Easterleigh Hall at War (10 page)

The earth shook even as far back as they were, but it wasn't so much the noise of guns but of the victims of those guns they saw and heard now. And it was the victims' blood they smelled. She stared at her hands, just for a second. Blood is so very red, she thought. Blood has a particular smell, all-pervading. She bent to her task again, her mind running along its own path, chattering, chattering. It kept her sane. Blood used to make her feel sick. Now it did nothing except fuel her rage. A soldier on a stretcher was singing, ‘Hitchy koo, hitchy koo, hitchy koo.' Another moaned, ‘Shut him up. Just shut him up.'

An orderly moved Mr Hitchy Koo into a marquee at Sister Saul's request.

‘Manton, in the transfusion area, now.' Sister Miller grabbed Grace as she was reaching for a sterile bandage for a corporal's ruined face that bubbled as he tried to speak. She administered the bandage, and hoped for his sake he died quickly. He grabbed her hand as she went to rise, but all she heard was gurgling. ‘I'll be back,' she soothed, ‘in a moment. If not me, someone. You're safe now. You will be all right, trust me.' She pressed his hand between both of hers, bent and kissed it. It was what his mother would have done.

She hurried along the duckboards towards the transfusion area, wiping her mouth with her hand, but feared that all she did was to smear more blood. A passing orderly threw her a clean dressing. ‘You look like a vampire, Gracie.' She wiped her mouth again and tossed the soiled dressing in the bucket before entering the tent.

Major Sylvester was transfusing a pre-operation patient direct from a flask of matching blood. When Slim Sylvester arrived two weeks ago he'd shown the British surgeons and a good many nurses and VADs how to add blood to the sodium citrate solution already in the flask. This was then transferred from the flask to the patient via a pipe, once it was matched. The sodium citrate solution prevented the blood from clotting. Lives had been, and would be, saved. Lives that would previously have been lost.

Grace could see that the patient had lost his legs from mid-thigh down, and was still losing blood. The loss just had to be slower than the blood going in. He was heavily sedated. She tended him while Slim Sylvester moved on to the next patient. It was midday and just the beginning. Was Jack in this push? Of course he damned well was, why else had they entrained. Dear God, be safe, be lucky.

ON 21ST MARCH
there was the customary morning meeting of the heads of department around the kitchen table to discuss the hospital's daily orders and requirements under Lady Veronica's nominal chairmanship, as the daughter of the owner and therefore commandant. Today, as he had for the last few days, Captain Richard, as they called him, attended also, which was a welcome sign of his continuing recovery. Over mugs of tea, the dietary requirements of Matron and Dr Nicholls, as regards the patients, were noted, as were any special measures that would be required in general. On the armchairs the dogs snored.

Dr Nicholls reported on the economic situation. The government paid three shillings per patient per day, and Lord Brampton paid an extra ninepence per patient per day; this sum was becoming insufficient. Lady Veronica had written to her father asking him to consider increasing his funding, as it had been his directive to set up the hospital. She had hinted that it could only enhance his reputation to be more generous, a generosity that might result in a second ammunition contract. So far there had been no reply.

Evie reported on the demoralised patients who were, or were not, responding to personalised meals, Mrs Green's problems with housekeeping and laundry were solved by shuffling around the volunteers and releasing more storage space in the basement. Mr Harvey outlined today's administrative procedures; the head orderly, Sergeant Briggs, made a note of who would be leaving and what convoys of wounded were expected. The most pressing problem was left until last.

‘It's the dressings,' Matron declared, tapping her pencil on the table. ‘I said it yesterday and say it again today. Since the Battle of Neuve Chapelle began eleven days ago, convoys of wounded have been arriving steadily. Our dressings are diminishing, with a mere week's worth left, and no more to be had for love nor money. Well, of course not, because demand has far exceeded expectation. It's this damned war, it's demanding too much from the suppliers, nothing is steady.' She flung down her pencil and everyone watched as it rolled to the edge. Mrs Moore caught it just before it fell. In the background the furnace rumbled.

Matron and Dr Nicholls then bickered over which Peter they could rob to pay Paul. Mrs Green and Mr Harvey argued over what linen could be ripped into bandages before being sterilised in the laundry, while Ver and Richard sat in sulky silence because Richard had just said, yet again, ‘I seem to have forgotten what it is we need, did someone say dressings?'

