The Passing Bells (49 page)

“Shush,” he whispered, holding her tighter. “Don't talk about it.”

“We lose sixty percent. And they're not the worst ones. The really bad cases are left in Boulogne. They're the ones my team will be nursing. They need me more than you do at the moment, Martin.”

“I understand,” he said, thinking of the stumbling, retching men he had seen at Hulluch in late September. Chlorine gas . . . the brass buttons of their uniforms turned a vivid green . . . the stark terror of death in their eyes. He held her closer. “I understand.”

She felt like walking even though it was dark and the wind was bitter. It wasn't that far and the rain had stopped and they enjoyed striding briskly side by side along Old Compton and Charing Cross Road and Great Russell Street, past the looming black hulk of the British Museum and then up Gower to the sprawling hospital. Lights glowed from the hospital's myriad windows—no blackouts tonight, no fear of Zep raids in this wind. The leather bag hung from Ivy's right shoulder on its broad sheepskin-padded strap, and, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, at the smartness of it and her obvious pride of ownership, he couldn't have felt more pleased if he had bought her a diamond ring—although he would have much preferred
that
expense.

“Well, here we are,” she said, facing him. The brick structure of the main building rose behind her like a cliff. “I shall write you when I get settled and give you my address.”

“Number nine Stationary . . . Boulogne.”

“Yes . . . but it might be number four in Salonika for all we know. Nothing can be relied on these days, can it?”

“No.” He wanted to embrace her, but a great many people were walking past them in and out of All Souls. He bent forward and kissed the tip of her nose. “Take care of yourself.”

He was gone. She stood for a moment watching him walk away, and then she turned and entered the building. A group of sisters passed her on their way out. A tall red-haired girl stopped and touched the bag.

“I say, Thaxton. Wherever did you get it?”

“It was a present. From my young man.”

The redhead leaned closer, swaying forward like a sapling.

“The Yank chap?” she whispered.

“Yes. Isn't it grand?”

“Lovely! Mine gave me a rather smallish box of sweets—but that's a Welshman for you! Oh, by the way, Thaxton, your friend has been waiting for ages. I let her sit in the sisters' lounge in D wing.”

“Friend? What friend?”

“Blonde lass . . . very pretty.”

“Oh,” Ivy said, momentarily stunned. “Thank you . . .”

It was the only blonde girl she could think of, but it couldn't be, could it? Why on earth . . . ? But when she reached D wing, after hurrying along what seemed miles of corridors, and peered through the glass panel in the door of the sisters' lounge, there she was, the Right Honorable Alexandra Greville, seated on a shabby leather couch in the empty room.

“Hello, Miss Alexandra,” Ivy said, walking up to her. She did not curtsy. Was it a slight? Her face burned. Alexandra had been staring down at her lap. She looked up and Ivy noticed how blank her eyes were. Then she smiled slightly.

“Hello, Ivy. I suppose you're surprised to see me.”

“Yes.” She stood stiffly, not knowing what to say. “Have you been here long?”

“A couple of hours, I suppose.”

“I was off duty.”

“So I discovered.”

“I go back on at nine.”

Alexandra glanced at a wall clock. “That gives us about an hour. That is, if you can spare me the time.”

“Time for what, Miss Alexandra?”

“To talk.” She reached out and took Ivy gently by the hand. The well-manicured fingers were icy. “And please don't keep calling me
Miss
Alexandra; you're not my maid any longer.”

No, not a maid any longer, and yet she suddenly felt awkward. She could almost hear Mrs. Broome whispering over her shoulder, “Stand up straight, Ivy, and for heaven's sake, don't fidget or stammer. A good maid is both at ease and respectful when talking to her betters.” She felt vaguely sick to her stomach. How terribly wrong Martin was. But how could an American possibly understand?

“Do sit down, Ivy.”

“Yes, ma'am.” She sat stiffly on the very edge of the couch. Alexandra still held her hand, so she couldn't sit as far away as she would have wished.

“I was surprised to see you this morning, Ivy. I had quite forgotten that you had joined the QA's. How smart you look in your uniform. You're a nursing sister now, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“You must be very proud.” She released her grip and folded her hands in her lap. “I haven't been very well and I didn't want to visit All Souls, but Mother insisted that I come with her.”

