The Secret Generations (39 page)

Together, they propped the terrified man against the wall, Mary Anne bundling blankets behind the patient
’s back. Together they worked for an hour, trying to give the soldier some relief.

‘
He’s got all the symptoms of acute bronchitis,’ the doctor said quietly. ‘If we could only drain the lungs.’

Mary Anne, called away constantly, returned to the lad again and again, but they were fighting a losing battle. He died at around five that afternoon, as Mary Anne sat by the bed.
He just opened his poor tired eyes, took the deepest breath he managed all day, smiled and died
, she wrote to Mildred. She did not say that she had cried for him. It was the last time she was to shed tears for the dead or dying.

Of the twenty men brought in as gas cases that day, all but six were dead before midnight. The rest coughed, wheezed and fought their way slowly back to a kind of life. Other wounded were arriving all the time, and there seemed to be a procession of ambulances coming and going.

When they were finally relieved, the three nurses went to the small mess tent, ate a few spoonsful of stew, and staggered to their tent.

In the darkness they could hear the clunk of spades against the earth and knew that the detachment of troops, there to protect and assist, were busy, digging graves.

Mary Anne sat down heavily on her ‘biscuit’ and looked up at Dora. ‘Fuck Jerry,’ she said. Dora nodded.

Day merged into day, and night into night. Men came, were treated and sent on, labelled with recommendation for further surgery, treatment, or
‘A Blighty’ – to be sent back to England. A lot of men came, and went nowhere except into the earth.

Within two weeks the battle, which became known as 2nd Ypres, was over, and men simply fought for a few yards of ground. At the end of the first week, Otter arrived.

He came at night, just after dusk, shambling into the Reception tent, blackened, scarred, with caked dirt and blood all over him. He was naked, except for the tattered fragments of what could have been a vest, and part of his right boot.

Mary Anne was on duty in the Reception tent, and, in some ways, was responsible for the loss of any clues about him; for she stripped the rags of clothing from him, and threw them into the metal container into which soiled or infected bandages and dressings were placed to be burned.

She cleaned him up, noted that he had two very slight wounds – a scratch across his scalp, and another down the right thigh. They needed dressing, which she did by herself. He had the wild, frightened animal look that came with shock, and she talked to him quietly; but all he could mouth was, ‘Ott… Ott… Ott…’ Hence the nickname they gave him: Otter.

‘
A Blighty, sir?’ Sister Price asked the doctor who examined him later in the evening.

He shook his head,
‘No. No, we don’t even know whether he’s one of ours or theirs. Best keep him here for a day or two. The lad’s terrified, and it could be more damaging to move him.’ It was the kind of compassion none of them could really afford, but the doctor, a RAMC major, had spoken.

When the casualty clearing station was moved back, and the staff sent to No. 6 General Hospital, Rouen, Otter was still with them
– nameless, unidentified, without rank, number or nationality. He was in his mid twenties, tall, fair and good-looking, and constantly trying to please. He would run errands, help the nurses and doctors with the heavy lifting, bring tea into the wards, smile at everyone and say, ‘Ott… Ott… Ott’ like some tame domestic pet. Even his eyes had the pleading look of a stray dog in need of love, and his normal gait appeared to be an oddly uncoordinated half run, taking little steps instead of the firm strides his long legs were obviously capable of making.

At Rouen, nobody questioned him. It was as though Otter had been demoted from the human race for the sole purpose of becoming a helpful mascot for doctors and nurses alike. Nobody shouted at him or gave him harsh orders. But he was quick, and soon even picked up rudimentary first aid.

The staff who had worked together at the Casualty Clearing Station remained together as a team at the General Hospital, and Otter was always with them.

‘
He’ll either get his memory back, or some silly devil’ll suddenly take him away and put him through hell,’ the Major told Sister Price. ‘But, for the time being, he’s walking wounded. And he’s our walking wounded.’

Otter had a special regard for Mary Anne as she had been the first to take pity on him. Often he would follow her around like a loyal terrier, and he
never had any difficulty understanding what she required of him.

One morning, three weeks after they got to Rouen, Mary Anne was dressing a wound, when they brought several stretcher cases into the ward. Orderlies helped the men into bed, and presently the Major came, with Sister Price, to make his observations. Mary Anne went on dressing a wound
– a great gash where shrapnel had taken a bite from a young corporal’s right thigh – aware the Major had reached the bed next to her patient.

‘
Shrapnel wounds, left shoulder. Lacerations left cheek,’ Sister Price intoned.

‘
Mmm.’ The Major bent over the wounded man.

‘
Blighty, sir?’ Sister asked.

‘
No. Sorry, old chap, not this time. You’ll be up and walking in a few days. We’ll see in a week.’

‘
Name, rank, number, next of kin,’ Sister Price snapped. ‘Hunter. Jack. Corporal. Two-five-four-oh-one-oh. No next of kin, Ma’am.’

Mary Anne looked up sharply. The name and voice stirred
something from childhood. She peered at the man on the bed. Later she went to him, ‘Your name’s Corporal Hunter?’

‘
Aye.’

‘
Jack Hunter?’

‘
Yes,’ wary.

‘
Didn’t you once work for my grandfather, General Sir William Railton?’

‘
I might have done. Your Grandpa, eh. And who are you? No, let me guess. Your Mr Charles’ little girl.’

‘
Yes. It is you, isn’t it? Mr Hunter? You were Grandpa’s estate manager, weren’t you?’

He nodded, and she thought there was pleasure in his eyes at seeing one of the family again after so long.

