Gifts of War (11 page)

I stepped back. Her lips closed, her tongue just showing between them. Had she felt the same rush of fire along her skin as I had felt? She had not cut the kiss short.

I turned without speaking. I went out onto the towpath. Lights were coming on in the distance. As I climbed the brick steps to the bridge over the canal and the railway my mind was in a whirl. What had that last gesture meant? Sam had told me she was still in love with Wilhelm.

The next night, Tuesday, I stayed in Stratford. Part of me would have preferred to be in Middle Hill but I had a visit from Isobel and the rest of me was anxious to catch up with her news. She was just about to leave for the Front.

I can’t say I paid much attention in class that day. At any rate, I have no recollection of what we covered, what the weather was like, or what form of brown food was served in the canteen for lunch. I spent the day revisiting that kiss of the night before, turning over in my brain what it meant, whether it meant anything, whether Sam was having the same thoughts, thinking of me as much as I was thinking of her. And of course I was silently thanking Will for his brilliantly timed interruption, just as the conversation was getting sticky.

Izzy and I met in the bar of the Crown, where we had both reserved rooms. By the time we’d finished dinner, the last—the only— evening train to Middle Hill would have been long gone, and the petrol rationing meant that my motorbike was “dry” that week.

She looked splendid in her pale blue uniform and gray cape. My sister was by now a formidable person. Even as her brother, I could see that she was immensely attractive to men: long brown hair, deep brown sleepy eyes, a creamy skin. And she was already, at the age of twenty-two, a nurse, and a fairly senior one at that, thanks to the exigencies of war. The ambition to become a nurse had apparently overcome her when she was very young—while I was away at school—and she had started early. My being sent to the Front, and then being wounded, had only made her more determined. I had no doubt that she would do well. Izzy was a ferocious organizer and, in wartime, there was an obvious demand for nurses.

We had a sherry at the bar before eating. I noticed one or two envious glances being thrown in my direction by other men, who couldn’t be expected to know that I was Izzy’s brother, and off-limits. I was surprised to see her knock back her sherry in no time. Then she
said, “I’ll have a G and T now, if you don’t mind. Sherry glues up my liver.”

I did as she asked, adding in a whisky for myself. (There was more alcohol in those early days of the war than there was food.) When the drinks arrived, Izzy brought me up to speed about our mother and father. Mum was not so good, apparently. She was a heavy smoker and had a bad cough; Dad was worried for her. I promised to get home more often.

We picked up the menu cards and I was just opening mine when Izzy asked, “How’s the war wound? Not the limp—I can see that’s improving. I mean the other thing.” Sisters can be direct with their brothers.

“That’s not improving. Nor will it.”

“Do you … can you … I mean, do you go out with girls, Hal? Do you
still feel…
you know, do you get
… aroused?”

I have to confess, I blushed. “God protect us from sisters who are nurses,” I blustered. “Yes, Izzy, I get aroused.”

“Good,” she said with a bland smile. She ran her finger down the menu. “I’ll have the plaice.” She groaned. “Everything else is fattening.”

I signaled to a waitress, who took our order, and then Izzy waded in again.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I might have.”

“Well, I mean, you’re not bad-looking, in a craggy, dark-haired sort of way, all cheekbones and cleft chin, a war hero, a limp—very
simpatico
, as they say in Italy. A lot of girls I know would come over all woozy with someone like you.”

“Someone like me? I’m a type, am I? Thanks.”

“Don’t be so grouchy. I’m your sister—it’s my duty to keep you in your place. Can I have another gin?”

“Do you think you should?”

“I’m twenty-two, you brute. Tomorrow I leave for London, then in a few days for France. Who knows what will happen there? Yes, I should have another gin. I plan to have several more before the evening is out.” She blew me a kiss.

I signaled the barman to bring another set of drinks. “But you’re not going anywhere dangerous in France, are you? The hospitals are well back from the front line.”

“Oh, I won’t be in a field hospital,” she replied airily. “I’m part of an experimental unit, developed at the Lister Clinic in London. There’s this new science—it’s called blood transfusion. It was developed by a Czech, in Prague. I take blood, from some civilian’s arm, say, I syringe it out into a bottle, mixed with some sodium citrate, to stop it clotting. We analyze it into four groups—O, A, B, and AB— and then we syringe it back into the veins of men at the Front who have been injured and lost a lot of blood. So long as they are the same blood group, you’d be amazed at the effect it has. This all happens before they are shipped back.”

“Izzy, that sounds dangerous.”

“Risky perhaps, but very useful— life-saving useful. Just because you’re a man doesn’t mean you get to be the only family hero. I’m going to be making a real contribution—and it’s all settled, so don’t try to stop me.”

I couldn’t think what to say. “Do Mum and Dad know?”

“Not yet, no.”

“I thought as—”

“And don’t you dare tell them! Promise?”

The waitress came to lead us to our table.

“Pro-mise!”
Izzy hissed.

“Yes, yes, all right. Just be careful.”

We went through into the dining room. Being as it was Tuesday, the place wasn’t very busy. The walls were covered in watercolors, scenes from Shakespeare’s plays. As we sat down, Izzy went on. “Don’t look so glum, Hal. I know what I’m doing. I agree it’s a bit more frightening than sneaking into a field with a bull in it and counting to four hundred and forty-four, but it’s what I want.”

“It’s just… I thought you’d be getting married about now, having babies.”

“Oh, babies can wait. As for sex, I’ve done that. I’m not a virgin, you know.”

I stared at her. Fortunately for me, the food arrived, and we busied ourselves with vegetables, sauces, pepper and salt.

“You’re looking glum again, Hal. Don’t be shocked because I’m not a virgin. None of my friends are virgins either.” She drank some water. “Am I being too frank? Nursing has that effect, I think. Can you stand the shock?”

