Winds of Eden (13 page)

Chapter Thirteen

London, Saturday 1st January 1916

Georgiana entered the exclusive, masculine confines of the gentlemen's club and picked her way around mounds of luggage to the desk. The vestibule, stairs, and main hall were crowded with men in military uniforms. The navy was rubbing shoulders with the cavalry, infantry and flying corps, and all appeared to be either coming or going through the double doors that led on to St James's Street. She pitied the sprinkling of sober-suited civil servants, who looked positively drab in comparison to the men in uniform.

‘May I help you, ma'am?' The clerk, who'd acquired the manners of senior royalty during thirty years of service in the club, looked down his long nose as though he were vetting her for a position below stairs.

‘Miss Downe for General Reid.' Georgiana had learned not to use the title of Dr in the environs of male conclaves. It led to mirth or raised eyebrows and she wasn't in the mood to combat either.

‘Miss Downe, my apologies, I didn't recognise you.'

‘Like everyone out there I'm pretending to be a fish.' Georgiana peeled off her rain-sodden hat and coat.

‘Yes, madam.' He didn't evince the flicker of a smile. ‘Bellboy, relieve Miss Downe of her outdoor garments.'

A uniformed boy left the head of the line assembled to the left of the desk, rushed forward, and took Georgiana's umbrella, coat, and hat.

‘We will acquaint General Reid of your presence, Miss Downe. Please take a seat in the ladies' waiting room. Boy.' The clerk summoned the second in line.

‘I know the way, thank you.' Georgiana walked into the bland characterless room. It held a row of upright mahogany chairs and a low table, nothing else. No pictures adorned the walls, no magazines littered the table. There weren't even curtains at the windows.

The clerk moved in slow, unhurried motion as he wrote a note, folded it into an envelope, addressed it, and placed it on a silver tray before handing it to the boy. The boy walked away from the desk ringing a bell and calling,

‘Message for General Reid. Message for General Reid'

The clerk walked to the door of the ladies waiting room, ignored Georgiana and closed it, softly but firmly. It opened a few minutes later and her godfather entered.

She left her seat. ‘Uncle Reid, it's good of you to stand me lunch here.'

‘Not at all, Georgie. Glad you could make it. We'll eat better in the club dining room than any restaurant in these days of food shortages and requisitions. The staff still have time to look after the older members, although the committee have taken on so many new members the club is more like the Tottenham Court Road these days than the oasis of calm and quiet it used to be before the war.'

‘Like everywhere in London, it's full of people coming and going.' She took her godfather's arm. ‘As for doubts about the quality of the food, mine were laid to rest when I saw men from the War Office Agricultural Department heading upstairs.'

‘You recognised them?'

‘They dined at Clyneswood the last time I was home.'

‘Your father was probably softening them up in the hope of hanging on to enough breeding stock to replenish his barns and cowsheds.'

They walked up the stairs into the mahogany-panelled dining room. The head waiter glided across the polished floor to greet them.

‘General Reid, always a pleasure. Ma'am, sir' He pulled out a chair for Georgiana and when she was seated, unfolded the linen ‘slipper' in front of her place setting and shook it over her lap.

‘Would you like to order now, General?'

‘I think so. What do you say, Georgie?'

‘Fine.' All she wanted was the preliminaries to be over with so she could ask her godfather if he'd managed to get her a berth on a Mesopotamia-bound ship.

The waiter leaned conspiratorially towards the General. ‘May I suggest menu number one, General? The potato soup, halibut collards, roast goose, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, cauliflower, and for desert honeycomb mould and devilled almonds.' He handed them leather-bound menu holders.

‘You may, but I'll take roast potatoes instead of mashed and you know I can't stand cauliflower. Tastes like wallpaper paste.'

‘I could substitute peas and carrots, sir.'

‘Good man. Menu suit you, Georgie?'

‘Yes, thank you, Uncle Reid.' She glanced around as she handed back the unopened folder.

