Somewhere in France: A Novel of the Great War (7 page)

Chapter 12

“W
hy don’t you begin by telling me about where you work?” she prompted. “Where is it? Your letters only say ‘somewhere in France.’ ”

“Just outside Aire-sur-la-Lys, a small village a few miles from Béthune. Though there’s been talk of moving us east, closer to the Front.”

“How close is it?”

“About seven or eight miles. But the guns are so loud you’d swear we were nearer than that. At first I couldn’t sleep for the noise, but now I hardly hear it.”

“What do you do?”

“We’re one of dozens of casualty clearing stations along the Front. If I had to sum it up, I’d say we save the men who can be saved. If their injuries are minor, we patch them up and send them back to their units. If they’re badly wounded, we stabilize them and send them on to a base hospital for further care. And if they’re too far gone for help, we keep them comfortable until they die.”

She nodded carefully, taking it all in. “What do
you
do?”

“I’m one of seven surgeons. As the wounded are brought in, one of us assesses them. If surgery is required, we perform it immediately, day or night.

“Before I came to France, I thought I’d seen everything. After all, I’d worked at a hospital in the East End. I’d operated on stabbing victims, people who’d been trampled by horses, men who’d been crushed by falling crates on the docks. But none of that comes close to what I’ve seen at the Fifty-First.”

He hesitated, wanting to give her a chance to ask that he change the subject to a safer, more anodyne topic.

“Go on,” she said, squeezing his hand.

At that moment he’d have given every shilling he possessed to be somewhere else, somewhere private, and to be free to embrace her. Just hold her gently, carefully, and in her arms know the bliss of forgetting.

“Since July, we’ve hardly had a break. The ambulances come in, and if I’m on triage, I assess the condition of the wounded. I only have seconds to decide who will get a chance to live and who will die. A straight amputation, you see, is quick; I can get through two or three in an hour. But anything more complicated . . .”

He took a fortifying gulp of his tea. “A man is brought in and there’s hardly a scratch on him. But his pulse is shallow, his breathing is labored, his color is poor. Clearly he’s in trouble. So the orderly and I look him over, examine him from top to bottom, and we find it: a tiny hole where a bullet, or a piece of shell casing, has gone in. His only hope is surgery. For me to cut him open and find out where it’s gone. When I do, I find that it’s ricocheted off a rib, or his spine, and has ripped open every vital organ, every artery, in its path. Damage like that can take me hours to repair, assuming the wounded man doesn’t die of shock or straightforward blood loss while I’m working on him. We are able to transfuse blood, after a fashion, but it takes ages and there aren’t always enough men who are well enough to act as donors.

“Yet while I’m busy trying to save that
one
man, half a dozen are dying in the pre-op tent. Boys, no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, calling for their mothers. And our nurses and orderlies are so overrun they can hardly spare a moment to hold their hands as they die.”

He looked up, did his best to meet her steady gaze. “I’ve seen terrible things, Lilly, but that’s the worst. Hearing them cry for their mothers as they die. And they try so hard to be stoic; would you believe they even beg my pardon for it?”

He looked away then; had to, or else reveal the hot, shaming tears that had gathered behind his closed eyes.

“I wish I knew what to say,” she said softly, her voice tremulous with emotion. “I had no idea it was so bad. You never said . . . in your letters you never said.”

Of course he’d never written of it. Why would he do such a thing to her? He blinked hard, praying she hadn’t noticed his pitiful lack of composure. And then he found the strength to look at her again. She was weeping silently, her cheeks marked by the tracks of her tears.

“I’m so sorry, Lilly. Truly I am,” he said, his guts churning with guilt. “I shouldn’t have been so frank with you. It was unforgivable of me to tell you such things.”

“It was nothing of the sort.” She dashed at her eyes with her sleeve and opened her reticule to search, unsuccessfully, for a handkerchief. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, found the worn square of cotton his mother had tucked there the day before, and pressed it into her hand.

“Thank you,” she said after she’d finished wiping her eyes. “You mustn’t mind these silly tears. I did tell you I would listen, no matter what. And I promise I can bear it.”

