Evie's War (18 page)

Sister says my brain is somewhere else today and she is right!

I have written to Edmund, the other person I might consult being Winifred, who is in no state of mind to respond.

A note from Corporal Lindsay — poor man, I have been ignoring him. I wrote at once to say that Winifred was well but rather low of spirit (I could not bring myself to use the term ‘shell shock', it seeming altogether too dramatic). I have proposed that he continue as if nothing were changed and see what transpires. Shortly after, I happened to see Matron in the hall and on the spur of the moment decided to ask her advice. She sat me down and gave me tea and was kindness itself; really, I don't know how she finds the time. She recommends rest and agrees that Winifred should, for the meantime, be dissuaded from going back — which advice I shall pass on to Lady B.

Regarding CM, it transpires Mother has already written to invite him back to Deans Park. I could not decide whether to be pleased or cross and Aunt Marjorie did not help by laughing aloud at my expression. Millie says they have talked of little else all week, apparently deciding that I am ‘quite a hopeless case'. He is to visit again in a fortnight.

A letter was waiting in Cambridge; I suspect CM intended I receive it before going down to Deans Park. He apologises for being ‘so inept with words' but hopes I took his meaning nonetheless. And if not, ‘suffice to say that I have come to hold you in highest regard, and trust such sentiment will not prove entirely repugnant' — which of course it does not! He adds that if it should so prove, I must simply say the word and he will not accept Mother's invitation.

I wrote immediately to say that he should, of course, accept. I could not find a way of saying anything more, but perhaps for now that will be enough.

George is to be returned to New Zealand, but seems less pleased than might be expected. I have asked him to give my love to everyone at home.

Edmund writes that I should do whatever I think best (which is of no help at all), but that if our parents and aunt and uncle all approve, there must be ‘something to be said for the fellow'. He also suggests that Captain M may be concerned about my feelings regarding his leg (I had truly not thought of it) and finally that I should not ‘make the man linger in misery'. I had not realised he was in misery! Perhaps I shall ask.

Very quiet weekend. Mother's hints around a certain topic, I studiously ignored. Winifred is away, having finally gone to see Corporal Lindsay. I do hope things go well.

Having heard I was ‘good with nerve cases' Sister suggested I might talk to one of the new intake, apparently suffering terrible nightmares. I should think I would suffer them too. Private H lay in a shell hole for two or possibly three days before someone fetched him in. He had three of his Unit for company — two dead and one dying — plus a small amount of water but no food. And if that were not enough, he has a bullet wound in his chest and both legs broken. There is also infection, which is the constant menace. Sister says he is likely to lose both legs.

Edmund writes that it is snowing. I do hope he is safe.

Private H has had one leg off at the knee and the other at mid-thigh. I know the surgeons do their best but the poor boy was in tears when he woke up. He'd been a farm lad before the War, and has no idea what use he might be now.

Felt positively skittish travelling down on the train, but it was Father to meet me, Captain Miller apparently arriving tomorrow. Father says the Somme Offensive is over — I have not been reading the papers — and all I could think was that it did not come soon enough for Private H.

It is strange how these things are arranged, and how quickly matters can change. I declined to meet Captain M
at the Station, not wishing to have an audience, and instead greeted him in the library. We talked about how abysmally cold it is become, and how there is snow in France and what this might mean for the troops. When our conversation hit a lull I found myself telling him about Private H — which I am sure he did not want to hear, but to which he listened with great patience. ‘You must find it very hard,' he said, when finally I fell silent.

‘Not so hard as the men,' I replied, and immediately regretted the sharpness of my tone, but before I could apologise Mother came in, cast me a piercing look, then engaged CM in all manner of frivolous conversation. Really, I became quite cross with her. She had barely departed when Eugenie took it upon herself to join us, until in some desperation I asked CM whether he might like a walk. His reply was that he should, very much, but proposed we delay until the weather improved. Looking out of the window I discovered it to be raining rather dismally. I felt such a fool! Millie rescued the situation, appearing at the door to summon Eugenie away — I think perhaps Aunt Marjorie had sent her. As soon as we were alone I stuttered an apology, feeling extremely inept. Captain M smiled — he really is rather good looking; one takes it for granted and needs to be reminded — and said he would not admire me nearly so much if I was ‘some silly, simpering girl' (causing me to wonder how many such he knew, and how well), and that if I had not such a noble spirit, we should likely never have met.

His next gambit was to enquire whether I had ever been to Cheshire. I was quite thrown, and replied that, aside from Cambridge and London, I had been only to Oxford and that a trip to Yorkshire had been cancelled due to my catching a frightful cold and that Father had once mentioned the possibility of a Tour of Scotland and the Lake District but that it had been set aside, or so I supposed,
nothing specific having been said, and
finally
noticed that CM was looking rather strained. He smiled awkwardly and laboured on, asking whether perhaps I might like to. I replied that I did not know very much about Cheshire — really, I did not have a clue; I do think Mother or Aunt Marjorie might have warned me. He was, of course, asking if I should care to meet his family. When at last I caught on I felt very dim. CM pulled me to my feet, declaring that he thought me even prettier when I blushed — which moment was interrupted by Millie, come to fetch us to dinner. She looked somewhat startled to find Captain M holding my hands. Aunt Marjorie had sat us opposite one another and I kept glancing up and finding him watching me, and then he would smile and I would blush and Mother would clear her throat — it was almost funny by the end.

Father and Charles (there: I have done it!) withdrew after the meal and I went up to bed. And here I sit, quite unable to sleep, and wondering what tomorrow may bring.

