Secrets and Sins, page 29
Early in the morning, just before breakfast, she’d crept out of the house and made her way through the copse of tangled trees and down the path to the water’s edge.
The rushes and tall reeds of summer were dried and shrouded in white. The lake was thick with ice. Her heart had soared. She would glide across the lake like a swan, though faster. Speed had always excited her.
After brushing snow from a handy rock, she’d sat down, unbuttoned and pulled off her boots. Bearing in mind that the skates were too big, she’d had the foresight to bring a spare pair of socks with her. She’d put these on quickly, totally absorbed in what she was doing; excited at the prospect of what she was about to do.
Wobbling at first, she’d made her way down the final few feet to the edge of the lake. She’d been just about to push forward, when a warning voice rang out.
‘You can’t skate on there. I say! You can’t skate there.’
The boy shouting the warning was standing between her and the small copse of trees on the hill. Once he’d seen he had her attention, he broke into a run.
‘Stop right there,’ he’d shouted.
Agnes had looked at him, then back at the lake. She was close, so very close to fulfilling what she wanted to do. Nobody, she decided, including him, was going to stop her.
She’d pushed herself on to the ice, first one foot, and then the other. Without a single wobble, she sped forward, arms outstretched to either side, face glowing with excitement.
‘I’m doing it! I’m doing it!’
She spun on her feet, amazed at her speed, enjoying the icy air on her face. She laughed and laughed.
‘See? It’s easy!’
The boy edged forward on to the ice at the side of the lake. ‘Keep away from the middle! Come back!’
She heard his shout, but didn’t obey it. This was living. This was wonderful.
‘Keep away from the middle,’ he shouted again.
She saw him edge further forward on to the ice as though he were placing his feet on stepping stones, one after the other.
‘Can’t catch me,’ she shouted back.
Being only a child, she didn’t fully comprehend the look of alarm on his face. It was a game, just a game; wasn’t it?
Suddenly fine cracks spread over the ice that earlier had seemed so thick, so capable of taking her weight. She’d come to a stop and had watched, fascinated, as the cracks had spread out from where she stood.
Like cracks from a hard-boiled egg hit with a spoon.
Somehow, she could never remember how, she’d taken a flying leap from the breaking ice, back the way she’d come.
A sliver of a crack appeared where she’d landed; water began to spill upwards, flowing over the ice.
Pushing forward with all her might, she headed back, determined that she wouldn’t end up in the cold water, sensible enough to know, even at that age, that it might be the end of her if she did.
He’d been waiting for her, halfway between her and the safety of the bank.
The ice was firm where he stood and she managed to skate all the way up to him.
She looked up into his face, saw the blue eyes, the wisps of hair curling out from beneath his hat.
She saw something else in those eyes then and heard the admiration in his voice.
‘Hello,’ she’d said, her tone far too confident for the average seven year old. ‘Were you worried about me?’
The boy, who looked to be about four years older than her, had shaken his head in disbelief. ‘You are the most amazingly brave girl I’ve ever met. I think I like you.’
Even now, looking back, she could feel how it was to bask in his admiration.
‘My name’s Agnes Stacey,’ she’d told him. ‘And you’re Robert Ravening. I popped up in front of your pony. Do you remember?’
His smile had made her forget that the sky was grey and the air bitingly cold.
‘Nobody could help but notice you.’
Smiling at the memory, she flicked the remains of her cheroot into the undergrowth. The smile did not last. Her face clouded. So much had changed. Robert had fallen in love with her friend Lydia. She’d survived the heartache, swallowing her pride and her pain.
A week ago, she’d received the news that the hospital where Lydia was stationed in Flanders had fallen into German hands. She’d assumed a Red Cross hospital would be spared occupation, but had found out otherwise.
She eyed the pale sun sinking behind pink clouds. What innocents we are, she thought.
It had felt as though she’d swallowed an iron bolt when she’d heard that Robert had been shot down. A navigator involved in the same skirmish had given her that piece of terrible news. So much for Siggy and his comments about flying machines being limited and not likely to get involved in real fighting, she thought grimly, and felt like crying and laughing all at the same time.
The injured navigator told her how he’d hid by day and travelled by night, sneaking through the lines.
‘Didn’t do my leg much good, Miss, but at least I’m still alive. Next stop the Old Kent Road!’
She’d helped him down from the ambulance knowing by the rancid smell of his injured flesh and the bone sticking through his trouser leg that he would end up a cripple.
He’d escaped. He’d survived. There was a chance Robert might have survived too.
Two nurses helped him hop his way to the hospital. She watched until he disappeared from sight, though it wasn’t really the navigator she was seeing. She was seeing Robert, injured, cold and alone.
He needed help. He might need an ambulance. She leaned against the bonnet of her own vehicle, feeling the heat of the engine suffusing through the metal. She had the vehicle and she had the will. She would do her best to find him.
33
Hortense Corbett, Agnes’s superior, was true to her word. A great one for making lists and notes, she stood there in front of Major Darius Emerson with her completed notes on each one of the girls under her supervision.
