Softly Grow the Poppies Page 14

  She dozed a little and was startled to find Nurse Heron bending over her.

  ‘I’ve come to look at your hand, Barnes. It will need re-dressing. Can you sit up?’

  ‘Of course I can, Nurse,’ she said, struggling and failing to raise herself into a sitting position. She was amazed to find she had not the strength to do as Nurse Heron asked her.

  ‘Never mind, Barnes, if you’ll lift your arm from under the blanket I think I can manage. I’m sorry to hurt you,’ as Alice winced, ‘but it must be looked at again.’

  With much difficulty she unwrapped the bandage and with much difficulty Alice did her best not pull away from her. Her hand and arm, even her shoulder were alive with pain and when the nurse finally had it revealed she frowned.

  ‘This is not good, Barnes. I think the doctor had better have a look once more. It is . . . well . . . well, let us say it is in a bit of a mess and you are no use to us if you cannot use it. You cannot possibly drive an ambulance.’

  With her good hand Alice leaned to grasp the nurse’s arm. ‘Please, Nurse, can you not douse it with Eusol? Wrap it in lint and then a bandage. I could wear a glove to protect it. Please . . . please . . .’ Her voice was weak and hoarse and the nurse, known for her steadfast obligation to duty, became curt.

  ‘Barnes, you cannot even sit up in bed, let alone drive an ambulance. Now lie still and I’ll send the doctor to you as soon as he has a moment. Do as you’re told, Barnes,’ she continued sternly, for Alice was struggling not only to sit up but to get out of bed. ‘You will wake O’Neill. She has been on duty for fourteen hours and needs her sleep.’

  ‘There you are, you see. All the ambulance drivers are badly needed and I am an ambulance driver. I can’t loll about here in bed while the other girls do my work. Just wrap it up, for God’s sake and let me—’

  ‘Barnes, remember to whom you speak. You are not fit for duty and the doctor will confirm it, I’m sure. Now lie back and I’ll send a cup of tea for you.’

  ‘I don’t want a bloody cup of tea, Staff—’

  ‘Remember to whom you speak, Barnes,’ Nurse Heron repeated, ‘and do as you are told.’

  The doctor arrived just as Alice had decided to get out of bed and sod the lot of them. She was driven to resort to the coarse language the men used in their agony but as she did her best to sit up a masculine hand pushed her back.

  ‘Staff tells me you are being obstinate, Barnes, and want to get back to the men. Has it occurred to you that you are a danger to men already weak with their wounds? You have picked up something from them, probably from the soil, which has poisoned what is a simple splinter wound and having left it to fester is now beginning to poison you. That hand of yours is swollen and red with inflammation and I know you are in great pain. You have been out here for how long?’

  ‘Almost eighteen months, Doctor,’ Nurse Paget said, looking sternly at Alice.

  ‘Eighteen months. Then it’s time you had some home leave anyway. And while you are there your hand will be—’

  Alice clutched at the doctor’s arm with a feverish desperation. She was starting to feel worse than ever but she would recover from this, she knew she would, and if they sent her home, which it seemed the doctor was threatening to do, she could not continue her search for Charlie.

  ‘No, please, Doctor, don’t send me home. Nurse will re-dress my hand and in a day or two I’ll be up and about again. I’m strong and—’

  ‘Barnes, everyone here knows how you spend every free moment searching for your husband. We are all very sympathetic but you are no longer well enough to remain here. I cannot let you be responsible for bringing in the wounded if you are in poor shape which it is obvious you are. You have a high fever and . . . Barnes . . . Dear God, what is your Christian name?’

  ‘Alice,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Alice, you have worked beyond your strength and to tell you the truth I don’t know how you persuaded them to let you come in the first place. Look at you, nothing but skin and bone. If you don’t go home, have your hand seen to properly, rest and eat well you will . . . I’m . . . well, I hate to say this but I must: you could lose that arm.’ He turned to the nurse. ‘Dress this hand and then arrange for Barnes to be put on the first available transport for England.’

  Alice began to weep but suddenly the world about her, the hut she was in, the sleeping figure of O’Neill grew hazy and her last thought was that O’Neill was simply so exhausted she had slept through all the comings and going of the last half hour, then darkness fell and she herself slipped into the comforting arms of oblivion.

  Jimmy Bentley, though he was sympathetic towards poor old Summers who was a good chap on the whole, was becoming increasingly irritated – easily done in their confinement – with the constant questions about their past life.

  ‘Did you know this brother you say I had, Jimmy?’

  ‘Only slightly, Charlie. He wasn’t in the regiment when we sailed for France but I was told he was in the fighting in the Somme offensive.’

  ‘Do you remember my mentioning someone called Alice?’

  ‘Not really, old man. You and I lost touch in the battle but if you know the name surely that will bring back memories. Was she your wife?’

  Charlie shook his head despondently. ‘I can’t remember. She may have been a sister or . . .’

  ‘I don’t think there was a sister, old chap. I never heard one mentioned. I do know your father was a baronet so I suppose Harry will inherit if—’ He stopped abruptly for he had been about to say ‘if he’s still alive’.

