Read A Rose In Flanders Fields Online
Authors: Terri Nixon
A Rose In Flanders Fields
Driving an ambulance through the mud in Flanders, aristocrat Evie Creswell is a long way from home. At Oaklands Manor all she had been expected to do was to look pretty and make a good marriage. But with the arrival of World War One everything changed…
And Evie, to the horror of her family, does not choose a husband from her blue-blooded set; instead she wedsartist Will Davies, who works as a butcher’s apprentice. Soon she is struggling nightly to transport the wounded to hospital, avoiding the shells and gas attacks – her privileged home life, and her family’s disappointment at her marriage, a lifetime away.
And while Evie drives an ambulance in Belgium, Will is in the trenches in France. He withdraws from her, the trauma of his experience taking hold. Evie has the courage to deal with her war work, but it breaks her heart to think she is losing Will’s love. Can their marriage survive this terrible war? That is, if they both get out alive…
A Rose in Flanders Fields
Terri Nixon
T
ERRI
N
IXON
was born in Plymouth, England in 1965. At the age of 9 she moved with her family to Cornwall, to a small village on the edge of Bodmin Moor, where she discovered a love of writing that has stayed with her ever since. She also discovered apple-scrumping, and how to jump out of a hayloft without breaking any bones, but no-one's ever offered to pay her for doing those.
Since her first short stories appeared in small-press paperback in 2002, Terri has appeared in both print and online fiction collections, and is proud to have contributed to the Shirley Jackson award-nominated hardback collection: Bound for Evil, by Dead Letter Press. Her first novel was Maid of Oaklands Manor, published by Piatkus Entice, and shortlisted in the "Best Historical Read" category at the Festival of Romance 2013.
Terri now lives in Plymouth with her youngest son, and works in the Faculty of Arts and Humanities at Plymouth University, where she is constantly baffled by the number of students who don’t possess pens.
I would like to thank everyone who has continued to support me over this past year, and I hope this new offering has been worth it! Special thanks to my youngest son, Dom, for his patient indulgence as I look blankly at him over the lid of my laptop while my mind struggles to re-connect with day-to-day reality.
Thanks also to my agent, Kate (Kate Nash Literary Agency), to my editor, and to everyone who has worked towards getting this book to publication; the support, professionalism and advice has been invaluable.
I would also like to publicly thank the editors of Lady Under Fire on the Western Front, (the wartime letters of Lady Dorothie Feilding) which I read over and over again while planning this book, along with many other first-hand accounts of those at the ‘sharp end’ during the Great War.
And finally, to all those fallen during that conflict, and those who gave everything to help them; a sacrifice beyond imagining, a debt beyond measure.
Contents
To my wonderful parents: Anne and Eddie Deegan. Your encouragement has been unstinting, as has your patience with my relentless blathering. This one’s for you.
Flanders, Belgium, February 1917.
The explosion was more than a noise, it was a pressure, and a fist, and a scream that started in the pit of my stomach and flashed outward through every nerve. Pulsing light from relentless shelling afforded glimpses through the dark of the uneven road ahead, and I had long ago learned to use this sinister glow as I guided the ambulance between dressing station and clearing station, but tonight it seemed Fritz was sending over all he had. Our chaps would give it back twice as hard though – at least that’s what I told myself, what we always told ourselves, and what we always made sure to tell the boys who looked to us for reassurance that their suffering was not in vain.
The wheels slid on half-frozen mud, and all my driving experience melted into mere hope; on a night like this it would come down to luck as to whether we stayed on the road or pitched off into the even rougher ground beyond, and luck has a famously capricious heart.
It occurred, not for the first time, that less than three years before, my prayers would have been no more intense than the wish that my mother would stop trying to marry me off to one of her friends’ “perfectly charming” sons. Even then I’d had no interest in, or need of, a husband, but it was a sobering thought that most of those adventurous and brightly confident young men would now be entrenched in mud, and finding their own prayers much altered.
Those who still lived.
I blinked hard to relieve my eyes from the strain of staring at the road, and a second later my heart faltered as I identified the cause of this latest, and loudest, of explosions. A moment later Kitty, the new girl, cried out in dismay as she saw it too: the large house ahead, and the sprawling collection of tents and outbuildings in its grounds that served as the casualty clearing station, was ablaze. Part of the roof was gone, a gaping mouth from which flames belched and licked ravenously at the overhanging trees, setting even the wettest canvas of the nearby tents alight. The painted red cross had collapsed inward, and while many of the staff retained their sense of duty, many more did not – chaos had the night in its grip now, and it was each man for himself. The two sister-stations, one empty and waiting and one already taking the overspill from the house, were in danger of catching too, and panic was evident in every silhouette that stumbled in search of safety, and in every cry that transcended the roar of flame and the crack of wood and glass.
