After the War Is Over (21 page)

“Not to me.
Never
to me.”

She couldn’t bear another moment of this, not one more moment. The room was so charged
with emotion, hers as much as his, that if she were to open a window she feared she
would go soaring off into the sky, a firecracker fizzing with pent-up grief and regret.

“Don’t—”

“Please—”

They both stopped short, waiting for the other to go on, and the terrible tension
that made it so hard for her to breathe began to loosen its hold and melt away.

“Sorry,” he said. “When I woke up I felt so peaceful, and look where I ended up. Whining
about myself again. Do forgive me.”

“Of course I do.”

“Shall we think of something else to talk about?”

“Very well. Would you like to hear about my work with Miss Rathbone on the Pensions
Committee?” She winked, hoping he recognized it as a rather feeble attempt at humor.

“Ha. It would serve you right if I agreed. But perhaps we could try for a less lofty
topic? Say . . . I don’t know . . . I could tell you something you don’t know about
me, and you could do the same. Tell me something that I couldn’t possibly know about
you.”

“I don’t follow. There are so many possibilities.”

“Try. Tell me something surprising. Something you are certain I can’t know. It doesn’t
have to be earth-shattering. Only interesting.”

“How will I know if it’s—”

“Try.”

What could she tell him? He really did know so little about her; it would be easy
to think of something. Her fear of thunderstorms, perhaps? Her childhood pet having
been a tortoiseshell cat named Adelaide? Her having written a paper about
Pamela
in her second year at Somerville, though she’d read only the first hundred pages?

And then it came to her. “I’m named after a man. My middle name, that is.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name is Charlotte Jocelin Brown. Spelled
l-i-n,
not
l-y-n
. After Jocelin of Wells, a thirteenth-century bishop. My father is an expert on him,
and always thought he’d name his son after Jocelin. Instead he had me.”

“Ah. Well, that is, ah, very interesting. I certainly had no idea.”

“Your turn. What is something about you I don’t know?”

“Let me think, let me think . . . oh, here’s something. I detest chocolate.”

“Chocolate? Who dislikes
chocolate
?”

“I do. Hate the stuff,” he insisted.

“My goodness. I’m glad I haven’t been serving you cocoa at bedtime. Is it my turn
again? I’m not sure if—”

“May I go again?” he asked, and this time there was something odd about his voice.
Suddenly he seemed remote, absent, his thoughts many miles away. “It isn’t funny,
though. Not funny at all.”

“Go on,” she said, a serpent of anxiety coiling tight around her rib cage.

“I am a coward.”

“Do be serious.”

“I am. I’m a coward through and through.”

“Why would you say such a thing?” she asked fearfully.

“The night I was captured . . .”

“What happened? I only know the barest details. That you were taken prisoner in no-man’s-land
after being wounded, and brought to an enemy hospital.”

“That’s the gist of it.” He was fidgeting with his trouser leg, pleating and unfolding
the fabric that was hitched close around his stump.

“Why on earth were you out in no-man’s-land?”

“It wasn’t something I’d normally have done, but morale had been low. A few weeks
before, my battalion had been transferred to a pioneer division. In essence it meant
we were no longer a frontline fighting unit, but a support battalion that took over
fatigue duties like trench digging and the setting up of barbed-wire defenses. The
rank and file saw it as a demotion,
and so naturally there was a lot of grousing. Certainly the men in my company were
pretty miserable about it.

“We were in no-man’s-land that night to repair some coils of barbed wire that had
been cut. So, no, I wouldn’t normally have accompanied my men on something routine
like that, but I wanted to give a show of support. Let them see that I didn’t consider
such work a demotion, so they shouldn’t either. That was the plan, at least.”

“What happened? Did you come under fire?”

“We were shelled. One moment all was calm, and the next it felt like the world was
ending. We didn’t understand what was happening—all day and all evening, everything
had been so quiet along that stretch of the front. Then one of my subalterns, Lieutenant
Jerrold, marked the trajectory of an incoming shell, and he realized it came from
the west. From our side.”

“Surely it wasn’t deliberate.”

“Deliberate, no. Cretinous and foolhardy? Yes. I learned not so long ago that one
of the brass hats at GHQ had got to boasting, earlier that evening, about some new
long-range guns that were looking quite promising. So he decided to conduct a little
experiment. See how far the things would go. Turns out they could lob shells exactly
as far as the section of no-man’s-land where we were repairing barbed wire.”

“Good heavens,” she whispered, wishing she were bold enough to say what men did when
they were upset. A bad word, a filthy word, would better match the horror she felt.

“I know. We hit the ground and waited for someone to realize they were making a mistake.
We didn’t dare shout for help, or even stand up, otherwise the light from the exploding
shells
would have made it easy for the German snipers to pick us off. So we simply lay in
the mud and waited.

