‘I – I have something for you. I hope you don’t mind?’ He fumbled for a moment amongst the sheaf of papers, produced a couple, shuffled them awkwardly. ‘There.’
She looked at the sketched portrait in utter silence. It was Hannah Patten, no doubt about that – the face too bony, the jaw too square, the hair untidy – even short as it was she still couldn’t somehow manage smooth containment, knew that habitually she still absent-mindedly hunted for pins that were no longer there – and there was the hand, patting distractedly, oh, yes, it was Hannah Patten. But softer. More—
She looked at him. He was carefully sorting his pieces of paper, not looking at her.
More beautiful.
‘It’s lovely,’ she said.
His eyes flicked to hers. ‘You like it?’
‘It’s very flattering. Too flattering. But – yes – I like it.’
‘I’d like you to keep it.’ He smiled a little, held out another sheet; a small sketch of an enchanting child, a little girl, perhaps ten years old. ‘My little sister.’
Hannah took the drawing. ‘Oh – Giles – she’s lovely!’
When, in these quieter moments, had they taken to calling each other by their given names? Neither of them could have said. Neither of them, now, noticed.
‘It’s as I remember her. She probably isn’t like that at all.’ He grinned a little. ‘She probably never was. I haven’t been home for a year.’
‘You’ll go home now.’
He turned his head on the pillow. ‘For a little, yes. But not for good, eh?’
They both knew it; he was mending. Not a ‘Blighty’, this. Good for a few months’ convalescence, and pray God as everyone did, perhaps the war would be over – but—
‘No. Not for good. You can’t be sorry?’
What madness for men to welcome a crippling wound, a ‘Blighty’, a burden to themselves and their families for the rest of their lives—
‘No. I’m not sorry.’ It was said positively. He meant it.
‘What other family do you have?’
‘A brother – he’s fighting further up the line. A good soldier, not a dabbler like me. And a married sister. She lives in Southwold. In Suffolk.’
She nodded. She ought to go.
‘And you?’
‘I have an older brother, Ben—’ She paused for a second, a small smile on her face. He was watching her intently. ‘He’s a doctor, like my father, and is working now with Sir Brian Bix-Arnold – you won’t know of him, but he’s very well thought of – he – they are working in the field of gas gangrene. And then I have another brother, Peter, a regular soldier.’
‘A regular?’
‘Yes. He’s been in this lot since the beginning.’ She stopped. She had been about to say, ‘I think he actually enjoys it,’ but stopped herself, not because it was not true but because she knew it would give this gentle, intelligent man entirely the wrong impression of Peter.
‘Sister Patten?’
The voice, crisp and carrying, came from the door.
Their eyes held, for a rueful, reluctant moment. Hannah stood. ‘Yes, Matron?’
‘There’s a convoy on the way. Not a big one, but enough. We’ll be taking in in about fifteen minutes. Check that all’s prepared, would you, please?’
‘Yes, Matron.’
His hand reached for hers. She took it. The captain with one arm smiled, looked elsewhere. ‘Comes of being Matron’s Ass,’ she said. The common abbreviation of Assistant Matron always amused her.
He nodded. Dropped his hand from hers.
Briskly she hurried to the door and headed for Reception and Resuscitation.
II
Sally van Damme leaned forward and cuffed a small patch of the gleaming bonnet of the Talbot to a brighter shine. She truly loved this machine and took a quite personal and jealous pride in its appearance. A lot of the other girls, she knew, hated being responsible for their vehicles – driving, they felt, was one thing, but for a girl brought up served by stable lads, coachmen and chauffeurs, tinkering with an engine or polishing a car was quite another. Sally had no such inhibitions. ‘Better than any damned mechanic I’ve ever come across,’ she had heard ‘her’ Colonel Foster say in the weeks since she had joined him. ‘Magic with that engine she is. Blessed car’s never been in such good nick!’ It stood now, clean and shining as a new pin in the early darkness of the February afternoon. She leaned against it, turning up the collar of her greatcoat about her ears, ramming her cap down to meet it, stuffing frozen hands into her pockets. God! It was cold! She hunched her shoulders about her ears. Across the road the windows of the Lyons Corner House were steamed up. It looked invitingly warm. The colonel had in fact suggested that while she waited for him she might slip over for a quick cup of tea. The thought was more than tempting. She eyed the imposing door through which he had disappeared. These meetings could sometimes take ages—
‘That’s a fair old monster you’ve got there, lass.’
