Amy (11 page)

‘Amy,’ Sister said, ‘you look dreadful. Go and get a cup of tea and then go to bed. You’ve done enough. The night staff will be here soon.’

Amy went to the little kitchen where they could make tea and coffee. She sat down at the table, her hands shaking. She had seen dozens of
men die, but in a strange way Johnny seemed to embody them all. He seemed to hold in himself everything that was best from home; he was young, strong, handsome and fearless. It was such an appalling waste. It seemed to be more than that. His death would in some way be the end of something that had hardly begun; something that she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, admit to herself.

She finished her tea and dragged herself up the marble staircase to her room. Helen was sitting up in bed again, reading. Amy sat down on her bed and began to cry, soft tears running down her face. Helen got out of bed at once and sat beside her and put her arm around her shoulders.

‘What is it, Amy? What’s happened?’

Amy rested her forehead on her hand and then wiped her tears away with her fingers. ‘It’s everything,’ she said.

‘What exactly?’

For a moment Amy was tempted to tell her, to pour it all out, her horror at what was happening, her bitter frustration at what had happened to her. But she drew back. If it ever got out she might not be allowed to stay and do the little that she could. Her own troubles were buried under a mountain of pain.

‘It’s Johnny Maddox,’ she said. ‘His wound’s infected. He had a secondary haemorrhage tonight. He’s very ill.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Helen said.

Amy looked into Helen’s questioning, troubled eyes. ‘It’s not what you think, Helen. It just seems so awful, so wicked, such an evil,
horrible
waste.’

Helen hugged her closer. ‘He might be all right. We’ll just have to hope.’ She helped Amy into bed and looked down at her. ‘He might be all right,’ she said again. ‘Don’t give up hope.’ She gave a little smile. ‘The Frenchman can hear. The men all yelled at him at once, and it seemed to break through. He can hear now, anyway, and talk. I wish I could understand what he was saying.’

Amy closed her eyes. Perhaps it’s just as well that you can’t, Helen, she thought.

A
MY
opened her eyes the next morning and her first thought was of Johnny. Was he still alive? She bathed and dressed, unable to get him out of her head. Was he still in the ward, clinging to life, or had he been taken out in the night, moved out in the dark from the back of the hotel, sent home to his suffering family? She had to know, but she had to go to the general wards immediately after breakfast.

More ambulances had arrived in the early morning, bringing in wounded from the railway stations. They were all dirty and hungry. One of them, wounded in the leg, was reluctant to let Amy take off his clothes.

‘It’s all right,’ Amy said gently. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. We wash the men every day. We do it all the time.’

‘It’s not that, Sister,’ he said. Amy smiled at the ‘Sister’. ‘It’s because me uniform’s so filthy.’ He coloured. ‘And covered in lice. I don’t like to think of you young ladies touching it.’

He hasn’t even mentioned his wound, she thought. ‘It’s all right,’ she said again. ‘We do it all the time.’ She cut off his trousers, trying not to disturb his leg. His socks were almost fused to his feet, rotting and stinking.

‘I’ve not had any clean clothes since I got here,’ he said. ‘Weeks and weeks. I don’t even know how long.’

Amy stripped and washed him and put his tattered clothes into the basket for burning.

‘That’s wonderful, Sister,’ he said. ‘Being clean again. It’s wonderful. God bless you.’

‘The nurse will be along very soon,’ she said, ‘to see to your
dressing
.’

She went to the store to ask for more socks. The hospital was getting regular parcels from England, from English women at home, knitting socks and scarves and gloves. They would never know, she thought, how much they were appreciated. She remembered, grimly, how
determined
she had been not to stay at home knitting, and how grateful she now was to those who did. Sometimes French soldiers came to the hospital asking for socks – the word seemed to have got around about the parcels from England – and went away with a few pairs, highly pleased. Why on earth couldn’t the armies provide a simple thing like socks? Such little things, she thought, and so hugely important that the men’s feet were looked after. ‘For the want of a nail the shoe was lost.’ The old rhyme came into her head. ‘For the want of a shoe the horse was lost, for the want of a horse the rider was lost, for the want of a rider the battle was lost, and all for the want of a horseshoe nail.’ Why couldn’t the army take better care of the men? ‘More socks please,’ she said.

Mechanically she stripped, washed, dried, powdered feet, helped to change dressings. And all the time the question repeated in her head. Johnny. Is he dead? The thought was constant, insistent. Is he dead? Had he been sent back to England to be grieved over and laid to rest in some quiet country churchyard? She hesitated to go to the officers’ ward. Such visits would be heavily frowned upon, and she was afraid to ask, afraid of what the answer would be.

She met up with Helen at lunch. They sat down at the table with their steak and kidney pudding.

‘How is your lieutenant?’ Helen said.

Sometimes, Amy thought, Helen had a strange way of knowing what she was thinking. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. She toyed with her pudding, separating out the kidney.