Major Emerson had the patience of a saint, but even he failed to hide his exasperation, rubbing at his eyes and sitting back with a sigh. He was the son of a British officer of the Indian army and an Anglo-Indian mother, though nobody would guess that. He’d inherited the red hair of his father and a skin colour that was something close to Asian but lifted by the fact that his eyes were blue.
He had far more important things to do than study the copious lists this woman produced. The government had forbidden the likes of volunteer auxiliaries running hospital field units, but somehow this woman and her team got through. She obviously knew the right people, damn her!
He flicked through the papers without really reading anything. He just didn’t have the time.
‘Look, Hortense, I think you will appreciate it when I tell you that I’m snowed under with paperwork at present. Are there any pertinent points amongst your lists that need my attention right at this minute?’
‘Oh,’ she said, looking decidedly deflated. She so loved those lists, loved remarking on her ‘girls’.
‘Here,’ she said, snatching the papers from him and stabbing at one particular sheet of paper, one particular name. ‘Agnes Stacey is the most insolent young woman. She refuses to dress appropriately, insists in fact on wearing jodhpurs, a flying helmet and goggles.’
Darius Emerson jerked his chin as he read the particulars – just the first line. He’d met Agnes and liked her. Still, he had to play the part, appease this woman and get on with what was important.
‘I think we have to ask ourselves if this mode of dress affects her performance as an ambulance driver. Reports already in my possession tell me they do not. In fact, I am given to understand that she is hard working, brave and willing to help anyone in need. Would you disagree with that?’
Hortense Corbett spluttered before collecting herself. If there was one thing bred into her, it was the art of collusion. If the major took the opposite view to hers, she had to appear to comply – even though she simmered with antagonism.
‘If nobody objects to her outlandish outfit, then I cannot object. However, I do wonder how she was accepted with such an attitude. She is so unfeminine. Have you seen her driving that ambulance? Regardless of mud, stones or barrage fire, she drives it full pelt; most unseemly; most unfeminine.’
Major Darius Emerson, a doctor in peacetime, rubbed at his eyes in an effort to massage some life back into them. ‘She does her job, Hortense. I’m happy with that.’
‘That may be so, but…’
She went on to list a variety of reasons why they should perhaps review the situation. ‘Perhaps at a later date?’
Darius pretended to be listening whilst considering other, more serious matters.
A pile of paperwork relating to the growing casualty lists destined for prominent posting in England and throughout the Empire was getting dangerously high. It was time to begin a new one.
Moderating his voice, he explained the situation quietly and confidently.
‘It’s quite simple, Hortense. Men are wounded on the battlefield. Ambulance drivers are needed to collect them and bring them back here so I can put them back together again – as well as I can when they have bits missing and…’ He stopped, the rest of what he had intended saying sticking in his throat. ‘What I mean to say is,’ he said, taking up a pencil and tapping it impatiently on his paperwork, ‘that ambulance drivers are getting killed too. Agnes Stacey does her job well. She collects the wounded and brings them here. Added to that,’ he said, a sarcastic note entering his voice, ‘she is alive. We need her.’
Realising she had alienated the doctor instead of gaining his approval, Hortense made another effort to repair the damage.
Although it was hard to admit it – even to herself – she could see by Darius’s expression – despite his weariness – that he was as susceptible to Agnes Stacey’s looks as any man. Her face was a little too freckled to suit the accepted idea of beauty – that which is pale and protected from the sun by a lace-trimmed parasol – but all the same, she had seen the way men’s eyes followed her. Albeit begrudgingly, she conceded that they were likely to be the best judge of female beauty after all.
Darius pulled his thoughts away from Agnes’s vibrant good looks and tried his best to focus on the situation as he saw it.
‘I think we have to tolerate Agnes’s dress sense. I think we also have to fear for her in the present circumstances.’
Hortense frowned. ‘Is there something I should know?’
He nodded wearily whilst pushing his hair back from his face. ‘It was reported a week ago that someone close to her, an aviator, is missing in action. One has to expect her behaviour to be erratic.’
‘Erratic? She’s very headstrong. Full of energy and high spirits,’ Hortense said, as though that were something of a drawback.
Barely controlling some less than gentlemanly comments, Darius frowned at her. ‘What a pity we couldn’t bottle those high spirits and hand them out in big spoonsful. Should do the injured no end of good and make our job a damn sight easier!’
Doctor Darius Emerson fingered the bottles of morphine, the ether and other painkillers, salves and ointments ranged on shelf after shelf of the medicine cabinet. He was tired, totally worn out with work – and the war, in his opinion, was hardly even started.
It was usual to keep such medicines under lock and key along with all the other lesser pain-relieving medicines he kept in the cupboard. How long would it last, he asked himself. Nothing could persuade him that this war would be over by Christmas. A great dread haunted both his waking hours and sleepless nights that the casualties would be overwhelming, that nothing would be decided in a few short months. If his instinct served him correctly, then the dressings and painkillers would quickly run out.
Anticipating opposition from senior officers, he had decided, off his own bat, to requisition greatly increased supplies from London. Hopefully, the supplies would come through before anyone noticed he hadn’t gone through normal channels. If anyone did notice, he was for the high jump – unless his judgement proved correct, in which case his foresight would be rewarded. A cold sweat broke out on his brow as he rubbed his eyes, then rested his head against the medicine cupboard, relishing the coldness of the glass doors against his temples. He headed outside.
