Keepsake (45 page)

An hour after midday, she and her travelling companion stopped to buy food at a small town, where, by coincidence, a string of VAD ambulances were bringing wounded to the railway sidings. Forgoing the opportunity to eat and
leaving Williams to type his notes, an anxious Etta went immediately to inspect the men on stretchers as each was laboriously transferred to the train. She walked amongst those still lying and sitting on the platform, clasped the hands of those strong enough to reach out to her in cheery greeting, lighted cigarettes for them, asked if there was anything else she could do.

One issued cheek despite his blood-stained bandages. ‘Yes, you can give us a kiss.’

‘Gladly,’ she said, without hesitation pressing her lips to his brow, to much stoical jocularity from others and pleas for her to do the same for them. ‘I’m sure my husband wouldn’t mind.’

There were groans. ‘Might’ve known a corker like you would be married!’

Which gave her the opening to ask if any of them knew Marty, or at least knew of his unit. But alas, no one did.

So, after a quick bite to eat it was back on the road again, stirring up the dust for another thirty miles or so, when, stiff and uncomfortable from the tortuously slow pace of travel due to all the obstacles and the poor state of the roads, they stopped again and knocked at the door of a cottage to ask if the owner could provide food and drink. This impromptu course of action was to be repeated as, veering northeastwards, they drove throughout the late afternoon across the border into Belgium, the villagers happy to oblige with what refreshment they had, sometimes charging exorbitant rates, sometimes nothing at all. Neither language nor dialect formed a barrier, the rather weary-looking inhabitants seeming to understand what was required, which was as well, for just when Etta had begun to grasp a few Gallic phrases the local tongue became predominantly Flemish. Every outbuilding, every barn now seemed to house those who had been dispossessed and driven out by the enemy, forced from the place that she herself was travelling towards; every other field an army
encampment. Since having their passports stamped, the driver had become increasingly nervous that they were getting very close to the war zone and now announced himself not keen to go further, until Williams offered a hefty bribe, then on they went, showing their passes at village after village, towards the sound of the guns.

Yet even as they drew nearer the theatre of war there were pockets of tranquillity to be found. Considering it was now early evening they decided to put-up for the night, but unable to find a hostelry that was not crammed with military, they drove onwards for a little while along the narrow backroads and eventually came across an inn, which, being on higher ground, had a splendid view of the surrounding area. Here, after allowing herself to be treated to egg and chips, Etta voiced a desire to take an evening stroll in the sunshine, and with her journalist companion was to wander unmolested amongst flowers, birds and butterflies, to gaze upon a vista of windmills and hop gardens, the countless church spires of this deeply religious country adding paradox – when no more than five or six miles away across that green plain could quite clearly be seen the white tents of an advanced dressing station, and, only a little further, the puffs of white smoke as the artillery of friend and foe harangued each other in fine voice.

The sun began to set, the gunfire to diminish. A soldier appeared on the scene, reminding them that civilians must be in by dark, and so they made their way back to the inn, here to capture what was left of the balmy evening, sipping drinks by an open window. On the breeze, from the direction of the camp hospital, came the faint strains of a bugle. Overwhelmed by thoughts and fears for Marty, Etta suddenly bent her head and wept. Gently, Williams took the glass from her hand, replacing it with a handkerchief. Etta buried her grateful face within and surrendered to the tears, barely noticing the large supportive hand on her shoulder until its warmth lingered just a fraction too long,
and at this she moved away as politely as she could to extricate herself and retreat to her room, wishing not to offend but to be alone.

Dawn broke to a horrible din, its effects causing a slight tremor of the breakfast cups and saucers. From then on life became exceedingly more tense, papers being demanded at every turn of the way, the only other presence on the road now being army personnel. Long convoys of motorwagons carrying ammunition and rations from the railheads, stirring up clouds of dust. Behind them and restricted to a crawl, the car bumped its way over the worn pave, taking three hours to cover three miles. Long before this there had been signs of the violence, homes tumbledown and abandoned. Now, though, came gruesome indication of how close they actually were: dead farm animals, some horribly mutilated, others whole but inflated by gas, their rigid limbs directed at the sky.

