Tall Poppies (5 page)

A tremor of extreme fear ran through him as the Verey Light ignited and began to float across the sky in a beautiful halo of white mist that looked as though it had been sent directly from heaven. He had a strong urge to cower into the mud with the grisly, maggoty remains of those who'd tried to escape from the trench they'd occupied before he'd arrived. The war was over for them.

Instead, he scrambled out of the trench almost recklessly, urging his men forward. The sun came flaming up to warm his back and send its glory to shine over the glistening sea of mud and gore. He was up to his neck in death and destruction. His comrades-in-arms were falling, eyes glazing over, or crying out with the agony of their wounds as the hot metal lodged in their guts.

Yet he mustn't show any weakness in the face of the enemy.
Don't think! Don't think!
His sphincter muscle tensed.

The sergeant landed next to him. His hand went to his buttock and came out covered with blood. ‘The bastards have shot me in the soddin' backside.'

‘Drop your trousers, Sergeant, let me look.' There was no sign of the bullet. ‘It's just a crease. I've seen better wounds, so I'm afraid it won't get you home. If it did we'd all be shooting each other in the arse.'

Beamish swore with such feeling that Richard began to laugh.

The man grinned at him. ‘It's better than getting the bits blown off, I suppose.'

They made the next trench, falling over the edge with guns at the ready.

They ignored the corpses. The burial detail followed behind, and would find the dead or injured, and either assign them to stretcher-bearers or dispose of them. If they didn't, then the tank tracks would roll over them and mince them into the mud, where they'd become part of the soil.

His gaze went to his men. Half of his regiment had been cut down. The survivors leaned wearily against the wall of the trench. All this for a few yards of mud, he thought. A machine gun chattered, but it was too far away to raise any alarm in them. A light wind blew across the battlefield, bringing various smells to their nostrils. A wisp of smoke caught in the current and drifted towards them.

‘Gas!' somebody yelled.

There was a scramble for respirators. Richard had lost his. Quickly he peed onto his handkerchief and held the damp square to his nose, even knowing it wouldn't be good enough. The sergeant ripped a mask from a body and pulled it over Richard's face. It stank of decomposition  . . . of the last living breath of a man.

Bile roiled in his stomach. He threw the mask aside and began to gag. His body jerked uncontrollably. The sergeant wrestled him to the stinking mud, and when he tried to struggle he pushed the mask against his face, saying calmly, ‘Easy now, Sir  . . . let's get this on and you'll be all right in a minute.'

As if he were a fractious horse being soothed. Of course he'd be all right in a minute. He just needed a good night's sleep. If he stood on the edge of the trench, somebody would shoot him and he could sleep forever.

Even knowing such thinking was dangerous, he found the concept to be almost irresistible and began to scramble up a ladder. The sergeant closed a hand round his ankle and jerked him back down.

‘I can't seem to control myself, Beamish,' Richard muttered, his words muffled by the stinking mask, and he burst into tears.

‘Don't worry. It's nerves, Sir  . . . just nerves. You've been at the front too long and need a good night's sleep. Don't worry about anything  . . . I'll look after you and make sure you get back to base safely.'

The smoke thickened. Tapping him on the shoulder the sergeant pointed along the trench. They began to run, hoping the wind would change and the gas would kill somebody else.

Half an hour later, and a few yards away to the left, a young man in a shallow hole gazed down the sight of his rifle. Both his legs were broken, and half his intestines were now outside his body. He'd been left for dead, but he wasn't dead yet – not quite.

The man had two bullets left. He'd been the best shot in the gunnery class, and he took careful aim at the spot where he'd last seen movement.

His finger caressed the trigger as a head was raised. The Britisher was careless and took his hat from his head, as if inviting the caress of a bullet. He ran his fingers through his mud-streaked golden curls and they ruffled in the breeze, reminding the marksman of the baby daughter he'd left behind in Germany.

Their eyes met. Both of them had eyes the same colour, startling blue. The Britisher smiled. They could have been brothers.

