All I Have to Give (2 page)

With this release, her body betrayed her, wrenching deep sobs from her that left her limp beneath him. Paddy connected to this unburdening of her soul by coming deep into her, then slumping
beside her.

His sobs gave her strength. His need created in her a place that could give him comfort and so soothe her own pain. Taking him in her arms, she whispered, ‘It’ll be reet, Paddy,
love. The King promised us. I’ll go and see the authorities and explain. They’ll have to release our Jimmy. I’ll take the letter with me. They can’t deny what our own King
has said.’

‘No.’ His hand found her discarded pinny. Using it to wipe his face, he lifted himself on his elbow and gently wiped hers, too. “Tis as Jimmy is his own man. He’s made
his decision. We have to stand by him on that, so we do.’

‘You’re reet, Paddy. We do. Come on, we’ve a “do” to arrange. We have to give our lad a good send-off.’ Grabbing her clothes, Ada began to dress, but she felt
a trickle of worry at Paddy’s protest, as the sound of his voice showed that his anger was returning.

‘That’s taking things too far for me. I see it as a mockery, and it’s what makes me angry more than anything. How is it that you, his mammy, could rejoice at Jimmy’s
going? It makes me sick to me stomach.’

Ada hadn’t meant to make him angry again. She’d wanted to hold on to the love they had just shared. ‘It’s not a celebration, Paddy. It’s to say we are proud of him.
Aye, and to help our Beryl, and them lasses in the street that are sending their lads off, too. And Betsy – young Betsy is in love with our Jimmy, and she will miss him more than anyone. Us
having a bit of a do will help them all take their minds off the fear of it, at least for a couple of hours. Mind, it’ll be a dry do, because you’ve had me nest-egg again, Paddy. Eeh,
how you can take from your own wife, like you do, beggars belief. You can be a pig at times, Paddy O’Flynn!’

‘A pig, is it? And haven’t I just given you the loving of your life, bringing you more joy than is known to man, and you call me a pig!’

He’d risen and was pulling on his trousers. Normally such talk would put a fear into her. Paddy lived a fine balance between being the man every woman desired and a monster who would knock
nine bells out of her. But his tone didn’t hold anger. He spoke with a curious insinuation that he knew something she didn’t.

‘If it is a party you want, and the spirit of it is as you say, then take a look at this. Won’t some of that get you a party to tell of, eh?’ Paddy produced ten one-pound notes
from the pocket of his trousers.

‘Oh my God, Paddy, what have you done? Have you robbed a bank?’

‘Ha, no. It is the horses that came in for me. I bet a double and a treble, and they came romping in. This is what I did with the four bob I took from your purse. I went forth and
multiplied, just as the good Lord said we should.’

‘Oh, Paddy!’

‘Ha! Is it a pig you think I am now?’

She laughed at him, hitting him with the pinny she’d picked up, then snatched the three one-pound notes that he held out towards her. ‘A generous pig, but a pig all the
same!’

As he went to grab her, she wriggled out of his reach and clambered for the ladder. She needed to busy herself because, party or no party, she had to face the reality of their Jimmy going to
war.

Nice, southern France and the Somme,
May–July 1916
In the footsteps of her heroine

From her window seat in Marianne’s apartment overlooking the Promenade des Anglais in Nice, Edith found it hard to believe there was a war on, let alone that she had left
the family home in London’s Holland Park to do her bit.

It was strange, she thought, that she was sitting here, watching the world go by, when soon she would be using her skills to tend the wounded and help the dying to pass over with dignity.

Her plans had been met with opposition from her mother. She understood, of course. Poor Mama. Born Lady Muriel Daverly, Mama had lost a lot of the status that went with her birth by marrying a
second son, and not a lord. She did, however, hold a special place in social standing as she had inherited her family’s country estate in Leicestershire, along with a considerable fortune
– something that rarely happened to a woman, but there had been no male member left in her entire family line.

A socialite at heart, Mama had tried hard not to acknowledge that there was a war on at all, and had carried on, business as usual. The business in question had been several desperate attempts
to marry Edith off to a suitable beau. But she didn’t want to be married off, suitable or otherwise! Her first love was her career. Something she realized was quite a shocking thing for a
young lady to pursue.

