For King and Country (33 page)

Miss Brewster gave Sally a broad, confident smile, and echoed her thoughts. ‘And then there are the dogs, of course. Mastiffs have strength and courage, no danger to the mistress or her
property while they’re around. They’re the most powerful fighting dogs in the world; the Romans used to use them to fight wild animals in the arena. My father told me that an English
mastiff once killed a tiger in India in single combat, and Scutum’s the best of the breed.’ She paused, the light of battle in her eyes. ‘That bulldog’s pure bred, as
well,’ she said. ‘He’ll go straight for a man’s head, rip his face off without a sound, and he’ll hang on till he’s killed.’

She looked as if she relished the thought. Quite appalled by this bloodthirsty exhibition, Sally lifted her cup to her lips to hide her horrified face.

Miss Brewster grimaced, and gave an expressive shrug. ‘A timid old Christian lady living on her own, you know – nobody could blame her for trying to protect herself, could they? No,
my dear, don’t worry your head about policemen and customs officers catching me. I’ve run my little enterprise for many a long year. It’s served me well, and I’ve never come
a cropper yet. I’m as safe as the Bank of England.’

Timid old lady were hardly the words Sally would have chosen to describe the middle-aged battleaxe facing her, but Miss Brewster wasn’t as safe as she imagined, and neither was Ginny, who,
Sally had been shattered to learn, was complicit in the illicit ‘little enterprise’.

‘But you’re not safe,’ she said. ‘There’s always people with loose tongues, and somebody’s sure to give you away, sooner or later.’

‘Pouf!’ Miss Brewster gave a little exclamation of contempt. ‘Impossible. I only deal with people I’d trust with my life.’

‘Hm, that’s what our Ginny says,’ said Sally, far from convinced but deterred from further argument. Despite her posturings of religion and genteel timidity, regardless of her
age, Sally suspected that the law would have little mercy on Miss Brewster, if it ever got wind of her.

But there was a more immediate problem, one she must tackle as soon as it began to get dark. ‘I’m going into Newcastle after tea, Miss Brewster,’ she said. ‘There’s
something I’ve got to do.’

‘What? You’ll do no such thing; you look half dead. I should never have let you persuade me to let you out this afternoon. Ginny’ll have my liver if anything happens to
you.’

Sally swallowed a mouthful of coffee and smiled. She saw no point in arguing; she would be going, regardless. Good heavens, Miss Brewster’s beverages certainly warmed you up as they went
down, she thought. Heat scorched her throat and began to seep though her whole body.

She made her way to the place she’d seen him with his mother, and there he was, waiting. Fearing any watchful eyes she suppressed the impulse to run to him and strolled
in his direction.

‘Lieutenant Maxfield!’

‘Why I wasn’t expecting to see you, Nurse Wilde! But it’s a nice surprise. I thought my mother would have been here by now. I don’t know where she’s got to . .
.’

With only one thought on her mind, Sally cut in, keeping her voice very low. ‘You’ve got to get away, Will. Now. Leave the hospital now. I got the shock of my life. That woman I
worked for, that b . . . Mrs Lowery, she told me she’d seen you here, on the Leazes. If she hasn’t told Dr Campbell already she soon will, and he’ll start asking
questions.’

‘Leave the hospital? What, before I get this arm healed?’ he gave a muffled snort. ‘Huh! I’d rather take my chance at a court martial than risk that. Have you seen the
way Raynor struggles?’

‘He manages.’

‘He doesn’t. He has a job with everything; washing, dressing, eating, the lot. We’ve had a couple of new patients since you went off, and one of them’s an officer from
Gosforth . . .’

‘Oh, Will, they’re all local lads now. Somebody’s bound to recognize you before long!’

‘Gosforth’s never been local to me, and never likely to be, nor anywhere like it. Anyway, listen to what I’m telling you about Raynor. Him and this new officer are in the same
fix, and I heard him asking Raynor if he ever thought about doing away with himself. And do you know what Raynor said? “Only when I want to cheer myself up!” When the doctors and nurses
come round, though, he’s always “all right”, like we all are, but he’ll never be all right again. What he “manages” is to put a brave face on it most of the
time, and it’s a good job for him he’s from a class of people who don’t have to earn their living by the labour of their hands. Raynor’s educated. He comes from the sort of
family who can help him get into the law, or shipping, or accountancy, any one of a hundred jobs a man can do sitting at a desk – or into some job giving the orders, telling other people what
to do. Well, I’m glad for him, because he’ll probably be right enough in the end, but I’m in a different class altogether.’

