Shamrock Green (20 page)

‘If I were an Ulsterman, Father, would I be letting you sit on my bed?'

The priest laughed. ‘No, I doubt if you would.'

‘Did Nurse Tarrant send you to find out if I'm Catholic?'

‘Why would she be doing that?'

‘Is she one – a Catholic, I mean?'

‘She is,' said the padre. ‘Her mother converted some years ago and Becky was confirmed in the faith.'

‘Does she – I mean, is Nurse Tarrant devout?'

‘No, no,' said the priest. ‘Not devout at all, alas.'

Gowry watched smoke from the priest's cigarette spiral upwards and disperse in the vault above.

‘Father,' he said, ‘I'm a married man.'

‘I know you are,' said the priest.

‘Do you now?' said Gowry, faintly annoyed. ‘How do you know that, sir?'

‘It's in your records, your pay book.'

‘Is Nurse Tarrant aware that I have a wife?'

‘No – and it's not up to me to tell her.'

‘Nurse Tarrant is an attractive young woman but I'm not after – you know what I mean?'

‘I do,' said the padre.

Gowry handed back the empty tea mug and the padre put it on the floor.

Gowry said, ‘I hardly know the lady. After I leave here in three or four days I doubt if we'll ever meet again.'

‘Ships that pass,' the padre said, nodding.

‘Besides, I'm in no fit state to take advantage of any lady and even if I was, I wouldn't.'

‘Be easy,' said the padre. ‘I didn't come to deliver a sermon on morals. Nurse Tarrant is a friend of mine, that's all. I think she's become quite fond of you.'

‘What, in three days? Surely you're mistaken, sir.'

‘It would do no harm to write to her when you go back to your unit. Becky would welcome a letter or two, I'm sure. Anything to offer a bit of comfort in these unfortunate times,' the priest said. ‘Will you do it, Gowry McCulloch? Will you write her? She could do with a friend.'

‘If you think it's proper?' said Gowry, guardedly.

‘I think it's perfectly proper,' the priest said. ‘Just don't tell her I suggested it, if you know what I mean.'

‘I know what you mean, sir,' Gowry said.

*   *   *

His battledress had been cleaned and lay in a bundle under the bed. Underwear too. Stockings without holes in them. His own boots with a yellow label attached to the laces. All that was missing was his gas mask, his water bottle and his rifle. He had no idea where his rifle had got to after the gas shells splattered about him. He had a vague notion that he might be court-martialled for losing his rifle or have the cost of a replacement deducted from his pay.

The gunner from the Leinsters assured him, however, that that was a load of bollocks and he would be issued with everything he'd lost in the attack as soon as he got back to the depot. The gunner from the Leinsters was reluctant to leave Saint-Emile. He had developed a crush on Angela, an acute condition for which there was no hope of a cure.

The gunner had a wife back home and a regular understanding with a girl in Heuvert, though Gowry doubted if the gunner and the French girl defined ‘understanding' in quite the same way. He was making hay, the gunner said, while the sun shone, for when the war ended it would be back to shovelling coal on Dublin dock and that would be the end of his malarkey.

The kits were wheeled into the cloisters in the middle of the afternoon. Soon thereafter a surgeon and a physician ambled down the line of beds with Sister and a staff nurse trailing behind them. The officers pointed to a man here and a man there and in twelve or fourteen hours those men would be back in reserve at Heuvert, awaiting orders to move up to the front again.

After breakfast Gowry had been helped out of bed, given floppy sandshoes and a scratchy dressing-gown and told to test his legs by walking round the lawn. It was a fine, quiet morning with a pale sun visible behind cloud. Many patients had been moved out into the sun. There were beds on the terrace, chairs on the paved walks and a strange, unreal air of tranquillity over the place. Gowry walked around the threadbare grass on the lookout for Becky.

Ever since the padre had told him that the nurse had taken a shine to him he had felt boyishly excited. Last night, before Becky had gone on duty, they had talked for a long time and, screwing up his courage, he had told her that he was married, had told her quite a lot about Sylvie, Maeve and the Shamrock in fact. Becky had been quiet for a little while but not unduly dismayed. But still, he was anxious to see her again, to test the strength of their friendship in, as it were, the cold light of day.