That was true enough. She was the sort of woman who could bear anything. But he knew himself to be a coward, at least as far as it came to Lilly, and so he took the easy way out and changed the subject.

“Has Edward mentioned anything of what he’s been through?” he asked, then cursed himself silently. How did that constitute a change of subject?

“In his letters? Very little. Just the usual jolly Edward sort of remarks. I’ve thought about pressing him on it—”

“For his sake, don’t. Life in the trenches makes my experiences look like a weekend at Cumbermere Hall. At least I have a reasonably comfortable bed to sleep in, with warm, or nearly warm, food when I’m hungry.” His voice shook with anger now. “And I don’t have to worry about being shot by a sniper, or drowning in a flooded shell hole, or getting tangled up in barbed wire and bleeding to death. That’s how they’re dying in this god-awful fucking mess of a war—”

He broke off, horrified. “I beg your pardon, Lilly. My choice of language was indefensible.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve heard that word. Remember where I work.”

“All the same, I ought to have minded my words.”

What a fool he was, to ruin what little time they had together. All he’d done was blather on about himself, terrify her with stories of the Front, curse like a navvy, and no doubt ensure she’d have nightmares of the worst sort for weeks to come. Well done, indeed.

In the distance, the chimes at Westminster called the quarter hour. He pushed back his greatcoat sleeve and checked his wristwatch with a sinking heart.

“It’s a quarter to twelve already. My train leaves in half an hour. Walk with me to the station, won’t you, and see me off?”

He beckoned their waitress, settled the bill, and escorted her outside. He felt a jolt of satisfaction when she took his arm, and resolved to enjoy every last moment of their time together. There would never be enough time to say what really mattered, to tell her how he really felt.

In a matter of minutes they had arrived at Victoria Station. He collected his kit bag from the left-luggage counter, slung it over his shoulder, and swung round to examine the departures board high above them. The train to Dover was leaving from Platform Three in ten minutes.

“Will you come with me as far as the barrier?” he asked. She nodded shyly, likely feeling as awkward as he.

When they reached his platform, he set down his kit bag and turned to her. “Write to me, Lilly?”

“Of course. But before you go, Robbie, there’s one thing—”

“Yes?”

“I’ve always wanted to know . . . on the night I saw you last, at the ball to celebrate Edward’s engagement, why did you leave without saying good-bye?”

God, no. Not now.

“I thought Edward would have told you. Something came up.”

“I was worried my mother might have said something, might have offended you in some way. Is that what happened?”

“Please, Lilly, not here—”

“I’m right, aren’t I? You must tell me.”

“She did speak to me. She told me you were engaged to Quentin Brooke-Stapleton.”

“It was a lie.”

“I see that now. I think we both know why she invented a fiancé for you.”

“If only I’d known. If only you’d mentioned it, I would have told you straightaway. There was never anyone else. Never. You do believe me, don’t you?”

“I do,” he promised, wishing in vain for time to say more.

At the far end of the platform, a whistle blew. “Lilly, I must go.”

He reached out, smoothed a curl from her brow, and bent to kiss her cheek. But she turned her face at the last moment—by accident or by design?—and her mouth brushed against his.

So soft. That was all he could think, at first. Her lips were so soft. When had he last touched anything so perfect?

He framed her face with his hands, stooping as he deepened the kiss. At last her mouth parted under the insistent pressure of his, and he dared to trace his tongue along the delicate, satin-smooth interior of her lower lip. Her hands, clutching the lapels of his greatcoat, had begun to tremble.

“Ahem.”

Reality descended in a chilly blast. They were standing in the middle of Victoria Station. Kissing. Not a yard distant from the platform attendant, who didn’t trouble to hide his amusement. In front of, oh hell, at least a score of Tommies, all clearly delighted to be witnessing such a scene.

Robbie took a step back, gently divesting Lilly’s hands from his coat, and attempted a reassuring smile.

“Good-bye, Lilly,” he whispered, and turned away. He managed to find his ticket, was waved past the barrier by the attendant, and made it through to the platform.

He knew she was watching and it killed him not to rush back to her, abandon all propriety, and kiss her again. He strode along the platform; every bloody car he came to was full. Kept on walking, his heart pounding, desperate to turn back and see her one more time. And then, finally, an empty compartment.

