self-importance? she wondered. There was something comforting in the world being so topsy-turvy.

  Still, it had been mostly pride that had made her sign up to work in the East London hospital alongside Portia. She didn’t want Portia—Portia, of all people!—to look down on her, to laugh and say that Charlotte was a coward. So she had pushed down her nervous doubts and signed the paper the matron held out to her. Her one comfort had been to get her uniform made at L’atelier.

  Portia had not approved.

  “You’re not going to a ball, you know,” she had said as Céline held up samples of red silk to make the cross on Charlotte’s apron.

  “I know that. But I don’t see that being dutiful and good and so forth has to mean being frumpy.”

  “Well, it doesn’t seem very appropriate, that’s all.” Portia frowned.

  “What do you think, Céline?” Charlotte appealed.

  “I agree with you, Mademoiselle Templeton,” Céline had said, flitting up and down with her needle and thread to make the extra gathers. “The soldiers are in need of cheering up. Every man I have ever met likes to look at a pretty girl well dressed. Indeed, if it were up to me I would prescribe French hats for the nurses as most essential medicine.”

  Portia rolled her eyes, but Charlotte saw her smile.

  “There, you see?” she teased her—teasing Portia! She had never imagined such a thing possible. “It is my patriotic duty to get the best-cut uniform I can, and learn to do my own hair as well as any lady’s maid.”

  “Oh, very well, but I wonder if you will feel that way after a week working at the First General Hospital.” She glanced around L’atelier and added, “But having said that…I would like a new pair of gloves.”

  Now, a month later, Charlotte smiled to herself as she entered the bare, cold little cloakroom and shook the rain from her coat. Portia was a nice old thing after all.

  She took off her coat and hung it up. Servants must live like this all the time, she marveled. It was so cold, so barren, so lacking in any luxury—and yet she had a job to do. It was enough to make her want to sing despite the calluses.

  On the wall was the notice that asked for volunteers for active service overseas. She glanced at it sideways; it was both magnetic and frightening. There were two or three names already written up. Going overseas would be the last straw, she scolded herself. Mother was angry enough about the nursing as it was.

  She went onto the ward. Before she had begun working here, she’d imagined peace and stillness, silent sisters, men lying still and pale in their beds. Nothing could have been further from the truth, which was constant noise and activity—but the early mornings, when the men were often still asleep, were as close as it came to what she had imagined.

  “Good morning, Nurse,” said Sister briskly. Charlotte wondered if she would ever get used to the thrill of being addressed as Nurse, though she knew she was only an untrained helper. It was wonderful to have the cloak of a job title, something that made her feel she was capable and strong—that she could be listened to, the way people would listen to a man. It was exciting to feel that she didn’t have to flirt to be wanted, that she could simply be that cool, capable, sexless creature called a nurse—and get a kind of respect she had never had before.

  She went off with the others, working as fast as possible to get the regular jobs out of the way, trying to ignore the shivers that told her she was on the brink of flu. The ward rang with the groans and shouts of men who were coming around from operations, the endless whine of the gramophone, popular songs such as “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.”

  It was only an hour from the end of her shift, and she was in the chilly sluice, helping one of the men wash and shave, when Sister looked around the door and said, “Come and see me when you are done there, Nurse.”

  “Yes, Sister,” Charlotte said, wondering what she wanted.

  She found Sister at her desk, filling out the ward records. The woman looked up at her, and Charlotte was struck by her cool professionalism. “Nurse,” Sister said, “go to that man in the bed at the end. I want you to ready him for an amputation.”

  Charlotte’s heart thumped. She had never before had to do this, and she wondered how she could find the right words to say to a man who was about to be made a cripple. But there was nothing to do but obey. She went down the ward, wishing she were anywhere but there, and opened the curtains. She saw a boy with bright blue eyes and curly brown hair, his leg out in front of him, bandaged. She saw t
he greenish stain on the bandage that she had come to learn meant gangrene. He couldn’t be any older than Michael, she thought. The thought twisted at her heart.

  “Are they going to cut it off?” he said, straight out.