He circled the lawn, peering at every starched apron. Teacups and soup basins began to appear on the terrace. Orderlies were serving the midday meal outdoors. Behind the trees two doctors, still in white coats, were playing tennis, and a dozen walking wounded, including one subaltern, had found a set of French boules and were betting on the toss.

‘Gowry. Gowry. Here, I'm up here.'

He looked up. She leaned from a tiny window on the third floor. Her blouse was open at the neck and a towel was wrapped about her head. She looked so fresh and cheerful in the sunlight that he uttered a little sigh, a little
ay-hay
of pleasure at the sight of her.

‘Wait there. I'll be down in a second.'

Gowry stayed right where he was, legs shaking, sure now that the padre had not lied and that, married or not, he was in danger of falling in love.

*   *   *

The Germans had dragged six field guns into position behind a knoll four miles south of Mallefort and were shelling a section of the branch line close to Saint-Emile. The bombardment started without warning and two railway coaches suffered direct hits before anyone in headquarters twigged what was happening. Sappers were sent to haul away the wreckage and repair the damaged track, but the German gunners had the range and all night long shells came whistling over. The track remained closed until the third day when a concerted assault by the Royal Irish managed to breach the defences around the knoll and, with sporadic artillery support, drove Jerry back some three or four hundred yards. The cost to the Irish was high and the respite for the staff at Saint-Emile over all too soon. By midnight the worst of the wounded were pouring in and the operating theatre was in full swing.

Becky could spare only a few moments to say goodbye.

She came running down the length of the cloister. Sister Congreve opened her mouth to reprimand the girl then thought better of it.

Becky had taken off her bloody gown and gloves but she looked scared and her eyes were big and starey in the flickering light of the cloister lamps.

Fourteen soldiers in battledress, Gowry among them, were seated among their packs by the blank stone wall. They were waiting to be marched to the railhead to board a train back to Heuvert. The war seemed much closer now. The incessant pummelling of the guns and the flicker of star shells in the sky intimated that there had been movement somewhere along the line, that some great plan or strategy had been put into operation without their knowledge or participation. Clad and kitted like fighting men, the soldiers were restless. Even the gunner from the Leinsters was keen to get back to the fray.

When Gowry saw Rebecca running down the cloister, he scrambled to his feet and went to meet her. He took her in his arms and held her tightly, pressed against the rough grain of his tunic, against buckles, buttons and straps. Held her and let her cry. He could think of a million things to say but none of them seemed appropriate. He held her in his arms and let her weep. When he kissed her he could feel her tears on his mouth.

‘I can't stay,' Becky said. ‘I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can't stay.'

‘I know,' Gowry said. ‘I know, dearest.'

‘Hold me, please, just for one more minute.'

‘Yes,' he said, stupid and formal. ‘Yes, of course I will.'

He kissed her again.

One of the soldiers jeered and another gruffly told him to shut up.

‘Will you write to me?' Becky whispered.

‘Yes, as soon as I can.'

‘Where will you be? Where will I find you?'

‘I don't know. It's all gone to hell out there by the sound of it,' Gowry said. ‘I'll write you and tell you where I am.'

‘And then I'll write back.'

‘Yes.'

‘I have to go, Gowry. Oh, I have to go now.'

‘I know,' he said. ‘I know.'

He took her hand and walked with her up the length of the cloister. He tried not to look at the men in the beds, at tubes and splints and great bloody wads of lint, tried not to hear the sounds of their distress. He looked down at Rebecca and held her hand. He could not remember when anyone had last cried over him and felt strong again, stronger than before.

‘You'll forget me,' she said. ‘Won't you?'

He shook his head. ‘No. I'll write. I'll write tomorrow.'

‘I will see you again, won't I?'

‘Yes.'

‘Tell me, please tell me I'll see you again.'

‘You will, you will,' said Gowry. ‘I'll make sure of it.'