She turned, startled.
‘Any shinier, you’d likely be fined for signalling to Jerry.’
She smiled a little at that, stiff-lipped in the cold. The speaker was a young man not much taller than she, dark skinned and dark eyed beneath his peaked khaki cap, one eyebrow crooked higher than the other at an engagingly sardonic angle. He stood jauntily, one hand in his greatcoat pocket, the other steadying the kit-bag that balanced easily upon one shoulder. His accent was not of London; broad-vowelled, its intonation was, she thought, from the north.
‘Talbot, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Six cylinder.’
He grinned suddenly, his teeth very white against the dark skin of his face. ‘That so?’
Somehow, unexpectedly, she found herself smiling back. ‘That’s so, yes.’
‘Well, now, since I wouldn’t know the difference between a cylinder an’ a cardboard box, doesn’t mean much to me.’ He was watching her intently, frank and open interest in his eyes. ‘You drive this thing, do you?’
She nodded.
He patted the car, exaggerated admiration in his face, though whether for the big machine itself or for her prowess in driving such a thing she was not sure. Nor was she completely certain that there was not a glint of quiet mockery in the dark eyes.
‘Know all about it, too, do you?’
‘A fair bit.’
She watched him in some amusement, waiting for him to leave, somehow sure that he would not. Not making it easy for him to stay.
He seemed happily oblivious of the silence. He shifted his kit-bag on his shoulder, glanced up at the lowering sky. ‘Look like snow, d’you think?’
‘Could be.’
‘Bloody cold, I know that.’
She said nothing.
He turned his head, and again the bright, jaunty smile flashed. ‘Got five minutes? Fancy a cup of tea?’ He jerked his head towards the café across the road.
She had to laugh at the cheek of it. Her eyes flicked to the stripes on his sleeve. ‘No thank you, Sergeant.’
He held out a hand. ‘Sergeant Browne – Eddie Browne—’ He waited expectantly, then when she made no move to introduce herself added easily, ‘Stranded in this Godforsaken hole they call London for twenty-four hours before bein’ shipped over. Likely I’ll finish up sleepin’ on the station. Sure you don’t fancy a cup of tea?’
The impudent play for sympathy was blatant, and she knew it; but yet something in the lean dark face held her attention. His tone was light, almost self-mocking, admitting to his ploy; but there was, she suddenly saw, a certain strain about the face, a tiredness about the eyes. His greatcoat was shabby. ‘You’re going back?’ she asked quietly.
He shrugged assent.
‘Been over there long?’
‘Since the start. I was at Mons – then Ypres—’
‘You know Belgium?’
He grinned lopsidedly. ‘Know it? Happen so, happen not – depends what you mean by “know”. Bin up to my knees in mud there – bin
shot at an’ shelled—’ He stopped, studying her disconcertingly closely. ‘You know it though, lass,’ he said quietly and with certainty.
‘Yes.’ She shoved her clenched hands further into her pockets, hunched her shoulders higher against the cold. Against the memories.
This time it was he who waited.
‘I – was living there when war broke out,’ she found herself saying. ‘My husband was Belgian. He was killed after Antwerp.’
‘Sorry for that, lass.’ The words were simple. Eddie Browne had accosted the solitary, uniformed, obviously female figure for two reasons: first because he was, as he had said, stranded in a city he neither knew nor much cared for, on his way back to a war that for the moment at least had lost all attraction for him; and second because he had wanted to test the theory so often bandied about in dugout, blockhouse and waterlogged trench that the young women who were clamouring to don a uniform, to drive a bus, to rush to the factory, to ‘do their bit’, were in fact clamouring for rather more than that. He still thought it an interesting theory, and one well worth exploring if an opportunity should occur. But, watching this young woman’s thin, sharp-featured face, the steady eyes, he sensed that the opportunity was not now. A pity. He smiled a little, acknowledging it, somehow certain that she knew his thoughts and did not resent them. He touched his free hand to his cap casually, turned to leave.
