Until We Meet Again (23 page)

They were all waiting anxiously to hear news from the hospital regarding Jack. They were relieved when Faith had a phone call the following morning to say that he had regained consciousness and did not seem to be suffering any memory loss. The fall had jolted him and had dislocated his shoulder – the right one, the arm that had been amputated at the elbow – but that had been put back in place. The gash on his forehead was only a surface wound, and apart from a few minor bumps and bruises he appeared to have escaped serious injury. They were keeping him in hospital, however, for a couple of days.

‘I’m sure one or more of you would like to come and visit him,’ said the nursing sister who was speaking to Faith. ‘He’s very quiet; we can’t get much out of him, but I think he’s rather embarrassed at what has happened. He will probably talk to you more readily than he will to us.’

‘Certainly someone will come and see him,’ said Faith. ‘When are your visiting hours?’

‘Afternoon and early evening,’ replied the sister. ‘But anytime, really, as far as you are concerned.
We’ve always worked well together, haven’t we? I know what a grand job you are all doing at the New Moon home.’

‘Thank you,’ said Faith, gratified at such praise from the town’s hospital. ‘We try to carry on from where you have left off. We like to think we’re doing a vital service and we’re very distressed at what has happened to Jack. He was having some personal problems – affairs of the heart, we presume – but I’m sure he didn’t really intend to… to harm himself.’

‘To commit suicide?’ said the sister, rather more outspokenly. ‘No, maybe not. It could have been much worse. He’s been very lucky, if he can only see it that way.’

Faith decided that Priscilla would be the best choice as a visitor for Jack. She saw a smile light up the young woman’s face when she told her of Jack’s recovery, and a slight blush coloured her cheeks. She had guessed that Priscilla was becoming rather fond of her patient. Too much fraternising between patients and nursing staff was not to be encouraged, but it did happen from time to time. However, Priscilla was not a nurse, and she did deserve to have a little affection in her life. Faith had seen a great change in her with regard to her friendliness with the staff and all the patients, not just with Jack. She guessed, though,
that he had become rather special to her. Faith only hoped it would not end with her being hurt or disappointed.

‘Oh, that’s very good news, Mrs Moon,’ said Priscilla. ‘So will he be coming back here?’

‘Most probably, in a day or two,’ replied Faith. She told her what she knew of Jack’s condition and asked her if she would like to pay a visit to the hospital that afternoon. ‘I think you are the one he would wish to see, rather than any of the others,’ she said. ‘I know you have taken a special interest in him.’

‘Only because of his arm,’ replied Priscilla, rather hurriedly. ‘He wasn’t managing with his left hand as well as some of the other men were doing… Yes, I would like to go and see him, Mrs Moon. Thank you for suggesting that it should be me…although I’m sure he wouldn’t mind who it was.’

‘That’s settled then,’ said Faith, briskly. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Baker to make up a box of the cakes he likes. I’m not suggesting that they are not well fed in hospital, but I’m sure a little treat would not go amiss.’

Priscilla cycled to the hospital that afternoon, and was directed to the ward where Jack was recovering. There were several other men in the ward, some lying down and others talking to their
visitors. Jack was in the bed furthest away, near to the window, sitting up and reading a newspaper. There was a dressing on his forehead but apart from that he looked pretty much the same.

He saw her approaching and gave a start of surprise, then an uneasy sort of smile. ‘Priscilla… it’s good to see you. I’m glad you’ve come; it’s very kind of you.’

She sat down on the chair at the side of his bed. ‘Hello, Jack. It’s good to see that you’re conscious again. How are you feeling?’

‘A bit bruised and knocked about,’ he replied. He paused for a moment, then he said, ‘I’ve made rather a bloody fool of myself, haven’t I?’ His look was apologetic, but there was a glimmer of friendship – she did not dare to think of it as affection – in his eyes. ‘If you’ll excuse my French…’ he muttered.

‘That’s quite all right, Jack,’ she said, smiling at him. She had heard much worse, and from his lips, too, when she and Simon had encountered him on the cliff. ‘We’re all glad that you’re safe and well, and that it didn’t end as badly as it might have done.’

He continued to regard her steadily. Feeling a mite uncomfortable at his gaze, she held out the cardboard box she had brought. She opened the lid. ‘See, Mrs Baker has sent you some goodies…
And everybody sends their love and hope you’ll be back with us very soon.’

