The Flyer (24 page)

CHAPTER 22

Elizabeth paused before she entered the officer’s ward. The hospital at Amiens was where the seriously wounded were eventually brought. Many of those who survived were eventually returned to England to convalesce, but Doctor Ramsay had already warned her that it was unlikely that the burned pilot would live.

She went inside. It was late, and most of the injured were asleep, though she felt some of them watching her as she passed between the rows of beds.

‘Miss?’

The man who called out to her was propped up into a half-sitting position. His torso was heavily bandaged though his face was unmarked. In the dim light she could see he was very young. Not even twenty.

‘Yes, is there something that you want?’

‘I thought I was dreaming,’ he said.

She took his hand, wondering who he’d thought she was. His mother? A sister? Or perhaps his sweetheart? ‘What’s your name?’

‘Perkins. John Perkins.’

‘Well, you’ll soon be home John Perkins. Where do you come from?’

‘Somerset.’

‘That must be lovely.’

‘My family has an orchard. We grow apples and pears.’

‘You must get strong again then or you won’t be able to help with the picking. If you try to get to sleep I’ll sit here with you for a little while.’

‘Will you keep holding my hand?’

‘If you like.’

He closed his eyes and his breathing became regular. It was all they wanted from her. The soft touch of a woman’s hand, the sound of her voice. After a little while she got up, relinquishing the hand of the now sleeping soldier and continued along the ward.

The figure in the bed was sleeping. His body twitched in rhythm with morphine induced dreams. Elizabeth’s heart was thudding. She was terrified. His face was covered with bandages except for holes for his mouth and nostrils. Not even his eyes were visible. This came as a shock to her. She had thought she would know him by his eyes, but she realised his eyes were gone, cut to pieces by his shattered goggles.

She did not try to stop her tears. She cried because of his terrible injuries, but also because she could not tell if he was William.

*****

In Cannes, three and a half years earlier, she’d found Christopher standing by the window looking out over the sea.

‘Hello.’

He didn’t reply, and she sensed that something was wrong. When she went to him he looked at her with deadened eyes.

‘Sophie’s dead.’

At first she couldn’t believe it, but she knew he wouldn’t say something like that unless it was true. A hundred questions jostled in her mind, but for some reason the most prosaic of all was the one she asked first. ‘How do you know?’

He showed her a telegram. ‘It’s from William. Sophie tried to get rid of the child.’

‘Oh God, no.’ She put her hand on his arm, meaning to comfort him, but the way he looked at her made her take it away again. There was no life in his eyes. No light.

‘I think I’d like to go for a walk,’ he said.

‘Would you like me to come?’

‘I think I’d rather be alone.’ At the door he turned back to her. ‘There’s a train this evening, by the way. I’ve booked our tickets.’

She knew then that it was over between them, though she’d known it during their first night on the ferry, when, after they’d made love, they lay together trying to pretend that everything was alright.

By the time they arrived home, William had gone. Nobody knew where to. The scorched remains of the aeroplane he and Christopher had built remained amid the burnt out wreckage of the barn. When Elizabeth saw what had happened she understood in a rush of insight how devastated he must have been. She felt as if everything was rushing from inside her, and she didn’t know how she could have treated him so terribly.

A few days after their return, Christopher sent a note to say he was leaving. He didn’t say where he was going. He said everything reminded him of Sophie and what he’d done. Including her, Elizabeth thought. He wanted her to know that he didn’t blame her for any of it, but she knew he did whether he admitted it or not. She didn’t pretend to herself that she wasn’t at least partly responsible. But she hadn’t known what would happen.

The following year Germany invaded Belgium and marched for Paris. England declared war, and in October Elizabeth took a train to Waterloo. She found a taxi and gave the driver an address in St. Johns Wood. The house was one of a Georgian terrace. It had a walled garden that opened into the park. A maid answered the door and showed her into an elegantly furnished sitting room.

