Gallipoli Street (28 page)

‘I just wish I could snap my fingers and have him suddenly here, just for an hour or so.'

Pattie sat up and crossed her legs, holding the letter in both hands. ‘Sometimes I sleep with all of Clarkson's letters under my pillow, hoping I will dream of him and spend some time with him that way. Silly, I know.' She shrugged.

‘Does it help? Do you dream about him?'

‘That's the silliest part. I can never remember my dreams.'

Veronica rubbed her stomach absently. ‘I remember mine clear as daylight,' she admitted.

‘I wish I could,' Pattie said turning to look at her. ‘Any dreams about Clarkson? Is he going to turn up in our garden at the end of his tunnel any time soon?'

Veronica laughed. ‘Well if he does I'll be waddling back down it to go and fetch Jack, fat stomach and all – and just you try to stop me.'

Pattie jumped off the bed and saluted her. ‘Yes, ma'am! I'd best be off. May will be waking up and hungry for her goo.'

‘What's goo?' Veronica laughed.

‘All things food. I'm sure she means “good”: at least I hope that's what she means. I'm not the world's best cook, after all.' She shook her head. ‘I'm sure that child is already teasing me. I don't know where she gets it from!' Pattie left with a wink and Veronica lay back, leaning over on an impulse to her nightstand to pick up the pile of Jack's letters and stuff them under her pillow. She rested her head and almost instantly fell asleep.

But she didn't dream of Jack. There were giant mosquitoes again, only this time it was Clarkson who was in trouble as he rode on top of one, trying to hold it with reins as crazed chickens flew alongside. The mosquito pointed its long nose towards the earth and they hurtled down. A large bed of red flowers loomed and she knew he thought they would save his fall as he jumped off, not seeing the thorns beneath them.

Veronica called out but once again she was in her cage.

Boulogne

‘Redsped, ya breakin' me heart.' Private Hill held his hand over his chest, imploring her with the other. ‘Sit a spell, go on. I'm as bored as blazes and yer a sight for a sore eye. Truly,' he said, pointing dramatically at his bandaged eye.

‘Behave, Ben,' she warned him, rushing past to pick up the supplies she was taking out to the front. Mostly champagne, strangely enough.

‘Did I tell ya? Bruce and me are gunna be stretcher-bearers. See? Can't get rid of us!'

‘In that case, enjoy the boredom while you can!'

‘Come back! Yer a cruel woman!' he called after her, dissolving into coughs. She listened to the latter more than his words and prayed he wasn't going to relapse and succumb to pneumonia on top of everything else. The loss of one eye had been enough of a blow to an eighteen-year-old, especially someone like Ben. He was the lively, enthusiastic type and hated hospital almost as much as the trenches, constantly telling her he didn't want to be ‘no dugout', a person who hides from the action.

He was one of many she had come to feel were her boys, almost like one large person with thousands of names, a brave giant whose multiple faces were all secretly afraid.

Masked in joviality, they were all united in one cause: each other.

Ben had already been sent home once with dysentery, or ‘Gallipoli gallop'. He had been medically discharged and (she would have thought) let off the hook, but now here he was, re-enlisted, maimed and putting his hand up again. When she'd asked why he'd come back he'd simply said: ‘Can't just leave me mates to face it.'

It was the only thing that kept them all going, this bond forged at the gate of death: a promise to stand alongside each other no matter what. Gradually, steadily, in the face of their humour and general selflessness, she was finding herself less and less consumed by her own fear and worry and increasingly protective of this giant that was the Australian soldier. The ‘diggers', as they had begun calling themselves, after so much trench warfare. As they fought their enemy, she fought her own, pushing every day to halt the cold hand of death that clutched at the giant's clothes, ripping pieces of him away and leaving holes behind that could never be filled. She visited those holes in her sleep and saw them by day, the white crosses starkly fresh, spreading across French soil as the blood of Australia's sons wept into foreign earth.

Her job was mainly to ferry wounded from Australian lines but she saw many other boys too. French, English, Welsh, Irish, Scottish, Canadian, New Zealanders and even Germans writhed in agony in the back of her ambulance. She wondered when it would all end. Sometimes her dream of living a peaceful life hidden away in France with Joelene and Elizabeth seemed like a hopeless fantasy.

And then there was Clarkson.

His visits had become a regular event over the past weeks and, despite her best efforts, she found him drifting into her thoughts with increasing regularity. When he materialised in person her heart rate leapt and her stomach seemed to fall against her spine. Beatrice and Emma said they found it vastly amusing to watch the composed, in-charge Redsped gain five extra fingers and lose most of her concentration whenever a certain dashing airman appeared grinning nearby. Clarkson passed the time waiting for her to finish by visiting with the injured men, playing cards with Private Hill, his mate Bruce and the others, or helping Rose unload the stretchers and equipment. Usually they strolled along between the old stone walls towards the cafés after she was done, which was often quite late, enjoying the extended summer twilight as the waves curled against the sand. They dined on seafood and shared bottles of wine, enjoying the delicious local cheeses and pastries.

Last Sunday she'd even allowed him to come with her to visit Joelene and Elizabeth in Calais. It was strangely moving watching him with Elizabeth, his large form dwarfing her tiny one. She had taken to him immediately, chatting away in her mix of English, French and baby, putting her chubby little hand in his palm and asking for ‘choclat'. Joelene and Rose had laughed as she'd led him about the place, introducing him to her dolls, the furniture, even the stove which she'd informed him was ‘no, no, hot', pulling him away and shaking her soft white curls. Clarkson had been meekly obliging the entire time, completely entranced by this little fairy of a child, perhaps feeling closer to his own daughter for being in her presence.