He climbed in, stowed away his kit bag, and let the train bear him away. Away from Lilly, back to the nightmare of his life in France.

Back to a war that had lasted so long he could no longer imagine its end.

Chapter 13

16 December 1916

Dearest Lilly,

Have been given leave for Christmas—just enough to get me home for two days. You must have Christmas lunch with me at the Savoy. Miss Brown, too, if she is free. Shall we say noon?

Love, etc.

Edward

Lilly arrived at the Savoy a half hour early on Christmas Day, expecting she would have to wait alone at their table, but to her delight Edward was already there, pacing back and forth in the lobby. He was thinner than when she’d seen him last, his cheekbones and high-bridged nose cast into stark relief by the electric lighting, his uniform hanging off his tall, too-slender frame.

“Edward!”

He turned and saw her, then swept her up in his arms and showered kisses on her hair. “Lilly, my Lilly. If you only knew how I’ve missed you.”

“In spite of all my letters?” she teased, laughing as he finally set her on her feet again.

“Yes, in spite of your jolly tales of life as a clippie. I couldn’t wait to see you today—I’ve been awake for hours. Happy Christmas, by the way.”

“And the same to you. When did you arrive home?”

“Yesterday afternoon. Just in time for a gruesome dinner
en famille
.”

“You poor thing.”

“I did my duty, no more. Shall we see if there’s a table free for us at the Grill?”

It was a rhetorical question, of course, for the moment they entered the restaurant the maître d’hôte appeared out of nowhere, greeted Edward by name, and ushered them to their table.

“Isn’t Miss Brown going to join us?” Edward asked as they were being seated.

“She is. But her shift at the hospital didn’t finish until eleven, and then she had to change and travel here from Kensington.”

A discreet cough alerted them that their waiter had arrived. “Happy Christmas, Lord Ashford, Lady Elizabeth. May I offer you an aperitif?”

“Yes, please. How are your champagne reserves holding up?”

“Very well, your lordship. May I suggest the Moët et Chandon Brut Impérial 1907?”

“Splendid.”

“And to follow, Lord Ashford?”

“Nothing just yet. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to order.” As soon as the waiter had departed, Edward turned back to Lilly.

“Let’s drink all the champagne straightaway. That way when Miss Brown arrives we’ll be three sheets to the wind and she’ll lecture us on proper deportment and behavior in public.”

“She’s not like that at all, Edward.”

“Yes, yes. But I do love getting under her skin. She takes everything so seriously.”

“And you make a game of everything.”

“Used to,” he muttered, not meeting her gaze. “Hard to play the fool when you’re standing knee-deep in mud and blood.”

“Robbie told me how bad it is. That is, he told me how horrible things are at his hospital, and then said it was much, much worse for you.” She reached out and took his near hand in hers, clasping it warmly. But he didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t last long if I had to do some of the things he does. Lopping off people’s legs and arms, for a start.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. But I only have today and part of tomorrow before I go back, and the last thing on earth I want to do is talk about it. Think about it, even.”

“So what shall we talk about?” she asked, deciding to be cheerful for his sake.

“Help me make the most of these few hours. Laugh at my jokes, complain about Mama, that sort of thing.” He grinned at her, and for a moment she saw the carefree, privileged, aimless boy he had once been.

A boy who had returned to her from school, not from a distant, nightmarish battlefield; a boy whose departure, when it came, would be to the safe, if boring, confines of Winchester or Oxford, where the worst thing awaiting him was a stern tutor and the prospect of punishing examinations. She blinked, and the boy was gone.

“Would you like to hear how difficult I was at dinner last night?”

“On
Christmas Eve
?”

“I enjoyed myself enormously, of course. I began by asking after the Pringles. That put rather a damper on the conversation. Then, when Mama began to complain about how difficult it is to find decent help, I rhymed off the names of the men from Cumbermere Hall who were killed at the Somme. We’re all in the same battalion, you know.”

“
Edward
. You’re too old to be playing the scamp.”

“But you love me for it. I even managed to work Robbie into the conversation,” he added.

“You didn’t.”

