Rainbow's End (42 page)

‘Oh, Liza!’ Ellen exclaimed. ‘It would be marvellous if it was the two of us, and I’m sure the Army will jump at the chance of taking you over. You’re such a hard worker and so . . . so practical and sensible. Have you tried to get aboard? Who’s doing the interviews?’

‘I pretended I was interested for you,’ Liza admitted, shamefaced. ‘I couldn’t say it was for meself until I’d had a think. But it’s a Captain Raines and he’ll be at the Barracks all day today if . . . if anyone wants to talk to him. So if you think I could do it, how about if we could both go round there when we’ve finished our tea and have a word. What d’you think?’

‘Oh, Liza! It would be marvellous to have you near, even if we weren’t that close. I wouldn’t feel anywhere near as . . . well, as alone, and Mam and the twins would feel better about it too, I just know they would,’ Ellen said ecstatically. ‘Can we go
now
?’

Liza laughed. ‘As soon as we’ve finished our tea, I said – an’ this cup’s hot! Don’t worry, the Captain won’t run away. Did you eat before you come up here, or could you do wi’ some bread an’ cheese?’

As soon as she and Liza had finished their impromptu tea they went and called on Captain Raines at the Barracks and Liza was gladly accepted as a volunteer for France. She was told that she would be under the command of the Captain, and that she must remember that she would see terrible sights and, in many cases, be unable to do anything to help.

‘We talk to the men, take them hot drinks, food sometimes, and remind them that God is everywhere, even in those terrible trenches,’ Captain Raines had told her. ‘We bring them hope, a smile, a few words of comfort. We go right up to the front lines . . . but we can’t interfere, even when we see terrible things. Sometimes, Miss Barrett, not interfering is the hardest thing we have to do.’ He had cleared his throat. ‘I know you and Miss Docherty here are good friends, and I can guess that you would like to be able to see each other and various friends who’ve joined the Army from time to time, when your work and theirs allows. But regardless of such feelings, your work – and the welfare of the men we go to serve – must come first. I don’t ask you if you understand that because I know you do, or I wouldn’t consider taking you with us. I’m just reminding you.’

‘I shan’t forget,’ Liza had said humbly. ‘And . . . and though of course I’d like to see as much of Ellen as possible, I do understand that it may not be possible. As for . . . for other friends . . .’

‘Then that’s settled,’ Captain Raines had said heartily. ‘We’ve a sailing fixed, so you’ll be off in a few days. Would you like me to speak to your mother?’

But Liza thought it would come best from her and the two friends had made their separate way homeward, happier in their minds now that both of them had taken the plunge into a new life.

And a new life it has been so far, and will be newer yet, Ellen thought now, staring ahead across the grey and troubled sea towards the as yet unseen shores of France.

It was odd, really, she mused, as the ship ploughed onward. Ever since she had met Tolly he had been in the forefront of her thoughts yet now, when she was actually heading towards him, she found it difficult to see, in her mind’s eye, that much-loved face. Which was even odder when you remembered how constantly his face had swum before her inner eye when he had gone off in the
Duchess
, to seek his fortune and learn more about himself. Then, her mental picture of him had been clear and constant. Yet now, when he was far from her and in danger, she had to go to the box of treasures which she kept in the top drawer of her clothes chest and fish out the little photograph which had been taken of the band when Tolly had been soloist in a charity concert given by the Army in order to raise funds for the troops.

Then . . . ah, then she wondered how she could ever have forgotten. The photograph wasn’t a particularly clear one, but it showed Tolly’s strong chin, the shape of his nose, the way his hair grew. And, most importantly, it reminded her of his expressions – sometimes amused, sometimes grave, but always . . . always
caring
, somehow. Tolly never looked at anyone with the indifference which is probably the commonest expression seen on most people’s faces. After all, no matter how one might try, Ellen knew it wasn’t always possible to love every single member of the human race. Only Tolly seemed to have perfected the art. Sometimes Ellen found herself wishing that Tolly wasn’t quite so nice to everyone, because it was so difficult to tell oneself that he was especially fond of her, but she mostly had the good grace to banish the thought as soon as it occurred, shocked at her own shallowness. Loving one’s fellow man was a rare gift; she might justifiably envy Tolly’s possession of it but never grudge him.