He looked at the selection of Mrs Baker’s speciality cakes; two almond tarts, a large slice of sticky ginger cake, and one of Victoria sponge with raspberry jam oozing from it. ‘That’s very kind of her,’ he said. ‘I don’t deserve it…I don’t deserve any of it.’ He reached out and took hold of her hand. ‘Priscilla…I believe you saved my life.’

‘Nonsense! No, of course I didn’t,’ she replied. ‘I just stayed with you till the ambulance arrived, that’s all. We were scared, though, I must admit. We thought you might have fallen all the way down…but you hadn’t. So it wasn’t as bad as it might have been.’

‘It would have served me right, though, wouldn’t it?’

It was a rhetorical question, but she answered anyway. ‘Don’t be silly, Jack, of course not. Nobody thinks that.’

‘I’d got myself into a state,’ he went on. ‘A real old muddle. I don’t think I knew what I was doing, really. It all started when Doris came to see me…last Saturday, wasn’t it? I knew then that there was summat wrong, and then when I got her letter… I never meant to do it, you know, to jump off that blasted cliff. But I’d got into such a rage with myself, about Doris, and everything. I’m
starting to see things differently now, though…’

‘Would you like to tell me about it?’ she ventured. ‘Only if you want to, of course.’

He released her hand, to her relief. Nice though it was, she felt rather silly sitting there holding hands with him as though she was his lady friend, when they both knew she wasn’t. ‘Yes…I think I would like to tell you,’ he said. ‘You deserve that much, anyway. I’ve behaved badly, I know, upsetting everybody like this.’ She waited whilst he stared into space, seemingly to collect his thoughts.

Then, abruptly, he said, ‘It’s all over between Doris and me.’

‘Yes, I rather gathered that it might be,’ said Priscilla. ‘You said…that you’d lost the thing that was most precious to you.’ She refrained from telling him what she thought about Doris, that she was not right for him and not nearly good enough.

‘Did I say that?’ He looked at her in some surprise. ‘Aye, I suppose I might have done. I was feeling sorry for myself and not thinking straight. I’ve realised now that that was not true. I was trying to hang on to something that didn’t exist any longer. I’ve known for some time, but I wouldn’t admit it to myself…

‘Anyhow, as you know, she came to see me
last Saturday. And I knew then that it was all over between us, although she didn’t tell me, not then. She said in her letter that she intended to tell me, that’s why she’d come, but she lost her nerve. So she took the easy way out and wrote to me… I already knew, though. She’d looked at me as though I was some sort of freak. I’m no oil painting, God knows, especially now I’ve got this ’ere scar on my face, but I didn’t think it was too bad. There are other poor devils with injuries far worse than mine. But I could feel her backing away and cringing when I tried to kiss her. And my arm, an’ all; she seemed really taken aback at that. I realised she didn’t want somebody who was less than perfect. But I didn’t have it out with her like I should have done…

‘And then I got her letter. She was sorry, she said, but she thought it was better if we called it a day. After all the years I’ve been waiting for her to make up her bloomin’ mind! I know what it is, though. She’s got somebody else, although she hasn’t had the guts to tell me so. They’ve got a new assistant at the shop – I told you she works at her parents’ ironmongery shop, didn’t I? – and it was all Fred this and Fred that, and what a big help he was being to her father.’

‘Shouldn’t he be in the army, whoever he is?’ asked Priscilla.

‘That’s what I asked her, but he’s quite a lot older than Doris, from what I gathered; he’s turned forty. And he’s got flat feet! As good an excuse as any, I suppose, for not serving your King and Country. Like I say, I don’t know for certain that he’s the reason, but I’d bet a pound to a penny that it is. I can read her like a book.’

‘Well, I know it’s nothing to do with me,’ said Priscilla, ‘but it sounds as though you’re better off without her, Jack. If you’ll forgive me for saying so – it’s really none of my business – but I thought she seemed rather a cold sort of person, not very friendly.’

He nodded. ‘It was fine at one time, when we started courting. She was quite amorous, she certainly didn’t need any encouraging…but that’s enough said about that.’ He sighed. ‘I was clutching at straws, but I’ve let go now. I’ve come to my senses, and I know I’ll get along very well without her.’

‘Of course you will, Jack,’ said Priscilla. ‘You have to look to the future now and think about getting well again. You’ll be going home soon, won’t you? Once you’ve got over this latest little setback.’