“The worst part was the sound as the shells came close. It was a terrible sort of
whine that got louder and louder and louder and then—
boom
. If you heard the explosion, you knew you were alive, at least for another few seconds.”

“Was your group hit?”

“Yes. Several of the men were killed outright, as well as Lieutenant Jerrold. I was
knocked back, into a shallow sort of crater. The force of the blast burst my eardrums,
and it seemed to paralyze me, too. I couldn’t hear, I couldn’t speak or shout, and
I couldn’t move, not one muscle. So I lay in that muddy crater and let fear consume
me. I lay on the ground and listened as my men died around me.

“I didn’t do a thing to help them, Charlotte. I wallowed in a puddle of my own piss
and tried not to choke on my fear. That’s all I did. That’s what cowards do, you see.”

She sprang from her chair and went to him. Kneeling at his feet, bruising her knees
on the cold flagstone floor, she took his hands in hers.

“I know nothing of being a soldier. I admit it. And I cannot truly understand what
happened that night. But I am certain that you are
not
a coward. Fear doesn’t make one a coward—if that were the case, then I, too, am a
coward.”

“Why didn’t I act? Why did I react like a mewling child?”

“Because you had been stunned senseless by the shell that knocked you down. You were
paralyzed not by fear, but by the concussive effects of the explosion. To
not
be terrified in that instant—that would have been the act of a fool.”

“I wept. I wept and prayed and begged God to save me.”

“I’m not surprised you did. I should have, too.” Her knees
were feeling awfully sore, so she got up and sat next to him on the sofa. She didn’t
let go of his hands. “At some point, my dear friend, you are going to have to face
up to a simple fact: you survived. Others perished, but you survived.”

“Of course I face it. I face up to it every day.”

“What are you going to do about it, then? There’s no use feeling sorry for yourself
or fretting about the past. You need to make the most of the life that has been given
to you.”

She smiled at him, her gentlest, most reassuring smile. If only he would believe.
If only she could
will
him to believe.

“Charlotte the philosopher,” he murmured, not meeting her gaze.

“Of course. It was one of my favorite subjects in school. Shall we turn to thoughts
of supper, though, and leave our serious thinking for another time? There’s always
tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course. There’s always tomorrow.”

Christmas, 1916

The Savoy Hotel, London

T
hey were just finishing their pudding when Charlotte thought to look at her wristwatch.

“What time do you have to be at work, Lilly? Because it’s already half past two.”

“Bother. I start at four o’clock. I must go—it will take me almost an hour just to
get up to Willesden.”

“Irvine can drive you,” Lord Ashford said.

“No, thank you. I’m quite all right getting there on my own.” Lilly came round the
table and kissed Charlotte on the cheek. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“I won’t. Perhaps, Lord Ashford, you might like to see Lilly out? That will give you
a chance to say a more private farewell to one another.”

He shot a disbelieving look at her, but took his sister’s arm without protest and
led her from the restaurant. Wondering if she had spoken out of turn, though she had
only been looking to protect Lilly at what was sure to be an emotional moment, Charlotte
picked up her fork and began to dissect the remnants
of her pudding. Lord Ashford had ordered apple Charlotte for the table, no doubt thinking
it was an amusing choice. If he only knew how many times she’d been winkingly presented
with that particular pudding over the course of her life.

“There. Farewell effected. Happy now?” Lord Ashford said as he reclaimed his place
at their table.

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to interfere. It was wrong of me to be so high-handed,
with you and Lilly both.”

He stared at her for a moment more, his expression unreadable. “No need to apologize.
But it does beg the question: why are you so irritated with me? Whenever we meet,
you seem to be in a state of high dudgeon, and I am your focus. What have I ever done
to you to deserve it?”

“I . . . I—”

“Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but I had hoped we could be friendly today. I
mean, it’s Christmas Day, Miss Brown, and in a matter of hours I’ll be returning to
the front. Does that signify nothing to you? Do you dislike me that much?”

“I don’t dislike you at all.”

“Then why not be friendly? Would it cost you so much? What is preventing us from being
friends?”

Her face was red, she knew it from the way her cheeks burned, and if she could have
excavated a hole in the middle of the Savoy Grill and buried herself, she would have
done so forthwith. That he should say such things to her in the middle of a crowded
restaurant was bad enough, but that they were true . . . that was the worst part of
all.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, unable to meet his gaze. When had she ever been afraid
to look someone in the eye? “I’ve been wrong to treat you so poorly. There is no excuse
for it.”

“I know you think me a feckless aristocrat who’s done nothing
more with his life than spend his father’s money and indulge himself, and until a
few years ago you wouldn’t have been entirely wrong. But that man is dead. Gone. Can
you not see me as I am now? I’m a man, Charlotte, not a boy. If the war has done one
thing to me, it’s made me into a man.”