And now, here she was, about to set foot on the same ground that Tolly trod. Then I shan’t have to keep looking at the photograph, she reminded herself, because whenever I have a moment off I’ll meet up with him. And she refused to remember how the war seemed to spread and spread, how the men got moved around like pieces on a chess board, how she had heard stories of brothers being in the same theatre of war for months and never meeting. It’ll be different for us, because neither of us is in the Army, so we will have more freedom, she told herself. And if I do find it hard to meet up with him once I’m on the spot, there’s always Liza. Liza had, in the end, gone a couple of weeks before Ellen, so it had been she waving her friend off and then returning, disconsolate, home, not at all as they had imagined. But Liza, with the Salvationists, would go right up to the front lines, the Captain had said so, and would see the stretcher bearers constantly. She might be able to tell Ellen just how to find Tolly.

And then stretcher bearers go constantly to and from hospitals and clearing stations, she reminded herself. He may not come on to the wards but hospital grapevines are the same all over the world, I expect. Once the staff who are bringing the wounded on to the wards know Tolly’s a friend of mine, I’ll be told whenever he’s around or expected, even. So that’s all right! It won’t be long, now, before Tolly and I are together again.

‘Nurse Docherty! Nurse! If you’ve finished with that row can you give me a hand over here?’

Ellen had indeed finished with her row, for the brand-new beds had all been made up with brandnew sheets, pillowcases, draw-sheets and blankets and were ready, now, for whatever might come. So she went over to Nurse Robbins, who was making up the last row of all, and picked up two crisp white pillowslips.

‘Thanks, Docherty,’ the other girl said. ‘Don’t you find this depressing? All these beds, just waiting . . . it’s almost as if they do it on purpose – wound and kill, I mean.’

Ellen nodded, sliding a pillow into its case and laying it carefully on the taut bottom sheet. ‘Yes, I know exactly what you mean. They send those boys over the top knowing there will be hundreds of deaths and casualties, they bring doctors and nurses like us to forward clearing stations so we can patch ’em up and send ’em back . . . but I suppose it’s the only way they know to fight a war.’

Nurse Robbins snorted. ‘I can’t help wondering whether they’d feel the same – the top brass, I mean – if they had to go over the top with the boys. Still, at least this time we’re preparing for the worst and hoping for the best.’ She glanced around her, then lowered her voice. ‘They say tomorrow’s Z-day. So by tomorrow evening a good few of these beds will probably be full.’

Nurse Robbins had been in France a year and knew what she was talking about. Ellen, who had only experienced the back-up hospitals in Britain, sighed. She had been here five days and so far all they had done was prepare. She found herself suddenly dreading the descent which would happen by dusk next day if her friend was right. At home it took time to get the wounded to their destinations and the hospitals were consequently forewarned, but here, in a forward clearing station, the men came in straight from the trenches. Here, they would see for themselves patients not already swathed in bandages and dressings, men mortally wounded, some on the point of death.

‘Yes, I suppose they will,’ she said now, straightening the top sheet. ‘One thing though, Robbie – Sisters and Matrons over here seem far less . . . oh, less pernickety than the ones back home. It’ll be a relief to be allowed to nurse, instead of being given absurd instructions about the straightness of top sheets and the evils of allowing a bedpan on to the ward when doctors or surgeons are present.’

Nurse Robbins chuckled. ‘Wait until tomorrow,’ she advised. ‘When you’re run off your feet and kept on duty for shift after shift, you’ll look back on those quiet peacetime days with longing. You see if I’m not right.’

Chapter Twelve

August 1917

Liam couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t just the cold or the noise – there were men slumbering all round him, slumped among the piles of equipment which they would carry with them next morning when they went over the top – it was fear. Not fear of death either, or even of disability, but of letting himself down. Turning back and being shot as a coward – breaking down, causing failure through some unguessed-at reaction.

Others felt it too. Glancing around, he could see the occasional bright glow as a soldier drew on a cigarette, a hunched shoulder slumped as its owner shifted in his place. But the tremendous barrage covered all sounds. I can’t even hear my heartbeats, Liam thought. If my heart was to stop, sure and I’d be the last one to know, so I would!