Time was short, and I turned the wheel before we reached the road junction, sending silent but heartfelt apologies to my wounded, and then we were bumping over the roughly pitted grass towards the burning buildings. The moment I pulled to a stop, Kitty was in the back urging those more able to bunch up to make room, and explaining we must go another ten miles to the base hospital in the town. Exclamations of dismay followed me as I jumped down, and I understood every one of them; the men would have been blessing every turn of the wheels that brought us closer to help, and now they must hold on a little longer. There was little doubt that, for some, it would prove too long.
The intense heat stung every exposed inch of skin as I ran towards a group of evacuees, huddling as far away from the billowing smoke as they could get, and I drew a deep breath in readiness for shouting, feeling the moisture stripped from my throat the moment my mouth opened.
‘Two! We can take two –’ I broke off, coughing, bent double with it and unable to shout again, but one of the orderlies had seen me and when I rose, gasping and teary-eyed, he gestured me over.
In the end we took three; two more in the back, and one sitter up front with us, a boy no older than Kitty herself by his looks. He had just begun treatment for shrapnel wounds to the arm and shoulder, and moving at all must have jarred him terribly, but as soon as he was settled in his seat he began talking, with cautious relief, about being shipped back to England. I exchanged a glance with Kitty, and we both found wan smiles for what he considered his good luck before we rolled off once more towards the town. There was a harsh jerk and a new rattling sound as we rejoined the road, and I wondered how many more trips we could make before something else fell off the ambulance, or broke, and I would be required to spend the rest of this freezing night lying in the mud with my tool box.
When we got to the hospital we found one of the new blessés had died, and the shrapnel-wounded boy’s relief fell away, leaving him paler than ever and deeply subdued; I gathered they had been friends. We covered the dead man with his blanket and te boy hitched a breath, , and there was no more talk of Blighty while the VAD led him away to have his wounds redressed. Kitty and I hurriedly sluiced down the inside of the ambulance, and set off back to the dressing station for one more trip.
And one more.
When the night’s grim work was finally over we returned to our little cottage, and I went over the ambulance with my torch, checking carefully underneath. Gertie, as we’d named her, had been a godsend, but she was fast reaching the end of her useful life as an ambulance, and must soon be retired before she became a danger rather than an inconvenience. Rather like myself, it seemed at times. By the time she had been emptied of blood-soaked blankets and stretchers, there remained precious few hours in which to steal a bit of sleep.
Kitty went gratefully to the room we shared and fell into bed immediately, but I sat at the kitchen table, pen in hand, and a blank sheet in front of me. I never told my husband what I had been doing; he had his own worries, and his own dark stories, and to heap mine upon him would be cruel and unnecessary. Instead I wrote that Kitty Maitland was an absolute treasure, although nerves made her clumsy and she still kept knocking things down. Naturally we had immediately nicknamed her Skittles. I wrote that the weather here was as vicious as it was in France, and that I hoped he was making good use of the warm scarf I had sent him. I told him some of the girls in the ambulance corps were jealous of us because their commandant was utterly hard-hearted, and they wished they had set up alone as we had. I wished him a happy thirtieth birthday.
Then I laid my pen down, folded the letter ready to post, and burst into tears.
Oaklands Manor, Cheshire, New Year’s Eve 1911.
I paused at the foot of the back stairwell and carefully rearranged my expression, then pushed open the kitchen door. Instantly all talk ceased, and only began again, in hesitant tones, as I nodded demurely in greeting and crossed to speak to the cook.
Mrs Hannah looked up. ‘Miss Evangeline. And what might we do for you this morning?’
‘I’m sorry for disturbing you,’ I said, in my most timid voice, ‘but I was just on my way out and Mother has asked me to pass on a message.’
‘Why ever didn’t she ring down?’
‘She knew you were busy, I expect,’ I said, gesturing at the table laden with vegetables.
‘Well, she’d be right,’ Mrs Hannah agreed, ‘and if Mercy leaves, like she’s saying, things will soon get even busier.’
I glanced at the scullery maid, who was on her knees with her head in the grate, and lowered my voice. ‘Poor Mercy. She was never happy here, was she?’
‘Ideas above her station, should you ask me,’ the cook opined, not bothering to match my discreet tones. If Mrs Cavendish had heard she’d certainly have given her one of her special “Head-Housekeeper” looks that usually sent the recipient scuttling away, although Mrs Hannah always ignored them. I liked Mrs Hannah.
She was looking at me now, knife paused mid-chop. ‘The message then, Miss Evangeline?’
‘Oh, yes. Well, you know how mother has given you that recipe for the loaf her grandmother used to make?’
