Until We Meet Again (16 page)

‘Shall I send your love to Tilly?’ he shouted across to Tommy, who was reclining on a make-shift bunk a few yards away, reading one of his favourite Sherlock Holmes books.

‘Yes, and tell her I’ll drop her a line before long,’ Tommy replied, putting his book aside and coming over to speak to his friend. They saw one another quite frequently, especially when there was a respite from the action, their platoons occupying adjacent dugouts.

Tommy peered casually over his friend’s shoulder and Dominic hastily put his hand over the page he had just written.

He grinned. ‘I’m afraid it’s private, Tommy,
old man! What you might call soppy stuff, just between Tilly and me.’

‘Fair enough,’ laughed Tommy. ‘I wasn’t trying to read it; just taking an interest, that’s all. I do owe them a letter back home, Mother and Uncle Will, as well as Tilly. I haven’t replied since Mother told me about Arthur joining the ambulance brigade.’

‘Yes, they soon got him over here, didn’t they?’ remarked Dominic. ‘I wonder if we shall see him at all?’

‘Anything’s possible, I suppose,’ replied Tommy, ‘although it’s not very likely. There are thousands of us over here and God knows how many miles of trenches.’

‘He’s at a field hospital near Ypres, didn’t you say?’ Dominic pronounced it as Wipers, as did all the seasoned die-hards in the trenches. It had been the scene of one of the first great British offensives, resulting in a staggering loss of life, and had been the beginning of the loss of morale to many. ‘And we’re near to Amiens. That’s – what? – at a guess about a hundred miles away. Anyway, jolly good luck to Arthur. He’s got what he wanted now, to be able to do his bit.’

‘Yes, and our Jessie is relieved, too, from what Mother says. She worries about him, of course, but she feels she can hold her head up now when she’s with her friends. They all had husbands who
were involved in the war, except for Arthur… That’s a good photo you’ve got of our Tilly,’ Tommy added. ‘I must say it’s a flattering image. She looks lovely.’

‘Flattering? Of course it isn’t,’ Dominic retorted. ‘It’s just like her; she’s a beautiful girl. Why? Haven’t you got one as well?’

‘No, I don’t need a photo of my twin sister,’ said Tommy. ‘All I need to do is look in the mirror.’

‘You’re flattering yourself now,’ laughed Dominic. ‘I’ve just said…she’s beautiful.’

‘And I’m not, eh?’

‘Mmm…there’s a certain resemblance,’ agreed Dominic. ‘The same red hair, of course, although it doesn’t show on the photo, and the same smile.’

‘And I must say that Tilly has smiled a lot more since she got friendly with you,’ said Tommy. ‘You’ve brought her out of herself. She used to be such a timid little mouse.’

‘Yes, I think we’re good for one another, Tilly and me,’ said Dominic. ‘To be honest – I’m being serious now, for a change – I think I’ve become a nicer person through knowing her. More tolerant, and not so skittish as I used to be. And I’ll always be so grateful that you brought us together.’

‘Don’t mench…’ said Tommy. ‘Put in a PS, will you, and tell Tilly I’ll drop her a line soon. Now,
if you don’t mind, I’m going to hit the hay.’ The statement was quite a literal one as their bedding consisted largely of straw-filled mattresses and a rough blanket. He picked up his battle-dress and slung it over his shoulder. ‘Cheerio then, mate. Sleep tight an’ all that; hope the bugs don’t bite!’

‘That’s a forlorn hope!’ answered Dominic. ‘Cheerio, Tom… Hey, hang on a minute. That’s my tunic you’ve got there.’

Tommy looked at it. ‘So it is. Sorry…easy mistake.’

‘Yours is over there, see, where you left it.’

Tommy went over to retrieve it and the book he had been reading. ‘It makes no odds,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any more of the ready than I have.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Dominic. ‘Although there’s precious little to spend it on, is there? See you then, Tom…’

He added a postscript to his letter, put it in an envelope and sealed it. Then he took out the volume of poetry that had been his Christmas present from Tilly. Old familiar poems and more modern ones, all of them well-loved. None more so that those of Rupert Brooke, whose untimely death in the Dardanelles had been a shock to all his admirers, making him something of a romantic hero. His death, though, in truth, was no more
tragic than that of thousands of others already lost in this terrible conflict. His poetry had a simplicity that spoke to the heart.