‘Wait.’ Sally pushed herself away from the car. What had possessed her to stop him from leaving she did not know, except perhaps the sudden touchingly determined straightening of his narrow shoulders, the implications of that shabby, mudstained coat. The mention of Belgium. ‘As a matter of fact – I was thinking of going for a cup of tea-’ she hesitated, grinned suddenly, all the street knowledge of her youth in the sharpness of it, surprising him, ‘—just a cup of tea.’
The café was warm, dimly lit and stuffy, crowded with uniformed men and women in the dark, simply cut clothes that wartime economies had made fashionable. Her unexpected escort’s uniform, she noticed as he took off his coat, was even scruffier than his greatcoat, mudstained and worn. They sat at the smudged and running window, where she could keep watch on the doorway across the street. The tea was steaming, strong and sweet. They spoke of the war – in nineteen months he had fought from Flanders to the Somme; he had also, he admitted with no trace of self-consciousness been promoted through the ranks from private to sergeant and back again, twice. ‘Like snakes and ladders,’ he said solemnly. ‘If you ever see me again happen you’ll have to count the stripes – as fast as they give them to me I seem to lose them.’
Sally laughed. She liked this brash little Yorkshireman – which was what she had discovered he was – with his dry humour, his quick understanding, and the underlying toughness that had seen him through these months of war unscathed. ‘That’s a bit careless of you, isn’t it?’
He shrugged, returning her grin. ‘They like what I do for them when Fritz comes at us –happen they aren’t so keen on what I say when the noise dies down.’ He cocked the sardonic eyebrow higher. ‘Can’t somehow be doin’ with idiots,’ he said laconically. ‘Happen one day I’ll learn to keep a still tongue.’
She found herself telling him of Philippe, of her return to England, of her determination to do something to help with the fight— ‘Something real, you know? Something useful. Driving seemed the best thing. I want to go to France you see. I want to help – really help – I learned to drive in Belgium – but, well I kept applying and no one wanted me.’
He jerked his head at the monster that stood gleaming at the kerb across the road. ‘So – how did you do it?’
‘I took a crash course in mechanics – I already knew a bit – Philippe was hopeless at such things—’ The name slipped easily into the conversation, as it might have had she been talking to an old friend. ‘—And then started the rounds again. Still with no luck. God, I was mad!’ How often, frustrated and furious, had she nearly given up? Oh, so many, many times! And then, ‘Then I met an old friend,’ she flicked a glance from beneath dark lashes, her face innocent, ‘a friend I’d been in prison with.’
He took it remarkably well, she thought amusedly. He neither choked nor stared, just cocked his head, faintly enquiring, dark eyes alight with interest. ‘Oh, not murder or anything – nothing interesting like that – just handing out a few bits of paper that Mr Lloyd George didn’t approve of.’
His expression now was truly and undisguisedly interested. ‘Votes for women?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, aye.’ The odd little expression gave nothing away.
She looked at him sharply, ready for affront. ‘You don’t approve?’
He chuckled then, throwing back his head. ‘Happen if I hadn’t approved me mother would have thrown me out of the house. She was organizer in Bradford. Went to a few meetings meself. Turned into as good a fight as I’ve had anywhere.’
‘Well – as I said – I met up with this old friend – Peggy Wilmott she was when we shared a cell in Holloway,’ she lifted wry brows, ‘Lady Marston now. She’d started up this corps – girls to drive for her husband’s War Office chums – and – here I am. My colonel’s a real duck.’
‘But you still aren’t in France?’
‘No. But not through want of trying, bless him. He’s as keen as I am – came out of retirement for this lot – fought in South Africa sixteen, seventeen years ago – he’s absolutely raring to get out there, but – no luck yet. Still – he’s promised if he gets there I’ll go with him—’ She saw the expression on his face, stopped, her eyes suddenly, dangerously cool. ‘You think I shouldn’t? You think the women should stay behind and keep the home fires burning?’
He played with his teaspoon, clinking it against his cup, shrugged narrow shoulders. ‘No business of mine, lass – Sal—’ his glance was gracelessly mischievous; ‘—mind if I call you Sal—?’