“I know.”

“Then treat me like one. And for God’s sake don’t sit there and look like you’re going
to cry. Just agree that we might be friends, if only for today. Agreed?”

She swallowed back her tears, and her chagrin, and nodded decisively. “Agreed.”

“In that case, what shall we do now?”

“I thought you were seeing Lady Helena.”

“Not until later. It’s a pity the National Gallery is closed today. Otherwise we could
have continued our debate over modern art.”

“I really ought to go,” she said.

“Not yet. What about a walk? The Embankment gardens are just across the road. And
the sun is very nearly shining.”

“Very well. But only if you’re certain you can spare the time.”

“Of course I can. Besides, we’ve a friendship to establish, and I’d rather do it face-to-face.
Letters are a poor second in that respect. Shall we be off?”

“But we haven’t paid. Shouldn’t we at least wait—”

“I’ve an account here. But thank you for mentioning it.”

A liveried attendant fetched their coats and his hat. Charlotte had worn her best
dress and an almost new hat, but her coat was several winters old, and there were
embarrassingly worn spots at the collar and front facing. Such a silly thing to fret
over, really. Normally she never looked twice at what she
was wearing, apart from her nurse’s uniform, and then it was only to ensure it would
pass inspection by Matron.

After Lord Ashford had asked his driver to meet them at the far end of the gardens,
they set off across the road and down into the park. At first they walked side by
side, but the graveled paths had grown mossy over the winter, and here and there were
quite slippery, so when he offered his arm she was glad to take it.

“We were so busy talking about Lilly and her interests earlier that we never had a
chance to speak of your work,” he said. “I should very much like to hear about it.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Tell me about the hospital. It’s in Kensington, isn’t it?”

“Yes. The Special Neurological Hospital for Officers. The buildings are on Palace
Green, two huge old houses, side by side.”

“How many patients are there?”

“Between the two buildings there are about seventy. Because we treat men with neurasthenia
and other psychological disorders, each man has his own room—we don’t have wards as
such. And we don’t do much medical nursing. By the time they come to us, the patients
have been cured of any . . . well, external wounds. The only dressings I ever have
to change are those of men who’ve hurt themselves while at the hospital. One poor
fellow keeps scratching at himself with his fingernails. We keep them trimmed, but
he still manages to hurt himself.”

“I see. What would an ordinary day be like? Say today, for example?”

“Well, today was a bit different as I only worked a half shift. Because it was Christmas,
you see. Normally I’m on for twelve
hours at a stretch, from half past seven in the morning, with a three-hour break around
the halfway point.”

“Christ. You must be dead on your feet by the end.”

“I suppose. I try not to think about it.”

“What happens during those twelve hours? What do you do?”

“To be honest, at least three-quarters of it is cleaning. Washing crockery, trays,
utensils. Wiping down everything with antiseptic. Dusting and tidying and making beds.
There are chars for the really heavy work but we’re always scrubbing away at something.”

She stopped short and pulled off her gloves to reveal rough, reddened skin and fingernails
cut ruthlessly short. “Look at my hands. I have to soak them in almond oil every night,
otherwise they get so raw and sore I end up with chilblains.”

“You said ‘we,’” he noted as they began walking again. “How many other sisters are
there?”

“I’m not a nursing sister.”

“But I thought you’d trained—”

“I did several months’ training as a VAD at the Great Northern Central Hospital on
the Holloway Road. Matron there was happy with my work, so she recommended me to the
War Office as a special military probationer. They then offered me a contract to work
at the hospital in Kensington.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, early 1915? So I’m not a nursing sister, you see. That requires three years of
specialized, full-time training at a minimum. Some of the men persist in calling me
‘Sister,’ but they’re only supposed to call me ‘Nurse.’”

“I see. Very well, Nurse Brown, who else works with you?”

“There’s Matron, whom I quite like. Very stern and strict but so good with the men.
Endlessly patient. There are the
nursing sisters, sixteen of them, and twelve probationers, of whom I’m one. The doctors
come and go—they’re attached to other nearby hospitals as well. And of course there
are orderlies and chars and cooks and so forth.”

“Are you always cleaning things, or are you able to spend time with the patients?”

“Oh, yes. I help to bathe and dress the men who are still too feeble to do so themselves,
and I help them with their meals, too. If the weather is fine we take them out for
walks on Palace Green. If I’m on the night shift I’ll read to men who can’t sleep,
or even sing. Some really do enjoy being sung to.”

“What sort of songs? Presumably not ‘Hangin’ on the Old Barbed Wire.’”