‘Dearest,' Becky said, ‘take care.'

She stretched on toe-tip and kissed his mouth and, pushing herself away, ran into the main building out of sight. Gowry stared at the emptiness for a moment or two, then, wiping a hand over his face, turned and rejoined the men.

He sat on the stone floor and leaned against his pack.

The gunner poked him gently in the ribs.

‘You've found a right corker there, old son,' he muttered. ‘You lucky beggar, McCulloch, you bloody lucky old beggar.'

Then a transport sergeant appeared out of the darkness and shouted,
‘Hup!'
and a few minutes later Gowry was en route back to the front.

Chapter Eleven

Angela had known for some time that Venus had once been a lover of Mars and that war and sexuality were inextricably linked. Long before she had donned a uniform she had been an outrageous flirt. She had gone into nursing only to escape her tyrannical father and suffocating village-green existence.

During training she had frequently been in trouble with men and two young residents had even fought over her favours in the cloakroom of the urological department. She counted herself fortunate not to have been dismissed. The moment war was declared she enlisted for active service and during a tour in a military hospital in Devon had made the ultimate sacrifice to a young second lieutenant in the Ox & Bucks who had sustained a dreadful wound in the abdomen in the retreat from Mons. The great, half-healed scar across Clive's belly had made not the slightest difference to his performance which had been brisk and efficient and as down-to-earth as an inexperienced girl could wish for. He had taken her again, less briskly, in a London hotel room just before he had gone off to the front to get himself killed.

Angela had wept buckets, of course, but was consoled by the attentions of the lieutenant-surgeon who had brought her the news about Clive. Nine days later, in another hotel room in London, she had discovered that poor Clive had not been quite so adept at love-making as all that.

Captain Bobby Bracknell was adept, very adept and although she knew perfectly well that he had a wife and three children back home she gave herself to him almost at first asking.

‘I really don't know what you see in that chap,' Rebecca said.

‘Ah, but you don't know him as well as I do.'

‘Thank God for it,' said Becky. ‘He's such an imperious swine.'

‘Imperious? What's that mean?'

‘Cocky.'

Angela smiled and brushed her hair.

She was well aware of Becky's inexperience in matters of – um, the heart. It had been typical of Becky to strike up a friendship with a priest, for instance, and to fall like a ton of bricks for an Irishman who, in Angela's opinion, Rebecca would be unlikely ever to see again.

‘You're in love with Captain Bracknell, are you?' Becky asked.

‘Lord no!' said Angela. ‘I'm not that much of a fool.'

Becky was lying on the bed, propped up by two hard pillows. She had received a letter that forenoon and had run off into the lavatory to read it while Bobby Bracknell was entertaining Angela.

‘He's only using you, you know,' Becky said.

‘How do you know I'm not using him?'

‘Angela! Really!'

Chin propped on hand, Becky leaned across the cot. She looked even more serious than usual, Angela thought. Becky was a socialist, of course, and socialists were always serious, same as Scotsmen were always dour and the Irish short on common sense. Her father was forever telling jokes about Irishmen called Paddy or Mick and, though she never found them especially amusing, they did not offend her.

Becky said, ‘
Are
you using him?'

‘Who? Bobby Bracknell? Why, of course I am.'

‘For what?'

‘My pleasure,' Angela said.
‘Un petit divertissement.'

Becky edged closer, as if the subject of sex were so seditious that they might be sent home just for discussing it.

‘How can it be pleasurable when you don't love him?'

‘Oh, don't be utterly…'

Angela set down her hairbrush and got to her feet. She felt slightly dizzy for an instant, for Captain Bracknell had been very thorough in his ministrations that afternoon. She lay across the cot, tummy down.

‘Becky,' she said, ‘have you really never been with a man?'

Becky shook her head.

‘Never?' Angela said.

Becky shook her head again. ‘No. Never.'

Reaching across the beds, Angela took Becky's hand and patted it sympathetically. ‘Oh, I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I'm so very, very sorry.'

‘For what? It's not your fault,' said Becky.

‘Have you never been asked?'