Easterleigh Hall at War (29 page)

As Ron scooted through the kitchen he about-turned, and came close to Evie. ‘Bear up, old girl, so far all is well, as your sainted mother says, so very often.' He winked, and she laughed again. Yes, everyone was safe and only when she had been on night duty, ready in the chair by the furnace to provide food and drink, did the world drag on her shoulders.

In June, on a sunny morning, Evie passed groups of patients talking in huddles as she headed back from the herb store at the end of the path running alongside the walled garden. They were officially strolling on crutches, or keeping an eye out for blackfly on the runner beans and the broadies, but in reality they were puffing away on pipes or cigarettes, all the while watching for Dr Nicholls, and talking about the latest news on Haig's Messines Ridge attack, the success of which would help any intended attack on the German lines around Ypres. This could turn the tide, and the excitement was high. Or they might be discussing the success of the convoy system, and the rise in merchant shipping getting through the blockade, as their thoughts were never far from food, or perhaps they were chatting about the latest young women in their lives. The latter was more probable

Evie smiled as they broke off to call to her, and she refused their offers of help to escort her and her burden back to the kitchen, and a cup of coffee. ‘Herbs aren't heavy,' she replied, feeling the sun on her face, ‘and today it's bubble and squeak and bullock's heart.' They grimaced, then one said, ‘It'll be ambrosia, dearest Evie. It always is. You have a magic wand.'

‘Yes, they're called Mrs Moore and Annie,' she shouted back. They laughed. As she entered the garage yard Alfie from Easton was propping up his bicycle against the wall, three glassy-eyed rabbits on the handlebars. He hurried down the steps to the kitchen, shouting, ‘Evie, Evie.' She weaved and ducked her way through the flapping sheets the laundry girls had just hung out, and wondered how much he wanted for them this time, the canny little beggar. ‘I'm up here,' she called. ‘Wait there.'

‘Evie, Evie.' He met her in the doorway to the kitchen, with Mrs Moore shouting from the pantry, ‘Less of your noise, bonny lad. Give her a chance.' The rabbits hung from his fingers, which were whitening from the pressure of the string. Dark dried blood dribbled from their mouths. ‘You should be in school,' she said, trying to pass him. ‘Out of the way, now.' He didn't move. Mrs Moore came from the pantry, carrying a huge bowl of chestnuts. There was something ominous in Alfie's face, and he was groping in a pocket with his free hand. ‘Note from the parson, Evie. He was in a grand fuss, said you had to read it quickly and come. Crying he was.'

Evie pushed past him, and dropped the herbs on the table. Grace? What? She had her letter, so . . . But that was posted weeks ago. Or Mam? Mam was at home today, with a cold. Da? He wasn't on shift at Auld Maud, he was here.

She grabbed the note from Alfie; it was creased and grubby. Mrs Moore eased the rabbits from his hand, slapped them on the table. Annie came in, saw the blood. ‘What the hell's happening, those need to go to the game pantry, not on the table. I've just scrubbed the thing.'

‘Hush your noise,' ordered Mrs Moore, rubbing the feeling back into Alfie's fingers but watching Evie, nodding at her. ‘Read it, lass.' The gentleness in her tone gave Evie courage to unfold the note. Edward had written,
‘Grace is injured, a shell. She was on an ambulance heading back from the front. She is at Rouen Camp Hospital. I should go, but I have so many in need here. Please, please, bring her back. I can't bear her to travel alone. A head injury, burns. You will need to talk to a Dr Sylvester. It is he who wrote the note. I have booked you passage on the ferry. Please, now.'

Within thirty-six hours Evie was gripping the rail of the pleasure steamer that had been pressed into service as a troopship for the voyage out, and ambulance ship for the return journey. All around were fresh-faced youths, almost doubled over beneath their packs. Some seemed even younger than Harry had been when he first arrived. She turned her head into the wind, clinging to the sight of the land that was steadily taking shape. The sun gleamed on the marquees that straggled along the cliff, endlessly, white and pure, they seemed. But they wouldn't be. She knew it from experience.

