Daughters of War (20 page)

All day after her adventure with Malkovic, Leo waited for news of an attack but none came. In the evening Victoria and Luke returned from Lozengrad and she saw from their faces that something had happened. Luke looked uncharacteristically subdued and Victoria’s vivacity seemed forced.

Victoria took her arm. ‘Leo, what day is it?’

‘Day? I’ve got no idea. All the days are the same here.’

‘What date?’

‘I don’t know.’

Her friend leaned to her and kissed her cheek. ‘Merry Christmas, darling.’

‘Today?’

‘No, yesterday. We arrived just in time to join in the celebrations. In the evening there was a dinner party at the Red Cross hospital and the doctors there had laid on a really good spread. You should have been there, Leo. You look as if you need a good feed. If you’d accepted my offer it would have been you instead of me.’

‘Then you would have missed out,’ Leo said. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t mind.’ She was thinking of how she had spent her Christmas night and deciding that she had no regrets. But there was something about the way Victoria and Luke looked at each other that made her very uneasy. She wondered if she should try to persuade Victoria to confide in her when they were alone but decided it was best left alone.

At midday, two days later, the guns suddenly fell silent and rumours began to spread that the armistice had been signed. So, Leo thought, the Bulgars had decided to hold onto their gains rather than risk another push. She waited for Malkovic to send for her, thinking that at least he would tell her the result of their adventure, but no summons came. That evening, when they returned from another trip to Lozengrad, Luke and Victoria confirmed the news. A peace conference had been arranged in London, under the chairmanship of the Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey. The fighting was over.

‘So what do we do now?’ Leo asked, as they sat round the campfire that night.

‘Go home,’ Victoria said, and Leo heard relief in her voice. ‘If there are no more casualties our job is over.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ Leo said bleakly. ‘We don’t seem to have been here long, after all the trouble we had getting here.’

‘Aren’t you just longing for a decent meal and a hot bath and a comfortable bed?’

‘I suppose so,’ Leo repeated. Two thoughts sprang to her mind. One, that going home meant facing her grandmother. So far, there had been no response to her letter so she had no means of knowing what sort of reception she could expect. The second, more pressing thought, was that if she went home she would never see Sasha Malkovic again. She asked herself why she cared. He had not even had the courtesy to offer her a glass of wine after what they had risked together. And then there was the look Popitch had given her. What sort of man was it that she had allowed to capture her imagination to this extent?

‘Leo!’ Victoria’s voice had an edge of impatience. ‘You haven’t heard a word we were saying. You seem to be in a world of your own these days.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Leo said. ‘What were you talking about?’

‘We were just wondering how much longer we should hang on here,’ Luke said. ‘After all, there are still casualties to be shipped up to Lozengrad. It’s going to take some time to clear the backlog.’

‘That’s true,’ Leo said. ‘We can’t go for a while yet.’ She looked at him and wondered if he had his own reasons for not wanting to leave. But she had been told to mind her own business and she would do so.

Next morning, coming out of the mess tent after breakfast, Leo heard hoof beats. Turning to look, she saw the Serbian cavalry troop trotting away up the road, and at its head rode an officer on a grey horse. Sasha Malkovic had left without even sending for her to say goodbye.

Fourteen

Tom was examining the cracks in the whitewashed ceiling above his head. They seemed to make a familiar pattern but he could not think where he had seen it before. A noise attracted his attention and with a great effort he turned his head to look for the source of it. A long row of beds stretched away from him and for a moment he thought he was back in the dorm at school. Then the noise came again and he saw that it was from a trolley which was being pushed up the aisle between the beds by two nurses. It stopped at the end of his bed and one of the nurses ladled something into a bowl and brought it to him. She was a middle-aged woman, with a round, pale face and small dark eyes that looked like two buttons pushed into a lump of dough.

Tom summoned all his strength and whispered, ‘Where am I?’

The dough face became animated and she said something in a language he did not understand. She leaned over him and he smelt sweat and garlic but he let her heave him into a sitting position and prop him up with pillows. As she did so she spoke to the other nurse, who wheeled the trolley on up the ward, while dough face sat on the edge of the bed and began to spoon-feed him from the bowl. It was some kind of soup and the taste seemed familiar. While he ate she kept up a running commentary, as if talking to a baby, cooing encouragement and tutting if he turned his head away. When he could eat no more she laid his pillows flat again and went away and he drifted back to sleep.

The next time he opened his eyes a man was standing by the bed. He wore a shabby white coat and had a stethoscope round his neck.

‘Good afternoon, Meester Devenish,’ he said. ‘I am Dr Charalambous and I speak a leetle bit English. How you feel?’

‘Not very good,’ Tom whispered. ‘Where am I?’

‘You are in hospital in Salonika.’

‘How long have I been here?’

