Somewhere in France: A Novel of the Great War (26 page)

Chapter 51

I
t seemed a shame to wake up. That was the first thought that crossed Lilly’s mind as she emerged from the most delicious fog of oblivion. Everything was so wonderfully vague, as if the edges of the world had been smudged by a giant eraser, or a veil had been drawn over her eyes.

She let herself float in the agreeable fog for a while, slowly becoming more and more aware of her rather confusing surroundings.

To begin with, she seemed to be in a church. More specifically, she was lying in bed in a church. That was certainly quite odd.

She was lying on white linen sheets, she realized. It had been months since she had felt sheets against her skin, apart from that single night at the Ritz, of course.

Perhaps she and Robbie could return there one day. It really had been so lovely. And the bed in her room had been awfully comfortable. But first she probably ought to sort out where she was now.

Could it be that she’d died, and was in heaven? That would explain the ecclesiastical architecture. And possibly also the white sheets. But if this were heaven, why did her side hurt so much? And her leg?

She looked to her right, and saw that another cot had been arranged parallel to hers. The man in it appeared to be sleeping, and there was a large bandage wrapped around his head. If only he were awake; she could ask him where they were.

She turned her head to her left, and saw another man, his back against the wall, his head lolling against his shoulder. He, too, seemed to be asleep.

There was something familiar about this man. He had such pretty golden hair, though it was mussed and needed a good brushing. And his clothes were covered with blood; were simply soaked in the stuff. She decided that, just as soon as he woke up, she would tell him he needed a bath.

She stared at him, comprehension beginning to clear the fog from her mind. It was . . . Robbie. That was his name. He loved her; yes, that was it. He loved her, and she loved him. And she’d been so worried about him, so fearful he would be captured by the Germans, and sent to a prisoner-of-war camp, and she might never see him again—

But what was he doing sitting here? He knew they couldn’t risk being seen together, otherwise she’d be sent home by Miss Jeffries. She had to wake him, now, or they’d surely be seen.

Before she could say anything, or even move, he was at her side, was stroking her hair, and she saw there were tears in his eyes.

“My throat,” she wheezed. “So dry.”

“I know, darling. Let me lift you a little so you can have a sip of water. But just a sip.”

He braced her up, held a mug to her lips, and let her take one small sip, then another. “That’s all for now,” he ordered. “You can have more in a minute or two. How do you feel?”

“Sore,” she mumbled. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the post-op ward in Saint-Venant. Set up, for the moment, in the convent’s sanctuary.”

“There was a crash,” she said, suddenly remembering.

“Yes. All the men in your ambulance are safe, so don’t fret about them. They’re alive because of you. Private Gillespie says that most any other driver would have driven right into the exploding shell. He’s very proud of you, Lilly. As am I.”

“Why is my leg so sore? And my side?”

“Your leg was pinned in the wreck. But it’s still there, so don’t worry about that. It’s in a splint now. Your side hurts because your spleen was lacerated. It had to come out.”

She thought about this a moment. “What’s a spleen?”

He smiled and squeezed her hand. “It’s nothing you can’t live without, I promise.”

“I suppose I shall have to take your word for it.” It occurred to her that he wasn’t meant to be here at all.

“How did you escape? We were all so certain that you’d be captured.”

“Your Private Gillespie came to our rescue. He badgered Colonel Lewis into letting him have one of the lorries. We all got out, every last one of us.”

“I hope you thanked him,” she said.

“I will when I see him next. Now, Lilly, how are you feeling? How is the pain?”

“It’s getting worse, but don’t give me anything for it. Not yet. Not before you tell me what is going to happen.”

“If I could do anything to prevent—”

“They’re sending me home, aren’t they?”

Robbie nodded, his expression filled with regret. “In a day or two, as soon as you can be moved, you’ll be evacuated to one of the base hospitals. Abbéville has been shelled, so it will probably be Boulogne.”

“And back to England after that.”

“I’m afraid so, yes. But I spoke to Miss Jeffries while you were sleeping, and she says they will keep you on, at least until the end of the war. You’ll still have your wages, so you won’t have to go back to your parents.”