“Not well?”

“A bit . . . under the weather.”

“I see.” She looked up at the clock. The second hand had never moved so slowly. “Are you living down at Abingdon?”

“No. We just moved to the Park Lane house.”

“That's nice.”

“I've always liked being in London.”

It was not the same Alexandra Greville, Ivy was thinking, watching her. Certainly as pretty as ever, and as smartly dressed, but the manner had changed. The bubbling, talkative girl had turned into a somber, introspective woman. The eyes looked troubled. The hands were restive, fingers clenching and unclenching. Bloodless. Cold and white.

Ivy cleared her throat. “I was quite surprised to see you and her ladyship. Quite . . . happily surprised, I should say.”

“Were you? That's nice. I was . . . happy to see you. So was Mother. She made a point of telling Mrs. Broome when we got home.”

“How is Mrs. Broome?”

“Her nephew was killed at Loos in September, which upset her very much, but she's quite her old self again. An indomitable woman, Mrs. Broome.”

“Yes, she is.”

It felt horribly hot in the lounge, but Ivy resisted the urge to stand up and remove her heavy cape. Alexandra was wearing a coat with sable collar and cuffs. She looked cool as marble.

“Mother and the Duchess of Redford were quite upset after touring the wards. We had lunch at Claridge's and they cried all the way through it.” She looked at Ivy and her eyes were bitter. “Odd they would be so moved. It was merely a nice ward, wasn't it?”

“A . . . nice ward?”

“I think you know what I mean, Ivy. A show ward. All the lads so cheerful despite their wounds. And all the wounds so trivial and so neatly bandaged.”

“They . . . the chief of staff, that is, doesn't like to upset important visitors.”

“I can understand the point. It would have upset Mother and the duchess dreadfully to have seen a man with his face blown off . . . especially before lunch.”

Ivy's mouth went dry. “That takes getting used to,” she said with difficulty.

“Does one ever get used to it? Is it possible to cope with a sight like that?”

The intensity of Alexandra's stare was disquieting. Ivy shifted slightly on the seat and rubbed the back of her hand across her lips.

“It takes . . . time.”

A young doctor wearing a white jacket over an obviously new uniform stepped into the lounge.

“I say, are you on duty, Sister Thaxton?”

“No, sir. Not till nine.”

“Have you seen Sister Jones?”

“Which Jones, sir?”

“Number sixteen Jones.”

“She was assigned to Abdominals this afternoon by Captain Mason.”

“Mason? Do I know him?”

“Regular, sir . . . Indian Army . . . purple nose.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, as though that took care of his immediate problem. “Thank you, Thaxton.”

“They're becoming younger every day,” Ivy said after the doctor walked off. “Barely qualified for surgery, but they do a very good job despite their lack of experience.” She had been grateful for the slight interruption.

“One gains experience very quickly these days, I would imagine.”

“There's no lack of patients here.”

“Nor in France,” Alexandra said quietly.

A dozen probationers carrying notebooks followed their nursing instructor down the corridor and into the lounge. The probationers were all young and gaunt with fatigue. They stared at Alexandra as though she were a creature from an alien world. The nursing instructor was a tall, jolly woman of forty who took everything in stride.

“Hello, Thaxton! Entertaining visitors, are we? Well, not in here, my girl. We were right in the middle of wet dressings and got kicked out of room fifty-six by the jaw and plastic lads.”

The two women walked into the corridor.

“Is there anywhere private where we could talk?”

“No,” Ivy said stiffly. “This is a very crowded place.”

“You resent my coming here, don't you?”

Well, Ivy thought, an honest question deserves an honest answer.

“Yes. I don't wish to hurt your feelings, but I don't have the time for small talk. And, after all, we really don't have that much to talk about, do we?”

“The reason I came, Ivy, was simply to ask you a few questions. You see, I want to join the QA's.”

Ivy's stare was rude, frankly incredulous. “You?”

Alexandra flinched. “Why not me?”

“I don't know exactly. . . . I just can't see you going through the training. It's a lot of hard, dirty, exhausting work. The maids at Abingdon Pryory were never worked as hard. There's a Red Cross VAD unit here for ladies of good birth . . . mornings or afternoons . . . writing letters . . . reading to the men . . . rolling bandages. . . . Why don't you join that?”