The marksman understood why a man would invite death in this stink-hole. He hesitated, wondering if he should oblige him. After all, it wasn't as if he was going to survive himself. He would never live to see his wife, or hold her and his daughter in his arms again. He wondered  . . . did the British soldier have someone to mourn for him? Did it matter? He was here to kill or be killed.

He sighed regretfully. Gently, almost lovingly, he lifted the gun slightly, took careful aim and stroked the trigger. The man received the gift he sent him, and dropped out of sight before he had time to hear the sound of death.

‘That will teach you to keep your bloody English head down,' he muttered.

The marksman had only one bullet left. He didn't intend to squander that one on a Britisher, but would use it more wisely. After all, he wouldn't hesitate to relieve a horse of its misery, had it been suffering.

Two days later, Richard Sangster opened his eyes. He couldn't see much, just blurred shapes. He was puzzled. His body hurt all over and there was a sharp smell of carbolic soap about him. A pain in his head pounded and he found it hard to breathe.

There was movement around him. A light shone in his eyes. He whimpered and cringed away from it.

‘Good  . . . he's come round,' a voice said, and a shadow moved across. ‘Try not to worry, old chap.'

Richard stared in the direction of the voice and he began to jerk and shake uncontrollably. Pain filled him and he wanted to shriek. Rather he'd died on the battlefield than this.

‘Morphine,' the man whispered to someone, and he leaned over him. Though Richard couldn't make out his features, he seemed familiar. ‘Your name is Richard Sangster. Try not to worry about anything. The war is over for you, my friend. We're sending you back to England, to the hospital.'

Richard screamed silently as the needle pierced his skin. A little while later he sank back into a soothing black vapour of oblivion.

Tears in his eyes, Denton Elliot gazed down at his friend. Richard would recover to a certain extent, though the bullet in his back had damaged nerves, and only time would tell if he'd be able to walk again, though he might regain some use of his legs. He'd probably regain most of his faculties now the bullet had been removed from his skull. But he was also suffering from shell shock, a nervous condition brought on by fatigue, and the result would be depression. His lungs were on an irreversible journey to ruination from the gas he'd inhaled.

Denton didn't know how long, or how well Richard would survive, but he did know that his friend wouldn't live to be an old man. His fingers went to his top pocket and he touched against the pheasant's feather as his glance went to the other soldiers awaiting attention  . . . so many of them.

‘There but for the grace of God go I,' he whispered.

Margaret Sangster was delighted to have Livia to look after her.

Three days after her fall she was feeling a little better, though there was still a lump on her forehead, and it was very tender.

Florence Hutchins, the woman the doctor had sent over, had been happy to take over the maid's position. In the absence of the housekeeper, who'd scurried off to London to spend a couple of days with Henry, or so it was said, and without thought for anybody but herself, Margaret had hired Hutchins, so Livia would be free to look after her.

Florence was about twenty-five, angular, with dark hair and eyes. She was outspoken in her manner, and had lost her last job because she'd been rude to the person who'd hired her.

‘The parson's wife over in Sudbury called me a dirty slattern because I wasn't quick enough to pick up after her. Who's the slattern if you made the mess and need someone to clean up after you? I asked her.

‘You have no respect for your betters, she says, and she sacked me on the spot. Uppity madam. If people wants respect they should respect others.'

‘Quite right, Florence,' Margaret Sangster had said, for she'd met the wife of the Sudbury incumbent, and she certainly was an untidy creature.

Rosemary Mortimer would be cross when she found out, but Margaret didn't care. She'd had enough of the woman's rudeness and intended to send her packing. Who cared what Henry said? His mistress could go back to London and live with him. She didn't care if she never saw either of them again. This house belonged to the Sinclair family. She had grown up here, and was still its mistress. It would be passed on to her son when she died.

Even though there was a sense of purpose about Livia, she was gentle in her ways. Not like Nurse Gifford who had been a bit of a martinet, and who did everything by the clock. She'd had no sense of humour.

Livia, on the other hand, was so sensible and cheerful, and was such a dear. She made Margaret laugh, and as a result, she felt livelier.