‘We must be in shell range.’

Even without Robert Williams’s grave assertion, Etta guessed for herself that their vehicle would inevitably be stopped, and when they came upon a traffic post with its massing troops and a provost barred their way she was not altogether surprised.

‘I’m afraid I can’t let you go any further,’ the redcap told the driver first, becoming doubly adamant upon seeing that one of the occupants was a woman.

Williams leaned forward from the back seat and introduced himself. ‘I’m trying to help this young lady who’s searching for her missing husband. We have permits.’

Until now Etta’s innate confidence had helped her to bluff a way through any hurdle. With this same air she produced her authority to be in Belgium, interjecting the loud whizzes and explosions and the crackle of rifle fire to say, ‘I’m a volunteer with Lady Fenton.’

But the provost was unimpressed, glowering coldly from
beneath the slashed peak of his cap. ‘I don’t care who or what you are, that’s not the right permit and you’re not going any further without one.’

‘I must protest most vigorously!’

‘Protest all you like!’ With this ungallant retort the redcap ordered the driver of the car to steer into a farm gateway and turn it around.

‘Well,’ sighed Etta’s companion as they headed back at snail’s pace along the congested road for the village they had just left, ‘I don’t know what to suggest you do now, Mrs Lanegan.’

‘Thank you for all your help anyway, Mr Williams,’ replied Etta sincerely. ‘If you’d be so good as to ask the driver to stop once we’re out of sight of that military policeman I’ll get out and attempt to find my way via another route.’ When he looked at her questioningly, she added, ‘I’ve no intention of giving up after I’ve come so far.’

‘And I’ve no intention of deserting you so close to the war zone,’ he told her sternly.

‘I shall be perfectly all right,’ came her airy response. ‘I have a gun.’

He blurted an amazed laugh. ‘Then I’m most definitely not leaving you to your own devices!’

‘Please don’t address me as if I’m a simpleton!’

‘That’s exactly what you are! Don’t you know you could be shot as a spy? You’re staying with me till we decide what to do.’

And with that Etta had little option but to return with him to the place they had just left.

Unable to persuade her to hand over the firearm but accepting her promise that she would not try to use it, Williams spent the rest of that day talking matters over with her, and tried to find a mayor or someone in authority who could give them the correct paperwork. When this failed, he drew up various plans, none of which were to
Etta’s approval, though she kept quiet for now. Her companion made great effort to cheer her spirits throughout that long day, concluding with as nice a supper and bottle of wine as could be bought in this small village, seemingly as keen as herself to bring the story to a happy conclusion. Yet something alerted her to the fact that this was not the case; some word, some look in those veteran eyes over the wine glass that made her realise his intentions towards her were not quite all they seemed. And though he never made a wrong move, and promised that he would continue to act as her escort and if need be accompany her on foot in the morning, her nod of gratitude veiled a deeper intention.

With the household still asleep, she crept away in the night.

Knowing she was at risk of being shot for breaking the curfew, camouflaged by her dark cape, Etta distanced herself from the road and took a furtive route across country, first groping her way through the field she had inspected last evening in order to ensure that it would pose few obstacles, aided by the occasional flare that burst in spidery fashion upon the night sky, and, once well away, resting in a small copse to await sunrise.

Then, on she went, shivering through the morning mist that was laced with the smell of heavy explosives, damp from the overnight dew; sweltering in the midday sun, through fields of poppies and gardens of hops, with singing larks and thunderous guns, occasionally stumbling upon areas of churned-up earth and barbed wire and splintered trees and dead farm animals, shocked even more by a small graveyard of wooden crosses. She provided an incongruous sight, with her little suitcase in hand as if on a trip to the seaside. Upon being fortunate enough to find an occupied dwelling where the farmer’s wife gave her bread and water, she paused only to consume this, before marching ever onwards in her single-minded pursuit. It was quite amazing
to find civilians still living and working so close to the line – gratifying too, for a woman like herself, grubby and unkempt as she had become, might blend in as a peasant all the better. There was no doubt that she was heading in the right direction, for the constant boom of artillery was much louder now; moreover, the landscape was almost as flat as a bowling green, and on the distant horizon could be seen the skeleton of a large town where a cloud of smoke signified some violent disturbance, its acrid, billowing fumes thick enough to taste.