But Dominic did not want to die and tried never to think of the possibility. The poem spoke to him, though, not just of death but of life and the memories of his country that he loved so much. He had not realised until he was away from it how much he loved England, especially his own little corner of it in north Yorkshire.

Brooke spoke of the ‘thoughts by England given’. Dominic let his mind wander then, back to the leafy lanes of the Forge Valley in summertime, to the heather-clad moorland, the castle on the hilltop overlooking the sweep of the bay, and the mighty waves crashing against the rocks on a stormy day.

Chapter Fifteen

B
y the late spring of 1916 the convalescent home on Victoria Avenue was up and running. Faith had decided, with the approval of the other members of the family who were involved, to call it the New Moon Convalescent Home (For soldiers of all ranks). Faith, together with Maddy, Hetty and Jessica, had joined the Voluntary Aid Detachment – commonly known as the VAD – which had been formed in 1909 to supplement the Territorial Army’s medical services. Many members of the VAD were qualified nurses, but as well as the nursing staff the VAD provided welfare services to the sick and wounded servicemen. It was under the auspices of this organisation that the New Moon home was being run.

Faith, who had no nursing qualifications but who had been the instigator of the scheme,
was appointed as administrator, in charge of bookkeeping, salaries and staffing, and admissions and departures. Hetty, who had experience of office work through working for her father at the family undertaking business, was appointed as her assistant. Maddy and Jessica were also working on the auxiliary side, helping our wherever their services were needed; seeing to the general welfare of the patients and performing tasks that did not require actual nursing skills, such as dealing out pills and medication, helping the men to the bathroom, or assisting with the writing of letters home or with eating their meals. Some of the men had lost limbs and needed to learn to cope with what formerly had been part of their daily routine. One of the main duties was keeping up the morale of the patients. On the whole they were over the worst, having already spent time in the field hospitals before being sent back to England. Many of them, however, were still suffering from what was becoming known as shell shock, the consequence of being subjected night and day to the incessant noise of the shells and machine guns. They often woke in the night from a bad dream or felt lost and lonely and unable to sleep. There was always an auxiliary helper on duty at night, as well as a nurse, to cope with such problems.

One very keen assistant on the auxiliary side
was Priscilla Fortescue, Dominic’s cousin. She had shown her willingness to help in any capacity right from the start and had proved to be popular with both staff and patients. Jessie was the only one, apart from Faith, who had met her before and both of them had seen her, as most people did, as an insignificant sort of person, very much under the thumb of her parents. Now, after only a few weeks, there had been a remarkable change in her. She had become very much her own person, ready not only to receive orders but to take initiative. She was especially good at conversing with the patients who were in need of a shoulder to lean on or somebody in whom to confide, being a very good listener rather than a talker.

Mrs Baker was in her element in charge of the catering arrangements. She had a kitchen maid cum assistant cook called Freda – a young girl of fifteen – and between them they managed the three meals a day plus supper-time drinks. The cleaning of the home and the laundry – a mammoth task – was undertaken by two middle-aged ladies whom Mrs Baker had recruited from the church she attended. It was a happy work-force, under the direction of Faith Moon, who was always ready to listen to any problems or grievances, not that there had been many so far.

The professional nursing staff consisted of a
matron, Mrs Steele, who was proving true to her name with an iron grip on her staff. Her hair, too, was steel-grey and worn in a roll around her head when it was not covered by her cap. Her posture was that of a soldier on parade and she seldom seemed to relax. She was brusque and efficient, but Faith discovered quite quickly that this concealed a warm heart and a sympathy that could come to the fore when necessary. But Agnes Steele knew how important it was for nurses to be realistic as well as caring and that it could be a mistake to become too emotionally involved with a patient. The same rule, she had hinted, did not necessarily apply to the auxiliary helpers; that was why they were there in addition to the nurses. There was also a nursing sister, Florence Bartlett, and two nurses, one qualified and one probationer, Rose Bishop and Lilian Potter respectively.

