Gallipoli Street (26 page)

This same character had driven Joelene across the ocean when she was young: she'd somehow managed to talk her parents into allowing her a European artistic expedition. In truth, she was really just trying to find a way to escape a monotonous world where the men all studied medicine and the women all ‘married well'. She knew she would never go back home. Arriving in France from Australia in 1884, Dr John Dwyer's eldest sister had immediately fallen in love with the windswept northern coast, not to mention a certain French baker called Henri. Although widowed not long after losing her daughter, Joelene had stayed, her son Louis with her. Louis was now serving on the front, marching off within half an hour of the recruitment officers arriving, along with most of the other men in the area, and Joelene missed him terribly. Rose's unannounced arrival had turned Joelene's life around and Rose knew she had made the right choice in running to this aunt, who was really a stranger. Being somewhat of the family ‘black sheep' Joelene had never been mentioned very much, and most fortunately Gregory didn't know of her existence.

Somehow, even on the other side of the world, Rose's family had managed to save her.

The other rescue came in the form of her work: she had found her niche in tending to the wounded. Working in the Yeomanry suited her almost as much as France did, with her practicality and determination rising to the fore. Here, her naturally bossy nature was a vital skill, her daring an asset and her stubbornness invaluable to saving lives. She sped along the rutted roads with a clear focus, alert to every ditch, and the amount of wounded she was able to convoy out was astonishing to the volunteers. In fact, it had already earned her the nickname ‘Redsped' at the hospital.

She found herself not only enjoying her role as an ambulance driver and medical assistant, but also being involved as an instigator. One of the main problems that had repeatedly frustrated her was that so many of the men came out of the trenches covered in lice and rat bites, like wild animals. How were they supposed to win the war when they kept damaging their own men through neglect? It had motivated her and some of the other girls to bring mobile baths out with them, giving the men the great luxury of cleanliness at the rate of forty at a time. It was a small impact on a massive problem, but it gave Rose some satisfaction all the same.

‘There's tens of thousands more like me, ma'am. Why bother?' had asked one curious man in the bath.

‘They're nothing like you. You're clean,' she'd responded.

‘Not for long. Little blighters will feed on me again within the week.'

‘Yes well, let's try making you a little less delicious, eh?'

Beatrice and Emma were a surprise to her, taking her bruised and battered self under their wing and protecting her secret, which they'd accidentally discovered when they ran into her at the markets in Calais one Sunday. It was hard to explain the miniature version of herself in her arms as anyone other than her own child. Now she was glad they knew. It had been the beginning of yet another unexpected blessing: friendship. She'd never had any time for women before, truly believing as she'd once said that ‘men ruled the world' and ‘women were mere competitors for the associated power', but that seemed a lifetime ago. Watching what men could do, the damage they could wield with that power, and feeling the brunt of it first hand, had altered her irrevocably. Besides, without Mary, her maid back in London, she would probably be dead by now. She prayed she was safe living anonymously in Ireland.

Ironically, through experiencing the worst of humanity for the first time, she had learnt to appreciate the best of it. Whereas once she would have been too self-absorbed to notice the need for compassion, now, after experiencing its benevolence, she had turned her strength to its cause.

Now she was a part of the medical army, striving to reduce the crushing impact of violence, the weight of which Rose knew only too well. It was her determined nature that had saved her in the end, and she had found something stoked and fired inside as the burning desire to save others consumed her. Once spoilt and selfish, she was now a woman bent on a singular goal for herself and others: survival.

Rose thought of the maimed men she ferried to the trains and tended at the hospital, young men, often no more than boys, left without legs or arms, faces blown apart. Perfect forms in grotesque redesign. She often shook her head in disgust at the stupidity of trench warfare, wondering what her father would say if he were here.

Her mind drifted to home, her mother's letter echoing through her mind as she drove along.

Rose played with the medal on the chain around her neck, then clenched the wheel tight, determining yet again that anonymity in France was the only choice she had. Rose knew Gregory wouldn't give up until he found her, in all likelihood murdered her, and took Elizabeth to London to be raised by nannies and institutions (or, worse, his mother).

Ultimately she was well hidden here, constantly surrounded by the girls and hordes of medical staff and soldiers.

France had swallowed them up into its gaping wound and Rose felt surprisingly at home.

He stood casually watching her as she unloaded the wounded, handsome as a film star in his Royal Flying Corps uniform, causing the girls to raise their eyebrows and nudge each other, and smile knowingly at Rose. He may have appeared nonchalant but secretly he was stunned at her transformation. He'd expected to find her in a café dressed in the latest Parisian fashion, flirting with some poor mug and confirming his suspicion that her desire to join the Yeomanry was merely an excuse to get out of London and find a lover to sap off. Instead here she was, holding a young man's bandaged arm carefully, mud splattered across her apron, sweat about her cap as she helped stretcher him onto the carriage.