  ‘If he’s still alive I suppose you mean.’

  ‘Well, a hell of a lot of us fell, lad.’

  ‘What was my mare called, Jimmy?’

  Jimmy would sigh and do his best to fill in the huge hole in Charlie’s life.

  ‘All I can tell you, old man, all I can absolutely recall is the day we entrained at the station in Lime Street from where the troops set out. You were having trouble with your mare.’

  ‘Lady.’ Charlie began to tremble as he spoke the forgotten name.

  ‘Yes, I believe that was what she was called.’

  A flash of an ugly picture streaked across Charlie’s blank mind, a ghastly picture from which he flinched. There was a shifting haze of red, blood, an explosion in which human and animal vanished as though they had never been. Lady! And a man, a soldier, holding her bridle who disintegrated in the mist, the scarlet mist of horror.

  ‘Lady is dead, Jimmy,’ he said sadly.

  ‘You remember her, Charlie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jimmy put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. ‘She was a lovely animal, lad, but you’d a devil of a job getting her on that train, Charlie. She wouldn’t go up that ramp, not if her life depended on it. Had it not been for that lady with the gig-pony, she’d be—’

  ‘What lady?’ Charlie’s voice was sharp. He gripped Jimmy’s arm so fiercely the major winced.

  ‘I didn’t know her name, old chap, but she and your brother went to fetch the pony they’d left in the stable yard of the Adelphi. The other one, a real beauty, stayed with you. It was clear she was very taken with you and you with her.’ He laughed, then was sorry, for poor old Charlie looked quite pole-axed. ‘I’m sorry, lad, I’d completely forgotten the incident but your mentioning Lady being blown away brought it back. She was quite lovely, the lady, I mean and come to think of it . . .’ Hey, steady, old man, perhaps you better sit down,’ he added, for Charlie was swaying like a young sapling in a strong wind. ‘I’ve written to my wife to tell her that you and I have met and asked her to tell your family that you are a prisoner of war with me; the authorities will know by now and soon, when this bloody cock-up of a war has ended, we will both be on our way home. God, I can’t wait.’

  ‘Alice,’ Charlie whispered wonderingly. Little things, little pieces of the jigsaw puzzle in his head were slowly being fitted together by the miracle of finding Jimmy who was remembering small details and feeding them from
his memory to Charlie.

  ‘The tiny glimpses of your past life are infiltrating into your mind and gradually the whole picture will emerge, I’m sure. And if this woman who is looking for her husband is your wife, she should be told.’

  ‘Alice . . .’

  Hundreds of miles away a small boy staggered down the slope of the lawn. It was October and the leaves were beginning to fall. Stopping suddenly, he sat down and clutched a damp bundle of them, studying them with the absolute absorption of the young, concentrating as though he must memorise every one, then calmly he put them to his mouth and would have stuffed them in if Tom, who was ‘minding’ him, had not left the border he was weeding and flew across to stop him.

  ‘Nay, Master Will, them’s not ter eat. Yer’ll ’ave a rare old belly-ache if yer swallow that lot.’

  The great beeches that ran on either side of the gravel drive, burned amber. Against the far wall that surrounded the garden there were hedges that glowed with the fruit of hawthorn, wild rose and a feathery tangle of wild clematis. With only Tom and the boy Jossy to work in the enormous garden and the park that surrounded the house, everything was getting out of hand. So many of the gardeners who had once lovingly tended the beauty of Beechworth were gone to the front and so many of them would never come back and it looked as though not only this toddler’s pa but his ma as well were among them.

  ‘See, give ’em ter Tom, there’s a good lad.’ He held out his hand but young Will Summers shouted his displeasure. He was strong, big for his age, spoiled by everyone and he liked his own way. The dogs pranced around him, scenting a game but the gardener picked up the boy and put him in the wheelbarrow on top of the weeds and began to push him up the slope noticing, and not for the first time, that the grass needed cutting, despairing, for he knew things would only get worse. He couldn’t manage the whole place on his own, he thought, wondering when this bloody war would end. Archie, Corky, Davy, Billy, gone to the front, filled with enthusiasm, just the kid Jossy left and the old fellow who could only milk the cow and do little odd jobs about the place.

  The boy was all smiles now, hanging on to the sides of the wheelbarrow, laughing and shouting to Tom to go faster. The dogs, Ginger and Spice, who had been given to Rose almost two years ago barked and leaped about and the boy screamed with laughter; the man pushing the wheelbarrow had time to think that at least this little lad would never know the terrible time they were all living through.

  She travelled back by train then Channel steamer, both filled with the wounded who had caught a ‘blighty one’. The doctor at the hospital had bandaged her hand and put her arm in a sling and told her she must see the doctor as soon as she got home to continue the treatment of Eusol and peroxide until the hand had healed. He had cut some flesh from the infected finger in an attempt to save the finger and the arm too.