The woman she had come to see was an old friend of her mother’s, and though Elizabeth had met her several years before, she could only vaguely remember her. She went to one of the windows at the end of the room and looked out over the elms that flanked the quiet street outside. A woman wearing a nurse’s uniform walked past pushing a baby carriage, and Elizabeth thought of Sophie, and was overwhelmed by sorrow and regret.

‘The trees look very bare at this time of year, don’t you think?’

The voice startled her, and Elizabeth turned around to find Catherine Beauchamp had come into the room. She was tall, her once fair hair now partially grey.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I’ve been at the hospital.’ She kissed Elizabeth’s cheek. ‘I haven’t seen you since you were very young, you know. You have your mother’s eyes. Shall we sit down? I’ve asked for some tea.’

They sat on either side of a fireplace. ‘I hope there’s nothing wrong?’ Elizabeth said.

‘Wrong? Oh you mean because of the hospital. No, not at all. I’m learning to be a sort of nurse actually.’ Catherine looked away, her eyes shadowed. ‘Their injuries are so terrible,’ she murmured.

While they had their tea Catherine asked about Elizabeth’s mother. She recounted anecdotes from their younger days. Eventually Catherine turned to the reason for Elizabeth’s visit. ‘Now, you must tell me how I can help you. In your letter you said you wanted to find somebody.’

‘His name is William Reynolds,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I think he may have volunteered to fight in the war. I was hoping that your husband might be able to find out where he is.’

‘It’s possible. He has contacts within the war ministry through his work in the House. Of course the more information you can give him, the easier it will be for Anthony to make enquiries.’

‘What sort of information would he need?’

‘I imagine anything at all would be helpful. Of course, if you know his regiment that would make things a lot easier, though I suppose if you knew that you wouldn’t need Anthony’s help.’

‘Before the war he was an aviator. I expect he would have wanted to do something in that area if he could.’

‘That would narrow things down considerably, I should imagine,’ Catherine said.

Catherine didn’t ask who William was, or why Elizabeth wanted to find him, and Elizabeth knew that if she preferred not to say anything further, she wouldn’t be pressed. But she felt she must say something. Or perhaps she simply needed somebody to confide in. ‘You must think this is a strange request,’ she said.

‘Why would I think that?’

‘You must be wondering why William can’t tell me himself where he is, unless he doesn’t want me to know.’

‘And does he?’

‘I think if he knew I was looking for him, he wouldn’t want me to find him.’

‘In that case, are you sure that you are doing the right thing?’

‘No,’ Elizabeth admitted. ‘I’m not sure at all. I haven’t seen William for more than a year. I behaved very badly towards him.’ She paused, struggling to articulate her motivation. ‘I want to tell him that I’m sorry. If I don’t find him now, I’m afraid that he might be killed and I will never have another chance.’

‘It must be very important for you to go to so much trouble.’

‘It is. But I worry that it’s very selfish of me.’

‘You must care for this young man a great deal.’

‘I do. I didn’t realise how much until it was too late.’

‘Is that what you want to tell him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I think you’re right to try and find him.’

A week later, Anthony Beauchamp came home one evening with news that he thought he’d discovered where William was. ‘There’s a training camp for pilots at a place called Shoreham on Sea. It’s on the south coast very near to Brighton. A man by the name of William Reynolds was posted there recently, attached to the Royal Flying Corps.’

For a few moments Elizabeth did not know what to say. They were in the drawing room where Catherine and her husband always had a drink before dinner. He was older than her, in his fifties, with almost white hair and a pleasant, kind face. His position in the government gave him access to a great many people of importance and to the entire networks of clerks and administrative offices beneath them. Though Elizabeth knew all of this she could hardly believe her search had ended so easily. Before the war she had tried everything she could think of to find William, but all to no avail. She was sure he’d left Northampton, but other than that she had no clues as to where he might have gone. He might even have left the country for all she knew. She’d reached the point where she believed she would never see him again and then when war was declared, ironically it had given her new hope.

