Somewhere in France: A Novel of the Great War (18 page)

PART THREE

They march from safety, and the bird-sung joy

Of grass-green thickets, to the land where all

Is ruin, and nothing blossoms but the sky . . .

—Siegfried Sassoon, “Prelude: The Troops,” 1918

Chapter 34

December 1917

J
ust before Christmas, Edward wrote to ask if Lilly might join him for a short leave in Saint-Omer. Fortunately, Miss Jeffries was amenable to Lilly’s request and granted her two full days, beginning at noon on December 28. It had been her first leave since joining the WAAC nearly nine months earlier.

Miss Jeffries, for all her spit-and-polish approach to the WAACs under her command, must have noticed how miserable Lilly had been in the weeks since the 51st had been shelled. Most likely she attributed it to delayed shock, and shock it was, of a sort. It was a mercy indeed that she knew nothing of Lilly’s heartache, or of its cause.

We are done
,
you and I. We are done. We are done . . .

Robbie’s words sounded constantly in the back of Lilly’s mind, a dirge that deadened her spirits and weighted her every step, and no matter what she thought or did, they would not be banished. They haunted her in her sleeping and waking hours, never ceasing, never abating, and though she tried to combat them with words of her own—
it’s for the best
,
you will survive
,
you must do your duty
—they rang hollow against her heart.

Edward was waiting for her on the platform when she arrived in Saint-Omer late in the afternoon. After embracing her at length, he shouldered her carpetbag and led her through the rain to the tiny, rather shabby premises of the Pension Saint-Bertin, the best that he had been able to manage on such short notice.

But Lilly’s room was clean and pretty, with a white linen counterpane on the narrow bed and an eggcup of delicate snowdrops, or
perce-neige,
as the pension’s proprietor had called them, on the lace-topped chest of drawers. Best of all, there was enough hot water for her to have a sponge bath before supper.

Edward was little changed from a year ago at Christmas, when she’d last seen him, though he’d shaved off his mustache. He was, Lilly thought, one of the handsomest men she had ever known, and quite possibly the most charismatic. All he had to do was smile and look a person in the eye and he or she fairly leaped to do his bidding. Madame Mercier had been no exception: when she had first greeted them her expression had been dour and unyielding, but Edward had taken her hand in his, thanked her in flawless French for her hospitality, and had proclaimed her home delightful in every respect.

Bowled over by the effect of his regard, Madame Mercier had rewarded them with huge bowls of fish stew and fresh-baked bread for supper, and had even produced a small carafe of white wine. They retreated to the pension’s salon afterward, where a fine coal fire had been laid, and Lilly read aloud from
Idylls of the King,
which she had brought along for just that purpose. After a half hour, she set the book aside and turned down the oil lamp on the mantel, and they began to talk, their voices hushed, their faces lit only by the flickering glow of the hearth.

They started with news from home, of which Lilly was entirely ignorant, as neither their parents nor sisters had written to her since her departure from Ashford House. Their aunt Augusta had died some months earlier, Edward informed her, and had left her considerable fortune to the Battersea Dogs Home.

“All
of it?”

“Every last shilling. Mama was livid. You know how she had been cultivating Aunt Augusta.”

“That’s one thing I haven’t missed,” she said. “The way Mama always seems to be angry about something.”

“It made for a nice interlude in her letters. Usually she’s rabbiting on about how dear everything’s become in the shops. As if she’s ever set foot in a butcher’s in her life.”

“She has no sense of the world beyond her own doors, does she?”

“She never has. But she and Papa have been doing their bit for the war, you’ll be glad to know.” Edward paused, his eyes twinkling. “They had the lawns at Cumbermere Hall dug up last spring and planted out with vegetables and potatoes.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“They hadn’t much of a choice. Once the king had the deer park at Windsor plowed up, Papa had to give in, else look like a shirker.”

“At least they won’t go short of potatoes,” Lilly commented, trying and failing to stifle a giggle.