To crown it all Millie slammed her mug down, slopping tea on to the table. ‘So, you want us to boil and sterilise strips of sheeting? You all seem to think the laundry has nothing better to do with its coppers than fulfil your requirements.'

In the silence that fell, the tension threatened to overwhelm Evie. She felt a great heat, a boiling rage that roared until she could bear it no longer. Where the hell was Si? Why hadn't Auberon telegraphed with his usual message of survival to Veronica so they knew all was well? And how could bloody Millie go on being such a typical cow? ‘Well, yes, that is, in general, the role of a laundry,' she shouted, banging the table so that the wretched girl's tea slopped again. The dogs woke, and barked once, then settled.

Veronica's kick caught Evie on the shin. Millie sniffed, glared, gathered up the tea towels, and left her tea for someone else to clear up as she slammed from the kitchen, along the corridor, and into the laundry where her minions were working hard, which was something she never quite managed.

Evie's mam, Susan Forbes, sat between Mrs Moore and Captain Richard, representing the needs of the children's nursery. She shook her head at Evie before preventing Tim from bashing Captain Richard's false leg with his toy car. The rage drained from Evie, leaving the gnawing, repetitive anxiety. They always heard after a battle, and not only that, Veronica heard weekly. Weekly, dammit. She forced herself to sit on her stool, when she wanted to be pacing. She listened to the worries, the irritations, she looked at Veronica's furrowed brow, her mam's too. She wasn't the only one who was longing to hear; she must pull herself together.

She made herself listen as her mam told Tim that on the next warm day they would go out for a picnic on the moor. She watched as her mam removed the car from Tim's hand, smiling her apology at Captain Richard, who shook his head and ruffled Tim's hair. The moor? Mrs Green and Matron discussed whether flowers were a good idea in the wards. ‘It's extra work for the housemaids, and volunteers. We have to keep replacing the water,' Mrs Green protested. Matron snatched back her pencil from Mrs Moore. ‘They induce calmness. They are light in the darkness.' She was tapping the pencil again. ‘They are removed at night so the wards are not deprived of oxygen.'

The moor? Her mam used to take them out to the moor when they were bairns. What was it they picked? Mrs Moore was pointing to the teapot, a question in her eyes. Evie took no notice. What was it? She remembered the cold of the . . . What?

Veronica slapped her hand down on the table. ‘Enough about flowers. It's the dressings that are the priority.'

‘Dressings?' Captain Richard queried.

‘For God's sake, Richard,' Veronica shouted. The stockpot was boiling, much like the committee, when it should have been simmering. Evie slipped it on to the resting shelf. Flowers? Dressings?

She returned to her stool in the silence that had fallen, but she barely noticed because there was something nudging her memory. The wind had been in her hair, she'd been very young, and had stooped to pull up something. Yes, it was in water. It was something her mother needed for Grandfather, who was . . . What? That's right. He was hurt in a fall in Hawton Pit. Yes, she felt again the water running down her arm as she pulled up something. Her feet were wet, sinking into . . . mud? Jack had hauled her out.

Evie looked up now into the silence that still hung like a cloud. ‘The bog. We picked something, Mam, years ago, for your da. It was a plant, yellow. We picked some, kept some, sold some.' Her mam was staring at her, then she smiled. ‘Sphagnum moss, that's what we need.'

They all looked at one another. Captain Richard said, ‘Moss, did you say? For the vases?'

Her mam smiled at him, and handed the car back to Tim. ‘Not for the vases, Captain Richard, but it's what we used as dressings when times were hard. Aye, pet, you're quite right. I should have thought of it, but I'm too tired to think these days.' Her eyes were sunken and dark, emphasising her words. She continued, ‘There are sphagnum bogs out behind Stunted Tree Hill. Evie, you're a canny bairn, you must have been really young and somehow you've hoyed it out of your memory.'

