Angels at War (25 page)

Livia grabbed one of the nurses as they
hurried by. ‘Where have you moved Donald to? Has he gone for another op?’

‘Oh, he died during the night. Gangrene.’

Livia felt his loss like a personal blow. She grieved for him as if she’d known him for years and not just a matter of weeks. Donald’s belongings had all been packed away but she could remember his girl’s address, and that of his widowed mother. That night she sat down and wrote to them both, telling them how brave he’d been, how strong, laughing and joking right up to the end and always thinking of them with love and affection.

She could do this for him at least.

As she settled down to sleep she felt utterly drained, and tears slid unchecked down her cheeks, dampening her pillow. Livia could only hope and pray that neither Matthew nor Jack would suffer in such a way.

Whenever the two girls had a dinner break or the odd hour free, they’d work in the hospital’s walled garden. There was a head gardener who looked wizened enough to have worked in it from its early Victorian days, but he was a gentle soul and welcomed the help of the VADs with the digging and planting. Such things as fresh vegetables, tomatoes, apples, plums and gooseberries were much needed for the health of the patients.

In that first year, with only one day off a month, Livia and Mercy came to enjoy these days out in the clean, fresh air, finding it a welcome change from the sights and smells of the ward, almost a form of relaxation.

Sometimes there might be a dance or a concert party organised to entertain the nurses and VADs, which was always a treat. Or a group of them would walk in the park or treat themselves to cream cakes at the local tea shop. The two sisters took part in all these activities together. They worked with equal diligence and compassion alongside each other day after day in the ward, and what little free time they had they spent together too. They even slept in the same room, so it wasn’t surprising that they grew close as a result.

They also waited with the same sense of anxiety for news from the front.

It was a strange situation. Jack wrote to each of them, entirely ignorant of the fact that his wife was now aware of his love for her half-sister. If either one of them should get a letter they’d come running, eager to share the exciting news. The other might be secretly jealous, but relieved to know that this meant Jack must still be safe and well.

Sometimes they would share little snippets, sitting up in bed reading parts of what was in
effect a private love letter. Livia was only too aware, however, that her own didn’t qualify for that description quite as much as did Mercy’s. She knew this by the way the other girl curled up in bed and would read her letter over and over with a small smile of happiness on her face.

But Livia found she minded less and less. Why should she? She got letters from Matthew and didn’t share those with anyone, not even with Mercy. Matthew’s were very much love letters whereas those from her husband were more practical and chummy.

Occasionally Mercy would receive a letter from George, always polite and friendly, saying he was well and hoped she was too. He and Tom Mounsey had joined up together in the same pals regiment and were in France, although no one quite knew where as this sort of information was censored.

It was a strange situation, but not one to examine too closely, Livia thought, not while there was a war on. Mercy, however, had different ideas.

‘Did you mean it when you said you’d divorce Jack?’ she asked Livia one evening as they sat huddled together in bed for warmth, pouring over their precious letters. Staff dormitories weren’t heated and they always slept in dressing gowns and thick bed socks.

Livia gave a rueful smile. ‘It’s fairly obvious that would be the best for all concerned, when the time is right. But what about George, would he agree to a divorce?’

‘I reckon so. He says I deserve a bit of happiness.’

‘He’s right, you do.’ Livia knew only too well that Mercy was perfectly capable of snatching what happiness she could, even at the expense of others, but understood the reason and forgave her. The girl was less strident and difficult than she used to be, but where Livia strove to find a purpose in life, Mercy needed simply to belong.

‘Jack says in this letter that he’s going to ask you for a divorce once the war is over. Should I tell him that you already know about us, and agree?’

‘Oh, dear, it’s all a bit of a muddle, isn’t it? One that will take some time to sort out, I expect, once this war is over. I’ve no idea how one even sets about getting a divorce, or how much it costs.’

So many times Livia had wondered if she should have stuck to her plan never to marry at all. Yet now she ached to marry Matthew, knew it felt right for them both. Happiness in marriage depended upon choosing the right man in the first place. Livia sighed, wishing life could be simpler, or that she’d realised this simple fact sooner.

‘It might cheer him up, you see, to know that you’re all right about it. So can I tell him?’ Mercy persisted, interrupting her thoughts.

It felt almost hurtful and certainly rather sad that hearing your wife had agreed to end your marriage would cheer up a soldier fighting at the front. Generally the reverse was the case. ‘If you wish,’ Livia sighed. ‘I’ll be guided by you in this, Mercy. I just want us all to stay friends, if that’s possible. I couldn’t bear to fall out with Jack. I’m still very fond of him, even if …’ She left the sentence unfinished, as it was all far too complicated to sort out right now.