‘Hello, Rose.' He grinned at her, feeling rather pleased for some reason, as if he'd caught the rat with the cheese.

‘Agnes,' she hissed at him, looking about to see if anyone else had heard. ‘Agnes Pascal. What the bloody hell are you doing here?' She slammed the ambulance doors, taking off her gloves.

‘My apologies. I was looking for another lady altogether, well dressed, a bit of a snooty pain in the neck. I have some mail for her.' He was still grinning, taking in her caked boots and stockings.

‘I'll pass it on.' She grabbed the mail. ‘Why didn't you just forward them like the others?'

He shrugged, leaning against the doors. ‘S'pose I was curious.'

‘It hardly seems necessary to cross the Channel.'

‘Well there's a fine thank-you. And here I was thinking I must be the only person in London you can trust.'

Rose looked uncomfortable, confirming his suspicion that the latter was true.

‘You didn't look the best last time I saw you.' Clarkson paused, lighting a cigarette. It was an understatement to say the least. When he had last seen her she'd been standing outside a waiting room at the docks, looking very thin and very frightened. He'd almost stopped himself from handing the referral papers over, thinking perhaps he should take her somewhere safe instead, but her eyes had held a wild desperation and he'd known she was set on doing things her way. He was involved enough, he'd decided, placing them in her hands, but not before noticing the purple bruises on her skinny wrists and the marks on her face that powder had failed to conceal.

‘I take it Gregory didn't share your enthusiasm for adventure in France.'

She looked around to see who had heard then back at him warily.

‘No one knows where you are, Rose.'

‘Agnes,' she corrected again.

‘Agnes,' he conceded. Clarkson noted her face had regained its beautiful shape. ‘You're looking…very well now.'

Rose seemed to want to ignore that and started to flip through the mail, scanning the handwriting. She looked disappointed. ‘Have you heard anything about the boys…about Iggy?'

‘Yes: I'll be heading down their way soon actually. I've been re-stationed to St Omer for now though, so I'm nearby for a while. Just waiting for a few things to finish off here then I'll be gone.' She flicked her eyes and he noticed her take in his new captain's uniform.

‘I heard Iggy was in the Middle East but he hasn't replied to my letters,' she admitted.

‘That would be because he's been transferred to the 12th. Promoted, actually, along with Jack. There must be a shortage of officers down there too.' He tapped his stripes and shrugged. Rose considered that for a moment then began to pack up the rest of the supplies.

‘Need any help?'

She shook her head as she walked over to a storage building and placed a crate inside the doorway, locking the door behind it.

‘That's it.'

They stood awkwardly and Clarkson figured he'd better finish things off and leave, surprising himself when very different words left his mouth. ‘I don't know about you but I think it's time to wet the whistle. Care to join me?'

Later, as they sat under the canopy of a quiet café, he questioned what had made him ask her. It wasn't as if they were old friends with stories to reminisce upon, or family members with news to share. In fact he should have shunned her, considering she'd dumped his brother-in-law in such a publicly humiliating fashion. At best they were acquaintances who'd happened to share a few days in common before the war and had mutual people in their lives. He supposed he was just homesick and, although he was unwilling to frequent the brothels like his single mates, he missed the company of women just the same.

And Rose was all woman, he had to admit. Even in her drab uniform she was a knockout and when she shook her newly cropped hair after removing her cap he found it hard to focus on what she was saying. The curls swam about her face but she tucked one side behind her ear, a habit he noticed she frequently employed as she began to relax with the wine, trusting him a little more. She was playing it safe, making idle chitchat, and he was letting her go on, waiting. Finally coming to a pause, she let out a deep sigh as he watched her closely.

‘It's not what you think.'

‘What do I think?' he returned, lighting a cigar, the orange glow flashing in the dusk as the streetlights flickered in their glass and metal lamps against the stone.

‘I didn't come here looking for a new man.'

‘I don't think that.'

She frowned at her glass, sipping thoughtfully. ‘What
do
you think?'

‘I think you came here to escape your marriage,' he said casually, ‘but you got more than you bargained for. You found you actually want to work.'

‘And that amuses you?'

‘Yes, it does rather. Don't think I've ever seen you with a hair out of place let alone splattered in blood and guts.'

To his surprise she burst out laughing and he found himself delighting in the sound.

‘C'est la guerre,' she said when the laughter had subsided, shrugging in the French way. ‘It's the war.'

‘And are you still at war, Rose?' he asked, serious now.

‘Rose no longer exists,' she reminded him. He saluted her, ordering more wine and some maroilles cheese as the café began to fill, the murmurs of conversation surrounding them. The waiter brought out both, along with some crusty bread still warm from the oven.

‘I'm fighting two wars. One we're sharing right now,' she gestured at their uniforms, ‘and one I'm afraid I chose. Rather stupidly, but there you are.'