Evie's War (22 page)

Having had time on the train to think, I have begun to worry that Mother may be right — though surely if Charles did disapprove of ‘my behaviour', he would have said so? And as all I said was that the conditions the men were subjected to were inhuman, and to enquire whether the War Office might not do something about it, at least insofar as noting the weather before they launched an attack, I do not really see how he could disapprove. But must concede Mother's point that I simply do not understand men. How could I? Oh, I do hope I have not put him off! I have written a note that I will send in the morning.

May Day, though there is as yet little sense of spring. Of course it is far worse for the men at the Front. I once again slept rather poorly, and am feeling it today. We are at full capacity and still the trains arrive and the ambulances shuttle back and forth.

Letter from Edmund; he says they are out of the line at last, but his tone is sombre: ‘I cannot blame those who go mad. We live little better than animals.'

I wish there was something I might do for him. I passed his letter on to Winifred, from whom it earned a bleak nod. There was also a rather terse telegram from Charles, saying he will try to get up to see me at the weekend. Thanks to Mother's badgering, I am completely uncertain whether his words bode good or ill — and will doubtless spend a preoccupied night meditating the question. I do wish she had kept her alarmist concerns to herself.

I remain in Mother's bad books. Aunt Marjorie announced it ‘all water under the bridge' (which brought scowls upon her as well as me). Charles arrived after lunch; we have had little opportunity for private conversation, but all seems as normal. (To which Mother's reaction was: ‘His tolerance Does Him Credit'!) No reply has yet been given to his proposal that I visit London next weekend.

The weather having finally improved I accompanied Charles to the Station, en route telling him that Mother considered him positively Saintly. He promptly kissed me to disprove her theory! It transpires he was not at all troubled by my opinions, though he did feel that I had placed Uncle Aubrey in a difficult position. He said also that I was looking tired and that I must be careful not to overtax myself. Regarding his invitation to visit London, Mother and Father have stipulated the proviso that Winifred accompany me as chaperone. I shall ask her tonight — I do hope she says yes.

Our approach to Matron requesting Monday off has met with success! She has specified only that we must be back before curfew on Monday evening. To my concern about the Hospital's workload she replied, quite unflappably, that, as there was no foreseeable end to that situation, we must all carry on regardless.

Charles sent a telegram to say that he would meet our train and will book an Hotel forthwith.

A Gunner with severe burns to hands and face, likely to cause considerable disfigurement, today told me that he had seen one of his Battalion go demented, dropping his rifle and rushing out into No Man's Land where he ran up and down while the Germans blazed away. Through some miracle they failed to hit him and the man eventually returned to the trenches, where he continued to run about ‘like a March hare' until he was restrained by several of his fellows, who were obliged to tie him in blankets and ropes to keep him still. My patient did not know what had subsequently become of the man; I said I thought it likely he would have been sent to one of the Specialist Hospitals dealing with shell shock.

What a relief to catch the train and set off somewhere new: I am thoroughly fed up with everything in Cambridge and Littlebury.

Alighting at King's Cross Station we were swallowed by a seething mass of servicemen and had not the slightest idea how we might find Charles, but he sensibly climbed atop a bollard and located us quite easily. The city is rather grey with evidence of the War at every turn, but Winifred and I are nonetheless delighted with it all. Charles has booked us into a lovely Hotel where we dined yesterday evening before strolling along the Strand to Trafalgar Square. And today it has finally decided that it is spring and the sky is a most promising blue. Charles is to collect us at ten; he says he has something he wishes me to see, and that Winifred must come as well.

Charles has found us a house! I had not even begun to consider such practicalities. He gave no indication, so that when he drew up to a little row of terraced houses I thought we were calling upon some friend or relation. Even when he produced a key and led me inside I did not guess, despite the place being quite empty. To his explanation that he had thought we might make it our first home, I could find no reply. The rooms are quite spacious; on the ground floor there are reception, dining and drawing rooms; on the first level three bedrooms, each with a fireplace and two with dressing rooms; above that a large attic and two smaller bedrooms, with the kitchen and utilities in the basement. As I walked through the rooms I could not help but laugh and twirl about. The idea of our marriage was suddenly made tangible. Charles commented that the large room upstairs would do well as a nursery, and I am sure that it shall; truly it does not seem real! Winifred says the house has a favourable aspect and declared the small back garden (enhanced by the blossom on two rather ragged-looking apple trees) perfectly charming, adding that she believed we would be very happy there. Charles said he hoped it would do, at least while we were obliged by the War to live in London. There is a lovely little park at the corner of the road with diagonal paths and a rotunda. Several nannies were out with perambulators. I experienced the oddest sensation as I watched them.

After lunch Charles proposed an outing to St James's Park and on to inspect Buckingham Palace then the Houses of Parliament, after all of which my feet proved rather tired so we took a charabanc back to the Hotel. Despite it being Saturday the streets are thronged with motor vehicles of all kinds, though there were hardly any at all around Wilmington Square (where I shall soon live! Astonishing thought), which shall suit me perfectly well. And now I must change as Uncle Aubrey is taking us to dinner.