Sighing, he thought of home: of Dublin, the court, his family. What was he
doing
here, fighting this senseless war for a country which had oppressed Ireland for centuries, which had put down the Easter Rising with great brutality some eighteen months earlier? He must be mad!

But he knew why he was here really. It had been Maggie’s death, of course. His mind went back to that dreadful day three long years ago, when he’d returned from England to find Maggie. On being told by the boy on the market stall that the family was at Glasnevin he had hurried up to the cemetery. When he was young his mother had taken him up there every weekend to visit family graves so he knew the way like the back of his hand, though he had not been there for a year or two. He had turned and hurried back down to the Quays, where he had only a few hours before got off the Liverpool ferry. He crossed the Whitworth Bridge and walked up Church Street past The Broadstone, where the trains left for Galway, and on to the Phibsborough Road. Dear God, Liam thought, let me be in time, let her not be buried already! At last, however, the Dead-man’s public house and the watchtowers on the cemetery walls hove into view. The Prospect Gate was locked, so he had turned and gone to the main gate.

The gatekeeper saw him as he walked through. ‘Still keepin’ dry,’ he said cheerfully, indicating the cloudy sky. ‘Can I help yiz?’

‘There’s a funeral, a young woman, Maggie McVeigh,’ Liam had stammered. ‘I’m after attending if I possibly can.’

‘Oh, ye’ve missed that,’ the gateman said. ‘They’re all gone, they’ve bin gone half an hour or more. Didn’t ye know the funeral was earlier?’

‘I’ve just got back from England this mornin’,’ Liam told him. ‘I came here as quick as I could. Can ye tell me where she’s buried?’

‘She’s in St Brigid’s plot, so she is,’ the man said. ‘Do you know the way? Ye’ll find it easy enough – it’s the only new grave down there.’

Liam thanked him and turned back to where the flower sellers sat outside the main gate. He bought some flowers and, holding them stiffly in his hand, went through the gates and down towards St Brigid’s plot. He found the grave easily enough for it was as the gatekeeper said, newly turned earth and there were a number of flowers on it already. He laid his carefully on top of the mound and then felt his knees give beneath him and sat down on the path.

He could see her so clearly in his mind’s eye; the dark, springy hair, the little straight nose, the sweet curve of her lips. She’d not had much of a life, his Maggie, but he’d meant to make up to her for the hardships she’d suffered: a home of her own, his love and respect, babies one day. And then they had quarrelled over his chasing after the twins. He’d left her and she’d been killed. All their hopes of a bright future come to nought, because he’d been in too much of a hurry – too impatient to take the time to explain, persuade.

And as he sat there, tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He tried to think what he should do now – tried in vain.

He could not have said how long he sat there weeping for his Maggie, but presently he realised that dusk was falling. He got stiffly to his feet and looked up at the big black-and-gold clock over the office. Good Lord, he’d been here hours, so he had, he’d best get a move on or he’d find himself locked in, for the big gates were closed at dusk.

Liam hurried back to the exit and the keeper opened up for him without waiting to be asked to do so. ‘’Tis sorry I am, lad,’ he said, awkwardly. ‘And her so young.’

Afterwards, life at home was impossibly painful. He had tried to fit in, of course he had. He had gone back to his job at the Post Office where they had been very understanding and he had moved back into his room at home, but he could not bear to be where he had been so happy with Maggie for so long and after less than a week he had told Mammy he was leaving. ‘I’m goin’ to join the Army,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s better, Mammy, it’s better. Maggie’s presence is here, everywhere. Every road I walk along I’ve walked along with Maggie. Everyone I speak to knew her, loved her. I can’t stick it, Mam, I’m best away from Dublin for a bit.’

To give his mother her due, she had understood. ‘But the Army, Liam,’ she said tremulously. ‘Does it have to be the Army?’

‘Its got to be somewhere right away from Dublin, where no one knows me,’ Liam said. ‘It seems the best thing right now. Anyway, Mam, everyone keeps saying it’ll all be over before Christmas. If I go at once I can be in the thick of it by November, and home soon enough.’