“They won’t, will they? But enough of our parents for now, else I’ll end up with indigestion. Tell me about Miss Brown instead. How is she?”

“Very well. She had Christmas off this year, her first proper leave from the hospital in ages, so she went home to her parents’.”

“Where is she from again?”

“Somerset. Her father is a prebendary at Wells Cathedral.”

“No beau as of yet?” Edward asked, his eyes fixed on the fire.

“Charlotte? Of course not.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know,” Lilly answered, taken aback by his question. “I suppose because she’s never spoken of anyone, not once in all the years I’ve known her. And she’s always seemed so devoted to her work.”

“Does she intend to continue work as a nurse after the war?”

“I don’t know for certain, for she’s never said anything to me, but I don’t think so. She’s very competent, very good at what she does, but I think she’d rather return to her work with Miss Rathbone in Liverpool.”

“I’d forgotten about her rabble-rousing days with the lady politician. Is she still at that hospital in Kensington?”

“The one for neurasthenia patients? Yes.”

“It must be bedlam there.”

“Not at all. At least, that’s what she told me once. It’s very quiet, she said. Many of the men can’t speak. Some just sit and weep. Some are quite normal until they hear a loud noise, a door slamming, for instance, and then they collapse.”

“Sounds dreadful.”

“No more dreadful than what you endure.”

Lilly stopped short, desperate to ask, to know, but wary of ruining their evening. “I know you don’t like to speak of it, but . . .”

“Go ahead. I’ve drunk enough wine that I might even answer truthfully.”

“What is it like? To live there, day in and day out?”

“I don’t want to shock you.”

“I don’t think anything can, not now.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” he said, so quietly that she almost didn’t catch his words.

“What? I mean . . . what? How can it not?”

“I don’t mean that I
like
it. Far from it. But it doesn’t upset me.”

“I don’t understand. I honestly don’t.”

“When I joined up, it was because everyone else was doing it. No more. But then I discovered that I was good at it. Being a soldier, that is. Was good at training the men, inspiring them, keeping them going. And that was just during training.

“When they sent us to France, we were thrown into the thick of it straightaway. Lost men at Festubert within weeks, men I’d known all my life. At first, I was worried how I’d manage. Would I crack up? Shame myself in front of my men?

“But it didn’t bother me. None of it did. The noise, the smell, the food, the mud, the rats—none of it. Still doesn’t. I don’t get nervous before a big push, I sleep well enough, I can choke down whatever food they put in front of me.”

She thought back to what he’d said a moment before. “Why should I be shocked?”

“Because nothing bothers me, Lilly.
Nothing
. Two days ago one of my lieutenants forgot to duck when he was passing through a shallow stretch of trench.
Ping!
A German sniper got him right through the temple. I was there, only inches away. And as soon as he’d been dragged off, and I’d thrown a bucket of water over the mess his brains had left behind, I went into my dugout, wrote to his widow, and ate my dinner as if nothing had happened.”

“It truly didn’t affect you?” she whispered.

“I felt badly that Baker had died. But it didn’t trouble me in any measurable way. It was just one more death among the hundreds, if not thousands, that I’ve witnessed.”

“Oh, Edward,” Lilly said, trying and failing to think of something appropriate to say.

“And the thing is, the fault lies within
me
. If I were a decent man, I’d be writing poetry about the horrors I’ve seen. It seems as if that’s what every other officer on the Western Front is doing. But I’m not a decent man. I’m as shallow and empty as it’s possible for any man to be and still have a beating heart in his chest.”

“Edward, don’t—”

“That’s the only true horror of this war, the knowledge of how little horror it holds for me. I’ve always known I was a shallow bastard. I welcomed it, even. It made everything so much easier to bear. But now,” he continued, his voice breaking, “now, when I want to plumb the depths of my soul, I discover I have none.”