And it was Matthew’s letter she kissed and tucked under her pillow when she climbed back into her own bed to sleep.

‘Keep safe, my darling. Keep safe.’

Then after a year of working in the military hospital, the two sisters heard they’d been posted to France.

On cold days, which seemed to be the norm, Livia would often find herself thinking of life at Angel’s Department Store, of dear Mrs Dee and her scarlet petticoats, and the crotchety old dragon, Miss Caraway. How she longed to be back there, safe and warm, even if the food was nearly always mutton stew, the shop girls prone to gossip, and the customers difficult.

She would think of Ella at the farm, knowing her sister had suffered in her first winters there. But had Kentmere ever been as cold as this? Here they had to contend with mud and fleas as well as bitter temperatures. The River Somme wasn’t nearly as benign or as beautiful as the River Kent, and had slowed as it iced over. Everything they possessed was sodden, and even the poor
horses stood about looking wet and miserable.

Most of all she would think of Matthew, worrying where he was and if he was safe and well. Was he, too, suffering from the cold, or something far worse?

It was March 1916, and they’d been here three months. It felt more like three years.

Livia had chilblains on her fingers as well as her toes, despite wearing three pairs of stockings and fleecy slip-ons inside her gumboots. She wore two flannel vests, two petticoats, corsets, flannel drawers, and a jersey beneath her uniform dress, the apron proudly displaying its red cross on the bib, on top. And the speed with which she could remove all of these garments, wash herself down with a small basin of warm water (if she was lucky enough to find any) and dress for bed had to be seen to be believed. But then it was the only way to survive in these freezing temperatures.

There were some nights when she didn’t bother to change at all, just fell onto her bed and was asleep in seconds, dead to the world. But even then the biting cold would wake her just before dawn when her feet would feel like ice and her nose numb.

Livia smiled across at Mercy now, decked out in pyjamas tucked into thick bed socks that reached right up over her knees, dressing gown, gloves and a warm muffler that Ella had knitted
for her last Christmas, and as if that weren’t enough, as she leapt into bed she piled her coat and any extra blankets she could find on top. Pulling them all up to her chin, she looked across at Livia.

‘Had a good day?’

‘Spiffing fun.’

‘Me too. Absolutely topping!’

And they grinned at each other, enjoying this silly joke as they did every night.

Mercy said, ‘Did you see that Sister Pretty has plucked her eyebrows? My, my, I think she fancies the sergeant. She even wore kohl the other day. Very racy. Not at all like Sister Rendell at the military hospital.’

‘Yet she can be equally vindictive. I’d watch out for her if I were you. She has a real down on the VADs, even more than most.’

‘Don’t I know it. She was nagging me today because I was too slow. “Get a move on, Simpson. Jump to it.” Her favourite phrase.’ Mercy had reverted to her maiden name for convenience, and because she felt her mam would be proud of what she was doing. ‘I suppose I was a bit slow, but I’d got this headache I just couldn’t shift.’

‘Have you taken anything for it?’

‘One of the nurses gave me some foul-tasting stuff. Quite set my teeth on edge. No more of
that, thank you very much. I just need a good night’s sleep.’

Livia pulled the blankets over her head. ‘Night, night, sleep tight.’

‘Hope the bugs don’t bite. Well, not too much anyway.’ Another of their silly jokes meant to keep spirits up.

Mercy blew out the candle, then, after a moment, quietly asked, ‘Did the mail come today?’

‘Yes, but there wasn’t any for us.’

‘Nothing at all?’

Livia could hear the disappointment in her sister’s voice. ‘No, nothing.’

‘I’m starting to worry.’

‘So am I, but there’s little point in worrying. We just have to keep our chins up and hope they’re both fine. I’m sure they are, now get some sleep. It’s late.’

Mercy slid beneath the covers, shivering with cold and deliberately trying to block out all thoughts of Jack. Livia was right, there was little point in worrying, although it was hard not to. Probably his letters had just got held up somewhere, or gone astray. It happened all the time. Her head was aching and her throat was sore, and she was far too cold to keep still and get comfortable. Dear Lord, she hoped she wasn’t coming down with flu. She had no time to be ill, and this wasn’t the place.

She thought with longing of the hot-water bottle she’d brought with her, useless without some means of heating the water to put into it. It was past twelve o’clock and there was certainly no hope of doing so tonight, even if paraffin for the stove weren’t in such short supply.

