The Nurse's War (34 page)

H
e awoke very early to a light filled room. The sun had found chinks in the lopsided blackout curtain and was dancing its narrow beams from wall to wall. He pushed open the window and breathed in the sharp tang of a full tide. It was a day for walking, he decided. You could walk for miles in London and never feel refreshed, but here the clear air of the South Downs beckoned. He wasn’t sure about Daisy, wasn’t sure she was up to the expedition. She’d left the sick bay only recently and he reckoned they would have at least a mile climb from where the bus dropped them. The view alone would be worth the effort, but he didn’t want to exhaust her.

She was intensely vulnerable in every way. She hadn’t so far confided much of what had happened to her the night she’d arrived at Pitt House. She’d been imprisoned somewhere and managed to free herself, that much he knew, then walked or stumbled her way to the house. But everything else remained an unknown, and he didn’t want to pry. He guessed she wasn’t yet ready to revisit those difficult moments. Not ready either to revisit Gerald’s death.
He had no idea how she felt about Mortimer. She’d wanted to be free of him, he knew. The man had been nothing but bad news for her since the day she’d married, and she was sensible enough to know she’d do better without him. But the human heart was unpredictable, and Grayson suspected her husband’s death had affected her in ways she hadn’t bargained for. It was bound to have brought back memories of their first days together, when she still hoped for a happy ending, but there would be memories, too, of the deception and danger he’d inflicted on her. Grayson longed to scoop her up in his arms and make her forget, and there had been several moments yesterday when he’d been sorely tempted. Last night she’d looked so lovely, wearing the very same dress he’d slipped from her shoulders at the Ritz, that he’d wanted to do the same again. But that was just about the worst thing he could have done. He must be patient, he told himself. He must give her time and hope that, finally, she would come to him.

It was only just past ten when they clambered from the bus at Old London Road and turned into a bridleway marked
Chattri and Windmills.

‘It’s an unusual word,
chattri
,’ Daisy remarked. ‘Unless it’s peculiar to Sussex.’

‘Not Sussex. It’s a Hindi word. Urdu too. It means “umbrella”.’

‘Why umbrella?’

‘The monument is shaped like one, I think, as a symbol of shelter. It offers protection to the memory of the dead.’

‘It sounds very spiritual. It must have been designed by an Indian.’

‘It was, by an architect from Bombay.’

‘He chose a wonderful position for his handiwork.’

They stood and gazed around them. They were surrounded by hill after hill, folding one into another and etched against a cloudless sky, as though cut from cardboard. Only the seagulls, swooping and hovering above, broke their smooth contours. Ahead, a white chalk path meandered its way upwards in an ever steeper curve.

‘We should save our breath for the climb,’ he warned.

It was going to be a long climb, he could see, but Daisy, swinging along beside him, seemed untroubled. He looked down and saw her mouth upturned in pleasure. It was a glorious day to be walking out, the sun warming their faces, and spreading its glow far and wide over the green downland.

He carried a large basket in one hand but had refused to tell her just what was in it. He’d managed to persuade or otherwise bribe the kitchen staff to pack a picnic that went beyond the limits of rationing. The chef had even discovered a stray bottle of wine unaccounted for, and Grayson had managed to whisk a couple of glasses from the breakfast table and cadge a corkscrew. He wanted it to be a memorable day, perhaps the first of many.

A large octagonal structure swam slowly into view. In
the last few minutes, Daisy had begun to look a little wan, but she’d done far better than he’d expected, and they had almost reached the gleaming white marble without pausing for breath. As always, she was far tougher than her fragile appearance suggested. The memorial sat proudly atop the hill with greensward stretching beneath its feet in every direction. In the distance, slate roofs and red brick spread for miles east and west, but to the south beyond the town, a thin ribbon of blue marked the moment where sea met sky.

‘It’s quite beautiful,’ she breathed, as they finally drew level with the white marble dome and its eight pillars. She walked slowly towards it and read the inscription carved in both English and Hindi:

To the memory of all Indian soldiers who gave their lives for their King-Emperor in the Great War, this monument, erected on the site of the funeral pyre where the Hindus and Sikhs who died in hospital at Brighton passed through the fire, is in grateful admiration and brotherly affection dedicated.