Dr Nicholls was slapping the table. Evie did wish people would leave it alone. What with the tapping, the slopping and now the slapping, the poor old thing was getting a good bashing today. His face was alight as he said, ‘Good God alive, of course, yes. They've been using it a lot in Canada just recently. I read a medical paper on it, the other day. It has perfect absorption, it's like a sponge and can soak up, oh, twenty times its own weight. Scotland is the main supplier, but if you say you've used it . . .? I never connected it with here. You say it's here, definitely?' He was rubbing his hands, and Matron was beaming. The dogs had woken, and jumped down to settle in front of the ranges.

Evie's mam removed the car from Tim again and hid it in the fold of her plump arm so that he tugged at her, and left Captain Richard in peace. ‘Yes, I do say it's here, you've just heard me, haven't you. Or are you having trouble with your hearing, Dr Nicholls?'

He laughed, everyone did. Captain Richard said, ‘He's deaf, is he? I didn't know that.'

Veronica snapped, ‘Do shut up, darling.'

Evie smiled at her mam, loving her. Susan continued, ‘The thing is, can we collect enough? It needs to be picked clean of all bits, dried, then placed in muslin bags with room to let the moss expand, and there you have your dressing. It's naturally sterile some say, and worked a treat for us, but you've sterilisers, so use those to be quite sure. How could I have forgotten?' She raised her hand to her forehead.

Captain Richard poured himself more tea. The teapot lid wobbled. Mr Harvey reached across Dr Nicholls and held it down. Richard smiled his thanks. ‘Sphagnum is Greek for moss. All rather interesting really . . .'

‘No it's not, Richard,' Veronica said, her voice becoming a shout as she shoved her VAD uniform sleeves up. Captain Richard ignored her, and finished pouring, placing the teapot within Evie's reach. She shook her head as Veronica continued to shout, ‘What is interesting is getting dressings into Easterleigh Hall by the quickest possible route. We're being inundated with casualties and for God's sake, we still haven't heard from Aub and he damn well promised to send a telegram every week so just be quiet and let the bloody Greeks go and Greek themselves.'

There was total silence, again, until Matron said, ‘My, if that isn't worthy of the playroom I don't know what is.'

Dr Nicholls roared with laughter, and Evie turned to him. ‘You can put that revolting pipe out and all. Don't think I didn't see you picking that piece of tobacco off your tongue and dropping it on Annie's clean floor.'

Mrs Moore took another biscuit. Evie saw. ‘You don't need that. Dr Nicholls said you had to cut down.' She stood, stared around, and then sat again. There'd been so many wounded, so many dead on the lists. Damn. Damn. Where were they?

Mrs Moore finished her biscuit and gathered up another, patting Evie's knee. Evie gripped her hand. She just had this feeling. There had been so many on the casualty lists, so many coming through their doors, needing their bandages, dying, crying. Matron straightened her shoulders and her vast breasts, her face drawn with exhaustion. In Evie's pocket was the pencilled note from Grace she had received two days ago, sent via a VAD who had accompanied a Red Cross convoy to Newcastle.

She had hoped it contained good news and that was so, in a way. Grace had enjoyed the crumbs; more would be welcome, but preferably in a single slab. She said that she and Jack had spoken and knew that their lives had moved on, that there was a nice American surgeon at the camp hospital, and Jack was happy with Tim and Millie. She and Jack both recognised there had been love, and that Evie was not to worry any more. She had added that she was to be Jack's homing pigeon and convey news of his safety to his family at the end of each push, though she knew that Auberon telegraphed too. When she heard from Jack, she would also send a telegram. But the note had been written on 11th March. There had been, so far, no telegram.

Captain Richard had made enquiries yesterday at Veronica's insistence, and been told by his former adjutant Potty Potters that the Fusiliers had been decimated, that splinter groups had joined up with other regiments, that it was chaos but he would let him know any news when he had it. The general anxiety had risen.

Matron said, ‘Do we have your undivided attention, Miss Evie Forbes?' Evie realised that everyone was looking at her. ‘If so, perhaps I may continue, because you have just saved the day as you do annoyingly often.' Matron's smile was luminous and she did indeed continue while Evie forced herself to concentrate. ‘If you have used this moss before, Susan, and are familiar with the process, I will be relieved and delighted if you would lead a team out to the bog. I believe, Dr Nicholls, that the moss can hold exceptional amounts of pus and other liquid discharges, far more than cotton, and will therefore be invaluable.'