“I sang his praises for all to hear. And I may have happened to mention that the two of you had tea when he was last in London. No; don’t protest. Mama needs to know she hasn’t managed to keep you apart.”

“It’s cruel of you to taunt her that way.”

“Compared to what she did to you? To the Pringles? I think not.”

The champagne having arrived, he filled both their coupes to the brim and drank deeply, draining his glass. “Let’s talk no more of Mama, else you’ll put me off my food. What about Robbie? How was he when you saw him?”

“Well enough, I think,” she answered. “But tired and frustrated. I persuaded him to tell me about his work at the clearing hospital.”

“You said so earlier. Not a pleasant subject for teatime.”

“I was glad to listen, though it was awful in the details. Far worse than anything in the papers.”

“So was that all you talked about? His work?”

“No. I know you don’t want to talk about Mama, but . . .”

“Go on.”

“Well, when we were at the tea shop Robbie mentioned Quentin Brooke-Stapleton.”

“How would he know that layabout? He wasn’t at Oxford with us.”

“He doesn’t. For some reason Robbie was under the impression that Quentin and I had an understanding. Possibly even that we were engaged. I meant to ask him why, but we got on to another subject. And then, when we were at the station, I realized who must have told him.”

“Mama.”

“Yes. He admitted it. She told him, and I just know how she would have said it. In that dreadful voice that leaves one feeling about an inch tall.”

“I’ve heard it often. Robbie too.”

“But they only spoke the one time, so how—”

“People have always spoken to him like that. I can’t say what it was like when he was a boy at school, but it was pretty bad when we were at Oxford. Practical jokes, mainly. There was a hamper of laundry delivered to our rooms, with a note asking him to send it on to his mother. She was a laundress, you see. Or the time his books were taken from his table in the library while he was at lunch, and left at a pawnbroker down in Jericho.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing. He never reacted. Never so much as blinked.”

“Did it ever stop?”

“It petered out, mostly. Not much fun when the object of your scorn doesn’t appear to notice anything you do.”

“And now? I mean, was it bad when he was working in London?”

“His colleagues respected him, so I don’t think he was chaffed much while at work. But I know he couldn’t abide the do-gooders. You know the sort—philanthropists, politicians, bored society matrons. His hospital was perpetually short of money, so was always having dinners and teas and so forth. He hating attending, but if it meant more money for the hospital . . .”

Edward paused to drink down the rest of his champagne. “So he’d go and they’d trot him out as living proof that the great unwashed could, on occasion, drag themselves out of the gutter. ‘
Dear
Mr. Fraser,
do
be so kind as to tell us about your life in the
slums
. It must have been perfectly
frightful
.’ ”

“Slums? I thought he was from a village outside Glasgow. Auchinloch.”

“They moved when he was seven or so, after his sister died. I think he and his mother went to her parents’. But before that, they lived in the nastiest, dirtiest, most dangerous slum in Glasgow, and that’s saying a lot. Take the worst description of squalor you’ve ever read in Dickens, multiply it by a hundred, and you have the Gorbals. That’s where he was from.”

“He never said—”

“He doesn’t hide it. Never has. You had only to ask.”

“He must know that I don’t care. That it means nothing to me.”

“But it means something to
him
. How can it not? No matter how far he rises in the world, no matter how accomplished a surgeon he becomes, there will always be someone like Mama who feels the need to put him in his place. Or treat him like a sideshow at a traveling carnival.”

“Even now?”

“Even now. Have you ever wondered why he works so hard? Because it’s his escape. You might even call it his salvation. Any sense of worth he has comes from his work.”

“He is worthy. You’ve only to meet him to know the sort of man he is.”

“That’s just it, Lilly. He’s a
man
. Not a saint and not a hero. Just an ordinary man who is awfully talented at the work he does, and awfully insecure about his origins. Never forget that.”

“I must tell him, when I write to him next. I’ll tell him how proud I am, what a talented doctor he is—”

“Christ, no. That’ll only make it worse. Better to pretend none of that happened. It will only be salt in the wound if you do mention it again.”

“I suppose you’re right . . .”

“I am. Tell him about your work as a clippie instead. I know
I
find your stories vastly entertaining.”

“I’m glad you do.”

