The Silver Locket (11 page)

They started walking once again. Reaching the railhead, they picked their way across the tracks, dodging shunting engines and looking for their train.

‘There you are at last!’ The QA sister who let them on the train looked down at them and frowned. ‘Why weren’t you two here yesterday? We were so short-staffed, but we still had to fetch a crisis load, then take it back to Rouen.’

‘But we’ve just come from Rouen,’ Rose began.

‘Then why didn’t you wait for us?’ The sister grimaced. ‘You civilian girls don’t ever seem to use your common sense.’

So it went on.

‘It’ll be a French train down to Herlancourt,’ Maria said one May morning, as she and Rose dashed into a canteen to snatch some breakfast, before they went trundling off again. ‘God, I hate French trains.’

‘I prefer them,’ smiled Rose – for French trains were exciting. English carriages, that had been shipped over to supplement the French, had corridors. So the train was one long ward, and nurses could walk safely from one end to the other.

But French trains had no corridors, so to get from coach to coach the nurses had to foot-board down the outside of the train, getting rained on, snowed on, and with their long skirts flapping in the wind.

They were supposed to get down from the train and walk along the track to the next carriage. But the tracks were muddy, and foot-boarding was fun.

‘You shouldn’t do this at night,’ scolded Maria, as Rose appeared in the carriage one dark, rainy evening, breathless but with eyes aglow. ‘You should wait until we reach the junction, not assume you have enough time when we’ve just stopped at points.’

‘Everybody does it, even Sister Langford,’ countered Rose, as she brushed the smuts off her white apron.

‘You sisters are amazing,’ said a corporal. ‘They ought to put you all in the front line.’

‘Yeah, they should.’ A sergeant grinned. ‘Jerry would take one look at Sister Courtenay and run back to Berlin.’

But after VAD Rose Courtenay hurt herself when foot-boarding along the carriage of a train that moved off suddenly, the nurses were forbidden to do this any more. In future, they’d have to wait until the train was at a junction, and the guard was watching. They’d have to jump down into all the muck and mud, then trudge along the track.

‘A good thing too,’ observed Maria, when she visited her friend in hospital in Boulogne. ‘Rose, you’re lucky to be alive. How is your arm today?’

‘It’s fine,’ said Rose. Still embarrassed by what had happened, she stared down at the blanket on her knees. ‘The doctor said the break was clean.’

‘Rose, you’re such an idiot,’ said Maria. ‘What possessed you, trying to change carriages in all that rain and darkness? I’m not surprised you slipped. What if that other driver hadn’t seen you? What if he hadn’t stopped in time?’

‘As it turned out, he did.’ Rose shrugged. ‘I hear they’ve banned foot-boarding now?’

‘Yes, and just as well.’

‘You’re going to a convalescent hospital for junior officers, in Marlancourt,’ the matron told her, when Rose’s cuts and bruises had all healed and she was passed fit again that July. ‘You’ll be on light duties until that arm is really strong again.’

Rose kept her eyes cast meekly down. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ she whispered gratefully, for she’d been dreading being sent back to England.

‘No more derring-do, Miss Courtenay,’ said the matron crisply – but as Rose looked up, her blue eyes twinkled. ‘You’ve been a model patient, but we don’t wish to see you here again.’

‘It’s two in a tent,’ announced the VAD who welcomed Rose to the new hospital, which turned out to be a huddle of wooden huts in a French forest. ‘Come on, I’ll show you round.’

Rose discovered all the nursing staff lived under canvas, and decided that in summer this ought to be pleasant – except for all the insects. Already she’d been bitten on her neck and ankles, and knew she would be scratching half the night.

‘The boys are mostly mobile,’ went on the VAD. ‘So there’s not much lifting to be done. We spend as much time playing whist and writing letters home for them as doing their dressings and handing out their pills.’

‘So this place is a convalescent home for us, as well?’

‘Yes, I suppose it must be.’ The VAD grinned archly. ‘We heard about your accident.
I’m
getting over scarlet fever.’

‘But didn’t you want to go back home and rest?’ demanded Rose.