‘How very splendid. And these are all the names.’ She traced her finger down a roll call of soldiers. ‘These are all men who died in Brighton?’

‘I believe so. They’re a small fraction of the Indian soldiers, who fought in the Great War, of course. One and a half million of them.’

He walked forward to join her and in silence read the names. ‘There are so many,’ she said.

‘Thousands were lost at Loos and Neuve Chapelle and
the Somme, too. Such carnage and so near at hand. It’s said the boys playing cricket at Brighton College could hear the sound of the Somme guns.’

‘My mother might have known some of these men.’ Daisy’s eyes were heavy with sadness.

‘And helped to save many more, don’t forget.’

‘I wonder …’

He said nothing and she began again, ‘I wonder … if it was one of these men who gave her the brooch in the photograph. You thought it had probably been mass produced in England and sold on a market stall. But what if it was the real thing? After all, it was a copy of a pendant worn by a local goddess. Nandni Mata. Do you remember? What if one of these men gave it to her as a thank you? It might have come from India after all, from Jasirapur even.’

‘It’s possible,’ he conceded. He could see that it was something she wanted to be true. ‘We’ll never know, but when you look at the photograph again, you can think of this place.’

She turned around in a full circle, her eyes sweeping across the landscape, unrolling mile after mile beneath their feet. ‘It’s the most beautiful setting for a monument, but so isolated.’

‘It was the cremation site for the Hindu and Sikh soldiers, like the inscription said. The monument is built where the funeral pyre was lit. Then, after cremation, the ashes would have been scattered in the sea.’

‘As Hari Mishra’s will be.’

‘As Hari Mishra’s,’ he agreed. ‘The Moslem soldiers were buried some way away. At a mosque in Surrey, I think.’

She turned back to the list of names, her finger running down the lines, one by one. He didn’t know why they were so important to her, and perhaps she didn’t either. She was almost at the end when her finger stopped. He saw she had reached the letter ‘R’.

‘Rana,’ she said, her face shadowed. ‘Anish’s name. But this can’t be his father.’

‘There are plenty of Ranas in India. Why did you think of him?’

‘Anish told me his father had been wounded in France and sent to England to convalesce. I wondered if he came to Brighton.’

‘He might well have done. The Pavilion hospital was one of the biggest centres for Indian casualties.’

‘He died on the Somme eventually, you know. That was after he’d been patched up in an English hospital and sent back to France. To his death.’

Something was worrying her, but he couldn’t fathom what. Any mention of Anish Rana always produced this strange reaction in her. It wasn’t sadness as such. That was a mild emotion, that was what she felt for Gerald, it seemed, and a life together that had gone so wrong. Rather it was a kind of angry grief. In some mysterious way, she felt deeply connected to the man.

‘You think your mother might have known Rana senior?’

‘It’s possible, isn’t it? If he was sent to Brighton for recuperation and she was training Indian orderlies here, they may have come across each other.’

‘If you really wanted to find out, you could.’

‘How?’

‘Go back to India and speak to Rana’s family.’

‘Back to Jasirapur?’ She looked astonished.

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know if I could.’ There was a tremor to her voice. She was scared of the idea, he could see.

He moved a little closer to her and they stood together looking at the Chattri’s smooth, white dome and its fluted marble pillars.

‘Perhaps if I travelled with you, you might consider going.’

‘But you couldn’t. Your work is in London.’

‘I reckon I could always swing a visit. There’s bound to be plenty of loose ends to tie up, once the war is over.’

‘It’s always “once the war is over”. If it ever is.’ ‘No pessimism allowed on this fantastic day. Come on, we’ll find a comfortable perch and then we’ll eat.’

He walked a little further along the path until he came to a small clump of weathered bushes. The grass beneath them was a cropped cushion. ‘What do you say?’ he called back. ‘Will this do?’

She lingered awhile, but then started along the path towards him. He spread the rug that with great good fortune
he’d found at the top of his wardrobe, and by the time she reached him, he’d half unpacked the basket.

‘So that’s what you’ve been keeping hidden. It looks delicious.’ She plumped down beside him.

