A Rose In Flanders Fields (15 page)

It seemed too quiet without the distant shout of the bombardment, and I wondered if I would ever get used to total silence again. Mother looked down at our hands, hers pale and elegant, mine rough and reddened, with chapped knuckles and splintered fingernails, and she raised them to her lips.

‘I hope I’m wrong, Evie,’ she said quietly. ‘And I hope he knows what he has in you.’

‘He knows me with all my faults, and he still loves me,’ I said. ‘That’s all I could ever hope for.’

She nodded, ‘I’ll see you at breakfast,’ she said. ‘Sleep well, and perhaps tomorrow we can talk a little more.’

I left her, feeling more than a little wretched despite the relief of having told her at last, and I suspected that tomorrow she would revert, at least in part, to the cool, detached woman I knew so well. But tonight she was just my mother, and I had broken her heart.

Mary and I sat together in my rooms and drank the hot toddies she’d brought up. We toasted Lizzy, and I told her about the dinner, and then about the conversation with Mother when the Wingfields had left. ‘She’s bending to my way of thinking, but it won’t last, I know it.’

‘She’s been under so much strain lately,’ Mary said. ‘Ever since young Lawrence accepted his commission. You can’t help but feel for her.’

‘I know. Everything’s changing.’

‘You always said it would.’

‘But I didn’t think it would take something like the war to make it happen. I thought it would be thanks to the suffrage movement.’

‘You don’t seem to be as favourable towards the Suffragettes as you were,’ she observed. ‘Why’s that?’

I shook my head. ‘I went to an anti-suffrage rally once, before the war, just so I could reinforce my beliefs. But things got quite nasty and I had cause to rethink things. I still believe in the movement, that hasn’t changed, but I’m not so sure about the methods anymore.’ I shrugged, and smiled faintly. ‘It seems we might find a better way to express ourselves than setting fire to buildings and committing suicide.’

‘Put like that,’ Mary agreed with a little laugh, ‘I’m sure you’re right. Lizzy said she had to clean Sylvia Pankhurst’s cell once, after she was forcibly fed. Said it’s absolutely horrible what they do to those poor women.’

‘Then there must be a better way. I hope we can find it. But first, there’s the small matter of a war to win. As for the war with Mother,’ I looked into my empty glass and sighed. ‘Object achieved, and a new Front’s been established.’ I handed the glass to Mary, who put it back on the little silver tray. ‘She called me Evie.’

‘She did what?’

‘Only once, but I think we only need to hold our position now, in order to declare victory.’

‘She’s not really the enemy,’ Mary said with mild reproach.

‘No, but sometimes it’s your own troops who have the capacity to hurt you the most.’ I looked up at her, with sadness pulling at my heart. ‘I’m going back tomorrow.’

Mary pursed her lips, but I could see she understood, even if she didn’t like it. ‘I’ll make sure you’re breakfasted well,’ was all she said.

And so, only a day after I’d arrived in what should have been the warm and welcoming safety of my home, I was back on the ferry to Calais. Mother had accepted my decision with, I was dismayed to see, something close to relief. I had no doubt that she worried, and that she missed me, but if my coming of age had been difficult for her, then the way I was now had drawn an even heavier curtain between us and she could no longer fight her way through the folds. So I was returning to the only life that made any sense now, looking forward and not back, regretting nothing.

It was less than a year later that I got the telegram.

Chapter Eight

July 14
^th
1916.

First there was the letter.

My darling Evie,

We are dug in at a place called Bazentin-le-Petit, having enjoyed an easy victory in this and Bazentin-le-Grand, and are resting while we await further orders. If our COs are to be believed I will be able to write again very soon, and at length. Hopefully without the censor stamping all over it either! We are optimistic at last, and I have only a few minutes, and little ink, but wanted to tell you again that you have been my heart’s constant companion throughout this war.

How we have survived this long apart is a question I have long since stopped asking; I only know that when I see you again, and taste your kiss, nothing less than the threat of death will drag me away from your side.

Boxy’s hand on my arm felt as if it were separated by thick winter clothing rather than the light cotton blouse I wore, and I looked from letter to telegram, with eyes that refused to believe what they were seeing. My gaze fell on the qualifying comment, below the rather stark information that Will had been “posted as missing” on July 16
^th
1916.