‘God forbid!’ exclaimed the VAD. ‘My mother didn’t want me to come and nurse in France. If I went home to convalesce, she’d put her foot down. I’d never be allowed to come back here again.’

‘You’ll be on Trafalgar Ward this week,’ the matron said to Rose, when she’d been in the forest for a fortnight and had settled in. ‘They’re a very lively set of boys, so since you’re new they’re bound to rag you. But don’t take any nonsense. We’re in charge, although we mustn’t be
too
hard on them.’

Rose went down the boardwalk that connected all the huts. In the sister’s office, she found the list of patients and the day book. She began to read the latest notes.

Turning the page, she stared in disbelief. But then, she thought, she shouldn’t be surprised. He was on active service here in France, and had as much chance as anyone of being wounded.

‘Miss Courtenay?’ A young VAD came in. ‘I’m Belinda Cross. Sister Minton’s busy on another ward just now, and she said I should show you round.’

‘What happened to the man in the third bed?’ asked Rose, as they went down the ward.

‘Why, do you know him?’ asked Belinda.

‘Oh – no.’ Rose blushed. ‘I’d just begun to read his notes when you came in to fetch me.’

‘He copped it when the Germans bombed a dugout,’ said Belinda. ‘It seems he spent last winter at the sharp end, doing night patrols, undermining German ammunition dumps, going out on raids – all very dangerous stuff, but he never got a scratch on him. Then his company went into support and bought it with a vengeance.’

Belinda smiled. ‘But he’s doing nicely. He had some nasty gashes in his side, but they’re all healing. He can see again, although he still gets double vision. Come on, it’s time we did the round. I’ll introduce you to the boys – or anyway, to those who are awake.’

The man in the third bed was fast asleep, and as Rose looked down at him she suddenly wanted more than anything to touch his hand, to stroke his face, to make
him
look at her and smile.

But she left him sleeping. When she and the other nurse had done the round, had helped the men who needed it to take a bath and shave, she looked across the beds to him again.

‘Do you let that officer sleep all day?’ she asked Belinda.

‘If that’s what he wants.’ Belinda shrugged. ‘Sister Minton’s always saying sleep is the great healer.’

Rose took a deep breath. ‘I was wondering if
he
needs a bath?’

‘Yes, he could do with one – he’s been in those pyjamas all this week.’ Belinda looked at Rose. ‘I was just going to start the morning drinks. Do you need a hand, or can you manage?’

‘I can manage.’

Rose collected towels and soap and then went over to the bed. The officer was still fast asleep. They all looked so young when they were sleeping, and Rose thought this one looked about fifteen. His long, dark lashes lay on his pale cheeks, and one arm was lying on his pillow, as if he were fending off an enemy. The back of his head was criss-crossed with long scars. She was glad he hadn’t caught the blast full in the face.

She told herself she didn’t like him. He drank too much, he had no social graces, and he ran after women. But what could one expect, she thought, when he came from a family like that?

‘Lieutenant Denham?’ she said, sharply.

‘What?’ Alex’s dark eyes opened. He looked at Rose and blinked. ‘Go away,’ he muttered. ‘I’m asleep.’

‘No, Mr Denham,’ Rose said firmly, ‘you’re very much awake. I want you out of bed and in the bath.’

‘But why are
you
here?’ Alex looked at Rose and frowned in puzzlement. ‘You’re in a nurse’s uniform, but you can’t be a nurse.’

‘I
am
a nurse,’ said Rose.

‘You’re not old enough, and you live in Dorset with your parents.’ Alex turned over on his side. ‘I’m going back to sleep.’

‘You’re going to have a bath, Lieutenant Denham.’ Rose turned the blankets back. ‘Come along, I haven’t got all day.’

Chapter Seven

‘Mr Denham’s such a nice young man,’ Belinda Cross said wistfully, as she and Rose sat in the sister’s office writing up the day book, later that same week.

‘Lieutenant Kelly and Captain Green are as nice as well,’ said Rose.