The room was full of middle-aged and elderly men. A few were accompanied by women young enough to be their daughters, in some cases granddaughters. Georgiana had seen the sceptical look in the head waiter's eyes the first time she'd visited the club and the general had introduced her as his “goddaughter”. It had taken a dinner with her father and Dr Mason for the waiter to realise that some club members did choose to eat at the club with family and friends.

The wine waiter appeared.

‘I know you'll tell me it shouldn't be drunk with goose, but we'll have the 1909 claret and a bottle of the house champagne. Unless you have a preference, Georgie?'

Georgiana was growing increasingly impatient and wondered if she'd ever be left alone with her godfather.

‘Fine,' she repeated.

‘You'd think a young girl would be more enthusiastic about champagne, wouldn't you, Henry?'

‘May I suggest aperitifs on the house, General?'

‘Suggest away when it's on the house,' the General answered. ‘Georgie?'

‘Yes, please.' She didn't care whether she drank seawater or ate sawdust. All she wanted to know was whether or not her godfather had managed to get her into the Queen Alexander Imperial Nursing Corps.

The wine waiter clicked his fingers. A junior waiter appeared and filled their sherry glasses.

‘Thank you,' Georgiana took her glass and touched it to the General's.

‘What are we toasting?' he asked.

‘My joining the QAINC.'

‘I'll discuss that with you in a moment.'

Determined not to be deflected, she said, ‘In that case we'll drink to a swift end to the war.'

‘Won't be this year, I'm afraid.'

‘Next.'

‘Probably not even then.'

‘Dear God, how many more young men have to be sacrificed?'

‘If we can advance the line in France, break the siege of Kut; smash the Germans in East Africa …'

She interrupted. ‘Did you get me a berth on the ship that's heading for …'

‘Don't say it.'

She looked over her shoulder. ‘You think there are spies in the club?'

He tapped his nose again with his forefinger. ‘Can't be too careful.'

‘Did you get me a berth?' she reiterated impatiently.

‘I tried my best, Georgie. If you were a nurse I could have swung it but you know what the military think of female doctors.'

‘I'm better qualified and more use to the wounded than any nurse.'

‘You don't have to convince me, Georgie, but I'm afraid this particular scheme of yours has hit barbed wire. There's absolutely no way I can get you to Mesopotamia. I talked it over with your father and your Uncle Mason.'

‘They didn't need to know.'

‘I couldn't keep your plans from your father. He and Dr Mason are my oldest and closest friends.'

‘My plans are no concern of my father's.'

‘They are when you enlist my help. Your father was furious that you'd even asked me to try to arrange your passage.'

‘He would be.'

‘Think of him and your mother, Georgie. They've lost Harry …'

‘Harry's alive,' she contradicted vehemently.

‘I was about to remind you that Michael's out there. They have no idea when, if ever, they'll see him again. If by some miracle you're right and Harry is alive, Michael and Tom will find him.'

‘They'll be too busy writing reports and doctoring the sick to look.'

‘Georgie, please, don't blame your parents and everyone who loves you for wanting to keep you in London. You're doing sterling work for the war effort, here, caring for the wounded.'

‘Last week I was moved from surgery on to the women's medical ward in the London Royal Free Hospital. A fat lot of good I'm contributing to the war effort there.'

‘I thought you were a surgical registrar.'

‘I was, until a male doctor invalided from the front took my job.'

‘You can't think of him as taking your job, Georgie. Rather think that by working in the Royal Free Hospital you've freed a man for the front. That's what war is about. The men go off to fight. The women stay at home …'

‘And worry themselves sick?'

‘Bit unfair I know, while the men cover themselves in glory.'

‘In this war more men are being covered in the mud and blood of the Western Front and the deserts of Mesopotamia and Gallipoli than glory,' she said bitterly.

He patted her hand. ‘Doctoring men or women, you're doing vital work where you are, Georgie. My advice to you is, forget Mesopotamia. Concentrate on what you're doing here.'

Their soup arrived.

Her godfather looked across at her. ‘I did try to get you into the nursing corps, Georgie.'

‘I believe you.'

‘You have to give up any idea you have of joining the QAINC.'

‘Uncle Reid …'

‘I asked, Georgie.'