They were able to accommodate up to twenty-four soldiers at a time. Faith had stuck to her principles in taking men of all ranks, both commissioned and non-commissioned servicemen. There was a certain amount of segregation in that the commissioned men occupied the rooms in the original Moon household. There were three bedrooms – now called wards – available, and there were always fewer patients from the commissioned ranks. The others were accommodated in the five
bedrooms in the next-door annexe. There were three beds in each room, plus wardrobes and chests of drawers, so there was not a great deal of space left over. They could not be called luxurious but the quarters were comfortable and more than adequate.

All the men ate together in the large dining room, except for those who might be rather unwell, whose meals would be served in their ward. There was a communal lounge too, with a piano and a wind-up gramophone. The strains of ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ or ‘There’s a Long, Long Trail a-Winding’ could often be heard echoing through the building.

The garden at the rear of the houses was quite lovely in the early summer of the year. The hedge that had divided the properties had been removed and replaced by flowerbeds with rose bushes and a selection of annual and perennial flowers, which would provide colour until the start of the winter months. Several of the men were often to be seen, in their distinctive royal blue uniforms, taking their ease on the lawns in the deckchairs and loungers. It was a haven of peace after the torment and misery they had all endured. It was little wonder that many of them did not ever want to leave.

One young woman who was not actively involved in the nursing home was Katy, Patrick Moon’s wife. It was during the early summertime that she confessed her feelings about it to her husband, although she was not normally one to complain about her lot.

‘I’m feeling quite left out of things,’ she said to him one evening in June, when they had finished their evening meal and were taking their ease after what had been a busy day for both of them. ‘I suppose I’m missing the company of your sisters. I used to see Hetty quite a lot when she lived down the road and when she was working in the office here.’ Hetty Lucas had left her home over the photographer’s shop when she had started work at the convalescent home. The studio had been closed ‘For the Duration’ ever since Bertram had joined the army. Hetty and Angela were now living with Jessie and little Gregory at their home on the South Bay so that Hetty could be near her place of work.

‘And Maddy and Jessie used to call and see me,’ Katy went on. ‘They’re all too busy now. And I feel sometimes that I ought to be working along with them. They’re all doing such a good job, ministering to those wounded soldiers.’

Patrick looked at her in some surprise. ‘I had no idea you felt like that. You’ve never said so
before. I thought you were quite happy; well…as happy as anyone can be, I mean, in the present situation.’

‘I’m all right,’ she replied with an attempt at a smile. ‘Maybe I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself, and I shouldn’t, should I? After all, you’re not away fighting like Bertram and Freddie, and Tommy. And now Arthur’s over there as well. I ought to be thankful that you’re still here.’

‘Yes, and you know how that makes me feel, don’t you?’ Patrick retorted a trifle bitterly. ‘I still feel that I should be over there doing my bit. I told Father so right at the start but he said I was needed here. And is seems as though the authorities are in agreement, because I haven’t been called up, not yet.’

‘I shouldn’t think you’re likely to be,’ answered Katy. ‘After all, you’re thirty now, aren’t you? It’s the younger men they’re calling up.’

‘Don’t remind me of my great age,’ Patrick said with a grin. ‘What about Samuel? He’s the same age as me and he joined up right at the beginning. And Bertram too, and he must be – what? – in his late thirties now.’

‘But you’re doing an important job here,’ said Katy, ‘as you know very well. Your father couldn’t manage without you now. He never got anyone to replace your grandfather, and then with Joe
Black joining up he was really short-handed. It’s not a job that anyone can do. You have to be an expert joiner to make the coffins, as well as having the skills required to do the other part of the job. It’s a task not everyone would want to undertake – pardon the pun!’ she smiled. ‘It wasn’t intentional.’