“I wish you would let me help you. You don’t have to work, you know, nor live in lodgings. You could stay at my house in Chelsea. Miss Brown, too, if you think you’d miss her. And it would be no trouble to set up an account for you at my bank.”

“Thank you, but no. I’m very happy in my lodgings and I’m very happy with my work.”

“How can you like it? Punching tickets in the rain, day after day?”

“Because I know I’m doing something to help. What was the poster I saw the other day? ‘Do a man’s job here so he may fight.’ That was it.”

“More like ‘do a man’s job here so he can be turned into cannon fodder.’ ”

“Oh, Edward. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know, darling girl. And I’m sorry for being such a bore. Have some more champagne.”

She waited for him to refill her glass and took a large and fortifying sip. “You haven’t said a word about Helena. When are you going to visit her?”

“I’ve scarcely been home twenty-four hours, my dear.”

“Is everything all right between the two of you? She hasn’t been put off by my break with Mama and Papa, has she? I’d assumed they kept it quiet, so as to avoid any scandal.”

“No, no. She hasn’t said anything about you. I doubt she even knows. It’s not as if the two of you were bosom friends, after all.”

“I know. Though I did enjoy her company on the few times we did meet.”

“And when you see one another again, you will see that she and I are still very much in accord. I was planning on paying her a visit this afternoon, after I take my leave of you and Miss Brown. And look now—here she is. Miss Brown, that is.”

They both stood as Charlotte approached, escorted by the maître d’hôte. After kissing Lilly on the cheek, she and Edward shook hands somewhat tentatively. If Lilly hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn they were meeting for the first time.

“Do have some champagne, Miss Brown,” Edward offered once they were seated.

“Thank you, Lord Ashford. Happy Christmas.”

“And to you, Miss Brown. You look very well today.”

Charlotte had evidently put some thought into her ensemble, for she was wearing her best dress, made of a fine dark blue wool, and a close-fitting black velvet hat that framed her face quite winningly.

“Have you ordered?”

“Of course not,” Lilly answered. “We were waiting for you.”

It had been ages since Lilly had gone out for a meal, only excepting the pot of tea she had shared with Robbie at the Lyons tea shop. Not having access to a proper kitchen, she and Charlotte subsisted on meals of toast, whatever tinned foods went well with toast, and cups and cups of tea. So this was a rare treat indeed.

Her tastes must have changed in the past year, however, for she found little on the menu that appealed. Lobster soufflé, Dover sole in oyster sauce, roast pheasant with truffles, filet mignon stuffed with foie gras and cèpes; all of it was much too much. She looked up and saw that Charlotte and Edward both appeared to share her lack of enthusiasm for the food on offer.

Edward summoned their waiter to the table with an almost imperceptible nod.

“I have a favor to ask.”

“Yes, Lord Ashford?”

“What I would really love is something rather more pedestrian. Some roast chicken if you have it, no sauce, with perhaps some potatoes alongside? And something green, too?”

“It would be our pleasure, Lord Ashford. Do you require a first course of any sort?”

“No, thank you. Just the main.”

“Very good. Shall I call up a bottle from our cellars for you?”

“Do you have any of the 1910 Chevalier-Montrachet la Cabotte left?”

“Of course, your lordship.”

“That will do. But not too cold.”

Now that they’d decided on their meal, another topic of conversation had to be found. Lilly was the first to wade into the fray.

“How was work today?” she asked Charlotte.

“Uneventful, which is the best sort of day. I expect you would say the same, wouldn’t you, Lord Ashford?”

“I do wish you would call me Edward.”

“And I prefer to address you in a formal manner. So please do stop asking.”

“But Lilly calls you Charlotte. Why mayn’t I?”

“You know very well why not.”

Charlotte was acting in a most unusual fashion. Normally she was the very soul of polite and agreeable behavior, but for some reason she appeared to be at odds with Edward. And on Christmas Day, too. Lilly determined to return the conversation to a more harmonious subject.

“Just before you arrived, Charlotte, we were talking about my work at the LGOC,” she began. “Isn’t that correct, Edward?”

“Quite correct,” he agreed. “In fact, I was about to share some interesting news with Lilly. At least it has the potential to be of interest.”