The two girls lay for a long while in silence, the darkness folding around them, the bitter cold nipping at their noses and toes. Mercy listened as the wind gathered strength and flapped the walls of their tent while Livia prayed the guy ropes would hold as the rain was sheeting down outside and she had no wish to go out right now to slacken them.

At length, thinking she really had no right to complain when she considered what the poor Tommies were facing, Mercy asked more soberly, ‘How many of today’s casualties survived?’

‘About half, at a guess,’ Livia said, rolling over onto her back to answer. ‘I again asked the sergeant why we couldn’t get closer to the front, pointing out that many of these boys are dead before they get anywhere near medical care. He just repeated the mantra about women having to be at least three miles away, that we were too sensitive and our nerves couldn’t stand it.’

‘Utter poppycock! We’re women, therefore we can stand anything,’ Mercy argued. ‘We withstood prison and force-feeding, didn’t we?’

‘Exactly what I told him,’ Livia mumbled, yawning. ‘But he insisted it was far too dangerous.’

‘What about the ambulance trains we often have to travel on to fetch the wounded, aren’t they still targets, despite having red crosses plastered on their roofs?’

‘I mentioned that too.’

‘I shall have a word with Sister Pretty. We’re nearer five miles away from the front here, let alone three. It’s ridiculous. What use are we if half of our patients are dead before they even arrive? Will you support me if I volunteer to go to a first aid station one mile from the front, or even less?’

But Livia didn’t answer. Livia was asleep.

It was a long time before sleep finally claimed Mercy, as her headache had got worse.

By seven o’clock the two girls, along with a couple of other VADs, were making themselves a fry-up breakfast. Livia was anxiously watching Mercy as she picked at her food in a desultory way. She hadn’t slept well and was looking decidedly feverish. Livia was just nagging her to eat more when Sister Pretty came upon them. ‘Goodness me, what are you VADs doing here? This is no time for feeding your faces. The ambulances have arrived. There are casualties to be checked
in. Get off your lazy backsides and jump to it.’

They all stopped eating at once, even though it was the first food they’d tasted in over twelve hours, and ran to where stretchers were already being lifted and carried over the rutted, frozen field. The sheer number of wounded was terrifying, but at least the freezing temperatures meant a temporary respite from the mud. No doubt it would be a thousand times worse once the thaw came. They could already hear strafing and the crack of gunfire but, head down, they kept on running, hoping and praying they got through all right.

Mercy, who hadn’t run off with the rest, was grabbed by Sister and marched along to the reception tent. ‘You can sort the wounded as they arrive, Simpson.’

It was not a job Mercy cared for, nor felt properly qualified to do, but with doctors and nurses stretched to the limit there was little chance of finding one of those available. The task involved choosing which patients could afford to wait, and who must be rushed to the operating tables as quickly as possible. Deciding the priority of treatment often meant the difference between life and death. Mercy hated the responsibility at the best of times, and even more so today when she felt below par. She was shivering and sweating all at the same
time, and could hardly keep her eyes open.

She groaned. ‘Why me again? I did it yesterday.’

‘And you’ll do it again today, and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, if I say so,’ Sister Pretty tartly informed her. ‘What’s got into you lately, Simpson?’

Livia happened to overhear the remark as she was helping to set down a stretcher on the floor. ‘You must excuse her, Sister, she’s overtired.’

‘We are all tired. I can’t have VADs lounging about all day doing nothing because they feel tired. Now jump to it, Simpson.’

‘And she’s not well.’

‘She looks perfectly fit to me.’

‘I believe she has a temperature. Perhaps it would be best if Mercy were kept away from the patients today.’

Sister Pretty stared at Livia as though she had grown two heads. ‘Are you defying me, girl?’

Livia lifted her chin. ‘I’m saying it wouldn’t do for her to pass on any infection, would it?’

Mercy was sitting holding her head in her hands, not having moved a muscle throughout this exchange.

‘Do I have to drag you there by your hair, Simpson?’ Sister bitingly remarked, then peevishly grabbed a handful of hair and yanked Mercy to her feet.

The girl cried out, pain vibrating through her sore head, eyes glazed, and even Sister Pretty looked alarmed.

Livia said, ‘She’s most definitely feverish.’

On closer inspection Sister had to admit that the girl looked worryingly flushed.

‘There’s no doubt about it. I’m going to take her temperature and check.’

‘Not now you aren’t, Miss Ministering Angel. You’re going to take her place and receive the patients. I’ll see to Miss Mercy here. Dear me, what unfortunate names you two girls have.’