‘But you can learn photography.’

‘Even for photography, you need two hands, Sally man. And a working man without the use of his hands is buggered. He’s useless. So when you say my life’s at stake, you’re
right. My life depends on my two hands.’

She couldn’t dispute it. Although the loss of a leg was a bigger shock to a man at the time than the loss of an arm, it was far less of a disability when it came to earning a living. The
surgeons would amputate a leg if the case seemed hopeless and the pressure of work was heavy, but they’d move heaven and earth to save a man’s arm, even if it meant keeping him in
hospital for the best part of a year.

‘There’s a world of difference between me and Raynor,’ Will continued. ‘He’ll get a decent pension for his disability, but not me. I’ll get nothing, remember.
I’ve disqualified myself from getting any help from my country.’

There was no denying it. If he couldn’t earn, it would be a straight choice between starvation and charity, and she couldn’t see Will wanting charity. Her face fell.

‘So what am I going to do?’ He looked at her, clear-eyed, frank, quizzical. ‘Sit in a back room in Staffordshire, living off my mother and her dad?’ He shook his head.
‘No. If I’ve no hope of a decent life, I’d sooner finish it altogether.’

She placed a forefinger on his lips and pressed hard. ‘Shush. You won’t! You can’t say things like that, Will. There’s always hope; and these days women can work,
an’ all.’

He stretched out his right arm and pulled her into him, to kiss her forehead. ‘What is a man, Sally, when you come to think? What makes a man a man? I used to think it was being part of a
family, brothers, friends, village – knowing where you belonged, but that’s all gone, all but my mother. Why, having a face fit to show the world, then, to wink at the lasses, and know
they’re thinking, why, he looks all right! I wouldn’t mind an hour or two on the back row at the pictures with him! Well, that’s gone an’ all. All right, then, I’ll
settle for a good wife and a pair of strong arms to earn a living for her, and respect from the men I end up working with. If I can get that, I can still think myself a man.’

‘You’re still you, whether you lose your arm or not,’ she snuffled, laying her head on his shoulder. ‘What difference can it make to that? You’re still a
man!’

‘I’m not! It changes you, Sally, you’re not the man you were before, and if I lost my arm I wouldn’t be the man I want to be. What use is a man who can’t earn a
living? He’s no good to man nor beast. I’d be a sight better out of the world than in it if that happened, for everybody’s sake.’

She stood back and grasped him savagely by the shoulders, scowling like a demon. ‘Why what about your mother, then, you selfish . . .? You were going to make sure she gets her pension, but
if anything happens to you, she won’t need a one. It’ll be the last straw; it’ll finish her off altogether, so stop – talking – like – that.’ She
accompanied her words with violent shakes, and all the ferocity she could muster.

‘All right, hinny! Steady on,’ he laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. There was something in his voice she’d have been hard put to define, but it opened a void in her
and made her sick with fear. He was near the limit of endurance and another blow, a blow like an amputation would tip him over the edge. She felt ill, and powerless, angry with him for his
defeatism, and near to tears.

She put both arms around him and squeezed him fiercely to her, listening to the beat of his heart, then releasing her hold a little, she said, ‘Don’t talk like that Will. Don’t
even think like it.’

You’re still you, she’d said, and she’d meant it – but it was a lie. He was no longer the laughing optimist she’d known at school, nor even the cheerful, dauntless
young man who’d kissed her dreams and hopes to life. He was deeply, fundamentally changed. War had destroyed his family and shattered his illusions; desertion and mutilation had darkened his
life and his future. Nothing would ever, could ever, be the same, not for them, nor for anyone else washed in the Great European Bloodbath.

On Saturday night she was taking the report from Sister Davies when her heart leapt into her mouth at the sight of Mrs Lowery at the office door, accompanied by another
woman.

‘Goodness, Sally! Back at work so soon! But you’re very pale, my dear.’

Was that mock or real concern? ‘I’m all right, thank you, Mrs Lowery,’ said Sally, paler still at the sight of the doctor’s wife.

‘Show the ladies to the new patient, Nurse,’ Sister said. ‘Top bed on the right-hand side.’