Winifred begged off Church so I walked down to St Martin-in-the-Fields (which is not in the fields at all, but stands above Trafalgar Square) to attend Morning Prayer; the Choir's efforts proved sublime. Charles appeared at ten, once again driving my uncle's motorcar, and whisked us off on another outing: this time to Grey Towers in Hornchurch, that we might visit the Beethoven Club. Sadly Miss Williams was not in attendance, but I gained a feel for the place, and left my name with the women staffing the canteen. The building, named ‘Te Whare Puni' for its New Zealand connections, offers a reading room, billiard table, piano and gramophone, as well as a great many games and diversions to fill the time of those convalescent soldiers who pass through its doors. One of the women offered to make an appointment for me to see Miss Williams tomorrow, but I declined for the time being. To be truthful, having been so much more involved in the care of the men at 1st Eastern, I am not entirely sure that serving tea will suit me. Charles appeared a little crestfallen, so I hastened to explain that I felt I had better settle into my new life before taking on any additional responsibilities, at which he brightened considerably. Winifred said little, when pressed answering that she was suffering a headache and thought she had perhaps best return to the Hotel.

Winifred went off for an interview with the Red Cross this morning while I, having vetoed further walking (of which I seem to do more than enough during the week), sat and enjoyed the sunshine in a nearby park. On our return I bid the driver of our taxicab take us past the War Office Buildings in Whitehall. In response to my enquiry, Charles yesterday told me that he works under the Director of Military Intelligence, which involves ‘a great deal of paper shuffling'.

Our train was much delayed and we had to run from the Station to be in before curfew, even then earning ourselves a black mark for appearing so hurried. Most unfair: it is not as if delays on the line can be attributed to our own tardiness! When I asked Winifred how her interview had gone she gave a little shrug and said it ‘remained to be seen'. She is nowhere near so talkative as once she was, though I do think we get along just as well as ever.

Letters from Edmund and Mr Lindsay. Edmund says he is ‘continuing alive, which is more than can be said for some' and asks whether I might get Mother to send soap and cigarettes, and a cake if any is to be had.

Mr Lindsay is to start back at Oxford in the summer term, though he wonders whether he will be up to it given the trouble he is having with his eyesight. By reply I have asked whether his headaches have settled, and whether his accommodation is satisfactory.

Receiving these letters made me aware that I have not heard from Ada or Harriet in a good while; I trust they are well. If shipping delays are at fault they may equally be bemoaning my silence — perhaps all our letters sit at the bottom of the Ocean, having fallen victim to U-boats.

Sent cigarettes and chocolates and a bar of carbolic soap to Edmund — I suspect the latter is not what he wants, but it was all I could find at short notice and will be useful nonetheless. I also sent a note to Deans Park passing on his request, so he may find himself inundated, and will thus be exceptionally clean!

Mother, Aunt Marjorie and Millie much engaged in fittings. As soon as I was able to effect an escape I joined Eugenie in the garden; the soil finally having warmed she is enjoying more success and proudly showed me her rows of bright emerald seedlings.

William is grown into a chubby little terror, running about with a tilting seaman's gait and getting into all manner of mischief. Millie seems to spend a good deal of time attending to the mayhem he creates. I have proposed that she should come and visit after my marriage, that she might have a rest!

A collective sigh was heaved when the newspapers came in: the Battle of Arras is over — though we will receive casualties for some days yet. Regarding numbers, the reports are coy, but Charles has already confided that the Assault has cost the Allies at least 100,000 men, and the Enemy doubtless more. Such a figure is incomprehensible, even when one daily sees a small fragment of the carnage.

Matron has moved me back to my original Officers' ward, which is like returning to a gathering of old friends, though of course they are all new. I said as much to Sister, who replied that more than once she had seen a patient patched up and sent back, only to be re-injured and returned to us. At which point I should think they must be wondering how long their luck could hold.

Charles writes that he will not be able to get up to Deans Park this weekend as he is being sent to the South Coast to inspect an Army Camp. I wrote that in his absence I would attend to the Trousseau my Esteemed Aunt is fixed upon without any risk of the ill-luck that would apparently be generated should he chance to catch an early glimpse! Also Monty will be home for mid-term; I do hope he is happier.

I cannot believe it. I cannot. Uncle Aubrey drove up to tell me in person, but it simply cannot be true. I will not allow it to be true.

On 25 May twenty German planes bombed Folkestone. My uncle believes their original target London but weather turned them aside. Nearly 100 were killed and twice as many wounded. He says Charles did not suffer.

I have burnt Mrs Miller's vile telegram. Father has been a great support; I do not think I should have been able to cope without him. And of course I shall attend the funeral.

Unspeakable day. The journey a nightmare, not least because it echoed my visit with Charles. Mrs Miller, at her worst, behaved as if she alone were bereaved. Father was wonderful, very dignified; Uncle Aubrey a support to us both. I shall ever be grateful to them both.

Millie has just been in with fresh flowers, but what is any of it worth? The best of my life ended with Charles. He is gone. It echoes with each heartbeat of each day.

Mr Miller writes that his wife was distraught and asks that I forgive her behaviour at the funeral. I do not.

Mother says I am maundering. I can't —

Lady Braybrooke came. She says there is only one choice, which is to ‘pull oneself together'; that life goes on and so must I. There is no answer when one simply does not wish to.

Very no-nonsense letter from Winifred. She says there has been a mutiny in the French Army, with the Russians likely to follow. I wonder that all Armies and all people have not mutinied.

Winifred's letter acted like an itch that must be scratched. I have not been reading the newspapers; I feel too raw, as if peeled of my skin and the newspapers simply apply salt. But found myself in the library and flayed by words. Yesterday 158 killed in London with 400 more injured by bombs.

Monty's birthday. My wish for him is that this War ends before he is old enough to join it.

Received a very kind card from Mr Lindsay, expressing his sincere regrets. It prompted me to ask Mother whether she might write to Lettie and Ada and Harriet on my behalf. She refused, on the grounds that I must ‘face up to things'. After she had departed to attend to some crisis or other of William's, Millie, the dear, offered to write if I would tell her what to say.