But she had glanced beyond him through the window. In the dying light a figure stood upon the pavement, leaning heavily upon a stick. ‘Whoops! The colonel!’ She grabbed her coat, struggled into it, stuffed her cap upon her head, fighting with the disordered coils of hair beneath it. Oh, lord! – she’d have to get it cut, as Hannah had done – ‘I’ll have to go. ’Bye – thanks for the tea.’
‘Hey – wait.’ He had torn off a corner of the menu, was scribbling rapidly. As she turned to ran to the door, he thrust it into her hand. ‘I’d take it kindly if you’d write.’
She hesitated.
He stood, slight and cocky, dark as a gipsy, his crooked smile, the look in his eyes at once warm and perilously provoking. ‘I’m off to t’war, lass,’ he grinned, thickening his accent comically, ‘it’s thee bounden duty—’
She laughed, grabbed the piece of paper, stuffed it in her pocket and ran.
She arrived a little short of breath at the car a moment or so later. She was aware of the faint smudge of light behind her that was the windows of the café, a smudge that in a bare few minutes would be extinguished as the blackout blinds were drawn. ‘I’m sorry, Colonel.’
‘Not to worry, my dear, not to worry – I told you to get yourself a cuppa. Too cold by half to hang about out here.’
She ran around the car to open the door for him, knowing better than to attempt to help as he swung his stiffened, ungainly leg. As she returned to her own side she glanced across the road. The blinds were down. As the car’s engine purred into life the doors of the café opened for a moment and a man’s figure was silhouetted, small and slight, kitbag on shoulder. He stood for a moment – she could not see his face – before he turned and marched, arm swinging cheerily, down the road. She could, she thought, all but hear his whistling.
‘Well, van Damme—’ The colonel leaned back in his seat. As she pulled away from the pavement she glanced at him, suddenly sensing his excitement. His high-coloured, neatly moustachioed face was serious, but the sharp blue eyes sparkled. ‘Still interested in going to la belle France?’
Her heart almost
stopped. ‘I – yes, sir.’
‘What about the child? You’re sure about leaving her?’
In the weeks they had known each other they had become friends, these two.
‘Yes, sir. The arrangements are made. There are so many to look after her.’ She turned her head, looking at him.‘You mean it, sir? We’re going?’
‘So it seems, van Damme, so it seems. Not to the front line, of course – too old a war horse for that, so the silly buggers tell me – no, staff job – HQ near Amiens. You game, van Damme?’
Sally turned her shining eyes to the difficult task of negotiating the dusky roads under street lights the bulbs of which had been three-quarters blacked out. ‘Yes, sir. Oh, yes, sir! I’m game.’
III
‘Sister Patten! – Hannah! – Oh, thank God I’ve found you!’
Hannah, curled in front of the fire in her billet a book open on her lap, looked up as the door burst open and a distraught and dishevelled figure fell into the room. ‘Mercy? Whatever’s wrong?’
Mercy stood for a moment, biting her lip, wringing her hands in agitation.
‘Mercy! What is it?’ Hannah jumped to her feet, thoughts of catastrophe – fire, plague, invasion – tumbling through her head.
‘It’s – it’s Sister MacAdam.’
Hannah stared at her. ‘Oh, Mercy! For heaven’s sake – I thought—’
‘I – just didn’t know what to do! If Matron should see her—’
Hannah picked up the book that had tumbled to the floor. ‘What?’ her voice, for all her effort, was irritated. ‘Mercy, what are you talking about?’
‘She’s – oh, Hannah – she’s drunk!’
Hannah stopped, turned, stared. ‘She’s – what?’
‘Drunk! And still drinking. I-I tried to stop her – to reason with her – she – oh, Hannah, she threatened me!’
Hannah was reaching for her cape. ‘Where is she?’
‘In her billet, in the road next to the Place. She – borrowed one of my manuals – well,’ Mercy was calming now, and her voice was injured, ‘well, she took it actually – and I needed it back. So I went round there—’ She hesitated, ‘Do – do you want me to come with you?’ she asked uncertainly.
Tomorrow, Jerusalem Page 39