But her perspective of the landscape was illformed, her goal much further than the sound and smell of the guns would indicate. Exhausted and hungry, with places of shelter few and far between, she paused for a while at a bombed-out cottage to relieve herself behind a wall, then to gorge on the pears and soft fruit that grew in the garden, to relax for a time as best she could with the intermittent thrash of warfare pounding in her head. Finally she splashed herself with water from a pump to remove the dust kicked up from the parched fields, though there was little to be done about the grubbiness of her attire. She examined the rent hem of her dress and tried to rub the brickdust from it, before heaving a sigh and setting off again.

That day seemed never-ending. God knew how many hours must have passed before she was forced to stop again. Remaining vigilant for local policemen, she spread her cape, sat down, took off her shoes and rubbed at the pink skin of her feet through the honeycomb of holes in her black stockings. Trying to gain further relief for her throbbing toes by rubbing them through the cool grass, she ate one after another of the pears that she had tucked into her case, meanwhile casting her despairing eyes upwards to watch, between the fleecy clouds, two aeroplanes engage in combat, held fascinated till one of them suddenly exploded into flames and plummeted to earth, its pilot and gunner with it. Unable to stomach any more fruit, Etta put her shoes
back on and rose, hefted her suitcase, draped her cape over her arm and staggered on.

With her garments drenched in perspiration, her fingers in agony from being curled around the handle of the case even after alternating it from one hand to the other, every ligament throbbing, she wanted to burst into tears but would not allow it, forcing herself to concentrate on the man she loved and the quest to find him.

And then her prayers were answered. There, just a hundred yards beyond, was a field amassed with soldiers at rest. Panting and perspiring, limbs racked with pain, from Etta’s parched lips a gasp of hopeful laughter emerged. She gazed for a second, taking in the scene: lines of picketed horses, men shaving, washing their clothes and spreading them out to dry along the hop scaffolds, others playing football, writing letters. Keeping her eyes alert for military policemen who might prevent her mission, she hurried towards the makeshift camp – and then another miracle! From a cluster of redroofed farm buildings a group of young peasant women appeared with baskets of fruit, and they too proceeded towards the soldiers, thus providing Etta with a shield! At once, she took advantage and rushed to join them, just as the jubilant soldiers made a similar beeline.

Immediately encircled by young men desperate for female company, the local girls attempted to display their fruit. But Etta was not here to hawk wares. Grasping one man’s arm and drawing him aside, she said, ‘Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but can you direct me?’

Remarking on the incongruity of her request and its delivery in a refined English accent, this soldier and others now flocked around her, wanting to know where the dustcoated maid had sprung from. ‘How did you get so close to the lines, Sister? Did nobody try to prevent you?’

She felt exhilarated. ‘Yes, but the only way they would
have succeeded in that would have been to hold hands and form a chain across the entire continent – I came across the fields!’

They laughed and admitted that there were still great gaps where no troops were to be found. ‘Let’s hope Fritz doesn’t do the same!’

‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any soap in there, have you?’ One pointed to her luggage.

‘Oh, certainly!’ She stooped quickly and threw open the case. ‘At least for one of you – are these lavender bags any use?’ These were eagerly snatched, the soldiers badgering her for whatever else she might be able to spare and quickly cleaning her out of the small gifts she had brought.

‘What happened to your face, Sister?’

She touched her cheek, which had been inflicted with several grazes in her stumbling passage over the detritus of war, imagining that she must look a mess; but, unwilling to be diverted from her true ambition, said simply, ‘I fell.’ Then she told them she was not actually a nurse as they assumed, but had come here to seek her husband, at which they further marvelled.