Softly Grow the Poppies Page 9

  ‘Wie heissen sie?’

  ‘I can only speak English,’ he told them, wondering how he knew when everything else was a blur.

  The doctor looked astonished. ‘You are English?’ he said, his own speech broken and with an accent.

  ‘Yes.’ Was the man a fool? Could he not see by his uniform . . . his uniform? Now why had he thought of that – a uniform? First a horse, then a uniform?

  ‘We were not knowing. We thought you to be from the . . .’ He babbled something to the nurse who shrugged, then answered him in German.

  ‘Ach, now I am seeing. You were picked up by . . . erm . . . stretcher-bearers . . . German. You have no . . . er . . . er papers . . . no . . .’ He made a gesture of circling a ring round his neck. ‘Die identifikation . . . not there and were brought with our own . . . er . . . hurt . . . to this infirmary. I am a’ – he tapped his head – ‘of the brain. You had no clothes . . . you were . . .’ Here again he made a motion of brushing something from his body. ‘Ach . . . mud, much blood and your head . . . splinters . . . shrapnel, so I remove . . . operate on you. Your name is . . .?’

  ‘I . . . I can’t seem to remember.’

  ‘Your rank?’ The doctor looked at him sympathetically. ‘You remember, hey.’

  ‘Rank? I was a soldier?’

  ‘Ja, but of course. You do not recall?’

  ‘Nein, nothing.’

  The doctor patted his arm. ‘It will soon . . . come back . . . yourself you will find.’

  ‘Bitte, please, help me,’ he gasped as he clutched the doctor’s arm. ‘I must have relatives who will think me dead.’

  ‘Dead. Oh no, you will not be dead . . . not now.’ The doctor loosened the patient’s grip, nodded kindly and moved on to another bedridden man.

  He reached out an imploring hand to the doctor who turned, sighed, then came back. ‘You . . . erm . . . I took some . . . splinters from your head . . .’ He muttered again in German, turning to the nurse who raised her eyebrows. ‘I surgeon of the head . . . I did not see you . . . while later . . . they had cleaned you . . . they thought you were about to dead . . . die, but I . . .’ He waved his slender hands about. ‘I . . .’

  ‘Operated,’ the man in the bed murmured.

  ‘Ja, operate and take out splinters . . . put in small . . . platter . . . no, no . . . plate and here you are . . .’ He waved his hand airily about the room.

  ‘I . . . please, I cannot remember. I must have had papers on me to say who I was?’

  The doctor turned to the nurse and said something to her but she shook her head.

  ‘Die krankenschwester – nurse – says no papers, so no name.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘This war . . .’ then shook his head sadly as he moved down the ward.

  ‘Well, she can’t have gone far. She was only alone for a few minutes. Ask the men to search the grounds and . . . and tell one of the men – no, all of the men from the farms to search for her.’ Rose shook her head and opened the door of the cupboard under the stairs, peering inside as though to find her friend there.

  Dolly wrung her hands and tears wobbled in her eyes prepared to stream down her cheeks. She who had been the strong one in the Beechworth family ever since she had come to work for Miss Jane, Rose’s mother, when she married William Beechworth, all those years ago. She had been staunch and unruffled through all the family’s traumas and joys and had never shed a tear in public though when Miss Jane, Mrs Beechworth died, those she did shed had been in private. She was now old and tired and easily upset. She loved Miss Alice, the girl who had vanished, almost as much as she loved her own daughter, which Miss Rose was although Dolly had not given birth to her. She sniffed and brushed her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I only went to the bathroom. I thought I’d give her a bath. In her bed, like. She was weak as a kitten, she ate now’t. I filled the basin and got a clean towel an’ that. I were goin’ in when I saw Polly comin’ up wi’t tray an’ we talked fer a minnit. I were askin’ after ’t babby. Polly ’ad bin over to Ashtree but when we gorrin’ she were gone. Dear sweet Jesus, it were my fault . . .’