Desperate to comfort him, Lilly leaned forward and clasped his hands in hers. “Edward, look at me. I know we’ve always made a joke of it, the way you seemed to sail along without a care in the world, but that’s all it was. A
joke
. There’s no truth to it. Your not collapsing at the first blast of shell fire doesn’t make you shallow. It makes you courageous.”

Edward shook his head, his eyes screwed shut, but she pressed on. “Nothing you say can change my opinion of you. I believe you are one of the heroes of this war. What else but courage has kept you at the Front year after year? We both know you could have asked for a staff position behind the lines anytime you wished.”

“I never did. Never will.”

“Surely you have done enough, suffered enough. Will you not consider it?”

“And leave behind my men? They think me lucky, you know. As if serving under my command offers some kind of protection. Never mind that there’s ample evidence to the contrary.”

“They would understand.”

“They would. They might even forgive me for abandoning them. But how could I forgive myself? If anything were to destroy me, Lilly, that would.”

She met his gaze again and in it shone a warning, or perhaps it was a plea. So she held tight to his hands and bent her head so he would not see the tears that gathered in her own eyes.

“Shall I turn up the lamp and read some more Tennyson?” she suggested a few minutes later, once she was certain she wouldn’t cry.

“Yes, my darling girl. And thank you.”

Chapter 35

A
s she readied herself for bed, it occurred to Lilly that her brother hadn’t once asked after Robbie. Could he have guessed that something had gone wrong between them? Or perhaps her failure to mention his friend had warned Edward away.

It would have been mortifying if Edward had asked, but would also have been such a blessed relief. She hadn’t felt able to say anything to her friends, for Robbie had done nothing to them, and it would be unfair to color their impressions of him. But Edward knew Robbie better than nearly anyone else.

She longed to confess the truth of it all to her brother, and in doing so discover what he thought of his friend’s actions, not to mention her own. Had she made a mistake? Would it have been better to give in, do as Robbie had begged, and accept a transfer to a less dangerous posting?

No. What was done was done. Further talk would serve only to torment Edward, perhaps even cause a rift between him and his dearest friend. Best to say nothing, bury it away and forget, though forgetting was impossible, the awful night when Robbie had turned away and erased her from his life.

S
HE AND
E
DWARD
both rose with the larks the next morning, eager to make the most of their remaining time together. As luncheon was to be their main meal, Madame Mercier served them a light breakfast of café au lait and tartines, which Edward ate without noticeable enthusiasm.

“I’d give my left arm for a proper cooked breakfast,” he grumbled quietly. “Though this is a sight better than the breakfast that’ll greet me tomorrow.”

“Will you be back on the front lines?”

“Not for a few days. Then we go back for two weeks. I only hope it stops raining soon.”

When they’d finished their meal, Lilly presented him with his Christmas gift, a pair of thick woolen socks that she’d knitted herself. “Constance had to help me when I turned the heels, but they’re mostly my work. And I didn’t drop a stitch!”

After pronouncing himself delighted with his gift, Edward drew a small parcel out of his jacket pocket. “I know it would have been more practical to give you something that would keep you warm or dry, fur-lined gloves or a new pair of Wellingtons, but I thought you might prefer something to read.”

It was a leather-bound copy of
Cranford
by Mrs. Gaskell, the pages worn and the gilding on the cover rubbed thin in spots. “I’ll confess I wrote to Miss Brown some months ago and asked her to find a book that you would enjoy,” he explained. “Is it a good choice?”

“Oh, absolutely. I read it ages ago and loved it. And it’s exactly the sort of thing I most want to read. No war, no death, just stories of village life. Thank you, Edward.”

“You’re most welcome. Now, what do you say to some fresh air?”

A companionable silence hung between them as they walked, arm in arm, along the quiet cobbled streets that flanked the cathedral, and then along the banks of the canal.

“Shall I read some of
Cranford
to you when we get back?” Lilly asked after they’d been walking for nearly an hour.

“Yes, please. Or the Tennyson. It’s the sound of your voice that I enjoy.”

“I meant to ask earlier—what did you get Helena for Christmas?”