“Perhaps I can lodge with Mrs. Collins again, once I’m out of hospital. She might have room.”

“It won’t be for long,” he added. “Only until the war is over and I’m back in London.”

She stared at him, not entirely certain she understood what he was talking about.

“I meant to ask you this weeks ago. Had meant to give you this.”

Robbie held up a small leather box, then, seeing she hadn’t the strength to take it from him, opened it for her. When she saw the ring inside, she began to cry.

“Will you marry me, Lilly?”

She nodded, the tears running unchecked down her face. “Yes,” she whispered.

“I can’t promise you anything grand,” he told her. “I’d like to go back to the London, continue my work there. I haven’t much money, but there’s enough for a house. And I was thinking that you could go to university, if you like. We could hire tutors for you, just to help you get through the entrance exams, and then—”

“But don’t you want children?” she interrupted, her head reeling at the mention of school.

“Of course I do. But you’re only twenty-four. We have plenty of time. Time enough for you to discover what you really want out of life. Just as long as I get to come along with you.”

“Oh, Robbie. I don’t know what to say. Apart from yes.”

“You already said yes.”

“So I did. But we both know it’s not official until you kiss me.”

At that he rose up on his knees, leaned across the cot, and kissed her tenderly. Only when he moved away did she see they were no longer alone.

Constance was standing at the end of the cot, and just behind her Lilly could see Bridget, Annie, Matron, Private Gillespie, Captain Mitchell, and Miss Jeffries; nearly all of the friends she had made over the past months.

They began to applaud and cheer, the sound building and building as people came to see what all the fuss was about, were told about the love story that had taken place at the 51st, and then began to clap as well.

It was mortifying and it was wonderful and it was, suddenly, all too much for her.

“Robbie?” she asked.

“I’ll send them away in a minute. But let them sing your praises for a moment more. You deserve it.”

Then he kissed her again, kissed her until the world and everything in it fell away. And she was alone at last, at long last, with her Robbie.

Epilogue

London

January 1919

M
ost evenings, Lilly didn’t bother to take the Underground home from work, for it only took an hour to walk from Whitehall, where she was working as a clerk for the Imperial War Graves Commission, to her lodgings in Camden Town. It was safer, too, for influenza still stalked the streets of London, and one of the surest ways to fall ill was to jam oneself into a crowded carriage full of sneezing, coughing strangers.

For six months now, ever since her discharge from hospital, she’d been seconded to the War Graves Commission as a clerk. Her work, in the main, consisted of answering letters from people seeking the graves of their loved ones. Most of the time she was unable to help, for thousands upon thousands of graves in France and Belgium had no marking on their headstone, apart from the devastating explanation
KNOWN UNTO GOD.

Just yesterday, however, she’d located the grave of a young captain, lost not far from where Edward had last been seen, and had been able to send directions to his parents. It had been a rare and bittersweet moment of success.

Today had been a long day, occupied by fruitless searches through filing cabinets and the depressing task of advising one family after another that the commission had no news as yet of their loved one’s grave, but would certainly advise if and when such information were to be discovered.

She was tired and out of sorts and it was raining, so rather than walk home she had tied a fresh muslin mask over her nose and mouth and had taken the Northern Line home to Camden Town, her thoughts occupied by plans for her and Charlotte’s supper. Sardines on toast? Beans on toast? It was washday, too, so Mrs. Collins might have boiled a pudding in the copper when she was done with the linens. She always shared some with her girls, and something sweet at the end of a long day would be welcome indeed.

Last July, their landlady had been overjoyed to welcome Lilly back, wasting no time in informing all the neighbors that Miss Ashford had gone to France and come home crippled by wounds. Never mind that Lilly’s limp was almost imperceptible; the drama of the story was what counted.

Mrs. Collins may have been an interfering busybody, but she had a good heart and Lilly was fond of her. And she refused to even contemplate the idea of returning to live with her parents, though they had softened toward her of late.