‘Did you really?' she challenged.

‘I did.' The General set down his spoon. ‘Everyone I spoke to was sympathetic.'

‘But unhelpful?'

‘Georgie, you have to understand women have no place in war. It can get brutal out there. People die.'

‘After a year spent in surgery there is nothing you can tell me about death that I don't already know.'

‘There is a difference between someone dying peacefully in surgery and being blown apart on a battlefield.'

‘Surgery – peaceful!'

‘You know what I mean.'

‘As a nurse I wouldn't even be allowed on a battlefield to get “blown apart”. Hospitals are in safe areas behind the lines even in Mesopotamia …' Georgiana was interrupted mid-flow by a short, immaculately dressed man who stopped at their table to shake hands with General Reid. Turning from her godfather to her he closed his fingers over hers and bowed.

General Reid rose to his feet. ‘Mr …'

‘Smith.' The man supplied.

‘Mr Smith and I work together at the War Office,' General Reid explained. ‘May I present my goddaughter, Dr Georgiana Downe, Mr Smith.'

‘A pleasure, Dr Downe. I didn't mean to encroach on your privacy, General.' Mr Smith looked around the crowded restaurant. ‘So this is where you hide yourself at lunchtime? I can't say I blame you, the food here has a formidable reputation.'

‘Please, Mr Smith, join us.' To Georgiana's annoyance, her godfather put an end to their argument by signalling to the waiter.

Another chair, place setting and menu were produced and in less than a minute, Mr Smith was sitting alongside Georgiana sipping sherry.

‘It's a pleasure to meet you after hearing so much about you, Dr Downe.'

‘My godfather told you I was a doctor?'

‘He's very proud of you, Dr Downe.'

‘Don't look so shocked, Georgie. I am proud of you and not above boasting about your accomplishments.' General Reid signalled to the waiter, who hurried to the table to remove his and Georgiana's soup bowls.

Mr Smith returned the menu to the waiter unopened. ‘General Reid has a penchant for seeking out the best. Bring me a duplicate of his order.'

‘Yes, sir.'

The junior wine waiter filled their wine and water glasses and left them.

‘My goddaughter is disappointed that I can't call in enough favours to get her into the QAINC,' General Reid revealed.

Mr Smith shook out his napkin and tucked a corner into a napkin holder he clipped to his collar.

‘Isn't nursing a backward step for a qualified doctor, Dr Downe? Bit like a general taking a subaltern's post.'

‘Wouldn't the general take the post if it was the only way open to him to search for a member of his family declared missing in action?' Georgiana countered.

‘General Reid told me that you're convinced your brother Lieutenant Colonel Downe is alive somewhere in Mesopotamia.'

‘I am.'

‘I can verify that your godfather has canvassed everyone with influence in the Mesopotamian theatre on your brother's behalf, Dr Downe, unfortunately to no avail.'

‘I failed to glean any more information than your father received, Georgie,' the general confirmed.

‘I also verify that he spoke to the people in charge of the QAINC.' Mr Smith's soup arrived. He took a spoonful and blotted his upper lip with his napkin.

‘And?' Georgiana prompted.

‘They were horrified at the thought of a woman doctor, let alone one who wanted to masquerade as a nurse,' the General divulged. ‘So please, Georgie, we'll have no more talk from you of berths on Mesopotamia-bound ships or the QAINC, if you please. Let's just enjoy this lunch.'

The Mission, Basra, Sunday 2nd January 1916

Charles chose to visit Maud on Sunday morning when he hoped the Reverend Butler and the entire mission household would be attending church services. But not all the mission staff were in the chapel. An Arab maid answered the door and showed him into Maud's room. He limped in awkwardly on crutches, his movements hampered by the attaché case he carried.

Maud was sitting in the same upholstered chair he'd seen her sitting in before. The nursemaid was still darning socks in the alcove, with the baby's cot next to her. Not Maud. He wondered if any of them had moved since the last time he was in the room.

Maud set her sewing aside when she saw him. ‘Please, sit down, Charles, before you fall down.'

He accepted her offer of a chair and propped his crutches against the wall.