She disembarked at Calais, straight into the chaos of shouted orders, khaki uniforms, boots crashing in time as the men were marched away, their packs and gas masks weighing them down, their tin hats slipping sideways, the sergeants shouting. In the distance was the sound of shells. She forced her way through to a naval lieutenant. He directed her to the station. She walked past ambulances, stretchers, stretcher-bearers, VADs, nurses, doctors, padres, filthy, stinking, screaming or silent patients, some with cigarettes, some talking, some staring. No, she didn't know this. She knew the comparative quiet and order of Matron and Easterleigh Hall.

She walked on to the station. There were other women who had disembarked walking alongside her, carrying valises or carpet bags; some were nurses, some relatives. At the station some followed the signs for Rouen. She followed them, and the troops, on to the train, which huffed and puffed, but didn't blow her house down, because it was already falling around her ears. She didn't know any of this, and she had thought she did and her arrogance and ignorance appalled her. The VAD opposite looked beyond tired. Her hands trembled. Evie's did too, but her tiredness was pathetic beside this girl's. ‘Are you returning from leave?' Evie asked.

The young woman nodded, then closed her eyes. She didn't open them until the train screeched and wailed into Rouen station, then she gathered her valise and her coat and stepped from the train, her shoulders back, her head high. Evie followed. She asked a Queen Alexandra's Nurse for directions to the camp hospital. ‘Follow me.' The older woman spoke crisply, quickly, hurrying along without checking that Evie was with her. Outside there were ambulances discharging their patients, the artillery was louder. The day was drawing to a close; the sky was alight, the ground shuddered. The nurse made for the first ambulance, which was backing out of the station, a large Red Cross on its khaki sides. She flagged it down. ‘Two for the camp hospital, Thomas.'

‘Yes, Sister Breave,' said the orderly. ‘Hop in.'

Sister Breave led the way to the rear, threw in her valise, and pulled herself into the back. Evie followed. They sat on a bench in an ambulance devoid of stretchers but not of the stench of the wounded. There was blood on the floor, an old dressing. The ambulance roared off. It was Evie who closed her eyes now. Was Grace still alive? Had Richard found Jack and telegraphed the news as he had promised? Could he come, or was he in the thick of it at the Messines Ridge near Ypres? Perhaps he was still in deep reserve? Oh God, oh God, she'd thought she'd known, but her brother and his friends were facing these guns, were charging them, in this noise, this dreadful, dreadful noise. Their warm fragile bodies were facing all of this and how could they possibly have survived as long as they had, how could John Neave write cheerful letters, how could any of them?

At the camp hospital Sister Breave pointed her to Grace's marquee. ‘Number 14. Give her my love,' she said, her voice gentle now. ‘She's lost an ear, has broken ribs, shrapnel, a broken and burned arm. She needs rest and kindness, which she's had in abundance from Slim Sylvester. Make sure she has it from you or I'll hunt you down.' She mimicked a pistol shot with her right hand. She smiled, but her eyes were full of fury and pain.

Evie, carrying her valise, walked along the duckboards past marquee after marquee, from which came sounds that were worse than any at Easterleigh. She had reached number 6. Orderlies and nurses were entering and leaving the marquees, ducking down, flipping up the flaps. Some were overtaking her, some approaching. The duckboards were lit by oil lamps hung on eight-foot poles, around which huge moths fluttered. There was a breeze. The artillery was louder. She had reached number 12. Two more. Number 14. Moths were hitting the lamp outside, casting monstrous shadows.

She walked down the duckboard, hearing her boots clickety-clacking. She drew in a deep breath, and ducked inside. This marquee was divided into ten compartments. In the centre was a table at which sat a nurse. Evie went to her. ‘I've come to take Grace Manton home,' she told her. The nurse smiled and stood. The internal oil lamp was attracting moths here too, and even with the artillery Evie could hear the thump as they hit the glass. ‘It seems there are quite a lot wanting to see our Gracie,' the nurse said. She pointed to a smaller table almost hidden in the corner. It was in shadow but a voice called, ‘By, let the dog see the rabbit, if it isn't our Evie.'

‘Mart, oh Mart.' She ran to him, dropping the valise on the way, letting him swing her round and cover her face with kisses. ‘I thought I'd never see your ugly mug again, bonny lad, dearest bonny lad. He's here then, our Jack is here?' He put her down, straightening her hat for her, tucking her hair behind her ear.