The report that he is missing does not necessarily mean that he has been killed, as he may be a prisoner of war, or temporarily separated from his regiment.

Official reports that men are prisoners of war take some time to reach this country, and if he has been captured by the enemy it is probable that unofficial news will reach you first. In that case, I am to ask you to forward any letter received at once to this Office, and it will be returned to you as soon as possible.

Should any further official information be received it will be at once communicated to you.

I am,

Sir or Madam,

Your obedient Servant

The telegram marked the beginning of four months of an exhausting mixture of anguish and hope, and more than ever before I longed to be able to just pick up the telephone and speak to Uncle Jack.

‘What could he do, though, even if he knew?’ Boxy asked, sensibly. She touched my hand, and I flinched away without really knowing why, except that any touch that wasn’t Will’s was the wrong one. I looked at her with a silent apology that she waved away. ‘Davies, listen. You go and search wherever you can. Ask at the hospitals and clearing stations, you need to do that. Take as long as you need, I’ll ask the chaps at HQ if they can get another pair of hands drafted in here.’

‘I’ll take one of the Belgian cars,’ I said with difficulty, my throat was tight with gratitude for her understanding and her brisk practicality. ‘I’ll leave Gertie for you.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, and her dry tone made me smile, despite everything. ‘Go on, poppet, get organised.’

But I couldn’t do much, after all. The dirty, bloody job of protecting the front was relentless in its throwing away of life and limb, and would not stop simply because one woman’s husband had gone missing.

Last November the 19
^th
brigade had gone over to the 33
^rd
division, newly arrived in France, and consequently Will had been with them at the rout that was High Wood, and it was the last time he’d been seen. The censors, at least for mail going between military units, had not deemed it necessary to block out the name of the town where they had dug in immediately after the successful raid at Bazentin; neither of the places he’d named were military targets. This, at least, gave me somewhere to start, but I couldn’t afford to keep putting fuel in the borrowed car, so all I could do was drive to Bazentin and volunteer at the nearest hospital, in the hope someone might remember seeing him.

Aware I was only a few miles from where Lawrence was stationed at Courcelette, I tried to find time to visit him. We managed a single, half-hour encounter before he had to leave again, and in that time I saw the beginnings of the changes that would break our mother’s heart all over again. We spoke a little, he expressed deep concern about Will, and we parted with a hug, the first since we had been small children; the slender shoulders beneath the uniform seemed those of a child playing dressing-up, and I returned to Bazentin grieving for yet another stolen youth.

My search continued. Whenever I had exhausted one avenue of possibility I simply started down a new one. A trained driver was never turned away, and before long I had visited every clearing station and hospital within twenty miles, giving my services and asking my questions until I could see looks of tired recognition on the faces of the nurses when they saw me.

It seemed everywhere I went I would hear some tale of a shell obliterating a man completely, so that all remained was the twisted tin of his hat, or some part of his uniform…I could not think of that happening to Will, and so I didn’t. I simply took every spare hour that was available to me, often sacrificing sleep, for fear of missing some opportunity. The irony was not lost on me, that when Boxy and I had been training I had searched among the wounded too, with the crawling dread that I would see Will’s face there. Now I would give anything to see him, even badly wounded; it would mean he could be helped: that he still lived was all that mattered now.

My determination drove me on, but it also wore away my strength. Even the news that Uncle Jack had returned, and had, as promised, arranged Lizzy’s release from prison, took a while to filter through the haze of fear and loss that enveloped me through my waking hours, and plagued me through my fragile sleep. However, seeing Lizzy herself during a brief trip home, and learning that Ruth Wilkins had actually been the one to steal the Kalteng Star, gave me a surge of renewed hope; Uncle Jack should have been my first port of call, even though I hadn’t known for sure he’d get my letters, and now he was home he could put his government connections to more good use. He would uncover the truth about what had happened to Will, and all I could do was pray it was a truth I could live with.