  Charlotte couldn’t find words; then she made an effort and said, “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s better than what happened to my mates.” He lay there watching her as she placed the instruments on the table, aware that he was looking at the saw blade, at the pincers and the tweezers and the speculum, and at the chloroform that would mercifully mean he would not know anything of the operation. Outside the curtains, the ward rang with noise, busy footsteps and commands, shouts of pain, but here she and this boy seemed closed inside a cocoon.

  “What happened to your mates?” she asked. She didn’t realize what she was saying; she wanted simply to divert his attention from the knives.

  He did not reply. She turned to look at him, and saw that his eyes weren’t fixed on her but on something, somewhere, very far distant.

  He came back to himself, and smiled. It was not a real smile, just the skeleton of one, she thought.

  “It’s hell out there,” he said calmly. “You don’t know until you’ve seen it for yourself.”

  Charlotte stood, not knowing what to reply. For a moment she was there with him—the low moans were shrieks of fresh, raw pain; the distant thumping and banging were not the orderlies moving trolleys but the guns booming ever closer. She remembered how she had felt when she had first heard the news of Laurence’s death.

  She started as the curtain was whisked aside and the medical officer, sweating and in a rush, came in, followed by Sister. “Nurse Templeton can assist at the amputation,” Sister said, “unless of course you don’t think you’re up to it, Nurse?”

  Her frank doubt pulled Charlotte back to herself. “I’m quite happy to assist, Sister,” she said spikily. She moved to take hold of the bandaged leg, as Sister bent over the boy in the bed, cotton wool and chloroform in her hands. The doctor was quite coolly selecting his tools for the job, and as Sister counted down from ten to zero, Charlotte saw the boy’s hands flop down, and the smell of gangrene seemed even sweeter and more sickening.

  All I have to do is not let go, she told herself, as the doctor moved the boy’s gown aside and made his first incision.

  Afterward, she remembered only the last moments of the operation, when the limb she was holding was shaking back and forth and the doctor was sawing like a man removing a tree limb. She’d never realized, she thought, that it was so difficult to cut a man’s leg off. The ridiculous thought floated across her mind: It should be better managed. She almost giggled, light-headed with horror and fear and revulsion, at the various ideas that occurred to her about how to perform a more efficient operation. A wave of faintness passed through her at the sound of the saw cutting through bone, but she fiercely fought against it. She was not going to let herself down. She was not going to let Sister see her weakness. She remembered the way she’d smiled over a breaking heart at Mrs. Verulam’s ball last season, and tried to access that same, stone-cold part of herself. Pretend to be strong, and you will find yourself stronger. She hardened her heart and her gaze.

  Then there was a sudden shudder, and she was holding not a boy’s leg, but just a leg.

  “Thank you, Nurse,” said Sister.

  It was over. Charlotte helped Sister place the limb on the trolley. She made sure not to look at it, not to think. The boy lay white-faced, unconscious. On the trolley, the foot stuck up, as if it were the leg of a wooden puppet. Ridiculous, she thought. She felt completely distanced from herself, as if she were watching the scene from high above. This war is simply ridiculous.

  She started as Sister placed a hand on her shoulder. “Well done,” said Sister quietly. “You may go, Nurse.”

  Well done. Charlotte hung on to the words as she went off down the ward. Sister’s praise was rare. A new feeling surprised her. It was pride in a job well done.

  She made it as far as the cloakroom before the exhaustion hit her. Aching in every bone, she leaned against the wall, trying to summon the energy to walk back to the hostel. In a moment, she promised herself. There was no hot bath waiting for her. Just freezing water, sleep if she was lucky, then wake to break the ice in the water bowl and start all over again. She noticed the bloodstains on her skirt for the first time. She would have to try and get those out, and was it cold water or hot that made it stain?

  And yet she was somehow, almost inexplicably, happy. A boy perhaps younger than Michael would be crippled for life. But he would most likely have a life, and she was part of the reason for that. Despite everything her mother had said, she was being useful. And she could do more. She was sure of it.

  Her eye fell on the notice asking for volunteers to go overseas. With a great effort, she pushed herself away from the wall, walked on blistered feet over to the paper, took the pencil that lay on the windowsill, and wrote her name down.