How much better for Mama if she’d had a daughter of the ilk of Lady Eloise, or Lady Andrina. Daughters of her uncle, Lord Mellor, and his French wife, Lady Felicity, they were a lovable
but frivolous pair of girls. It was through them that Edith knew and had become close to Marianne, as Marianne was their aunt – sister to Lady Felicity.

Edith had to admit, though, that wanting her married off wasn’t the only reason behind her mama’s objections. Mama had already seen her two sons off to war: Douglas, who loved
nothing more than managing their mother’s Leicestershire estate, but whose innate patriotism and sense of duty had driven him to volunteer; and Christian, a student of medical science, driven
by the same values as Douglas. They were now both commissioned officers fighting in the Somme area, the same region that Edith planned to go to.

It had been Christian’s letter that had alerted Edith to the desperate need for doctors. He’d told her how much he admired a Scottish woman doctor, Elsie Inglis, who, at twenty-eight
– the same age as Edith – had gone to the Somme and set up a hospital, despite opposition from the War Office.

Edith’s own accomplishment in becoming a surgeon had been an easier path than the one Elsie had taken. Elsie had been driven to set up her own medical school in order to study, but
Edith’s father being a top surgeon himself meant that doors had opened that wouldn’t normally have done so for a woman. It was strange, she thought, how she had been the one to take up
the profession and not her two brothers, though of course Christian’s calling was in another very important medical field, so some of their father’s genes must be in him, too.

But for all her qualifications, the same fate befell her as had happened to Elsie – the War Office refused Edith’s application for a post in the war zone, in the same condescending
way that Elsie had encountered. Edith was indignant at the manner of the refusal. How dare they say her place was at home? They seemed to be ignoring the fact that hundreds of women were already in
war zones, all over the world: nurses, voluntary aid workers and First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, given the ridiculous acronym of FANYs! And all of them were doing a sterling job.

She’d had no joy with the British Red Cross, either. They’d said they would contact her if they found they needed more personnel, but at present they felt they had enough medical
staff. With attempts to provide her services thwarted, Edith had taken a leaf out of Elsie Inglis’s book and had gone it alone. She’d arranged to come and stay with Marianne in the
South of France, so that she could also apply to the French Red Cross, as Elsie had done in the first instance. Edith’s thinking had been that, being in France, her application would have a
little more weight, besides which, Marianne had influence in some very useful quarters.

Bringing her attention back to the view she had from her window seat, Edith gazed down on the people wandering along the Promenade des Anglais. She loved the story of how the promenade got its
name, and imagined the poor beggars of the 1820s sweating away at their labour – put to work by the wealthy English to make a walkway for them along the beach. A humble beginning had expanded
to become the beautiful promenade she now looked down on.

None of the folk ambling along or popping in and out of the couture, art and jewellery shops, or those taking a leisurely coffee or glass of wine in the pavement cafes below the apartment block,
looked as though they had a care in the world. But Marianne had told her of her many friends who had sons in the French Army, fighting in the raging battle of Verdun. Many of them had been injured
or killed, and their families lived in fear of hearing sad news. So she imagined that some of the men and women she could see from her vantage point had worries that didn’t show in their
demeanour. Yet war hadn’t touched Nice in any other way. Food was plentiful, and even the socializing continued.

The scene altered as she gazed beyond the ever-changing kaleidoscope of the promenade to the turquoise sea, gently lapping onto the sands. On the horizon, boats – some with fishermen in,
others with graceful sails – bobbed about, in and out of the line of jewels thrown onto the water by the glistening sun.

Edith’s thoughts were startled by the door opening. Marianne entered the sitting room. The fixed, pretend smile on her face ran counter to the usual air of wealth and happiness that she
emanated, and sparked a feeling of trepidation in Edith.