‘Do you know anything more about him?’ she asked.

‘He’s a subaltern and he’s twenty three years old,’ Anthony Beauchamp said. ‘I’m quite sure he must be the young man you’re looking for, my dear. In fact I’ve taken the liberty of booking you a ticket on the twelve o’ clock train to Brighton tomorrow.’

She knew he must be right. There could not be another person with the same name and of an identical age who had joined the Flying Corps. She ought to have been happy. She had achieved what she’d come to London for, and far more quickly than she had imagined possible. But instead she was anxious. Over dinner she couldn’t concentrate on the conversation or manage to do more than pick at her food.

Afterwards, Anthony Beauchamp had to go out again. The impact of the war kept him very busy. Elizabeth and Catherine sat in the drawing room together.

‘You seem worried, Elizabeth,’ Catherine said.

‘I suppose now that I know where he is, I’m afraid he won’t want to see me,’ Elizabeth admitted.

In the morning she packed her things, and Catherine went with her to the station.

‘If you want to come back to London you are welcome to stay with us again,’ Catherine said.

‘Thank you.’

‘I hope everything works out alright for you, Elizabeth.’

Catherine kissed her cheek and saw her onto the platform, and waved when she climbed aboard the train. The journey to Brighton didn’t take long, and once there Elizabeth changed to a branch line that went to Shoreham. During the trip she thought about how she would contact William. She supposed that she couldn’t simply walk up to the camp where he was stationed and ask to see him. Even if she did she was not at all sure that he would agree. In the end she decided to write him a letter asking him to meet her.

Shoreham on Sea was very small, and at that time of year the summer visitors had long since left. Elizabeth found a small private hotel on the seafront where she took a room, telling the woman who ran it that she was not sure how long she would be staying. Straight away she wrote to William. Her letter was not very long. She told him that she had come because there were things that she must tell him, and though she understood that he must feel angry with her and perhaps didn’t want to see her, she begged him to. When she was finished she put down her pen and read what she’d written. She thought it was confused and made little sense. Finally she took up her pen and wrote another line.

I know that you can’t believe that I was telling the truth when I told you that I was in love with you, William. Perhaps I didn’t know myself how very true it was. If this means anything to you, please come and listen to what I have to tell you.
 

There was nothing more she could do. She gave the name of her hotel and said she would wait for three days, and if she had heard nothing from him, she would take it that he did not want to see her. As soon as she sealed her letter, Elizabeth went to find the woman who ran the hotel and asked her to arrange for it to be delivered to the camp.

That evening she put on her coat and walked along the seafront. A cold breeze came off the grey water. She sat on a seat and looked out across the sea. The sky was heavy, the deepening clouds almost black. She heard the faint rumble of distant thunder. It was only when it continued that she understood that it was too regular to be thunder and realised what it was. She had read in the newspapers that the sound of the guns in France could be heard from the coast.

That night she ate alone. She was the only person in the dining room, the only guest, in fact, in the hotel. She kept hoping that William would come, and every time the waitress opened the door she looked up quickly, only to be disappointed. She stayed late, lingering over coffee until it was clear he wouldn’t come that night. She thought it might not be easy to leave the camp, though she was sure he could send a message. A hundred reasons occurred to her to justify why he might not be able to come straight away, and a hundred more why he could if he wanted to.

When she went to her room she slept badly. It was agony to think that he was so close, and yet she couldn’t go to him. She kept thinking of him reading her letter, imagining him touching the paper she had touched, reading the words she had written.

*****

Elizabeth had fallen asleep again beside the pilot’s bed. When she opened her eyes she was disoriented. She had been dreaming about the summer when she met William. The sound of music faded in her mind. She recalled fractured images of Christopher dancing with Sophie, and of herself and William. She had felt such conflicting and often confusing emotions. She was jealous of Sophie to begin with. She wanted Christopher to dance with her, to hold her the way he held Sophie, and yet she liked the feeling of William’s arms around her, his quiet, serious gaze.