‘But Lieutenant Denham must be in a lot of pain. He had all that shrapnel in his head, and when I changed his dressing today his side was still a mess. But he always has a smile for me.’

‘He drinks too much,’ said Rose. ‘Brandy, wine, champagne, you name it. Every time I pass his bed it’s, “Sister, may I have a glass of brandy?” or “Sister, will you bring me some champagne?”’

‘Rose, don’t hold that against him,’ said Belinda. ‘They all drink too much. They’ve seen their friends get killed, and they’ve been wounded. They’re dreading going back.’

‘There’s such a thing as moderation, and Alex Denham’s liver must be pickled.’

‘All the same, I like him.’ Belinda closed the day book and then looked at her watch. ‘It’s time to do the bedtime drinks,’ she said. ‘God, my feet are killing me today. I’ve got new boots, and do they pinch!’

‘I’ll make the cocoa, then,’ said Rose. ‘You sit down and write those letters for Lieutenant Kelly.’

‘Rose Courtenay, you’re a brick.’

Anything to get out of the ward away from Alex, Rose thought gratefully. As she stirred the milk into a dozen cups of cocoa, she was annoyed to feel the colour creeping up her face.
He
had no right to make her blush.

When she’d led him over to the bath house that first morning, he had sat and watched her as she filled the wooden tub.

‘I expect you can manage by yourself,’ she’d told him briskly, as she checked the water to make sure it was hot.

‘I don’t think so, Sister.’ He’d fumbled ineffectually with his dressing gown. ‘I can’t untie the belt on this.’

So she’d untied it for him.

He’d let the gown slide to the floor, then looked down helplessly at his pyjamas. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t manage buttons yet.’

She helped him take off his pyjama jacket.

He tugged at his pyjama trousers. ‘The cord is in a knot.’

As Rose untied the cord, she felt her face begin to glow. She’d helped to bath hundreds of men, and they always hated it, resented being treated like helpless infants. Sometimes it was even worse than that, for some of them would be aroused, and then it was horribly embarrassing.

Also, nurses weren’t supposed to be alone with patients. Unless they were very busy, baths were always done in pairs. ‘I think you’ll be fine now,’ she said curtly.

‘I’m still very unsteady on my feet.’ As the sun poured through the dusty windows of the little bath house, Alex looked at her and smiled, and to her dismay her heart turned somersaults of pleasure. ‘I think you’d better stay.’

He was most insistent he couldn’t wash himself, so she had to do it, carefully dabbing at the half-healed shrapnel wounds that streaked down his left side, soaping him all over, then rinsing him with buckets of cool water from the pump outside. Then she wrapped him in a soft, white towel and rubbed him dry.

He smelled of cinnamon, she realised. Almost obliterated by the harsh, clean top notes of regulation issue army soap, there were intoxicating undertones of oriental spice and sun-warmed skin.

‘Thank you, Sister.’ As she dressed him in some clean pyjamas, then helped him put his dressing gown back on, he’d sighed contentedly. As she turned the collar back, she could feel his gaze upon her face.

‘Rose, you’re as red as anything,’ he whispered. ‘You have done this sort of thing before?’

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Denham?’

‘I said it’s looking dark out there.’ He grinned, and Rose was almost sure he winked. ‘I think there’s going to be a storm.’

She carried the tray of drinks into the ward. When she came to Alex’s bed, she put his cup of cocoa on his locker, and then moved on without a word.

But as she walked back up the ward, he called her over. ‘May I have a glass of brandy, please?’ he asked politely.

‘I think you’ve probably had enough today.’ Rose was getting concerned about his drinking. He was always asking her for brandy, but he never seemed the worse for drink, and she’d been warned this was a danger sign.

He hadn’t always been a hardened drinker, able to soak up brandy like a sponge and still seem stone-cold sober. She had not forgotten the night he’d lurched across the ballroom at the Minster to ask her if she’d dance.

The smile he’d given her then had made her feel light-headed, as if
she
had drunk wine. ‘Go on Sister, be a sport,’ he said, and smiled again.

‘But are you in pain?’ she asked, concerned.