  Rose put her arms about the elderly woman and hugged her. ‘No, Dolly, no, you are not to blame but we shouldn’t stand here wasting time; we must set out to find her.’ Her face became hopeful. ‘Perhaps she’s gone to see the baby.’

  But Polly’s face, as always when there was bad news, was streaming with tears and she was shaking her head. ‘No, Miss Rose, I’ve just come from there. Babby was bein’ nursed by Edie Smith but Miss Alice weren’t there. Eeh, that babby’s comin’ on a treat . . .’

  ‘Well, we shall telephone the police and ask them to start a search. She is unfit to be on the loose by herself. Not only is she weak from the birth, she is mad with grief over Charlie. Run down and tell one of the nurses what has happened and that I cannot help them for the moment while I get in touch with the police.’

  They found the note an hour later. It was tucked beneath her pillow and at the same time Rose heard that Sir Harry’s stallion, Corey, an absolute beast to ride for anyone except Sir Harry, had gone from the stables.

  ‘I have gone to find Charlie,’ the note said. ‘Something inside me tells me he is not dead. He is the light of my life and the light has not gone out so he must be alive somewhere. I will find him. The baby is to be called William, dear Rose, but call him Will. His father will like that.’

  The search was spread far and wide but it seemed Alice Summers had vanished along with her young husband. Dolly went to pieces which again was not like her for she had been Rose’s support and stay for years. But she was older now and she had a great fondness for Miss Alice – Mrs Summers – and having cared for her during her pregnancy, her labour and her grief over the loss of her young husband, she clung to Rose as Rose, as a child and young woman, had once clung to her.

  ‘Nay, I shouldn’t ’ave left ’er on ’er own,’ lapsing into her native Lancashire dialect as she always did when upset. ‘It were my fault, my fault. I blame messen, I do . . .’

  Rose took her in her arms and held her tight, her own heart bursting with fear for her friend, her frail, but strong friend who had lost the love of her life and gone out to look for it in the maelstrom of the war across the Channel. Already coming the other way back to England were Channel steamers full of the badly wounded, the very decks crammed from bow to stern and from port to starboard with men who lay still and frighteningly silent, those who moaned or called for their mothers, men with different coloured tags tied to them to denote the condition and urgency of their case to those who would meet them from the ambulance trains.

  And rattling through stations all over the country were trains packed with young, cheering, excited men, longing to get over there and do their bit before it all ended. It was a well-known fact that one British soldier was worth ten Germans and the Hun would be defeated very soon. Lord Kitchener had pointed his finger and ordered them to go and who were they to disobey?

  They never gave up hope. The police found Corey in a meadow where other horses, mares, were placidly cropping the lush grass. Eleven months later the farmer who owned the meadow was astonished at the beauty of the foals produced in the spring of the following year from his mares but remembered the stallion that had been among them for a short time. He had reported it to the police for he was an honest man, but was delighted with the results of the horse’s short stay. That had been at Pinfold Farm on the outskirts of St Helens, which was within riding distance from Old Swan and then a walk to St Helens railway station.

  She must have boarded a train from there to London, which, of course, was where she could find some way of crossing the Channel to where Charlie had last been seen alive!

  The committee room of the Woodfall Hospital Corps was dark and crowded. It was above a grocer’s shop, and the woman in the drab outfit of a servant climbed the stairs wearily but when she reached the committee room she straightened her back and lifted her head, trying to look as tall as she could. Several women wer
e sitting round a table on which papers were scattered. One woman seemed to be bored with the whole procedure, while the second appeared to be a secretary and was taking notes. She seemed nervy and filled with some anxiety. The third was Dr Emmeline Woodfall who was smoking a cigarette, lighting one from another so that the room was filled with what seemed to be a fog.

  ‘Come in, come in, Miss . . .’

  ‘Mrs Barnes.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Barnes, what can we do for you or rather what can you do for us?’ the doctor asked cheerfully.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ the woman asked.