‘Don’t you want the kidney?’ Helen speared a piece from her plate and popped it into her mouth. ‘It’s the best bit.’

Amy smiled, ‘Help yourself.’

‘You’re a fussy eater, aren’t you?’ Helen took another piece. ‘Don’t like rice pudding skin, don’t like kidney.’

‘No I’m not,’ Amy said. ‘It’s only the rice pudding. I’m just not very hungry today.’

Helen looked at her. ‘What’s wrong?’

Amy put down her fork and pushed her plate away. ‘I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. I haven’t had time to breathe this morning and I don’t suppose I’d be very welcome on the officers’ ward, asking
questions
.’

‘Go and see,’ Helen said. ‘You won’t settle until you do.’

Amy hesitated, unwilling to admit, even to herself, that she couldn’t get him out of her mind.

‘Go on,’ Helen said. ‘I know you’re worried about him.’

‘I don’t know why I am, about him specially.’ Helen gave her an arch look, but she ignored it. ‘I suppose it’s because I was there when he bled and nearly died. It all seemed so terrible, so pointless.’

‘Go and see.’

‘You’re right.’ Amy got up. ‘I’ll go now. Sister can only tell me to go away.’

Sister was sitting behind her desk, making up notes. She glanced up. ‘Yes?’

‘I wanted to know about Lieutenant Maddox,’ Amy said, ‘the one who had the secondary haemorrhage.’

‘I know who he is.’ Sister looked at her for a moment or two and then her face softened suddenly. ‘It was you who looked after him, wasn’t it, Amy? He’s very ill, but he’s fighting hard. You can go and see him if you like, but don’t disturb him. He needs all the rest he can get. He’s behind the screens.’

Behind the screens again. She glanced down the ward. Most of the patients were resting now after lunch and it was very quiet. One of the nurses was still feeding a man whose arms were both in splints. She noticed with a chill that Johnny’s bed was near the door. They put the men who were the most ill near the door. It was thought better not to take them all the way through the ward if they died. It was just another dreadful reminder for the men.

She slipped behind the screens. He was lying on his back, his face pale and sweating. He began to mutter and twitch, his eyes rolling under the lids, and then he lay deadly still again, his eyes still closed. She touched his hand. ‘Johnny,’ she whispered, but he didn’t move or answer. He didn’t seem to be aware of her presence. Once, for a second,
his lids flickered open and he stared at her for a moment, his eyes empty, and then they rolled back in his head and the lids closed again. She stayed with him for a few moments, touching his hand, wishing that she could do something, anything, to bring him back, and then she left him and walked back to Sister. ‘He didn’t know me,’ she said. ‘He opened his eyes, but he didn’t know me.’

‘He doesn’t know anyone.’ Sister looked grave. ‘He is very ill. We have sent a message to his family, but I don’t know if anyone will be able to come.’

‘I hope so. He might recognize someone in his family. It might help him.’

Sister nodded. ‘If they can get here at all. The Germans have submarines in the Channel now, attacking the shipping. It might not be safe for civilian passengers any more.’

Amy shook her head. ‘Is there nothing they won’t do? May I ask again tomorrow?’

‘Do you think you should?’ Sister’s voice sounded concerned, not angry. ‘All the men need your attention. The war is going to go on and they are going to keep on and on coming. It isn’t wise to become too attached to one. Especially one who is so ill.’

Amy looked at her, into a now sympathetic face. ‘I’m not – I mean it’s just that I brought him in and was there when he haemorrhaged.’

‘You can ask again tomorrow, Amy. I’ll let you know if – if he’s still here.’

Helen was waiting for her in the hall, the question in her eyes.

‘He’s still alive,’ Amy said. ‘Just. They’ve sent for his family.’

Helen took her hand. ‘Come and have a cup of tea. You didn’t even finish your lunch.’ They went back into the dining-room.

Helen collected their tea and sat down opposite her. ‘You really mustn’t get involved, Amy. Not with a sick patient. It isn’t wise. It can only lead to heartache.’

Amy made a sound, half a laugh, half a sigh. ‘I’m not involved, Helen. How could I be? I don’t know him. He doesn’t know me.’ She paused, trying to explain it to herself. ‘It’s just – he seems somehow to represent them all, all these young men, all the dying and the dead.’ Tears started in her eyes. ‘He shouldn’t be here like this. None of them should.’

‘Don’t,’ Helen whispered. ‘You’ll set me off. You’ve always been the strong one.’

Amy smiled briefly, a humourless smile. ‘And you. I’m glad you’re here, Helen.’

Helen clasped her hand. ‘If you want to have a good cry, wait till we get back to our room. Goodness knows, I’ve cried all over you often enough.’

‘It’s all right,’ Amy held back her tears. ‘I’m all right now.’

