Home for Christmas (42 page)

The position, the slight rise, the copse of trees; she’d worked out where it was and what she might see from such a vantage point.

Pretty Megan trundled on, her springs groaning in protest as her tyres kept rolling over the rough terrain. There was darkness all around except where the headlights picked out the shapes of sleeping men. Curled up like foetuses, the lower part of their faces protected from the frost by coat collars or mufflers wound around like bandages, tin hats pulled down over their eyes.

Few heard the rumbling of Megan’s engine and her creaking springs. Agnes reckoned that even if they did question an ambulance being so close to the line, they would put its closeness down to the unofficial Christmas truce; men had made up their own minds; miracles happened at Christmas.

The headlights bounced around in time with the bouncing springs of the vehicle. All was uninterrupted darkness until something moved, a figure leaping in front of the vehicle. Blinded by the lights, the figure, almost as black as the night itself shouted and fired a shot. Agnes heard it ping on to the cab roof.

Hauling the wheel left to avoid the man, the front wheel hit a rock. There was a loud crack as the worn spring broke.

Thinking she’d fired back at him, the sentry let off a second shot. This time it shattered the windscreen. Agnes felt something hit her head before everything went black.

‘’Ere. Give ’er a drop of this.’

Agnes tasted brandy on her tongue followed by a pleasant burning in her throat.

She coughed and spluttered a bit.

‘Steady on. Don’t drown the poor woman.’

‘Sorry, Sir.’

Agnes’s eyes flickered open. She found herself looking up at an officer to one side of her, a corporal on the other.

She whispered the prepared lie. ‘I think I lost my way.’

The officer smiled. He had a kind face and eyes that might have been bluish black – she couldn’t tell too well in the dark. The corporal had a sandy moustache. A third man, a private by the looks of him, was holding a stub of candle.

‘Where were you heading?’ asked the officer.

‘To the RFC field up here, somewhere along the front line. I was told to pick up a wounded observer.’

She could have said a pilot, but refrained from doing so. The Royal Flying Corps would find an aircraft to get a pilot to hospital rather than wait for an ambulance.

The officer shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you’re too late.’

Agnes’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Is something wrong?’

She couldn’t bear it if Robert had been injured. Please God, she prayed, don’t let it be so.

‘They pulled out weeks ago. Somebody in the High Command believes it’s the job of the infantry to win this war and that using flying machines is just a fleeting fancy.’ His face turned sombre. ‘The Germans don’t see things that way. Their flying machines are lethal. Still,’ he said with improvised brightness, ‘that’s of no interest to you. I’m getting my man to mend your ambulance. He’s pinched a spring from my staff car. We’ll get you back to base in no time.’

Agnes raised herself on to her elbow and began to protest. ‘Please. I don’t want to be any trouble to either you or your poor man.’

The thudding in her temple made her wince.

The officer smiled. ‘I think you need to get back. It’s just a graze, but it’ll hurt like hell in the morning – as though you’ve been drinking too much cheap wine. And don’t worry about Hopkins working on your ambulance all night. It was him taking the pot shots at you; seems only fair that he should be the one putting you to rights. Come on. Let’s get you on your feet.’

Agnes’s thoughts were in turmoil. For one terrible moment when he’d said she couldn’t go to the RFC, she’d thought it had been destroyed. She couldn’t bring herself to contemplate life without Robert. You’ve loved Robert since you were children together. Nothing is ever going to change, except … her feelings for Darius were growing.

The officer misunderstood the sigh of relief and the more relaxed expression that came to her face.

‘Ah! I can see the prospect of getting back to base has restored your spirits. Well, I can make things even better than that. I can loan you my driver; Hopkins again I’m afraid. You’ll be sick and tired of the man before very long. The blighter deserves to make full amends. I’ve half a mind to court-martial him …’

‘No! Please don’t do that.’

The ensuing grin on the flat round face told her that he hadn’t been serious.