I gave the letter to Lizzy to post when she walked into town, and returned to Belgium two days later, throwing myself back into my work with all the guilt of one who’d been away too long and is desperate to make amends. Boxy kept up her usual chatter, carefully avoiding mention of Will, or even Benjy, but my head was filled to the brim with memories, images and dark, terrified imaginings. So, when the unfamiliar officer came to Number Twelve with a sombre look on his face, it was with a sense of complete disbelief that I listened to him stammering out news, not of Will, but of Lizzy.

Boxy and I sat waiting for the officer to return; he was reporting back to HQ and requesting leave to accompany me back to England. Boxy listened in open-mouthed amazement while I tried to explain in as few words as possible.

‘Lizzy found out it was one of the Wingfields who’d arranged for Ruth to steal the Kalteng Star. She and Uncle Jack went to the Wingfields’ home at Shrewford, but there was a confrontation. Uncle Jack was knocked down by Wingfield’s car, and soon after that Lizzy was shot.’

‘But she’s alive?’

I nodded. The shock of the news, so quickly followed by the relief of knowing they were both safe, had sucked all the breath out of me, leaving me shaking and light-headed. But there was more. I took a deep breath. ‘She’s alive, yes. And, as of a few days ago, so is Will.’

Boxy gripped my hand tight, for once speechless.

‘We don’t know where he is yet,’ I cautioned, as the officer had done to me when he’d seen my face. ‘The Wingfields do though, somehow. I don’t understand that part of it properly, all I know is that he’s been seen.’

‘Is he hiding somewhere?’ she managed at last.

‘I think so. He must be terrified he’ll be accused of desertion.’

‘Your Uncle Jack won’t rest until he finds him.’

‘But what if Will comes out of hiding before he does?’ I felt sick at the thought. ‘What if he’s arrested?’

Boxy put her arm around me, and gave me a squeeze, it was pointless to embrace false optimism; we had both been around the military for too long to believe in miracles, but Boxy’s voice, at least, was firm. ‘Well, we’ll just have to trust that Jack can find him first.’

Royal Victoria Hospital, Shrewford, November 1916.

When I arrived I was shown into a room to wait, and found Mary there, looking as white and ill as I felt. We embraced, and Mary told me all that had happened.

‘Samuel Wingfield found out where Will was. He had a photograph to prove it, and told Lizzy if she handed over the Kalteng Star he would tell her where Will is. She didn’t have it, of course, but she had to get it back to give to Samuel as if she’d had it all along, otherwise the bargain would have collapsed.’

‘And she was shot trying to get it?’

‘The shot would have hit Jack, but Lizzy burst into the room thinking he’d already been hurt, and she was hit instead.’

I thought about some of the wounds I’d seen and tended, the torn flesh, the shattered bone beneath, the pain in every tense line of the injured man’s body and the terror in their eyes…the knowledge that little Lizzy Parker had suffered the same thing lit a fire of utter fury in me for the Wingfields; if someone had put a gun in my hand right then I’d have gone to Shrewford Hall, and happily returned the violence. I swallowed my tears, with an effort. When I was at last permitted to see Lizzy I didn’t want to be red-eyed and distraught, no matter how deeply I felt it.

‘There’s something else,’ Mary said.

‘What?’

‘Lizzy and your Uncle Jack…they’re, well, they’re…’ I stared at her, and she sighed. ‘I was violently opposed at first, and I told Lizzy as much. But they’re so deeply in love, it’s the clearest thing in the world.’

I let the idea take hold, turning it over slowly. ‘He’s twice her age, almost,’ I managed at last, but even as my lips uttered the words I felt them lose that dead feeling and curve into a smile that found its echo in my heart. A little flare of pleasure cut through the darkness that had lived with me since July. Lizzy and Jack. Of
course
, Lizzy and Jack…how could anyone doubt they were made for each other? She was quick, clever and brave, and he was kind and funny, intelligent and occasionally hot-tempered, but if his political ire could be raised by one of my deliberately provocative statements, it could as easily be extinguished by nothing more than a grin from someone he loved. A grin from Lizzy. All those conversations we’d had, the three of us, all the cryptic little comments he’d made, and that smile when I’d told him and Mother I’d chosen Lizzy as my maid…