‘If you mean the business of laying out, then I should imagine our lads overseas are witnessing much worse sights than that,’ observed Patrick thoughtfully. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about; but then I daresay most of us are capable of doing things that we wouldn’t even have dreamt we could do if put to the test. Of course, there are some poor devils who just haven’t got the stamina for it, and they’re to be sympathised with rather than blamed; at least that’s the way I see it.’ He had heard rumours that had filtered back from the front line about young soldiers who had been shot – by our own side – for desertion or cowardice. He did not doubt that it was true, but the very idea of it was abhorrent to him. It was certainly not something he wanted to discuss with Katy.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘The last time I saw Maddy she was telling me about a young lad that they were nursing – only eighteen years old – suffering badly from the effects of the war; shell shock, she says they call it. And she’s really concerned that
when he’s recovered they’ll send him back again.’

‘Yes, it’s a cruel, cruel world at the moment,’ agreed Patrick. ‘But it’s you we were talking about, wasn’t it? Don’t you realise what an important job you’re doing too? It’s not every young woman who would turn her hand to coping with dead bodies, to put it bluntly, the way that you do. You’re invaluable to Father and me, and you’re helping out in the office as well now that Hetty has gone to live in the South Bay. Your work is just as vital as theirs, even though it’s not concerned directly with the war effort. Just look at what you’ve done today. You assisted me with that laying out job…’

‘Yes, poor old Mrs Jenkins,’ said Katy. ‘She never got over losing her grandson at the start of the war, did she?’ Adam Jenkins had been one of the first of Scarborough’s war casualties, having been killed in the retreat from Mons only weeks after the war had started.

‘And then you’ve done your stint in the office this afternoon,’ Patrick continued, ‘as well as cooking a delicious evening meal. So let’s not hear any more about you not doing enough.’ He smiled tenderly at her, the self-effacing, dark-haired young woman he had married when they were in their early twenties. There was an air of repose and gentleness about Katy; that was why
he had fallen in love with her, and still loved her, possibly more than ever now. She was slightly built with unremarkable features, save for her luminous grey eyes fringed with dark lashes. Her seeming frailty was deceptive though, as he knew when he had seen her coping with the sort of tasks, as he had told her, that not many women that he knew could tackle.

He knew, of course, what was a source of sorrow to his dear wife, as it was to him as well, although he probably did not feel it so keenly as she did. He knew it must be distressing for her when she saw his sisters with their children; seven-year-old Angela, and Amy and Gregory, both now four years old.

She took the words out of his mouth when she said, rather shyly, ‘Of course, we were disappointed again last month, weren’t we, love? I keep on hoping and praying, but to no avail it seems. And that makes me feel rather sad, although if I’m not intended to have children then I suppose I’ll have to get used to it.’

‘Well, it’s certainly not for the want of trying, is it, my dear?’ he said, bringing a slight blush to her cheeks. ‘I tell you what. Let’s get these pots washed, and then we’ll have an early night.’

‘A good idea,’ she replied coyly.

The war news, for a time, had seemed to be more encouraging. In the Balkans the British and French armies had forced the Bulgarians to retreat. In Africa Cameroon fell to the Belgian and French armies, whilst in Kenya the Germans were driven back by the soldiers commanded by General Smuts, the newly appointed commander of the British and South African troops in East Africa.

In the Middle East the Arabs, encouraged by the British, rose against the Turks and started a campaign headed by the soldier who came to be known as Lawrence of Arabia. The British and the Russians formed an alliance with the Shah of Persia. It seemed, for a while, that the Germans imperialistic ambitions were in ruins – or so it was reported in the newspapers as a boost to the morale of the British people. Germany, not content with conquering Europe, had designs on the rest of the world as well.

But that was all very far away. Nearer to home, on the battlefields of Europe, the news continued to be grim. On June 6th came the news that Britain’s War Secretary, Lord Kitchener – whose menacing face had pictured on the early war posters declaring, with pointed finger, ‘Your Country Needs You!’ – had drowned on HMS
Hampshire
. His post was filled a month later by David Lloyd George.