Perhaps it had been the shock of losing Edward. Perhaps it had been the realization that their daughter had almost died in the ambulance crash. Whatever the reason, they had astonished Lilly by appearing at her hospital bedside not long after her return from France. Although visitors had been officially discouraged because of the flu, somehow Mama and Papa, looking rather comical in the butter-muslin masks that everyone was forced to wear, had finagled their way onto the ward where she was recuperating.

It had been an awkward conversation, full of lengthy, fraught silences. And the atmosphere hadn’t improved when Lilly had informed them she and Robbie were to be married upon his return from France.

When she’d been discharged from hospital in July, her parents had invited her to come and live with them. Much to their surprise, she had declined, though she’d attempted to do so as tactfully as possible. She did pay a visit to Ashford House each Wednesday, sharing supper with them in the breakfast room. It was a chore in which she took little pleasure, for the loss of Edward had broken both her parents, leaving them mere shells of the people they had once been.

The house had become unutterably gloomy, more like a tomb than a home, with the curtains perpetually drawn and a permanent shrine to Edward set up in the front hall. His portrait, draped in black, was propped on a walnut table in the center of the foyer. His medals were arranged on a velvet-lined tray, which in turn was flanked by half a dozen framed photographs.

For her part, Lilly could not bear to admit that Edward was dead, though no news had ever come to explain his fate. Even after the Armistice, when prisoners began to return from the camps where they’d been held, her parents hadn’t heard from Edward, nor had any account of his whereabouts been forwarded to them.

It had been two months since peace had been declared, two months to the day. She and Charlotte had passed the evening at home, sitting by the fire in her room, a half-empty bottle of sherry their replacement for champagne. They had toasted the war’s end quietly, without jubilation, for what was there to celebrate? Millions had died on the battlefields; millions more were dying as the Spanish flu swept around the world.

Back in August, back when influenza had been the sort of thing that only made one miserable for a week, she and Charlotte had fallen ill. They’d both been confined to bed for a few days, feverish and racked with pain, but that had been the worst of it. At the 51st, which had been relocated to Coyecque, nearly everyone, Robbie included, had caught the flu in the early summer. None of her friends there had died, although some of the weaker patients had succumbed.

The influenza that struck England in the autumn was an altogether more lethal and frightening disease. It killed in hours; it killed strong young men and women, people who had survived the war and ought to have lived for many more years; and it emptied London’s streets and public places as not even the zeppelins and Gotha bombers had managed to do. Roads and sidewalks had been sprayed with disinfectant, masks had been as ubiquitous as hats, and handshakes had become a thing of the past. But still the epidemic had rolled on, striking down thousands upon thousands of Londoners in October and November alone.

And then, in December, fewer people had died, and it seemed that fewer still were dying in January. No one could pinpoint the reason; certainly no treatment had emerged to beat back the disease. Likely enough it would roar back again, an enemy retreating so it might regroup and attack again.

The flu had kept Robbie in France for longer than she had expected, for after the Armistice he’d been sent to one of the base hospitals in Saint-Omer, where nearly all the staff had fallen ill; and then on to Belgium, where similar conditions prevailed.

He had told her not to be frightened for him, since he was quite certain that, having been sick in the summer, he had acquired a degree of immunity to the second wave of contagion. He had also warned her that the tonics, potions, and remedies being touted for their flu-repellent properties were nothing more than quack medicine. Vinegar, quinine, spirits, morphia: all were useless. The only thing that worked, in his opinion, was frequent hand washing, avoidance of large gatherings, and the use of a mask when forced into close quarters with other people.

His letters arrived frequently, each one ending with a promise to return to her soon, but they were never long enough, and included few details of his work. Altogether it was terribly dispiriting, for it had been nine months since they’d been parted. How long would it be before she saw him again?

Her train had arrived at Camden Town. She made her way outside, pulling off her mask as she left the station, and walked west through darkened side streets. Arriving home, she opened the front door and crouched to remove her boots. Before she had so much as loosened a lace, her landlady came rushing down the hall.

“There you are!”

“Good evening, Mrs. Collins. How was your day?”

“Nice enough, thank you for asking. A telegram’s come for you, not a half hour ago. Thought you’d want to see it straightaway.”