  Oxford

  Ada pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to concentrate on the essay she was writing and ignore the sound of laughter and conversation that she could hear from her fellow students’ rooms. It was a bright, sunny afternoon, and she wished she could be with them, but she was determined to make a good job of the essay before her. It was for Connor Kearney. She knew he expected great things of her, and she was determined not to let him down. But other thoughts, other worries, kept creeping into her mind. She had been to see her father off at Waterloo Station, on his journey to France. Georgiana had not been there. She had wished him the best of luck, trying not to show her anxiety. Still, he must have sensed it, for he had placed a hand on her shoulder and said gently, “Don’t worry, my dear. I shan’t be in any danger, I shall be well behind the front lines.”

  “Of course. I’m just sorry Georgiana couldn’t come.”

  “I don’t think she approves.”

  “No, I don’t suppose she would.”

  “But you do, don’t you?”

  “I understand your desire to do something for your country. I wish I could too.”

  “Dear girl. You will find someone who loves you, and all this restlessness will be gone once you are married.”

  The words had twisted like a knife in her heart. He did not understand her at all. And there was nothing to say about it, because he was stepping onto the train, waving. She waved too, and the train whistled and let off steam. Then she was standing alone in a sea of people, waving to the great machine that carried him away from her.

  She put her pen down just as a knock on the door disturbed her. She got up to find the chambermaid there. “Post, my lady,” she said, dipping a curtsy before hurrying back downstairs to her work.

  Ada recognized the handwriting at once. Ravi. She hesitated before opening it, though she was hardly sure why. They had always been able to speak freely to each other, had never had to fear what the other might say. But he had taken so long to reply. She sensed something was wrong.

  She tore it open, telling herself she was being foolish. She began to read it quickly. Very soon a blush of anger and pain came to her face, and she could hardly bring herself to read on. Certain phrases leapt from the paper and lodged in her heart: Should I be jealous of this Fintan? He has clearly been closer to you than I suspected.…cannot offer you the impeccable English gentleman, and I begin to fear that is really what you want.…Your desire to sacrifice all for your country is hard to swallow when your country is oppressing mine.…do not understand why you should feel so much for Lord Fintan, if you really were not in love with him.

  “No, no, no!” Ada exclaimed aloud. She threw down the letter. It was such a horrible misunderstanding. She could read between the lines of Ravi’s letter and see that he was smarting with jealousy. She turned to her writing desk and pulled out the Bradshaw rail timetable. The next train was in fifteen minutes. She had time to put on her hat and throw on an overcoat, and a few minutes later she was
walking briskly to the station. There was only one thought in her mind: She could not allow Ravi to feel like this for a single moment longer than necessary.

  As the train steamed down the track toward London, Ada stood by the window, unable to relax. She peered out at the landscape flitting by. It was not fast enough. She longed for winged horses to pick up the carriage and whisk it into the air, carry her to London, and set her down at Ravi’s office. She had the address written down on a piece of paper in her reticule; she clutched its ribbons tightly. It would be beyond everything to simply show up at India House; she couldn’t believe she was being so shameless.

  As soon as the train pulled in, she ran down the steps and across the platform. The clock was tolling out twelve o’clock. If she hurried, she might meet him coming or going from lunch.

  The bustling crowds blocked her way. On all sides she could hear military music, the rattle of trams; through the forest of hats she glimpsed recruiting posters—eager men in uniform, even posters calling women to war work. Soldiers with kit bags, veterans back from the front with a dazed look in their eyes. VADs like flocks of doves, their red crosses like bloody wounds. As many of the hurrying workers in the street were women as men, she noticed, of all classes. War had given everyone a purpose.

  She found herself outside Ravi’s office. Not sure what to do, knowing she could not go in and boldly ask for him, for fear of getting both himself and herself into trouble, she crossed the road and walked up and down a few times, trying to stay out of the way of the crowd and watch the entrance of the building at the same time. The doorman now and then opened the door to make way for gentlemen to leave. None of them were Ravi.

  She heard the church bell toll one o’clock. She watched anxiously as younger men left the building, in pairs and singly, going to their lunch. What if he left with a friend? She hadn’t thought of that, and she unconsciously wrung her hands. She wouldn’t be able to approach him—and then the door opened and he came out, jogging down the stone steps, his top hat gleaming, in every way the athletic, intense man that she loved.