She stifled a grimace at the thought of how one or two of her patients would react
to the imagery that provoked. “Hymns, mostly. Lullabies. Things that remind them of
better times.”

“What are they like, the patients? Is it bedlam there?”

“Not at all. We have common rooms, where we encourage the men to gather during the
day, and they can be quite merry at times. But we’re also careful to keep things as
quiet as possible. No slamming doors or sudden noises.”

“In case one of them goes off his head?”

She stopped short and glared at him. “No, Lord Ashford, in case one of them is unwillingly
reminded of a horror he suffered and is forced to relive the trauma of that moment.”

“I beg your pardon. That was insensitive of me.”

“We do have some patients who are mildly psychotic, with conditions that may have
predated their military service. They may see things that aren’t there, or hear voices.
That sort of thing. But for the most part our patients are suffering from what a layman
would term shell shock.”

“Do you like working there?” he asked.

“Do you know, no one has ever asked me? I mean, it’s not as if it
matters
if I like it. We all have to do our bit, and that’s that.”

“But do you like it? Or do you ever wish you’d stayed with Miss Rathbone?”

“I have moments when I ask myself why I decided to become a nurse. Why I volunteered
to leave a job I loved and instead spend my life washing out bedpans and the like.”

“So why did you do it?”

“Why did you join up? Presumably because you wanted to do your duty and support the
war effort. As did I.”

“Fair enough. You still haven’t answered my question. Do you like it?”

“Some days I do. Some days it seems worthwhile—when one of our patients is well enough
to return to his unit, or be sent home. But then there are days when the sisters fault
everything I do, Matron looks down her nose at me, the patients are all of them miserable
and needing more attention than I can possibly give, and I hate it. I absolutely hate
it.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“And I know that if a man is well, and sane, there is no earthly reason why he shouldn’t
return to active duty—but I fear for him. It seems so unfair for a man to suffer so
badly and then be thrust back into the thick of it. It . . . somehow it never seems
right. But I suppose you would disagree.”

“I don’t, you know. Life at the front is enough to drive a man mad. Even on the good
days it’s a horror.”

“So it’s as bad as I fear it is?”

“Every bit.”

“Which means that it’s even worse.”

“Yes.”

In that one word, Charlotte discerned a lifetime’s worth of horrors.

“You said there are good days. What are they like?” she pressed on.

“Do you mean a good day in the front lines, or when we’re on relief?”

“At the front. What’s a good day like there?”

“A day when we’re just holding the line?”

“Yes.”

“It’s boring. Hours and hours of tedium, with the odd minute or two of terror thrown
in to keep us on our toes. I spend nearly all my time in my dugout, back in the command
trench, talking with my subalterns and NCOs. Matters of discipline among the men,
orders from the brass hats, that sort of thing.”

“So you’re not in the very front lines? The front trenches?” This came as a relief,
for reasons she didn’t care to examine too closely.

“I spend my days a few hundred yards back from the fire trenches, though I’ll come
forward if needed. If I have time I try to be present while the NCOs inspect the men.
I’d like to think it helps with morale, seeing me directly, although it’s hard to
know for certain. It’s not as if I can walk up to one of them and ask.”

“Why ever not? They’re under your command. Surely you can speak to them directly.”

“My NCOs would fall in a dead faint at my feet if I did. I speak to my company sergeant
major and the CSM speaks to the ranks. I mean, if one of them were struck down by
a sniper in front of me I’d offer some words of comfort. But otherwise I’m meant to
be as remote as God.”

“Even the men you know? Lilly told me some of them are from the estate. From the villages
near Cumbermere Hall.”

“Even the men I know.”

“That seems very odd.”

“Is it? How different is it from your hospital? Do you ever address the doctors directly?”

“Not unless they speak to me first. I talk to Sister if I have a concern, and she
passes it on to Matron, who may then tell the attending physician.”

“See? How different is that?”

“I suppose you have a point. Is there anyone you can speak to informally?”

“There are my subalterns, although they’re all boys straight out of the schoolroom.
I think the oldest is only twenty-five or so. One of them barely has a beard.”

“How many men are under your command?”

“In theory there should be a hundred and forty men in the four platoons that make
up my company. At present, thanks to the Somme, we’re at least a score short of the
mark.”

“One hundred and forty men live or die at your command?”

“Only insofar as it reflects the wishes of the brigade HQ. But, yes, I suppose they
do.”

“Whom do you eat with?” she asked, fascinated by the picture he was drawing.

“Eat with?”

“Yes. Who sits at your table with you?”

“When we’re on relief and well behind the lines, and we’ve an actual table in front
of us, I eat with my subalterns. At the front? I sit on an upturned pail in my dugout
and gobble whatever slop they’ve sent us before the sight and smell of it makes me
sick.”