Sally obeyed. Will was lying quietly on the farthest bed on the same side, looking at his paper, oblivious of the danger. She hoped to heaven he stayed there, because she daren’t draw
attention to them both by going the full length of the ward to warn him, so she returned to the office.

Closing the door behind her, she took the seat by Sister Davies’ desk.

‘What are they doing here, at this time of night?’

‘Got permission to visit a new patient, a cousin or nephew of theirs, I think. Shrapnel wound in his thigh.’

‘But it’s not visiting hours.’

Sister Davies’ expression was sardonic. ‘Ah, but they’re doctors’ wives Nurse Wilde, and doctors and their wives are a law unto themselves. I thought you’d have
realized that by now. Exceptions can always be made for them. They’re sisters. The eldest’s Dr Campbell’s mother. You seem to know the other one.’

‘She’s his aunt, the woman I used to work for before I started nursing.’

‘I see. Not a happy time, judging by the look on your face.’

‘Not really,’ said Sally, in agony to get the report over with and get out onto the ward.

Mrs Lowery and her sister were sitting quietly by their relative when Sally and Sister Davies entered the ward. Will was still lying on his bed at the bottom with his left arm
encased in plaster of Paris, still looking at his paper with his blind side facing them. Sister started with the patient in the first bed on the other side, proceeding in the usual clockwise
direction. With any luck, Will would stay in his bed and Mrs Lowery and her sister would be gone by the time they’d finished. Sally smiled, and listened, and did her best to absorb the
details of every patient’s progress, with scant success. At last they got to Will. His face expressionless, he nodded or shook his head in answer to their questions, betraying nothing.

‘He got his wound debrided and redressed a couple of days ago. It’s looking much better, so they’ve put a pot on it this time,’ Sister said. ‘He’s making good
progress.’

‘Don’t you think he looks a bit feverish, Sister?’ Sally asked, flashing a warning at Will as she reached for the thermometer. ‘Maybe I ought to take his
temperature.’

‘No need to make work,’ Sister Davies protested. ‘It was all right a couple of hours ago. We’ll finish the round.’

Sally returned the thermometer to its holder, and went on with the round to the last patient. The gentle chinking of cups and glasses announced the arrival of the orderly with the trolley of
bedtime drinks, but neither Mrs Lowery nor her sister showed any sign of leaving. She gave Will a last glance before returning to the office with Sister Davies. Suddenly she saw him fling on his
dressing gown and cross the ward to show Raynor something in the paper. And with growing alarm, Sally noticed that Mrs Lowery had seen him too.

Sally began the medicines as soon as Sister left the ward, dispensing them as calmly as she could, her flesh creeping at the sensation of Mrs Lowery’s eyes on her, and then on Will, and
then again on her. She passed Will and Raynor, thankful when they barely acknowledged her, but was shaken a minute later when she saw Raynor pick up his glass of port and Will his beaker to stroll
together up the ward. Mrs Lowery was watching Will like an eagle. They were just halfway when she jumped up from her seat and crossed to the window on the opposite side of the ward, purporting to
look out of it, but turning to scrutinize the unblemished side of Will’s face as he passed. With his attention wholly on something Raynor was saying, Will accompanied him out of the ward and
along to the day room, oblivious of Mrs Lowery’s scrutiny. She returned to her chair, murmuring to her sister and casting occasional glances at Sally.

Outwardly composed, Sally continued with her task and when she reached the new patient, very civilly asked the ladies if they’d like the orderly to bring them a drink from the trolley.

‘No, thank you,’ Mrs Lowery replied. ‘It’s time we were going. Nurse Wilde, that man who’s just left the ward – he’s the same person who came to see you
that day.’

‘Which man, Mrs Lowery? There were two of them.’

Mrs Lowery looked at her intently. ‘The man with the scarred face, of course.’

Sally shook her head. ‘You must mean Lieutenant Maxfield. But he’s an Australian, Mrs Lowery, with an Australian wife who writes letters to him from Australia. How could he be the
same man? The man who came to see me was the last of four brothers. The others were all killed in France, and straight after he’d been to see me, Will joined up an’ all. His poor mother
got the buff envelope when the August Offensive started. They sent his identity discs and all his bits of things back not long after. No, Mrs Lowery, it’s not the same man you saw in
Darlington. Not the same man at all.’