‘Major. Are you all right?’
His face turned towards her, the lightest point in the darkness, except for the blush of sky behind her, residual light and heat from the artillery barrage.
He recognised the lithe form, the confident way she approached him, the way the little light that there was made her hair look as though it were on fire.
‘Agnes. What are you doing out here? Leave me alone. Get back inside.’
‘I’m not in the army. I won’t snap to attention.’
Agnes had had a bad day. She was burning with anger, sick and tired of seeing injured young men, their eyes glazed, their mouths open, crying for their mothers.
‘This war is stupid,’ she said angrily.
She stood close to him, her hand on his shoulder. She saw him look at it as though wondering what it was.
‘Do you know what I think?’ she said when he stayed silent. ‘I think it is far better to make love, not war. Do you agree?’
It happened quickly, neither of them giving themselves time to think again.
She didn’t protest at his rough handling of her breasts or the speed with which he unbuttoned her trousers. On the contrary, she needed him to be doing this, to feel the heat of him, smell the mildewed dampness of his uniform. If this grunting, grinding, grabbing of flesh was sin, then it certainly didn’t feel like sin, more like a need to prove physically that they were still alive. They were indulging in raw, physical, emotional sex, without frills or the pretence of committing to each other. Just simple lust to blank out all the horrors they had seen and all the horrors to come.
34
NOVEMBER, 1914
Lydia had been apprehensive about writing in her mother’s journal, but now it seemed the right thing to do. At least someone would know what her life was like if anything should happen to her. Someone would read it. Someone would know. She had intended recording just incidents in the war, but the journal was filling up with memories, bits and pieces that came to her while bandaging wounds, assisting at an amputation, changing dressings smeared repugnantly with the yellow, greenish tinge of infection. Writing down memories of the past helped shield her against the horror-laden present.
Daylight hours passed in a blur of activity. Sleep was restless and came with dreams – nightmares – more grotesque than the days.
Like all the other Red Cross nurses, she was wearing more layers of clothes in order to keep warm. The fine summer had turned into a fair September, but it was now late November and the weather had turned bitterly cold.
The chateau might have retained more heat, but a few stray shells had left holes. The holes let in the cold despite the tarpaulin sheets fastened over them.
‘I feel so fat in all these clothes,’ Lydia said to Fleur, her Belgian roommate.
‘We all are,’ said Fleur. ‘I’m wearing three petticoats and two dresses, I look twice as fat as I am, and I’m still cold.’
‘One day all this will be over and we’ll both be slim again,’ Lydia said. ‘The first thing I shall do is have a new dress made. Something extravagant and luxurious – and preferably made of silk!’
Fleur sighed. ‘My family thought I was mad to become a nurse. I told them I was doing it so that the right side might win. Now I’m not sure whether that has anything at all to do with it. What’s right? What’s wrong?’
Lydia turned her face to a sudden commotion just outside the ward. Four soldiers were chasing a pig. The pig was screaming in alarm and heading directly for the nurses’ refectory.
On seeing this, Fleur opened the door, the pig scuttled through and the door slammed shut.
Lydia stood beside Fleur, their backs against the door. The four soldiers exchanged furtive glances.
‘Can we have our pig back?’ one of them said.
Folding her arms across her chest, Lydia glared at them defiantly.
‘Is it really your pig?’ she asked.
‘We found it.’
‘So it’s not really yours,’ said Fleur.
‘It was requisitioned,’ said one of the soldiers.
‘It’s for dinner on Christmas Day,’ said another. ‘For the men. Injured as well as uninjured. It has to be hung first. Meat is better after it has been hung.’
There was something wrong about letting them in to take their pig, but there was also something very right about it. The two nurses, Lydia and her friend Fleur, stepped to either side of the door.
‘Poor pig,’ said Fleur. ‘It will soon be dead.’
Lydia nodded disconsolately. ‘It will have plenty of company.’
The armies that had manoeuvred across France and Flanders during August and September, by the middle of October had become entrenched. Both sides had dug trenches, battened their walls with strips of wood, placed duckboards over the solid ground, the trenches growing in ever-lengthening tentacles.
Everyone prayed for respite between barrages, enough time to transport the injured from the lines to the hospital. Although damaged, the hospital had become a small oasis amidst the bloodiest warfare men had ever contrived. Ypres, the lovely old town just a few miles away, was at the heart of a horror to end all horrors.
Thousands of men on both sides had been killed or maimed, their crushed bodies hardly recognisable as men at all; like slabs of bloodied mud dug straight from the ground, the first task was to dig beneath their clothes, to wash and disinfect the flesh before wounds could be treated.
Days and nights went by when Lydia hardly had time to sit down let alone sleep, but Robert was always in her mind. She’d heard nothing from him. Had he read her letter? Did he know where she was? There was little time to dwell on what might have been or come to the worst conclusion possible, but it did happen. In her darkest moments, she believed he’d obeyed his family’s wishes and would not be in contact ever again. Nobody had minded her father being German before the war. How quickly things change.