‘Cook has made you something special for lunch,' Livia said this particular morning.

‘What is it, Livia?'

‘I won't tell you until you've finished your oatmeal. There's only a couple of spoonfuls left. Open up.'

Margaret made a show of shuddering as she swallowed it. ‘It reminds me of boarding school.'

Livia laughed. ‘We called it goatmeal at the school I attended.'

‘You attended boarding school? I thought you were employed from an orphanage in London.'

‘Yes  . . . I was.' She shrugged. ‘My parents lived beyond their means, I'm afraid, and they tended to entertain a lot. Daddy was a secretary to a government minister and my mother designed ladies fashion. When they died there were debts to pay, and after that there was no money left so the three of us ended up in an orphanage.'

‘Oh  . . . my dear  . . . how perfectly awful. Didn't you have any relatives to take you in? No, of course you didn't, else they would have. What did you say your parents' names were?'

‘George and Eloise Carr.'

‘Eloise Carr? I do believe I have a gown in my wardrobe designed by your mother. Was she part of Cuthbert and Associates?' She remembered that the girl had siblings to support. The cottage was going to be without a tenant soon, so she might be able to do something for her  . . . she would think about it.

‘I'm not quite sure, it was so long ago now  . . . I think she may have designed for Cuthbert.'

‘Then you should be really proud, for she designed a gown for Lady Asquith, amongst other notables. If you climb on to the chair you should be able to reach the gown. It's in a box at the top of the cupboard. I was going to wear it to the hunt ball  . . . that was a while ago  . . . but I didn't manage to get there.' She made a face as the girl stretched upwards, showing the hem of a drab flannel petticoat. Livia was neatly made, and if she were her own daughter, she'd be wearing silk and lace.

‘Be careful you don't fall, my dear.'

‘It's you who should be careful. You gave cook and me quite a fright, you know.' The box was slid carefully out.

‘Throw it on to the bed, dear. There are shoes and an evening bag in the other box.'

The gown was so delicate, a blush of pink silk with a three-quarter gossamer chiffon overdress. A wide band of gold lace with embroidered dark red rosebuds on the skirt matched the bodice with its scoop neckline and loose short sleeves.

‘How exquisite it is,' Livia said, looking for the label, and Margaret could almost see the tears spring into her eyes when she said, ‘Yes, it's my mother's design.'

‘Then you must try it on.'

‘I couldn't, Mrs Sangster.'

‘Of course you could. Off with that uniform now  . . . go on, dear,' she urged, when Livia hesitated. ‘I'll close my eyes.'

The girl was petite, and the gown fitted her perfectly, as did the shoes.

‘No  . . . don't look in the mirror yet. Brush out that plait and put that little garland of silk roses round your head.' When the deed was done and Livia's hair was a fall of foxy ripples, she said, ‘Now you can look.'

Livia gasped. ‘I look like a different person.'

‘The outfit is yours, my dear.'

‘No  . . . I can't take it. It's too expensive. Besides, I never go to balls.'

Margaret snorted. ‘Neither do I now. I want you to have the gown as a memory of your mother. She was a very talented woman.'

There was a knock at the door, and Cook called out, ‘Doctor Elliot is here.'

‘Tell him to come in, Cook. You come in as well.'

‘I haven't got my uniform on,' Livia said, panicking a little as the door opened.

Connie Starling's mouth dropped open at the sight of Livia.

Doctor Elliot smiled. ‘Am I to take it that the fairy godmother has visited this establishment?'

‘Isn't she lovely?' Margaret said.

‘Absolutely breathtaking.'

‘In case any accusations are made, I want you both to witness what I'm about to say. I'm giving this ensemble to Livia in memory of her mother, who designed it. She doesn't want to take it because she thinks it is too expensive a gift.'

The doctor nodded. ‘You'd better accept it, young lady, because I don't want my patient to get upset.'

Connie smiled. ‘Is there anything else, Mrs Sangster? I've just remembered that I've got some chicken broth on the stove.'

‘Go then, Connie. You know how much I love your chicken broth.'