‘Yes, thanks to the boss, but now you're here I have to go. I have a nurse to see. From Tyneside she is, Cathy. Lovely lass, we're made for one another but I've got to make sure she knows that, now I've seen you.' He was off, almost running down the duckboard. ‘NO running,' the nurse at the table barked. He did as he was told.

Evie touched her ear as she watched him go. Oh God, Grace. But thank you for getting Jack here. A voice behind her said, ‘Do sit down, Evie. You must be very tired.'

That voice. Her hand fell. That voice, the dark of the sea, when . . . Then she felt a touch on her shoulder. ‘Please, do sit.'

She turned. Auberon stood there quietly, in the shadows. ‘Aub. Oh Aub.' Suddenly she was crying. ‘Oh Aub, I didn't know. I thought I did, but I didn't. How can you bear it, day after day? Oh Aub.' She put her hands to her face and sobbed, quietly, because she must disturb no one, and then she felt him pull her to him. ‘Shhh,' he whispered. ‘It's all right, Evie, how could you know?'

The tiredness was tearing at her, it had made her weak, but he was here, holding her up, letting her rest, just for a moment. Their boss was here, and she rested against him, and it was as though she was floating in a silent stream, just for a moment. She felt the sobs slow, and cease, and still she leant against him.

Auberon, Jack and Mart watched the ambulance depart. Aub could feel her against him, he could hear her voice, her sobs, and then her silence. And still she hadn't moved from him, until Jack came to find her. If he was killed tomorrow he would die happy, because he had held her. He put his arm across Jack's shoulders. ‘Grace'll be safe now, and you were there for her.'

‘Aye, because of you, bonny lad,' Jack murmured. ‘On a charge, are you?'

‘It's worth whatever comes,' Aub said, because he had told his major that they were going, though he had forbidden it. They were in deep reserve again and would not be moving back into line for at least a day, Aub had argued. Permission had again been denied. In his billet he had then written down the orders he had given Jack and Martin to entrain for Rouen, and left it with the adjutant. He was going with his remaining men, no matter what, because Jack would need him, especially after they'd buried Dave after the last push, and Charlie was ill with chickenpox, of all things. Yes, he'd keep these two safe with as much light in their life as possible, if it bloody well killed him. It wasn't until they arrived at Rouen that the Sister told them it was Evie, not the parson, coming for Grace.

On their return to Easterleigh Hall Matron took over from Evie, and placed Grace in the conservatory with the other women. The drapes were yellow and cheerful, there were flowers on the central table, and it was quiet. Above all it was quiet, but Grace, who had not said a single word on the journey, still remained silent, as the nurse led her to her bed and drew the curtains around her. When she was changed and had been seen by Dr Nicholls she still said nothing, and only reacted when she heard a man's voice. But it was never her man, he was back in the chaos. Evie spent every spare moment with her. They had seen shell shock before, and would again. If she didn't improve they would have to send her to a special hospital.

AMERICA HAD JOINED
the Allies in April 1917, but could send no troops until they had built up their armies. In October, as the Germans held firm, committed to rolling over the Western Front before the Americans arrived in force, Jack and Aub hunkered down in their dugout outside Ypres with the village of Passchendaele in their sights, and the poor bloody Canadians bearing the brunt and taking a beating. They were enduring, of course, because that was what they did, in spite of mustard gas. The steady thunder of shells, the rifles, the rat-a-tat of machine guns were just part of life again. Crump. Nearby. Neither man moved. The candle flickered. How many moments had there been like this? Jack finished his letters, one to Millie and Tim, one to Grace. Auberon was also writing. Jack had seen to it that Charlie wrote to his parents, and Mart never stopped writing to Cathy. He smiled. Auberon finished his to Veronica, and started on his second letter. He finished it, and tore it up.

‘You always do that,' Jack said. It was the first time he'd mentioned it.

‘Ah,' Auberon said, tapping his nose. ‘Can't change things now. It's got me this far.' He scattered the pieces on the ground and heeled them into the mud, of which there was no shortage. The glimmer of the candle didn't reach to the ground, and perhaps it was as well, because God knew what had sunk into its depths. The candle was not in a jar. There were none to be had for love nor money. The allies had gained five miles, taken Passchendaele and used all their reserve forces. Jack said, ‘I suppose Haig thinks it was worthwhile, must be over hundreds and thousands of us killed, loads of the French buggers, and how many Germans?'