They went up the marble staircase to their room and both lay down on their beds to rest before the afternoon work. Amy lay, staring at the ceiling. She wondered how much her feeling about him was simply due to the fact that at this one time she had been back handling the familiar instruments, stemming Johnny’s blood loss, doing her job. Perhaps her interest in him was just part of the joy of being in theatre again, and he had been the man who happened to be there. They had been there together. Perhaps it had all become mixed up in her mind. Or was she trying not to admit what she really was feeling? Any kind of feeling for him was utterly pointless. He would go, one way or the other. He would get better and go home to convalesce and then he would go back to the trenches. Or he would die, here and now. Either way she would never see him again.

She visited the officers’ ward again the next morning.

‘He’s still fighting.’ Sister actually seemed pleased to see her. ‘Perhaps you can help him, Amy. He’s barely conscious most of the time. We’re having quite a job getting fluids into him. If he knows you he might respond to you.’

When she went behind he screens he was lying so still that for a dreadful moment she thought that he was dead. Then he began the restless muttering and twitching. ‘Johnny,’ she said. She took his hand. ‘Johnny.’

His muttering stopped suddenly and he opened his eyes and looked at her. Slowly his eyes focused on her, as if he were coming back from a great distance.

‘Amy,’ he whispered. His eyelids fluttered. ‘Water.’

‘Johnny,’ she said again. ‘I’ll get help.’ She called Sister and between them they propped him up and he drank, too weak to stop the water dribbling down his chin.

They lay him down on the pillows. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered, and then his eyes closed again.

They went back to Sister’s desk. ‘You could come back tomorrow,
Amy,’ Sister said. ‘He seems to respond to you. If we can just get him to take more fluids, and perhaps some nourishment, he might have a chance.’

‘Yes, of course, I’ll come back.’ She left the ward. Did he have a chance? She desperately, fiercely, wanted him to live. She felt that his life would somehow be a fist shaken against fate, a gesture of defiance in the face of overwhelming odds.

‘How is he?’ Helen said.

‘He knew me today. But I don’t know. He’s still very ill.’

Helen said nothing more, but Amy could see the concern in her eyes.

The next day he knew her at once. He even managed a weak smile. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Come to save my life again?’

‘It’s not me this time,’ she smiled down at him. ‘The doctors and nurses have saved your life this time, and I suppose you might have had something to do with it. There’s such a thing as the will to live.’

‘The Hun can’t get me,’ he said. ‘Their aim isn’t good enough.’

It wasn’t the Hun this time, she thought. It was the bacteria, the staphylococci and streptococci or whatever organism had taken over his body, those tiny creatures that left them helpless, almost hopeless. It all depended on the patient, on his ability to resist the infection, to fight those invisible killers. Things were changing, but so slowly. They had a vaccine now against typhoid, and an anti-toxin was coming against tetanus, but there was nothing that would kill the deadly
bacteria
. The advances were coming too slowly to help these men, just when they needed it most.

She went to see him every day. Slowly, day by day, he seemed to be getting better. His temperature was erratic, but was coming down and he was drinking and taking soup. Even Sister made no comment now when she went to see him; she even smiled at her.

At last, she could be sure. He wasn’t going to die. As he got better and it seemed that he would live, her concern for him increased again. But now it was a different concern. One day he would probably be well enough to go back to his regiment, back to that hell. All that effort to save him, all his strength and spirit, and what for? So that he would have to risk it all again? It was not fair. He should not have to go back. There was no justice.

Amy was sitting in their room reading
Pride and Prejudice
for the
umpteenth time. Jane Austen was almost like a drug, soothing and calming. For a short time she could escape into a world of elegance and pleasant, easy living. Those had not been the best of times, perhaps, for intelligent women, but Jane Austen seemed to have beaten the
restrictions
. And the best thing about her writing was that she was very funny. Anything that could make you laugh was precious.

Helen poked her head around the door. ‘Your captain’s here,’ she said. ‘He’s downstairs in the hall.’ She bounced into the room and sat down on her bed.

Amy put down her book. She was surprised; she had not really expected Dan Fielding to come back, or at least, not to contact her if he did. She had almost forgotten about it. Promises were not promises in a war. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’ she asked. ‘The place is full of soldiers.’

‘Absolutely. He was talking to Dr Hanfield and then I heard him ask if he could speak to you.’ She was smiling broadly. ‘Do go and see him, Amy. We might get that dinner out.’

‘Well I can hardly go down there and drift about until he notices me, can I? If he really wants to speak to me they will send someone up.’

Almost at once there was a knock at the door. Helen laughed. ‘There you are then.’

Amy opened the door to one of the ward maids. ‘There’s a soldier downstairs,’ she said. ‘He says he wants to speak to you.’

‘Thank you,’ Amy said, and closed the door. She sighed. ‘Oh dear, I expect it’ll be all over the hospital in five minutes. I suppose I’d better go down and see him.’

‘Oh yes, do.’ Helen’s eyes were dancing. ‘And if he asks you, say yes.’

Amy brushed her hair into place and put on her jacket. ‘Don’t get too excited. Matron might very well say that we can’t go.’