  ‘We need ambulance drivers, nurses, stretcher-bearers, in fact anyone prepared to help out in any capacity. We need women who can speak French and they must be as strong as a horse. We want women who are not afraid to get their hands dirty; some of them have come today with their mothers and have never washed so much as a teacup in their lives. And we want married women. Do you know what this war is about, Mrs Barnes?’

  ‘I do. My husband is missing and I know exactly what the war is about. I want to help.’

  ‘Are you over twenty–one?’

  ‘No, but I am married and I know I have every right to serve.’

  ‘She looks very slight,’ the woman who was bored remarked. ‘And you did say you wanted women who were strong, Emmeline.’

  ‘I may be slight but I am strong and determined.’ The young woman straightened her already straight back.

  ‘Good, then—’

  ‘Hold on, Emmeline.’

  ‘No, I will not hold on, Anne. I know that you and the committee raise the funds but I am in charge of the hospital and I know the sort of girl I want. This girl’ – pointing a finger at the figure who stood defiantly before them – ‘knows what she is about. She’s not yet twenty-one but as a married woman whose husband is missing she has every right to serve abroad. I am taking her. Now, Mrs Barnes, let me describe the place that will be my hospital. It used to be a nunnery in Le Havre and the only servants are French orderlies. You will be on the front line. We will pay you ten shillings a week and your keep. You will have to sign on for six months so are you still prepared to take the job?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Good girl. Get yourself some woollen combinations and drawers. We’ll send you your uniform in a week or two and—’

  ‘Oh, I cannot wait a week or two. I must go at once.’

  The doctor and the other two ladies looked astonished.

  ‘At once. Why?’

  ‘I cannot explain but if I cannot go at once, today, then I must find someone else to take me.’ She lifted her head a little higher and with a face like stone stared directly at Dr Woodfall.

  ‘My dear, you do not know what you are asking. There is so much to do, so many preparations. I could do with a month but I have cut it down to a fortnight . . .’

  But already the woman who called herself Mrs Barnes had turned on her heel and was heard running down the stairs.

  The baby was thriving and on the following Sunday, Rose, Dolly and all the servants stood in the church where his parents had been married just a few short months ago. He was a lovely child with Charlie’s deep brown eyes – so like Harry’s, she thought – his hair beginning to grow into a dark swirl of fine baby curls. He wore the same christening gown that Charlie and Harry had once worn, delicate, old and fragile, a Summers heirloom, edged with the finest lace and with insertions of new blue ribbons. He cried out when the holy water from the font was dribbled on to his head and those present sighed, for it was a good sign. Though it was the twentieth century some of the medieval superstitions still had some currency and the cry drove the devil out.

  After the church service they all drove or walked back to Summer Place which, after all, would one day belong to William Summers unless his uncle Harry married and had a son. Afternoon tea was served, all prepared by Nessie and Mrs Philips, even the servants drinking champagne, for this was a special occasion with the poor wee thing having neither father nor mother to cherish him. There were none of the usual presents, silver mugs, silver teething rings and such that would normally be given since the guests were servants and could not afford such things. There were, however, flowers everywhere, grown by Rose’s gardeners, in tribute to the son of the house. There was many a tear shed for the child who had no one, no member of his own family to love him though Miss Rose seemed very attentive. They even took him into one of the wards where the wounded were presentable and he was handed from soldier to soldier – much against Staff Nurse’s wishes – but the men were delighted, some of them perhaps thinking of their own children. Will, as they were to call him, did not seem to mind, looking placidly into each face, ready to smile though Dolly said it was only wind!