‘Going home…yes, I suppose I will,’ he replied. ‘But that will be rather a mixed blessing. It will be good to see my parents again; I know they’re
looking forward to having me back. But I’ve been happy at the convalescent home. Everybody’s been so kind and I’ve made a lot of good friends… And I hope they’ll continue to be friends after I’ve gone?’ There was an unspoken question in Jack’s eyes as once again he took hold of Priscilla’s hand.

‘Yes…we will all miss you, Jack,’ she said. ‘But we can keep in touch…if you would like to?’ His affirmative nod and the look of pleasure on his face spoke volumes; but she told herself again not to read too much into it.

‘If I can find someone to write letters as well as you do,’ he smiled. He squeezed her hand and then let go of it.

She stayed a little while longer, chatting about various matters. It was a good sign that he was interested in other people and not just himself. He enquired about Tilly, who, so far, he had not met; but he knew about her sad loss and that the young man who had been killed was Priscilla’s cousin.

‘She’s bearing up quite well,’ Priscilla told him. ‘It has helped her to get back to work, and she’s proving to be a great favourite with the men. You will like her, Jack.’

‘I’m sure I will,’ he replied. ‘But there’s not one of ’em that I don’t like, or that hasn’t been kind to me. Not like some of the nurses in the field
hospital. One or two of ’em were real battleaxes, I can tell you! But they saw so many horrific sights – beyond belief, really – happen it helped them to appear brusque and not very sympathetic. To start feeling pity might have made them less able to do their job…’

A rattle of teacups as a nurse appeared with a trolley was the signal that it was time for visitors to leave. Priscilla stood up and said goodbye to Jack. He reached out his hand and she held it again for a brief moment. ‘Bye for now, Jack. Chin up, and keep smiling, and we’ll see you again very soon.’

‘Thanks for coming, Priscilla,’ he said. ‘It means a lot to me.’ The warmth of his smile was matched by her own.

She walked quickly out of the ward. She felt that Jack had turned a corner. Unless she was very much mistaken his black moods might well be at an end. Losing Doris was proving to be far from the set-back it had seemed, and more of a step in the right direction.

Chapter Twenty-One

A
rthur Newsome was a careful and competent driver. He had been driving his father’s car, then his own, from the age of seventeen and did not find it difficult to adapt to ambulance driving. Because he was single-minded and did not lose his nerve in a crisis, he found himself, before very long, in charge of a fleet of ambulances carrying the wounded from the dressing stations near to the battlefields, on to the clearing stations. There, further treatment would be administered; that was for those who were fortunate enough to survive the first horrendous journey. Many, alas, did not do so. Those who did would eventually be transported to a hospital nearer to the French coast, or sent home to Britain to recuperate… Ready to return for the next onslaught, unless their injuries were
severe enough for them to be discharged from further duties.

It had been said that the present offensive would, hopefully, bring about a speedy end to the war. But Arthur, and thousands more, had heard similar stories before, but still the war went on. When he arrived at the scene he discovered that the chaos, after this offensive on the Somme, was far worse than anything he had experienced before. He had been informed that the enemy machine guns were capable of firing as many as ten thousand rounds of ammunition in a single day, and this was what the British Tommies were facing when they went over the top to cross to the enemy lines. Then there was the obstacle of the barbed wire entanglements to be overcome. Advance parties were sent out at night to destroy as much of it as they could, but it was not always possible to complete the task. When forced to retreat the unfortunate soldiers would be faced with another volley of machine-gun fire. It was rumoured that more than six thousand officers and men had been killed in one day, their bodies often left to lie untended in the mud.

A poignant sight, to Arthur, and one he would never forget was that of the dead and wounded lying on stretchers in the fields of golden corn, where blood-red poppies waved in the breeze.

It was on his second trip back to the dressing station that he noticed, lying on one of the stretchers awaiting transportation to the clearing station, a figure who looked familiar. He was covered in mud and although he had been cleaned up as much as possible, there was still blood on his face, which must have poured from the wound on his forehead. His head was bandaged, but beneath the dressing Arthur could make out the features of Bertram Lucas. He recognised his beard, which was longer now, and his moustache, over a wide sensitive mouth. He did not know him very well. Bertram was one of the relations he had acquired when he, Arthur, had married Jessie and had become a member of the somewhat complicated Moon family. Bertram, he recalled, had been a photographer, and had married Hetty, the eldest – and, it had been discovered, illegitimate – daughter of William Moon. They had met on family occasions and Arthur had always found him to be a grand sort of fellow.

He knelt by the stretcher and spoke to him. ‘Bertram…it is Bertram, isn’t it?’