The rain cleared at last and we managed a walk, with Eugenie and Millie and the dogs for company. I am not a dog person but Charles seems to like them. Eugenie quite flummoxed me by asking Charles what was wrong with his leg. Without embarrassment he replied that he had lost his real leg in Belgium and this was ‘a spare'. There followed a rather gruesome conversation about prosthetic limbs — I am jolly glad she didn't ask during lunch — but Charles seemed to take it in his stride (which I do not intend as a pun!), and shortly after tucked my fingers through his arm quite as though it was the most natural thing.

Over lunch Charles and Father discussed the news from Austria–Hungary, which is that the Emperor Franz Joseph has died and that his successor, Archduke Charles
is believed to be less enthusiastic about the War. It occurs to me that I still do not know what Charles does at the War Office. I shall ask him as soon as opportunity arises.

No further chance for private conversation; the day ended in a rush with me almost missing my train. On arriving back in Cambridge I felt quite flat. On reflection I find I am not sure what has been settled and what has not, or how I feel about it all.

A note from Charles saying he will come up on Thursday to take me to tea.

Sister told me off for being clumsy. Distraction is the cause. I do not at all know what to expect.

Charles has given me a ring. He says he has been carrying it about for six months but was too terrified to raise the subject due to my being ‘so thoroughly Laudable, Estimable and Admirable as to be Completely Unassailable'. He said he rather hoped I would wear it on my third left finger. As we are not permitted to wear jewellery in the Hospital I have put it safely away.

Mother, at her most aggravating, suggests I give up the Hospital as soon as possible. I cannot see why, and said as
much. Announcing me impossible she went off to engage my aunt in ‘making me see sense'. The house has been in a state of trepidation ever since. With great relief I received a note from Winifred inviting me to tea, and have told Mother I am going even should I be obliged to walk!

Winifred is a little improved. In the event I took the trap and, the weather having turned atrocious, am to stay the night. Containing my own news, I asked W about Corporal Lindsay; apparently he will soon be discharged. As that seemed to be the end of that conversation I told her about Charles. Of course she offered congratulations but it was all rather flat. Then, when I asked what she planned to do next, she burst into tears. Not at all like the Winifred of old! But she believes herself quite useless, in part because she can no longer drive due to her wrist giving too much trouble. A larger issue may be that she sleeps very poorly. With a degree of circumspection I mentioned CM's notion that she may be suffering from shell shock. Her reaction was that she ‘had not the right', which is clearly nonsense. It occurs to me now that she may find it useful to talk to Matron, who has always been so very sensible. To that end I shall propose that she visit me in Cambridge.

Winifred has agreed to consider my plan. Lady B drove me home after Church, which W did not attend.

The pace of admissions has slackened, with consequently less pressure to move men on. Matron has asked whether I might like to return to one of the Officers' wards; I replied that I
should like it very much. I have not mentioned Winifred; to do so would have felt uncomfortably like tattling.

Corporal (soon to be ‘Mr') Lindsay writes that he is to be discharged in a fortnight. I shall ask Mother whether we might invite him to Deans Park for Christmas.

Romania has fallen to the Enemy.

Two of my cases have developed pneumonia — not uncommon with gas, but they had seemed to be doing so well.

Mother is quite impossible! She says we cannot invite Corporal Lindsay for fear of upsetting Captain Miller, though I cannot think why it should. When I proposed asking his view, she forbade me from doing so ‘under any circumstances'.

Father has taken Mother's side. Aunt Marjorie endeavoured to ‘explain' — which was to tell me that Captain Miller is ‘from an excellent family and it would not do to let him think you harboured a preference elsewhere'. It is all patently absurd. I took pains at lunch to avoid the subject, instead asking Father's opinion of the new Prime Minister, Mr Lloyd George. He believes him better suited than Mr Asquith to lead us through the War. I do hope he ensures an end to it.

My cousins and I went for a long walk, Monty frequently threatening his sisters with snowballs, which were in the end dispatched (rather unsuccessfully) against a Regiment of crows. We came in red-cheeked and with our toes frozen in our boots, which allowed the pleasure of warming ourselves by the fire. I do so miss being warm when I am in Cambridge — on which note I must ask Father if he might drive me to the Station.

True to her word, Matron has me back on one of the Officers' wards, which means stairs but no draughts, the ward being located in a School given over for the duration. Sister T is new and rather stiff; she delivered a talk decrying ‘flibbertigibbets' who Will Not Be Tolerated on her ward. Jane is also transferred, and is more than a little nervous.

I have two Majors, one Colonel and a score of Captains and Lieutenants, all from the Somme and invariably stoic and polite. One of the Lieutenants being from Cheshire, I enquired whether he knew Captain Miller, but he did not.

Brief note from Edmund. He sounds rather despondent.

One of my Lieutenants is so bandaged that he cannot move or speak, though he does make sounds as if he is trying to communicate. I have proposed that he should blink once
for ‘yes' and twice for ‘no'. He is fed through a funnel, liquids only.

Charles writes that he is jealous of those Officers who have all my attention while he must remain in London alone. I wrote back to enquire whether there were many young women in London, and whether I should be jealous of them.

I am not going down to Deans Park until tomorrow. We intend making a start on Christmas gifts this evening; there are a great many to do!

Edmund has been put up for a training course, apparently the next step towards promotion. Father and Mother both pleased. Monty says he will be an Officer when he goes to War, to which my aunt briskly replied that the War will soon be over and we would never allow another.

Having sent a telegram on Thursday saying he was unable to get home for the weekend, Uncle Aubrey arrived late this morning, accompanied by Charles! Aunt Marjorie was quite flustered, announcing that, had she known, she would have managed a better lunch. Charles took the first possible opportunity to speak to me alone, and to describe the anguish he suffers ‘on reading of all my gentlemen admirers'. It was quite clear he was teasing. As to the young ladies of London, he assured me that he is now ‘quite ruined' as regards other women, and thus had not noticed whether there were any in the town at all!