  Rose looked splendid, the men thought, because they had only seen her in her plain grey cotton dress and enveloping apron, her hair covered with a white servant’s cap. Now she was wearing a warm peach-coloured silk dress with a hat whose broad brim was loaded with roses and baby’s breath and pale green leaves. The wounded, surrounded by nurses, were made up with it all, they told one another and Miss Rose was a corker. They were unaware that Miss Rose was ready to weep every night in her bed, tormented by thoughts of a tall, good-looking man with an ironic twist to his wide strong mouth who was fighting in France and who had not written to her. Who could have disappeared with his brother for all she knew into the foul mud they floundered in. The foul mud under which lay hundreds of decomposing bodies, for most of the wounded who died in no-man’s-land between the English and German trenches were left to rot since they had enough to do seeing to the wounded; the dead would understand. There was a camaraderie between these men – of all ranks – and their brothers-in-arms who had fallen lived on in the hearts of the men who survived.

  ‘How many of you can drive?’ the staff sergeant barked, glaring along the line of women who stood to attention in the yard of the Red Cross headquarters in the Mall.

  Six of the girls, for that was all they were, girls, some just come from school, put up their hands. The other three exchanged glances but looked hopefully at the sergeant.

  ‘Right,’ he shouted and they all wondered why he had to be so loud. Were there a lot of deaf men in the army? ‘You three can go. We only want women who can drive and know something about what goes on under the bonnet and can repair it.’

  The six hands that had gone up wavered and two dropped their hands and shook their heads. One of those who had put up her hand spoke out. ‘I can repair an engine, sir—’

  ‘You don’t call me sir, young lady. I am sergeant to you and tell me how is it a lady can drive and repair an engine?’

  ‘Well,’ the girl said, ‘my father had a car, a Morris Oxford and I used to drive it round the grounds and the chauffeur – I used to watch him fiddle about with the engine. I’m not very experienced, that’s why I wasn’t sure whether to put up my hand but I”m a quick learner and if you could lend me that ambulance over there’ – nodding her head in the direction of the vehicle standing by the entrance – ‘and if you sat beside me I will show you what I can do.’

  ‘Oh, can you, miss. We’ll see about that and why his it that there are nine of you when I was promised eight?’

  ‘I was told to go with the others,’ the girl who had spoken told him.

  ‘Hand where is your uniform?’ for the girl was dressed in what he called ‘civvies’.

  ‘I’ll get it shortly, I was told, S’arnt.’

  The sergeant was impressed. She even knew how to address a sergeant. He had been given the job of engaging six women to go out with the ambulances the next day and here was one who appeared to be willing to tackle anything. She was, as he said, evidently a lady though she was dressed like a servant and he wondered what her story was. So many of these young women were attracted to the idea of going to France and driving ambulances, or nursing but they had no bloody idea what they were letting themselves in for. What an adventure, he had heard one say to another.
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  ‘Never mind, miss, I’ll believe you where millions wouldn’t. Now, what’s your name?’

  ‘Mrs Barnes.’

  ‘Mrs Barnes, his your ’usband hin France, by any chance?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Does it matter?’ she answered, and the sergeant thought, Well, give ’er ’er due, you can’t say she ’asn’t got pluck.

  ‘No, but don’t think you’ll find ’im, my lass, if that’s what you was ’opin’,’ forgetting for a moment to be strict with these ladies.

  ‘Thank you, S’arnt,’ giving him a smile so sweet he almost smiled back, ‘but when I have leave I intend to try.’ The other girls stared in astonishment at her.

  ‘Right then, be ’ere at five termorrow morning. The train leaves Victoria at seven.’

  The six of them were the only females on the troopship. They were Barnes, Ewing, Radley, O’Neill – who crossed herself frequently – Mayne and Thorley, for it seemed Christian names were never used. The sergeant who had interviewed them the day before had given them their uniforms which were hideous and was travelling on the same Channel steamer. It was somewhat choppy and the young soldiers who, as they cast off had all been singing and joking, eager to get out there and kill themselves a few of the devils who raped nuns and cut off babies’ hands, were for the most part hanging over the rails vomiting into the rippling waves, but Alice and the other ambulance drivers here proved Alice’s theory that really women were stronger than most men.