But it wasn’t pleasure in any normal sense. Jack Hunter had prayed for a time like this. Ever since that stuck-up bitch Mr John’s wife had seen him run off the estate he had prayed. One day, he thought, a Railton would be alone, and at his mercy.

*

James went out every other day. Nobody appeared to bother with Frau Dimpling, and he explained matters to her in simple terms, even though she was a woman of above average intelligence.

She was twenty-eight years of age, and had met Wolfgang while he was on holiday in Eastbourne where her father was a local bank manager.

Wolfgang, with his degree in engineering, was finishing his education as a student engineer at a motor car engine factory near Croydon. His parents – who were both to die in a tragic fire in 1912 – were also well-to-do and tradespeople. Hetty Fairchild and Wolfgang Dimpling took one look at each other and fell in love. Herr Dimpling senior visited her father a month later, and the forthcoming marriage was announced.

Since the news of her husband
’s presumed death, the lonely Frau Dimpling, fearing for her safety, had dared not write to her parents in case the letters were intercepted, yet, with that odd illogicality of the English, she
had
written to the Foreign Office in London. James’ arrival had been an answer to her prayer.

James, of course, gave her only minimal information. She must speak to nobody about his presence in the house; if asked, he was Herr Gustav Franke, the son of an old friend of the Dimpling family, recently returned from Switzerland.

Quickly, he discovered that she was a young woman who needed a great deal of physical attention. It was, he reasoned, his duty to keep her happy, yet at night he often found himself wakened by the soft sound of a piano. The music worried him.

On the third day he went out, travelling by bus and tram to Courbierrestrasse. He then spent an afternoon in the area, lingering as long as possible near Number 8.

There was nothing to see.

He left any further contact with Herr Major Stoerkel for a week. Then he telephoned the home number. A servant answered. The Herr Major was at home, who wished to speak with him? James said it was the Baron Hellinger.

‘Herr Baron, it’s good to hear you. I wondered when you would get in touch again.’ Major Stoerkel came on the line.

‘
I shall always be in touch, Joseph. Any news from the Alexander-Platz?’

‘
I was going to leave a message for you.’

‘
Well?’

‘
The lady you so admire…’

‘
Yes?’

‘
I have an address. She is at Number 36 Wilhelmstrasse, almost next door to the Hospiz St Michael, near the Anhaltstrasse. She lives in apartment 23, and it appears to be her custom to go out between the hours of eleven and noon; and again between four and five in the afternoon.’

‘
Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘
Oh, I can be of more assistance. When can we meet?’

‘
Soon,’ James said, and closed the line.

That night, he rehearsed Hetty Dimpling in what she was to do.
‘You must appear very natural. Find a shop window to examine. Even go inside if necessary, but make sure that you can see the entrance to Number 36 clearly. I will be near, but not in the street itself. Remember, there are two things to look for – the woman I shall describe, and anything suspicious: people watching.’

In minute detail he coached her in the ways the house could be watched.
‘Watchers will not wear uniforms, or badges of rank.
Anyone
loitering, women standing where they can view the whole section of the street – gossiping; men repairing things, painting signs, passing the time of day. Be casual. See if they’re watching you. If they are, then don’t look back, just go about some kind of business.’

He told her to try to show no fear, and, if someone approached, she must get away without too much rush and hurry. James then gave her the description of Marie, repeating it several times, and making her go over it until she was eye perfect.

In the morning, he saw her off, following at a safe distance, going to a nearby street.

The café
where he waited began to fill up, and the waitress kept coming back to see if he had finished his coffee. He told her he was waiting for a friend.

Hetty, wearing a flattering sky blue dress, with a slightly darker blue street-coat and a saucy veiled hat, came in at a little after half-past twelve. Her eyes sparkled, telling it all.

At home, he made her repeat the story three times. There had been nothing at all suspicious. Nobody working, or lounging in the streets. Yes, for the hundredth time, she was certain about the woman – just as he had described. She was with a tall, very handsome officer, in uniform. They walked to the end of the street, then the officer hailed a cab, so Hetty could follow no further.

‘
Did the cab appear suddenly, or did it look as though it was waiting for them?’

‘
Come to think of it, darling, yes.’

‘
Yes what?’

‘
Yes, it looked as though it was waiting, near the building.’

His senses asked why? Did Marie, provided it
was
Marie, want to be seen? There was only one way to find out. ‘Gustav, darling,’ Hetty called, having vanished into the bedroom, ‘will you come and love me – please.’

Later she said that Gustav was better than Wolfgang.
‘How better?’ he laughed.

‘
Bigger,’ she giggled. ‘Bigger and stronger. Wolfgang was like a baby carrot.’

‘
Oh yes?’ Did they plan to trap him, by making it easy for him to see her? Should he go in the afternoon? View from a distance?

‘
While you,’ Hetty giggled, ‘you are like a large parsnip’

He turned to her, knowing he had to free his mind in order to make a decision.
‘Butter my parsnip, then.’

*

It was Charlotte’s turn to spend time at Redhill helping Sara with the farm organization. Andrew had a few days leave due, and he had come down with her – to rest, he said.

They were at the house, about to sit down to luncheon, when the cablegram arrived.

Sara tore it open and gave a squeal of joy. ‘Richard Farthing, she said, a shade loudly. ‘He’s coming back to England. Look,’ handing the cablegram to Andrew.

‘
That’ll be nice for you, dear. Do I detect the sound of wedding bells?’

‘
No,’ Sara’s voice, while happy, was quite firm. ‘Definitely not. Not yet, anyway.’

‘
Oh no!’ said Andrew. They both looked at him, for there was despair in his voice.