She took it from Mrs. Collins, tore open the envelope, and read the single sheet inside.

ABOUT TO BOARD FERRY TO DOVER. WILL ARRIVE VICTORIA STATION HALF PAST SIX 11 JAN. LONGING TO SEE YOU. ROBBIE.

“What time is it, Mrs. Collins?”

“It’s just gone six o’clock, my dear. Is anything the matter?”

“Not at all. It’s Captain Fraser—he’s coming home!”

“When does he arrive?”

“In a half hour. I’ll never make it to Victoria on time,” Lilly fretted.

“There’s sure to be a taxi or two outside the Underground station,” Mrs. Collins reminded her. “Run up there and hop in. Do you have enough to cover the fare?”

“I think so. Oh, Mrs. Collins—I look a fright!”

“Never mind that, be off with you. And wear your mask!”

A panicked dash, back the way she had come, to the Underground station, then a flash of despair when she saw that the taxi rank outside was deserted. A moment later a motorcar came round the corner, by luck a taxi, and Lilly hailed it with a wild wave and a most unladylike whistle, with no regard for what passersby might think.

Twenty minutes later, just as the station clock at Victoria struck the half hour, she reached the barrier as Robbie’s train pulled into Platform Three. At first it was hard to see much of anything, what with the clouds of steam still swirling around the platform and the jostling, anxious crowd that surrounded her. Little by little the air cleared, and the people around her found their loved ones, greeted them, and departed.

It dawned on Lilly, then, that perhaps she’d missed him; perhaps he’d missed the train in Dover. It was perfectly possible that he’d been delayed.

She might as well return home and wait for another telegram. Wait, though her heart was breaking from the agony of having already waited so long.

She’d made up her mind to leave, and was about to turn on her heel and walk away, when a man emerged from the very last carriage, so far away that she could see nothing of his features. He reached back into the carriage, extracted some bags, and then, hailing one of the station attendants, turned his attention back to the carriage interior.

Another man alighted, somewhat awkwardly, and even from where she stood Lilly could see that his right trouser leg was pinned up. Taking a set of crutches from the first man, he began to move down the platform, slowly, painstakingly, still so distant that she could see nothing of his face.

But there was something about the way the first man moved, the way he walked, and though Robbie had said nothing of traveling with a friend, a flame of hope ignited inside her.

Ignoring the protestations of the attendant standing guard at the barrier, she ducked under the gate and rushed toward the men on the platform. They were still in the shadows, so it was impossible to be sure, but it might be Robbie after all.

As the men passed under the light that marked the halfway point of the platform, she saw that the first man was Robbie, come home to her at last. And then, a fraction of a second later, the second man came into the light.

It was Edward, his dear face so sad and tired and old that she knew, oh God, she knew that his missing leg was the least of his injuries.

Tearing off her mask, she ran forward and flung her arms around him, though he was still holding his crutches and unable to embrace her in return.

“I thought . . . I always hoped . . .”

“I know, darling girl. I know.”

“But how? We had no news. How is this possible?”

“Robbie found me. I was lost, even to myself. But he found me.”

She turned to the man she loved, still not quite believing, and threw herself into his arms, her tears blinding her. He wiped them away tenderly, all the while whispering words of endearment to her.

“I don’t understand,” she said at last.

“I couldn’t come home without him. So I decided I would have to find him first. Or at the very least discover what had happened.”

“So all these months . . .”

“When I wasn’t working I was searching for Edward. They discharged me in December, but I had to try.”

“How long have you known?”

“A few weeks.” Robbie looked to Edward, as if seeking permission to speak further. “Edward was still quite unwell when I found him. I ought to have told you, let you know somehow. But Edward—”

She put her fingers to his lips and shook her head. “Not now. Now I only want one thing from you.”

A smile, almost shy, lit up his face. “And what might that be?”

“A kiss.”

“Here? In public? With you still in uniform? Someone might see,” he said teasingly. “What will your superior officers say?”

“Bother the lot of them. Haven’t you heard, Captain Fraser? The war ended months ago.”