‘Two, maybe three weeks. You been very ill – double pneumonia. When your friend bring you, we thought you going to die. But now, see! Much better! Soon you will be well again.’

‘My friend?’

‘The American. He is, how you say? Journalist?’

‘Max!’ Tom groped in the fog of his memory. ‘Max brought me here? Is he here?’

‘No, he go – long time ago. But he left you letter. Here.’ The doctor took an envelope from the pocket of his white coat and handed it to Tom. ‘You read later. Now I listen to your chest.’

When the doctor had finished his examination and pronounced himself satisfied Tom opened the envelope.

Tom sank back against his pillows and closed his eyes. Slowly the recollection of his mission and the journey he had made with Max took shape, and with that came the realization that some of the images that had haunted his brain during his illness were not nightmares but reality.

By the following day he was feeling stronger but when he attempted to get out of bed his legs buckled under him and his head swam. Dough face pushed him back onto the bed, tutting loudly, and proceeded to perform various humiliating but necessary procedures on his person. Shortly afterwards he woke from a doze to find another man standing by the bed, this time in the uniform of a captain in the Dragoon Guards.

‘Sorry to disturb you, old man. Reggie Vincent, at your service. I’m the British military attaché, for my sins. We’ve been waiting for you to become compos mentis. It’s good to see you looking better.’

‘Thanks,’ Tom murmured.

‘I gather you got yourself mixed up in a spot of bother outside Bitola.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t remember much about it.’

‘Well, according to the American chappie who brought you here, you were held up by the
č
etniks
and had your car stolen and had to walk until you reached the Serbian camp. He brought you through the enemy lines on the back of a donkey. Had the devil of a time, by all accounts.’

‘I didn’t know,’ Tom said. ‘I probably owe him my life.’

‘Definitely, I should say.’ Vincent sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘What I don’t understand is, what you were doing there in the first place.’

Tom considered explaining about his quest but remembered Ralph’s caution about publicity. He said, ‘I’m an artist. I wanted to make some sketches of conditions out here, you know, the reality of war sort of thing for the newspapers.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘My sketch pad! Where is it?’

Vincent opened the locker by the bed and rummaged for a moment. ‘This it?’

‘Oh, yes! Thank you. I wouldn’t want to lose that.’

‘Mind if I look?’

‘If you like,’ Tom said unwillingly. The pad was still in his visitor’s hand and he could hardly snatch it away.

Vincent turned the pages and whistled softly. ‘These are bloody good, if you don’t mind me saying so. But some of them are . . . Was it really that bad out there?’

‘It was terrible. That isn’t the half of it.’

‘Well, I take my hat off to you. I’ve heard of suffering for your art, but this goes beyond the call of duty.’ He handed the pad to Tom and went on, ‘Anyway, that isn’t what I came for. What I need to tell you is that we found an address among your papers, so I’ve telegraphed your people back in England and let them know where you are. And I’ve got a couple of letters for you in reply.’ He took two envelopes out of his pocket and laid them on the locker. ‘Now, is there anything you need?’

Tom struggled to focus his mind. ‘Something to read, perhaps? A newspaper? How long am I going to be in here?’

‘A while yet, I’m afraid. I had a word with the medic and he says you won’t be strong enough to be discharged for at least a week and then you will need several weeks’ recuperation before you are fit to travel back to England. I can try to book you into a room at the Makadonia Palace when you are ready to be discharged, if you like. But quite frankly Salonika is not a good place for a convalescent at the moment. Food is very short for one thing. If I were you, I’d take the boat down to Athens as soon as you feel up to it, and recuperate there.’

‘Thanks. I’ll . . . think about it,’ Tom agreed.

‘Right.’ Vincent rose. ‘I must be off. I’ll pop in and see you tomorrow. Sure there’s nothing else I can do?’

‘No, really. Thanks very much for calling in – and for getting in touch with my family.’

‘Think nothing of it. All in a day’s work. See you tomorrow.’

As soon as Vincent had gone Tom reached for the letters on his locker. He had already seen that one of them was addressed in Ralph’s handwriting. The other was from his mother. He opened Ralph’s first.

Tom lay back and closed his eyes. So it had all been for nothing! He thought of Leo and supposed he should be angry with her, but he found that in fact he was more annoyed with Ralph for insisting that he should go in search of her. He wondered how she had managed to get to Lozengrad and whether she had encountered any of the horrors that he had seen. It struck him that in future they would have a special bond because they had witnessed at first hand things Ralph had only read about in the papers. Then it crossed his mind that if it had not been for her mad escapade he would have stayed at home, making pointless drawings of barges on the Thames or bland rural scenes. He should be grateful to her for dragging him out of that stagnant existence. He had seen things that would give him nightmares for the rest of his life, and he had been close to death if the doctor was to be believed, but he had lived more intensely in these last weeks than in the whole of his previous existence – and at last he had made some pictures that meant something.