‘Do not worry, my dear. I think he’s learned to be more cautious. Now listen. How about you dine with me tonight? Not much of a dinner, I’m afraid. My dear mama sent me some tinned steak and a Christmas cake. My man is cooking it up right this minute. It shouldn’t be too bad. Not, I should point out, because my man is a good cook, but purely by virtue of washing it all down with a bottle of whisky and a bottle of burgundy. What do you say?’

There seemed little choice. Although she was hardly dressed in a ladylike manner, he treated her courteously, cupping her elbow as he helped her down a stout wooden ladder and over duckboards to his cramped but cosy command centre.

‘I call it Buck House,’ he said to her. ‘Though the carpet’s a little threadbare and the chandelier battles bravely to lift the gloom.’ He pointed to the single light bulb as he said it, the grin on his face failing to lift the gloom from his eyes.

‘I call my ambulance Pretty Megan.’

He laughed. ‘Very droll. Well, it all helps keep spirits up, don’t you think?’

Agnes looked around the small square of space dug out from the very earth. Planks of wood held in place by pit props kept the earth at bay. Miners from South Wales and Durham had been responsible for building much of the network of trenches creeping across France and Flanders.

The single electric light bulb hung above a table on which were charts, a pair of field glasses, a set of dividers and a small brass compass. The only other pieces of furniture were an armchair, its horsehair innards touching the floor, and two dining chairs, most likely requisitioned from a house abandoned by its owners.

The officer introduced himself as Major John Saunders.

‘Agnes Stacey,’ she said.

‘And this is Cook,’ said the major as a red-cheeked man carrying a pot came in. ‘Cook by name, cook by nature. Isn’t that right, Cook?’

A man of about twenty with bushy brows and the nose of a boxer grinned at her. He was wearing what looked like a bed sheet tied around him to serve as an apron.

‘Indeed, Sir. Indeed. And right pleased I am to be of that calling.’

With a few vegetables added, the stewed steak turned out to be extremely satisfying, as did the Christmas cake.

Major John Saunders chatted amiably in a general manner, only lightly touching on war. Most of his conversation was about home, family and the wonderful time he’d had in the summer.

Agnes found that she was very hungry and hardly spoke at all at first. She also sensed that the major was desperate to talk to somebody other than his colleagues or subordinates, especially to a woman.

‘That was delicious,’ she said to him as he poured the wine. ‘It’s been a long time since I was invited to dinner and, as you can see, I’m hardly dressed for the occasion.’

He laughed at that.

‘At first I thought you were a man. It was the trousers. I’ve only ever seen female ambulance drivers wearing skirts.’

‘I prefer trousers,’ she said between mouthfuls of yet another slice of Christmas cake. ‘More practical.’

‘How do your superiors view that?’

‘I don’t care. I’m the best ambulance driver they’ve got.’

Major Saunders leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed firmly on the delightful creature seated across from him. ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he murmured, and then added, ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

‘Do you mind if I do?’

His eyebrows went skywards when Agnes took out a cheroot, though not in condemnation. He liked strong-minded women and this one, with her dark blonde hair and those enticing eyes, reminded him of his mother.

‘Cheroots. I am even more surprised.’

They had only just lit up when Private Cook came to take the dishes away.

‘Just so you know, Sir. It’s a clear night. You can see all the way to the enemy trenches. Something’s going on there. I can hear singing and see lights.’

John Saunders thanked him then turned to Agnes. ‘Would you like to see the enemy trenches?’

She searched his expression. Was he being serious?

‘Is it possible?’

He nodded. ‘Come on. Let’s take advantage of the peace and quiet.’

To her surprise, he took her up one of the scaling ladders used by the infantry to scale the trench wall. They were immediately facing the enemy trenches.

Agnes swore beneath her breath. ‘Are we safe doing this?’

‘I think we are.’

Taking hold of her hand, he dragged her with him to a hidden spot and firm ground between some bushes.

‘Now look over there.’ He pointed carefully towards where the Kaiser’s army were entrenched.

She looked to where he was pointing. Small pinpoints of light shone from triangular shapes all along the leading edge of the enemy lines.

Agnes narrowed her eyes in an effort to see through the darkness.

Major Saunders had brought his field glasses. ‘Look through these.’