“It’s true what they say about nurses then? You are all sex mad?” I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation with my sister.

“What kind of life do you live up here?” she asked, taking hold of her knife and fork. She looked at me earnestly, her brown eyes shining like dark honey. “There’s a war on, Hal, people can get sent to the Front and be killed at any moment. You should know, for pity’s sake—you’ve been there. So you’ve no choice but to
hurry
, experiment, try everything in case this is your last opportunity. I don’t only live with other nurses, you know. One of my flatmates works in the Ministry of War, another is in the theater. We’re all out every night— dancing, drinks, smoking, flirting.” She leaned forward, lowered her voice. “And yes,
doing it.”

She ate some fish and leaned forward again. “Does that shock you, appall you, that your little sister actually
likes
doing it?” She waved
her knife. “Who knows when it’s going to stop, Hal? The war, I mean. God knows, we may lose. How would Ma and Pa get by if we were overrun with Germans, if their house was commandeered?”

She sat back as our water glasses were refilled. “You’re living out here, with ducks and swans and cows, drinking
sherry
, of all things. You should get back to London. Yes, it’s dirty, noisy—more than ever with these automobile things and motorbuses clanking around everywhere. But that all adds to the pace, the pulse, the urgency, the very
beat
of what’s happening. Play while you can, play hard, try everything— even drugs if you want. Playing hard shows you are not defeated, not dead, not even down. It’s your
duty
to play, because tomorrow it might end.”

“You’re drunk.” I wished I hadn’t said that. I sounded like a prig.

“No, darling, I’m not drunk. Tipsy, maybe, but flying, mainly because I’m with my lovely brother, who looked after me all those years, and now I am shocking him rigid with my vulgar language and unfortunate behavior.” She leaned forward again and her voice changed, quickened. “I’m a nurse, Hal. I’ve seen lots of men naked. I’ve taken out their false teeth, put tubes down their throats to wash out their stomachs when they’ve tried suicide. I’ve smelled their awful smells and held their hands as they died, frightened. I’m more familiar with blood, urine, and excrement than I am with sherry, for pity’s sake. I treat people who haven’t washed for a month or haven’t changed their underwear since the damn war started.” She fingered her water glass. “We had a lovely childhood, Hal. The worst experience was hearing owls at night, when we slept in a tent on our lawn.”

She gulped her water.

“But I wouldn’t go back. Being an adult beats being a child any day. We had a young mother in the clinic the other day. She’d taken an overdose—and given the same drug to her young baby. We put tubes
down their throats and pumped out their stomachs. The baby survived but the mother died. Think of that. We saved a life but we created an orphan.”

Now she attacked what was left of her gin. “Don’t you think our childhood was too tidy, too safe? Don’t you think that Ma and Pa were too protective when we were very young? They wouldn’t let us mix with those gypsy children, they were very strict about climbing trees—remember the time they found out we had been scrumping and made us return the bloody apples, for Christ’s sake? That farmer had two
hundred
apple trees—more—and would never have missed what we took.” She grinned. “Remember how stolen apples always tasted better than ones you bought?”

I nodded and smiled. “It was embarrassing taking the apples back, I remember that.”

“I didn’t speak to Ma and Pa for a week.” Izzy chewed her food. “And they made
such
a fuss about keeping us away from that railway line. I mean, couldn’t they see that we would never have done anything really dangerous, like playing Chicken when there was a train coming. I feel… I feel… I know why they did it, of course I do. And I know they loved us. But… well, it was scary running away from that bull, yet at the same time I
loved
it. We should have had more times like that, more
danger.”

“You’re going off to the Front, Izzy, that’s dangerous. Don’t get addicted to danger. I’ve seen that.”

Her brown eyes shone again. “Don’t worry. Your sister’s not a fool. But I was never as bookish as you. I
like
how untidy life is, adult life. The surprises, the shocks, the confusion, the messes we get ourselves into. I like it because I know—understand—that chaos is the natural order, but that in being a nurse I can bring order—and calm— into at least one part of people’s lives. Teachers can do that, and
priests maybe. Even writers.” She sat back and smiled. “Am I being pompous?”

“No.” I grinned. “That’s my job.” I reached out and took her hand. “I’ve seen you covered in chicken pox, remember. All red and blotchy. And I still remember when you once wet yourself. I’ll never think of you as pompous.”

She moved her fingers and dug her nails into the skin at the back of my hand. “Brute!” she whispered again. But she was grinning too.

“What newspaper do you read, Hal?”

I frowned. “The
Morning Post—
why?”

“I was reading the
Times
in the train on the way here. With this paper tax and paper shortage it was very thin and ninety-nine percent was about the war. But on page five they have one or two paragraphs, usually without any headlines, that are designed to take your mind off the carnage.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, in today’s paper, for instance, there were just five lines about the guardians of the workhouse in somewhere called Milton-next-Sittingbourne, in Kent, who took a two-year-old—a two-year-old, mind—away from its mother, because it was swearing, using the most terrible curses, and because, when asked if it wanted any milk, asked instead for beer or whisky.”

“You’re making this up!”

“I swear I am not. Obviously, it’s not very funny if you are the mother or the workhouse guardians concerned, but for the rest of us, the other thousands of readers the
Times
has, it provides us with some relief from the war on all the other pages. I always look out for page five now. They quite often have a paragraph simply called ‘Longevity,’ in which they draw attention to the fact that, out of so many deaths reported in that day’s ‘Deaths’ column, alongside all the mere boys
killed in the war, that so-and-so lived to be ninety-five, someone else was eighty-nine, a third eighty-five, that the news isn’t all bad and lots of people are living out their normal life span. I like that. It’s propaganda, of course, in a way, but gentle and it shows the right spirit.”