  She had stood on the deck of the steamer, a cold wind in her face, watching the shore of France vanish in the slight mist and her heart was heavy, for her chances of finding Charlie disappeared with the shoreline. Her eyes were filled with the memories of crucifixion by barbed wire and the swelling corpses she had trodden on as she searched the battlefields, her nostrils plagued by the stench. She had carried gassed, burned, blinded men and even now there were many about her on the deck of the steamer that was shipping them back to England, choking, crippled. She had seen so much death and mutilation she wondered if she would ever be able to live a ‘normal’ life back home, especially without Charlie. She had vowed she would never return without him and yet she had been forced to by some unforeseen mishap, a damned splinter in her finger and the irony of it made her want to weep, to curse the fates, even to curse God, for surely He could have allowed her this one boon.

  She returned to London in October, taking a taxi to the station where she boarded the train to Liverpool. It was crowded with soldiers, some of them going home to die, for most were wounded, and some on leave but even these were not uplifted by the idea. They wore blank faces but just the same they were inordinately kind to her, one giving up his seat for her in a compartment. She was still wearing her unflattering uniform of an ambulance driver, her pretty hair stuffed under the unbecoming hat. They knew she was one of them, noticing how she winced every time the train jolted them. There were a lot of men wincing with far worse wounds than hers but nevertheless they pressed a biscuit on her, a bit of chocolate and at one station a corporal jumped off the train and came back with a cup of tea for her.

  ‘Liverpool, is it, love?’ one asked her in the singsong, nasal tone of a Liverpudlian. ‘You bin over there long?’

  ‘Eighteen months,’ she had answered politely. ‘My husband . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘My husband fought with the King’s Liverpool Regiment. I have been . . .’ She could not go on and they looked at her sympathetically, for they were mostly Liverpool men and knew that the battalion had more or less been wiped out.

  ‘I am going home,’ she said simply, and they asked no more questions. Questions were difficult to answer even by the men who knew exactly what each of them had suffered.

  ‘Me mam lives in Tuebrook,’ another said. ‘I used ter work on the land.’

  At last they reached Lime Street. There had been many hold-ups because there were trains going the other way, hurrying recruits to London and then the Channel for the battlefields must be fed their daily rations of the young, eager flesh of the boys who had no idea what they were getting into. Those in her compartment stared out at them as they stopped opposite each other and their faces were blank until one said quietly, ‘Poor bastards.’ He had only one leg and knew he would never have to return.

  Another taxi-cab took her out of Liverpool and along the winding lanes towards Beechworth, for she could not stand the idea of going to Summer Place just yet even though it was really her home. Not until she felt stronger. And Rose was at Beechworth, and Dolly, and they would help her to get over the enormous disappointment of being sent home. Somehow it never occurred to her that her son was there, Charlie’s son, the baby she had seen for a brief moment some eighteen months ago.

  The cab took her right up to the front steps of Beechworth. She had passed through the autumn foliage that lined each side of the hedges that were shrouded with white convolvulus. Thickly drooping blackberries were ready to be picked, the bright scarlet berries of black bryony were visible, while above her a swathe of swallows flew south. It was all so peaceful, so beautiful, she could hardly believe that not so very far as the crow flies, hell reigned on earth that had once been as lovely as this.

  The cab driver, an old man, helped her gently out of the cab and up the steps, waiting with her until someone came to answer his aggressive ring of the bell and when the door opened and a little maid peered out he went back and fetched the small bag she had brought with her.

  ‘Yes?’ the little maid said.

  ‘Is Miss Beechworth at home?’ Alice quavered.

  ‘Who is it?’ a voice questioned and then with an energetic pull the door was opened wide to reveal Rose and at her feet a small boy clung to her skirts. Rose swayed when she saw her, her face as white as the pristine apron she wore and then with a great shout that startled the child, she grabbed at Alice, taking her into her arms and began to weep.

  ‘Oh, my dear, my darling Alice. Dolly . . .’ she shrieked over her shoulder, her mouth so close to Alice’s ear that she flinched and almost fell over. Alice was held in arms strong and loving, arms that told her she was home now, safe and they would put her right. Perhaps they would make her well enough to go back and continue her search for Charlie. She too began to cry and to keep them company so did the little boy. Dolly, her hand to her mouth, staggered up the hall then threw her apron over her head and wept with them all. All Rose could say was ‘Alice, oh Alice,’ over and over again.

  Suddenly aware that the cab driver was waiting on the steps for his fare, Rose passed Alice into the open arms of Dolly who couldn’t wait to get them about ‘their’ Miss Alice. Rose ran for her
purse and gave the man some money, thanking him for bringing Alice home to them as though he were personally responsible for her return.

  The small boy plugged his thumb in his mouth, a habit he had lost months ago but he was unnerved by the actions of those who loved him and in whose world he was the centre, but none of them took any notice of him, leading the strange lady towards the kitchen where it was warm, placing her gently in what was known as ‘Dolly’s chair’. He followed disconsolately and for a moment he was lost then ‘Wose’ turned and saw him and held out her arms. He flew into them and stared at the strange lady, resenting her, for Wose and Dolly belonged to him. But Rose stood him on the floor again leaving him alone and once more, Rose knelt by the lady and said to her, ‘Charlie’s alive, darling. He’s a prisoner of war. We have just heard. Oh, darling, Charlie is not dead but in a prisoner-of-war camp and when the war is over he will come home to you and Will.’