The man opened his eyes and Arthur could see that it was, indeed, his relation. He was a sort of stepbrother-in-law; he had never really worked out the exact connection. His grey eyes looked glazed and blank for a moment, then he said, somewhat
confusedly, ‘Arthur…what are you doing here?’

‘I’m an ambulance driver,’ said Arthur. ‘Don’t you remember…?’

Bertram nodded weakly. ‘Yes…I think so…’

‘And I’ve come to look after you and see that you get better. We’re going to move you on to the next station, then they’ll get you all ship-shape again. It’s just your head, is it?’

‘I don’t know… My leg as well, I think. It hurts. I’m hurting all over…’ His face was ashen and his eyes dark with pain. Arthur did not investigate what lay beneath the blanket covering the lower half of his body. Bertram closed his eyes again, and it was obvious that he was in a bad way.

Arthur summoned the stretcher bearers to carry him to the ambulance, and when they had their full quota he set off, driving across the rough terrain as carefully as he was able, to the next field station.

On his journey Arthur thought about the other men of the Moon family who were over here, somewhere. He had heard very little news of any of them. He trusted they would all survive and escape serious injury, but he knew that that was a vain hope. It was his responsibility now, though, to do all be could to help Bertram.

He remembered the others and their happy
family get-togethers before this wretched war had started and spoilt it all. There was Freddie Nicholls, who was married to Maddy; they had a little girl, Amy, who was the same age as his and Jessie’s son, Gregory. Then there was Jessie’s brother, Tommy, and his good friend Dominic, who was now engaged to Tommy’s twin sister, Tilly. And Samuel, Jessie’s elder brother, whom they did not see very much. Arthur recalled now that Samuel was the real father of Hetty’s little girl, Angela, but she had always believed Bertram to be her daddy. But all these matters were irrelevant in the face of the terrible conflict they were all now engaged in. He muttered a quick prayer that all would go well for Bertram.

In his dugout a few miles distant, Samuel Barraclough, also, was thinking about the folks back home, and the members of his own family – in whom, he now confessed to himself, he had in the past taken little interest – who were, like himself, fighting in France, and not too far away, he presumed.

Samuel had risen through the ranks quite speedily, for reasons that he didn’t like to think about too much, and was now a captain in the Durham Light Infantry. His dugout was not at all bad, compared with the hell-holes in which some
of the poor devils were forced to exist, day after day. It was rather more than a trench, having the remains of a hut built on to it on one side. It was well sand-bagged and furnished, to a degree. There was a table and a few chairs, rather battered, that a nearby farmer had loaned; a bedstead with a mattress, and a few extra straw mattresses; a wash-stand with a jug and bowl; and a small cupboard which contained a few provisions that were rather more appetising than the customary bully beef; even a few bottles of local French wine and packets of cigarettes.

His men had helped to make the billet as comfortable as was possible. Samuel had been surprised at the comradeship – he would even go so far as to call it friendship – that had developed between himself and men of other ranks, and not just the commissioned soldiers or those who came from a similar, privileged background. One of his closest comrades was, surprisingly, a Church of England padre, Andrew Machin, the vicar of a church in a little village in Northumberland. The automatic status of any priest who volunteered as an army chaplain was that of captain. Andrew, though, was from quite an ordinary, working-class background. His father had been a miner, who was now retired due to ill health, and his mother was a nurse.

Samuel had first encountered the Reverend Andrew Machin when he had attended a service of Holy Communion that the chaplain was conducting in the barn of a nearby farm. Services were being held in all sorts of places; in barns and ruined farmhouses, in farmhouse kitchens, in the bars of public houses, and sometimes even in the trenches when it was hoped that the enemy fire had died down for the night. The services were usually held at night when the men would be relatively safe from attack, although one could never be sure when another skirmish might start.

Samuel could not have said why he attended the service, only that he felt it was something he had to do. He had never been a religious sort of person. He had been confirmed in the Church of England faith when he was fourteen years old, mainly as a matter of course. It was the church his parents had always attended, although spasmodically, and it had been considered the right thing to do. Since leaving school and going to university he had hardly ever attended a church service, except for the obligatory marriage or funeral services of family members. He had always had a grudging admiration for Isaac Moon, the father of his stepfather, William, who all his life had been a staunch Methodist, one whose faith
had never wavered. But he, Samuel, had never felt able to give credence to something that was not based on scientific fact.