‘It’s meant as a treat. I hope it lives up to its promise.’

‘Even if it doesn’t, the whole weekend has been a treat.’

‘And one you’ve deserved. Every hour of it.’

‘One we’ve both deserved,’ she said. ‘Treats are in short supply these days.’

He looked out over the rolling grassland, his eyes just making out the white-tipped waves in the far distance. ‘What do you think life will be like when the war is finally over?’

‘It’s anyone’s guess.’ The corners of her mouth drooped a little.

It
was
anyone’s guess how this terrible conflict would end, he thought, but you had to believe that right would triumph and life would be good again. ‘You’re certain to have been made matron by then.’

She giggled. ‘In that case it’s going to be a very long war.’

‘I’m afraid it will be, but we’ll come through. And you’ll be riding high. You’ve a profession now and there will always be a need for nurses. It’s the soldiers that worry me, the men returning from battle. What do they have to look forward to? And the women. How will they feel once the euphoria of peace is over? Right now they’re doing men’s work—sweeping the streets, working the buses, manning
the factory floor. Even the ones with small children. But they’ll be shooed back into the kitchen, and that will come hard. Hard for the men, too, knowing their wives and sweethearts can do their job as well as they.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s impossible to know how people will feel. It will be a different world. Can we eat now?’

‘We certainly can. See, I need you to kick me into shape—stop the dreamy bits from taking over. Here—’ and he offered her the small plate of sandwiches. ‘Ham, I think. Well, more probably Spam.’

She smiled across at him, sandwich in hand. ‘Whatever it is, it tastes wonderful.’

‘Can’t be Spam then. But this
is
a pork pie—shall we share?’

She nodded happily. ‘I’m sure it’s eating out of doors that makes the food taste so good.’

‘It’s certainly better than anything we’ve had so far this weekend.’

‘Or it could just be that you bullied the hotel unmercifully to give us the best they had!’

He poured her a glass of wine and they lay propped up on their elbows, nibbling at the few small cakes the chef had packed, and looking out at the scene below them.

‘I don’t have anything to go for,’ she said out of the blue. ‘To India, I mean. I never made friends there. Only Jocelyn, and she’s living in Assam now. And as for talking to Anish’s family, I doubt they’d want to speak to me. Not after what happened to him.’

‘They could be persuaded, and it might do you good. You could exorcise some ghosts.’

‘I don’t need to. The ghosts have gone.’

He was fairly certain they hadn’t, but said teasingly, ‘Then it must be me that’s vanquished them.’

‘You’re very sure of yourself,’ she mocked. She plucked one of the long grasses at her side and tickled his nose with it.

He grasped her hand. ‘Enough, woman. And after that especially wonderful picnic.’

‘It was wonderful. Thank you for giving me such a happy memory. And for being so patient,’ she added, leaning down and kissing him on the cheek.

He’d been determined to keep an iron hold on himself and thought he’d done well, but this was a provocation too far. He reached out and pulled her into his arms. ‘Not that patient.’

He hadn’t meant to, but in the end he found himself powerless to resist. He kissed her fully on the lips, a long and loving kiss. Then silently cursed himself. He’d ruined the day. She would pull away, distressed. But she didn’t. Instead, she took his face in her hands and kissed him back.

She had wanted this for days, she realised, the minute his lips touched hers. His kiss was tender, so tender it made her want to cry. She stroked his hair and he
kissed her again much less gently this time. She could feel his hands on her body and she liked it. His kisses grew deeper and more insistent and she liked that too. She tangled her arms around his neck and pressed him close, rejoicing in his hard warmth. A low ache began somewhere deep in her body. She wriggled out of her skirt before his hands had slipped her thin blouse open. Her breath was coming fast. She took his head between her hands and pulled his mouth down to her breasts. Then gave a small gasp as a sharp burst of pleasure shot through her. He looked up and his smile was loving, intent.

‘There’s some of you that hasn’t yet been kissed,’ he said. ‘We must put that right.’

And his lips moved downwards, kissing her over and over, until her legs grew boneless, and her entire body was wrapped in heat. She reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders. There was only one thing she wanted and that was him, all of him.