They'd walked along the port, buying vegetables and freshly caught fish at the markets as ‘Eliza' ran about, charming everyone they met in her little blue dress and white petticoats. Of course she had got wet, splashing about in the water, scolding the waves and crying ‘Ne fais pas ça!' before running back into her mother's arms.

Her little legs had grown tired in the heavy wet skirt so she'd ridden on Clarkson's shoulders the whole way home, much to her delight. Rose had watched her daughter's smiling face as she'd waved from her human tower, and had felt the happiness creep into her own heart before reality pushed against it. She wished there was no war, no Gregory, no Pattie and no May. Just this world, this child and this man. She knew it was wrong to want someone else's husband, reminding herself how hard it had been to step aside and let Veronica have Jack in the end, but this was different. She hadn't loved Jack.

She'd stopped still, staring at his back as he held her daughter's shoes in one hand, her little foot in the other, and felt the truth move through her, like a wind blowing her open. When he'd turned back to smile at her, his kind brown eyes questioning, it had exploded as fact. She had thought she was done with foolish choices in her life but apparently not. It was hardly the best move to fall in love with an old enemy's husband while hiding from one's own in war-ravaged France.

Packing the ambulance, Rose saw Beatrice and Emma approach, each checking through supplies in canvas bags.

‘Got your hairbrush in there, Em?' Beatrice enquired. Emma pulled one out, making Rose laugh in surprise.

‘A girl has to look her best at all times.' Emma waggled it at her. ‘You never know when the right gentleman might present himself.'

‘It's for the wounded.' Beatrice jumped into the ambulance. ‘She's got it in her head that they'll enjoy a good brush. Personally I think she's confusing them with dogs.'

‘Bound to get a few tails wagging, I'm sure,' said Rose.

‘As long as it isn't tongues!' Beatrice laughed.

Emma giggled, stuffing the brush back in. ‘Where to, Redsped?'

‘Clearing station. Did you see the champagne?' Rose pointed to the crates near the storage shed.

‘Maybe they just want to calm a few nerves out there,' Beatrice suggested.

‘Maybe they are worried about running out of morphine,' Rose countered and the three women exchanged glances.

They drove out the gates and Rose soaked in the brief respite of countryside. Hay bales lay in rolls like thick ribbons and behind them the green hills spoke of life and abundance. Incongruous with their destination.

‘You were home late,' Beatrice observed as they bounced along.

‘Was I?' Rose looked straight ahead, ignoring her teasing tone.

‘I'd be home late too if I had a date with Captain Charming,' Emma said, leaning forward to join in. ‘Come on, Rose, spill the beans. Have you kissed him yet?'

‘No,' said Rose firmly.

‘Liar,' Beatrice countered.

‘Isn't the hay pretty? Reminds me of home a bit,' Rose said.

Beatrice sighed, giving up. ‘Where are you from, anyway?'

‘Originally Melbourne then we moved to Sydney. Beecroft actually. It's a rural area just outside the city.'

‘Never been to Australia. Actually never been outside England until now,' Emma admitted.

‘Me either,' said Beatrice. ‘You're a long way from home, though. Do you miss it much?'

Rose thought about the letter she'd been trying to write to Mildred these past few weeks. ‘I miss my mother,' she said, surprised at how strongly she felt it. ‘She's never even seen Elizabeth.'

Beatrice looked at the photo Rose had pinned on the dashboard of the little chocolate-smeared face.

‘What don't you take her home after the war? Seems a shame for her not to know her grandparents.'

Rose shook her head. ‘I don't think I can ever go home.'

‘Surely your husband wouldn't try to hurt you in front of your family,' Emma said.

‘You don't know my husband.'

Emma considered that. ‘Well, maybe Clarkson would protect you. I can't imagine anyone messing with him.'

‘I don't know about that but I do know his wife would kill me anyway, so not such a great idea.'

‘Thought you said nothing has happened between you two?'

‘It hasn't…but I jilted her brother.'

Beatrice looked over at Rose and sighed. ‘Oh what a tangled web, Redsped.'

Soon enough they arrived at the clearing station, where the sound of bombing was constant, far more so than previous weeks. There was a steady stream of trucks, cars, men and a cumbersome beast that seemed to be driving itself.

‘What on earth is that?' Emma shouted above the noise.

‘I believe they're called tanks,' Beatrice called back.

‘Terrifying.' Rose watched them in horror, imagining the wounds one would see from such machines.

They alighted from the ambulance, walking over to check what wounded needed ferrying out of the mayhem.

‘Anyone would think there was a war on,' Beatrice said.

‘Or a battle about to be,' Rose agreed. Everyone in town had been talking about it and the bombardment and massing of armies only confirmed it. The time had come for the big push and Rose knew her days of dining after work and having Sundays off would soon be over as she gazed at the thousands of troops heading down the road. If the rumours were true the men would go over the top in a few short days.

As they drove back with some of the injured Rose felt a deep sense of foreboding, envisaging the rows and rows of soldiers they passed being mowed down, falling in bloodied massacre. After all, if she could see the attack coming surely the Germans could.

That night, when she was packing up, a hand steadied her balance as she lifted a stretcher into the truck. She felt her face flush as she met Clarkson's smile.

‘Hungry?'

She nodded and they set off together, the evening breeze welcome after the heat of the day.

He turned from their usual path towards the town and she stopped.

‘Where are you going?'

‘You know, funny things happen to you when you go to war,' he said, grabbing her hand and leading her down a side street. ‘You end up in strange places, see terrible things…and you forget…' he panted as they climbed some stairs ‘…one of the most important things in life.' He stopped at a bright new Model T Ford, opening the door with a flourish and grinning. ‘To have fun.'