Until recently, that was… Now, in the midst of this bloody conflict, he found himself searching for something – anything – that would make some sense of it all. All around him, day after day, men were being killed or cruelly maimed. He had seen several of his fellow officers, men who had been his friends and many who had been under his command, killed on the battlefield. Some of them, he knew, had been far more worthy human beings than he had been; they had not deserved to die. And one never knew when it might be one’s own turn…

Samuel was beginning to realise, to his shame, that the life he had led till now had been far from blameless. Not that he was an out and out scoundrel, he excused himself. He had never broken the law; he was not a thief or a murderer. But he knew that he had fallen far short of the standards by which folk considered you to be ‘a first-rate chap’. Certainly, he had not come up to the standard that his own mother might have hoped he would attain.

He had fallen into conversation with Andrew Machin after the communion service he had attended. He had discovered that he was a very
human sort of fellow, one in whom he found himself wanting to confide.

‘I hadn’t taken communion for years,’ he told him. ‘I couldn’t say how long it has been; not since I was eighteen or so, I suppose. But I feel better for it. I can’t really explain why…’

‘That’s why we’re here,’ replied the padre. ‘Myself and all the others who have volunteered to serve God in this way. To try to make people feel better and give them the strength, maybe, to carry on. I’ve met many like you, who have never set foot inside a church for years. I don’t judge or condemn, you know, Samuel; and neither, I believe, does God.’

‘I find it hard to believe in Him,’ said Samuel. ‘I hope that doesn’t shock you too much…’

‘No, not at all.’ Andrew shook his head. ‘I’ve heard that statement many times before, believe me.’

‘If God exists, and if He’s all-powerful, as I remember we were taught at Sunday school, then why does He allow it? All this…’ Samuel waved his arm towards the sand-bagged entrance to the dugout. The sound carrying from a few miles away, they could hear the noise of distant gunfire. ‘It’s all going on out there. We’re safe at the moment, thank God, but we don’t know for how long.’

The chaplain smiled. ‘You said, “Thank God.”
So you do believe in Him, don’t you?’

‘It’s what we all say, isn’t it?’ replied Samuel. ‘Yes…maybe I do believe, deep down. But why… why, Andrew? May I call you Andrew, by the way?’

‘Of course you may. I’m serving my country, just as you are. The fact that I wear my collar back to front doesn’t make me any different from the next man. I can’t tell you why, Samuel. But it makes a little more sense if you realise that it’s not what God wants. It all comes down to man’s inhumanity to man, on a very large scale. It’s men who cause the wars – mankind, I should say, not just men – for whatever reason. Love of power, the desire to dominate, to be bigger and better than one’s neighbour… But I do believe, in the end, that right will prevail. It’s what I have to go on believing, or I don’t think I could continue.’

‘You’re doing a grand job,’ Samuel told him. ‘Not all padres are like you, you know. I’ve come across one or two who have a real cushy little number. They give comfort from the safety of the headquarters; reading letters to the lads who are illiterate, holding the occasional service in a safe billet…’

‘Yes, I realise that,’ smiled Andrew. ‘But you can’t blame them entirely. The Church has made it clear that they don’t want us to venture near to
the enemy lines; they think we might get in the way. But it’s a rule made to be disobeyed. I think – I hope – that most chaplains do as I do. I shall go wherever I believe it is necessary for me to go. I might think differently, of course, if I had a wife and family at home, but I haven’t.’

‘You’re not married then?’

‘No, not yet,’ said Andrew. ‘There’s a young lady in my parish. I trust she’ll still be there when all this is over… How about you, Samuel?’

‘No, I’m not married,’ replied Samuel. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well. There’ll be plenty of women left as widows when this lot comes to an end. So I’ll make one less… Strangely enough, though, I’ve never really considered that I might not get through it.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘The devil looks after his own, you might say.’

Andrew Machin looked at him questioningly and Samuel felt an urge to talk about his far from exemplary past. ‘No…I’m not married,’ he said again. ‘I’m thirty years old. Many of my peers are married and have a couple of children by now, but not me…’ He shook his head a little dejectedly.

‘The same age as I am,’ said Andrew. ‘Well, I’m thirty-one, actually. But I have felt no urge to get married until I found the right girl. And I know that Irene is the right one for me. It’s far better to wait than to “marry in haste, repent at
leisure”. That’s what they say, don’t they? You were saying…?’ he asked enquiringly. The padre felt that his new acquaintance – whom he hoped might soon be a friend – wanted to confide in him.