‘Edith, darling, it is here. The letter you have been waiting for. It has arrived. I hope it has the news you want to hear, but only because you want it so much. For me,
ma
chérie,
I would prefer it to be a “no”.’ Marianne floated towards her, holding not one, but two letters. ‘And there is another letter, and a more welcome one, I
hope. It is from your mother. I know her handwriting well. Maybe in it we will hear some good news.’

Floating was the only way you could describe the way Marianne walked. She reminded Edith of the mechanical doll she’d had as a child, which, when wound up, moved on little wheels hidden
under its long skirt. Marianne’s blue silk skirt hid her shoes and brushed along the thick carpet in much the same way. Held in at the waist with a cummerbund, where the skirt joined her
cream, frilly blouse, her attire showed off her very slight figure. She wore her gleaming black hair piled high on her head and coiled in a chignon at the back, which saved her from looking as tiny
as she was as the style gave her some perceived height. Tendrils of hair fell around her pretty face – a face with chiselled features set off by her huge eyes, the colour of which were
difficult to describe, as sometimes they looked the deepest blue and at other times more of a misty grey.

Taking the letters, Edith stared at the brown one for a moment. It
was
what she had been waiting for: the insignia of the French Red Cross was unmistakable. Her heart thudded.
Please don’t let the answer be ‘no’.

Translating the French and simplifying it, Edith read just the opposite. The Red Cross would be very pleased to have her.
At last!

‘Good news?’

‘I think so. I am to be in Boulogne at the beginning of June, and will be taken to the front from there.’

‘Oh no,
ma chérie –
the fighting there is so intense! With the battle in Ypres failing, the Germans are advancing on France, and the news is that the hold at Verdun
is failing, too!’

‘But where else would I be needed than where the fighting is? Please don’t worry, dear Marianne. Medical staff are safe; they are covered by a treaty that allows Red Cross workers to
carry out their duty without being attacked.’

Reading on, Edith realized that changes were afoot. ‘It says I am initially to go to Verdun, but that the hospital may be on the move. There must be a new offensive. Perhaps I will
eventually go somewhere near Christian and Douglas. Oh, I’m so excited to be going at last!’

Opening the second letter, she read that her mother was missing her and hoped that Edith had changed her mind. But, if she hadn’t, then would she contact the British Red Cross, as they now
needed her urgently!

‘Good gracious! First of all nobody wants me, and now everyone does!’ Reading Marianne the contents of the letter, she had no doubt which offer she would take up. ‘I will
contact both, and let them know that I will attach myself to the British Red Cross. I want to help my fellow countrymen more than anything.’

‘I admire you so much, Edith, but I . . .’ Marianne paused for a moment. ‘Promise me you will visit me as often as you can?’

‘I promise. And thank you. To have your admiration means a lot to me. Now, I must write to Mama. She won’t like it that I am carrying on with my plans, and I cannot blame her, but
before I left she gave me her blessing and told me she was proud of me. And in her letter she says her love goes with me, so I think she has resigned herself to it.’

‘Poor Muriel, it must be very difficult for her: first the boys, and now you.’ Before Edith could answer this, Marianne changed her tone, and the subject. ‘But we all have to
deal with the situation as it is, and there are things to arrange. Your train ticket for one, and clothes . . .’

‘Now you are being frivolous, Marianne! I do not need any more clothes. I will be in uniform most of the time, and I have some practical pieces with me that will do, when I’m not
working.’

Being frivolous was so unlike Marianne. She was a political animal who spoke up for the rights of women. Even in her calling as an author, her books – though categorized as ‘romance
novels’ – held a message. It was very subtle, but still there, in the hope of rallying women to the cause, as her heroines often did.

It was funny that she should write romances, thought Edith, when she’d never known Marianne to be courted by a man. She had many male friends, but that is all they were: friends. When she
hosted dinner parties, she would debate with her friends for hours on the war, politics and women’s rights, but no one ever flirted with her. Her closest friend was a woman – a handsome
woman, in a manly way – who used the male form of her name, shortening Georgette to George. Edith wondered about the implications of this, especially as Marianne often stayed over at
George’s apartment, but it didn’t worry her. Marianne was her own woman, a passionate person who cared deeply about everything. The way in which her sexuality lay was her own
business.