Bracing her legs to make sure she had a firm foothold, she raised the heavy binoculars and gasped at the sight that met her eyes.

‘I can see candles. And trees! Christmas trees! Decorated Christmas trees! They’re all the way along the trench! And they’re singing.’

Just as the cook had declared, the strains of a carol sung in German, ‘Silent Night, Holy Night’, came drifting through the darkness.

She lowered the binoculars, her face a picture of amazement.

The major nodded. ‘Yes. It appears they’re human after all.’

The melancholia in the major’s voice made her look at him. His eyes were moist.

‘Still. Must not read too much into it, must we! Christmas won’t last forever.’

‘It’s amazing. And lovely. I hope that …’

A choking sensation came to her throat.

The major read her mind. ‘You have a sweetheart in the trenches?’

She swallowed the dryness that had enveloped her mouth and stilled her tongue.

‘A friend. And not in the trenches. He’s a pilot with the Royal Flying Corps. An aviator. We’ve heard nothing from him for over four days. They say he came down behind enemy lines … I hope he survived. I hope he can get back …’

She felt a strong hand kneading her shoulder. ‘I wish all the best for you. What’s your chap’s name?’

‘Robert. Robert Ravening. We’re lifelong friends.’

‘We’re attempting to send a radio message to your people back at base. Is there anyone in particular you’d like us to inform?’

‘Yes,’ she said. She nodded just the once; it hurt to do more than that. ‘Doctor Darius Emerson.’

December 26th, 1914

The guns resumed their tumultuous barrage immediately after Christmas.

Wave after wave of injured men were brought into the hospital, some crying, some screaming, some oddly silent and staring with unseeing eyes.

Lydia worked until the world swam before her eyes. She looked down at her blood-covered fingertips, unsure whether the blood was hers or from one of the injured soldiers.

During a lull, Franz ordered her outside. ‘You need a little rest.’

‘So do you.’

‘I’m ordering you.’

‘I won’t go unless you come too.’

The poor man was almost at breaking point and had been for some time. Goodness knows what’s keeping him going, she thought to herself.

He caved in to her demands, his tired eyelids falling heavily, his face almost as pale as that of a man close to death.

There was no time to seek out the orchard, to smoke a little whilst they breathed in the smell of the frosty ground.

He sucked in the tobacco smoke two or three times before speaking.

‘How will history regard this war, I wonder?’

Lydia shook her head. ‘I suppose it depends how long it goes on and how bloody it gets.’

She felt his eyes on her. No matter how tired he got, there was always something in those hazel eyes, a look as incisive as the cut of his scalpel.

‘I’ve asked permission to carry out blood transfusions. It’s been done before, earlier this year and in this country. Belgium. Who would have thought it?’

Lydia looked at him in amazement. ‘My father mentioned something about that.’

She recalled his comment that Belgium had carried out the world’s very first blood transfusion. They had been sitting in the comfort of the house in Kensington. She saw again the soft furnishings, dust motes dancing in the sunlight that poured through the windows, the vase of early spring flowers. She could still smell the perfume of the bright yellow daffodils and more delicately hued narcissi. She could see her father, sitting there glowing with amazement and itching to know more.

It seemed such a long time ago, and yet it was only a few months.

She couldn’t help smiling. ‘Hmm. I feel as though I’ve lived two different lives, the one before war was declared, and the one I’m living now.’

‘I won’t ask you which you prefer. It is not good to be alone in such difficult circumstances.’

There was something insinuating about Franz’s comment, yet surely all he’d commented on was the fact she was alone on a battlefield?

‘I’m hardly the only woman nursing in difficult circumstances. There are hundreds, thousands of nurses doing the same thing, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘That was not what I meant. Your circumstances, your personal, physical circumstances …’

She met the look in his eyes and knew he was alluding to something she had been denying for months.

‘I think I have a … problem,’ she said finally.

He eyed her pensively, one hooded lid drooping slightly. ‘Would you like me to examine you?’

She looked away, shocked and still unable to face the absolute truth. Her belly was bigger. She’d heard of things like this happening before; a pregnancy, a miscarriage, but a foetus, one of twins, remaining.