“Oh, dear,” Alexandra said, drawing in her breath sharply, “what an awful little snob you turned out to be.”

And she was gone, half-running down the corridor. Ivy stared after her in bewilderment. Her hidden anger and resentment turned to cheek-burning shame.

“Wait!”

She ran swiftly, dodging nurses and orderlies. She caught up with Alexandra near the end of the corridor, grabbed her by one arm, and propelled her toward a narrow green door, which she opened and closed after them with the quickness of a conjurer. They were in a blanket-storage room, lit by a low-wattage bulb dangling from the ceiling. Ivy slid a bolt into place and leaned back against the door.

“I'm not a snob,” she said in between deep breaths.

Alexandra stood stiffly, her face taut and pale. “Yes, you are. It would be like my saying that all
you're
suited for is making beds and carrying tea trays!”

“I was only speaking my mind. I just can't imagine you as a QA probationer, that's all. If it's a question of wanting to do your bit—”

“I joined the Red Cross at the beginning of the year. A convalescent home for officers in Wimbledon . . . writing letters . . . fluffing pillows. . . . All the things that ladies of ‘good birth' do as volunteers.”

“There can be more to it than that.”

“I know. I went to France after my brother was wounded and mastered the art of emptying bedpans!”

They studied each other like two strangers. But there was a bond of sorts. The Rt. Hon. Alexandra Greville had always been kind.

“I'm sorry,” Ivy said. “I'm sure you didn't wait hours just to tell me that you wanted to join up.” She waved a hand at their cramped surroundings. “You asked for a quiet place to talk.”

“Thank you, Ivy. Something happened to me in France . . . a kind of breakdown . . . more emotional than physical . . . and although I want very badly to become a military nurse, I have this fear, you see, this feeling of inner panic that . . . under similar circumstances . . . I might break down again. It's not a fear I can express to the director of recruitments.”

It was so quiet in the closet that Ivy could hear the thumping of her heart.

“Tell me about it.”

She kept her eyes on Alexandra's face, seeing pain and honesty and truth mirrored there. She could visualize the Alexandra she had known, romantic and vain, play-acting the role of a nurse in her elegant and expensive uniforms from the House of Ferris. “Alexandra Nightingale,” “Saint Alexandra”—the girl mocked herself without indulging in self-pity. Ivy knew the inevitable outcome of her folly as Alexandra told of her trip in the ambulance from Saint-Omer to the casualty clearing station at Kemmel. Reaching out, she took Alexandra by the hand and pressed firmly.

“You don't have to tell me what happened there. I can guess.”

“They needed help so badly,” she whispered. “Hundreds of men, Ivy . . . men without arms . . . legs . . . faces. I could do so little for them . . . and what little I began to do . . .” She paused, running her tongue over her dry lips. “I failed them so completely. . . .”

“You didn't fail anyone,” Ivy said sternly. “You can't fail at something that you weren't equipped to do in the first place. Don't be a twit!” She turned to the door and opened it. “For God's sake, let's get out of here before we suffocate.”

They walked slowly down the corridor toward the main entrance. Nurses, orderlies, and doctors passed them, some nodding in recognition to Ivy, all eyeing Alexandra with varying degrees of curiosity.

“I look out of place,” Alexandra said.

“Do you feel out of place? That's what's important, you know.”

“I'm not sure I understand what you mean.”

“I meant . . . will you be comfortable in the QA's? Is it what you
really
want to do? Or are you just trying to prove something to yourself?”

“I want to be useful,” she said flatly.

“Fine. We can use all the help we can get. And as for your fears . . .” She stopped and faced Alexandra. “We all have a certain amount of fear every time we walk into a ward. Do you see those two girls standing by the dispensary window? One of them is the daughter of a parson in Ludlow . . . the other taught school in Wales. A cut finger or a broken ankle were the worst injuries they'd seen before coming here. Now they work ten hours or more a day with men who are coughing up their lungs bit by bit. They don't have some special kind of bravery that you lack. What they have is the assurance that twelve months of training has given them. The only courage you need is the courage to begin that training and the courage to stick it out.”