Mercy did indeed have a raging temperature and spent the rest of that day and the next in bed. Livia was the one left with the responsibility of meeting the tide of casualties.

She saw the most terrible injuries: limbs blown off, faces burnt, eyes blinded, bloodstained bandages and filthy dressings stuck to gaping wounds. Some of the Tommies had been gassed, while others had no obvious sign of injury but were in a highly distressed state. One had both legs blown off, another had lost an arm below the elbow. Some medical orderly had stuffed sphagnum moss into a large hole in the side of a young corporal, presumably to absorb the discharge and hopefully prevent infection. Livia put him in the waiting area and sent the boy with
no legs straight onto an operating table, as he looked in danger of bleeding to death.

She checked each stretcher as they were placed in line on the floor, watching helplessly as some of the young soldiers died before her very eyes. But there was no time to grieve, or even to think. Livia read what was written on the tickets tied to their wrist or ankle, then used her own judgement to decide whether the cold, clammy feel of their skin was a result of the bitter cold weather or the approach of death. There was no one to watch over her and point out her mistakes, which could prove fatal. If only they could spare one of the doctors to cast an expert eye over these boys.

Those who looked unlikely to make it were taken to a large marquee. The stench in there was nauseating, the cries of the dying heartrending, and nursing care was at a minimum. The dead were then sewn into blankets, taken to the burial ground and laid side by side in a long trench.

They were all so young, so helpless, and dependent on her making the right decision. Livia did her utmost to give these wounded young men the right priority, and to get them all treated, but counted her successes rather than her failures. The alternative only led to madness.

In the days following, whenever she was finally relieved of duty, and despite her
exhaustion, Livia would hurry to heat soup for Mercy, who was growing sicker by the hour. She even managed to provide her with a hot-water bottle, which Livia refilled as often as she was able, though never enough to stop what seemed to be a permanent shivering fit in the girl. ‘Do try to keep warm, dearest, and you’ll be fine.’

‘Thanks for standing up for me with Sister Rendell,’ Mercy croaked, which caused Livia to frown.

‘You mean Sister Pretty. We’re in France, remember, not the military hospital.’

Mercy looked at her with glazed, unfocused eyes. ‘I knew that,’ she lied, then as she started to cough, pressed a hand to her chest.

‘Does your chest hurt?’

‘A bit.’

It clearly hurt quite a lot and Mercy made no protest as Livia unfastened her clothing and gently rubbed camphorated oil over it. ‘That’s the best I can do for now.’

This was not a good sign. Nor was the fact that she was confused and couldn’t seem to focus. Talking had brought on a fit of coughing, not the dry one she’d had the other morning but one full of phlegm, which came up green and smelly. Livia was seriously worried, fearful of the onset of pneumonia. Later that day the doctor confirmed Livia’s diagnosis, but there
was little he could do either. Mercy was ordered to keep warm, rest, and drink plenty of water.

Only hours later, Mercy was drifting in and out of consciousness; tossing and turning, rambling with a high fever, and for a while Livia feared for her sister’s life. She lay beside her in the bed in an effort to bring some warmth to her frozen limbs and stop the endless shivering that racked her body despite the fever and clammy brow. She refilled the hot-water bottle, tried to give Mercy a drink of warm weak tea to no avail, rubbed her hands and feet to reduce the chill in them, and talked endlessly to her.

‘Don’t give up, dearest. You have to fight. Jack will be fine. Don’t worry about him. You will be too, but you must fight. We all must. We have a whole new future before us, once this war is over. You mustn’t give up now.’

The next twelve hours were the longest Livia had endured in her entire life as she remained by her sister’s beside. She worried that Mercy might never come out of this coma, never recover. Would she ever laugh again, and quarrel and argue and be the irritating, difficult, cheeky, lively, thorn-in-the-side girl they all knew and adored? Her breathing was laboured, the hectic flush in her cheeks most troubling, and as Livia sat holding her hand, she couldn’t help but
reflect on the misfortunes that had beset Mercy throughout her life. Living in penury on Fellside, losing her beloved mother, abandoned and then incarcerated by a neglectful, cruel father, betrayed by her own husband. No wonder she was prickly and awkward, and yet she could as easily hug you tight, as she had done in the prison cell that night, and reveal how very vulnerable she really was underneath. And she’d been most protective of Livia, too, when she’d been losing the baby. If only she would accept the love of her sisters as generously as it was offered, then she might begin to put the past behind her and heal.