“I’m not sure. I asked Mama to order up a pair of earrings from Garrard’s and send them along.”

“You didn’t.”

“I wrote her a letter to go along with it. I’m sure that will be fine.”

Feeling decidedly unimpressed with her brother’s approach to gift giving, Lilly turned to look up at him, and was astonished when she saw the expression on his face. It was a complete blank, utterly bare of any discernible emotion.

“Edward? Is anything wrong between you and Helena?”

She knew he had heard her, for what else could account for the sudden hesitation in his stride? But he made no response. Only after they’d walked on for several hundred yards did he slow his pace and look down at her.

“It depends on what you mean by ‘wrong.’ Let’s start with this: Is it wrong to force a man—say, for example, your son—to marry a woman he doesn’t love? Or how about this: Is it wrong to agree to marry someone you don’t love, someone who deserves nothing but happiness, knowing you will probably ruin her life? Even if you’re marrying her because you have no choice?”

“Please tell me you’re not speaking of yourself and Helena.”

“Of course I am. Do you want to know why I agreed to the engagement? Money. I had practically bankrupted myself, and our dear parents knew it. So they proposed a solution to my troubles: they would clear my debts, advance me additional capital, and continue my quarterly allowance, on one condition.”

“They didn’t. They wouldn’t be so cold-blooded.”

“In their defense, I think they believed they were helping me. Encouraging me, so to speak. All I had to do was find a suitable girl and pop the question.”

“Why Helena?”

“Why not? She was young, pretty, inoffensive. It wasn’t so hard.”

“So that’s why you didn’t get married before you left for France.”

“That’s the one and only favor this war has done me. It got me off the hook, for the duration at least.”

“What are you going to do when you return home?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never let myself think that far ahead.”

“Surely it would be kinder to break things off now. I know people would talk, but it would be better than if you waited until you’re home.”

At this he shook his head decisively. “You’re assuming that the war is going to end. And that I’ll be alive at the end of it.”

Lilly stopped short, the blood rushing from her head, her hands clammy with fear.

“You know I’m right,” he added. “Because you see it every day, don’t you?”

“You’ve survived this long with hardly a scratch. You said your men think you lucky—”

“Meaningless.”

“But the war is sure to end soon.”

“That’s what they’ve been telling us for more than three years. ‘One more push and we’ll have them.’ ‘One more ridge and we’ll have the Hun on their knees.’ ”

And then, his voice soft but steely with certainty: “Lilly, I stopped believing years ago.”

“What do you mean? In God?”

Edward laughed, a bitter sound that was devoid of mirth. “I can’t remember the last time I thought about God. No, I mean I stopped believing I have a future that extends any farther than a day or two ahead of me. Perhaps a week, if we’re behind the lines for a spell. But no more than that.”

“I don’t agree. I believe you will survive. I always have,” she insisted, embracing him tightly and knowing, even as she marshaled every ounce of conviction, that she was lying to him.

His arms were strong about her, bestowing comfort, though he was the one who most needed it. “Promise me you will survive,” he whispered against her hair. “Endure all of this, go home, and then do everything you always dreamed of doing. No, Lilly. You must listen. I want you to travel the world and go to school and find someone to love.
Promise me
.”

“Please, Edward, please don’t talk of things like this. I can’t bear it.”

“I know, darling girl. But it’s the only time I’ll ever speak of it, so let me finish. I made over my will last year and everything goes to you. You’ll have my house, all my belongings, and whatever is in the bank. None of it’s entailed; it all goes to you.”

She cried for long minutes, letting her tears soak the wool of his uniform jacket, letting his strong arms hold her tight. And then she looked up and saw the expression on his face, as if she had relieved him of an almost unbearable burden.

So Lilly did the only thing she could do. She dug in her coat pocket and found a handkerchief, blew her nose and wiped away her tears, and pasted on her bravest smile.

“Shall we walk back to the pension now?” she asked him. “I’m sure luncheon will be ready soon.”