Evie's War (31 page)

Edmund's temperature down a little. The Channel crossing did not serve him well, but there should now be no check to his recovery. Father and Mother arrived late afternoon; in short order I was dislodged from my brother's bedside,
so took myself off for a walk in the grounds. It is at just such moments that a debilitating lethargy overcomes me. Father says I look rather wan.

Arthur was the unhappy witness to An Outburst: Mother's reaction quite out of proportion when I said I did not intend returning to Deans Park — though she eventually conceded I must honour my commitments. No doubt fear for Edmund underlies her irritability. Arthur's view is that my parents are, necessarily, largely ignorant of the essential work I have been engaged in, but that the War has changed irrevocably the situation for women — which of course does not mean the older generation will accept such change easily.

Matron at 5th Southern undertook a ward inspection while I was sitting with Edmund, also taking the opportunity to interrogate me; I am left uncertain as to whether or not she approves. Arthur says she is only wondering how such youthful charm and beauty can go hand in hand with my solid Service Record, at which I laughed aloud. Which apparently is the first time I have laughed since disembarking. Our afternoon excursion took us through a quaint part of town where he pointed out the house where Mr Charles Dickens was born.

Winifred telephoned the Hotel last night to say she would be down today (in which I detect my uncle's hand). I had worried that it would all be rather awkward with Arthur, but not a bit of it. They are perfectly relaxed.

Good news regarding Edmund: he is to go to Hornchurch tomorrow. Talked it through with Winifred, but really my decision is made: I have cabled Matron at No. 2 to confirm my resignation, with the intention of offering my services at Hornchurch.

Edmund off at ten, Arthur an hour later. Winifred did not come to the Station; she says I am a goose who cannot see past my own nose.

Uneventful drive until Winifred took it upon herself to enquire whether I was ‘at all aware that Arthur is quite in love with me'. I assured her it was not so, but rather that we are excellent friends. To which she laughed gaily. ‘Oh, it was always you he preferred, my Dear. But seeing that horse had already bolted, he accepted second runnings.' Of course I argued otherwise, but she would not hear a word of it.

Uncle Aubrey called to collect me; much talk of the War between he and W's Colonel. Both are confident the German Advance has been thoroughly quashed, but disagree on how long the ‘mopping up' will take. I was far too distracted by Winifred's accusation (for such it feels) to contribute to intelligent conversation. En route Hornchurch my uncle enquired after ‘my young man'; it is all too much! And now our train is delayed, so that we might have sat longer with Edmund. He barely woke through our visit. Sister advised that I should make an appointment with Matron to discuss my enquiry re staffing.

Unable to sleep. While I am very fond of Arthur, my feelings are of a different order to those I had for Charles. (To which Winifred's counter-argument of ‘How do you know if you have not tried?' creates only additional confusion.) I would be much relieved to lay the matter before someone quietly sensible whom I trust to know me well and who would consider my best interests with an open mind — the identity of just such person highlighting the problem exactly!

Endeavoured to write to Arthur but it is all too difficult. Accompanied Eugenie on an inspection of her vegetables instead. Her birthday having been celebrated while I waited with Edmund to cross the Channel, I invited her to choose an item from amongst my mementoes of France. She selected a shell case given me some months ago by a soldier grateful for my care, on which he had engraved the emblem of his Unit, and with that seemed perfectly content!

Uncle Aubrey gathered us together to Make an Announcement (giving us to expect something momentous), but it was only to say that I have been Mentioned in Dispatches. Mother beamed, quite as if she had been thoroughly in favour throughout!

Mother and I went to see Edmund, who proved listless though happier ‘amongst others from home'. Made arrangements to see Matron on Wednesday.

Hurrah! My journal has found its way back to me via an extremely circuitous course! It seems that my overnight bag, being discovered in the ambulance, was assumed to belong to one of those Frenchmen or women I had ferried to Hospital, and was thus ‘returned' to them wherever they had gone. In my mind's eye, I see the woman I helped giving an ubiquitous Gallic shrug and deciding that God had thus delivered it to her in her hour of need. The wash kit and silk knickers no doubt proved of considerable use and I do not begrudge her them one jot, but, oh, I am grateful that she found a way to return my journal! It had been packaged up with the novel Kate lent me (her name being recorded on the flyleaf) and posted to her care of
‘Les infirmières britanniques'.
Some combination of bureaucracy and luck saw the package reach her, whereupon she sent the diary on. I have written at length expressing my thanks, and now intend copying in the intervening pages. The whole episode makes one think about the value of recording one's experiences. Although they will live forever in my memory, it is by these words that I honour each life passed through my hands.

Miss Anderson proved very no-nonsense and confirmed staffing shortages. All paperwork being straightforward, I am to begin a week's trial at Grey Towers on Monday; I passed on Miss Willets' letter of commendation and details by way of reference.

Had expected a fuss but in the event Mother was perfectly sanguine. I do believe she has come to approve of my
work. Father says that he is sure our New Zealand Boys will appreciate my efforts, and one more than most.

A cable from Miss Willets at No. 2. Apparently I am to receive the Croix de Guerre.

Received a letter from Arthur enquiring after Edmund and myself. I feel rather guilty to have neglected him, but the disquiet Winifred has sown makes it all rather awkward — though of all that he is, of course, blithely unaware.

Vicar made mention — altogether too embarrassing. Several local ladies who did not wish to be taught bandaging by a Colonial have quite changed their tune.

Uncle Aubrey and I caught the same train, and he insisted on seeing me settled. The Nurses' Home is very pleasant (a positive change from tents and huts) and I am treated with every consideration. Word has, I think, preceded me. I hope I will not have to sing for my supper.

Put to work right away, Amputees ward; duties fairly light in comparison. Near enough to Edmund to pop in twice a day, whence he takes great pride in introducing me to all comers, with frequent mention of the Croix de Guerre. Have asked him to desist.

Grey Towers is an impressive establishment; 2,500 beds plus Surgical Unit and Post-operative care of the most up-to-date kind. Clerical and farming training and arts and crafts also offered. Boys in my ward largely positive, though a few are still taking it rather hard, mainly those very recently wounded or very young.

Father is down to see Edmund and has offered to take me to tea.

Matron sent for me, having heard from Devonshire House and No. 2: ‘All is in order.' She congratulated me on my decoration (which Miss Willets had mentioned). I sent a note to Arthur advising that my position is confirmed, and apologising for my tardiness in writing, with a promise that I shall endeavour to do better now that things are settled.

Very despondent lad from Canterbury, Private Prescott, told me he was conscripted six months ago, and barely reached the War before it ‘bit him'. I told him he was lucky, and should think of those who it bit rather harder. He looked quite taken aback.

Valenciennes has been taken by the Allies. At last it begins to feel as if success is in sight, though the general feeling is that it will be next summer before things are wound up.

Half a day off, and who should call for me but Arthur! He came down yesterday, apparently, and this morning went to see Matron (from whom he received ‘a very thorough going over') in order he might secure permission to take me to tea. We found a rather ugly little café that nonetheless did the trick. Though initially disconcerted, I am now rather glad he did not send advance notice, as I should then have been up half the night with nerves. As it was, we slipped perfectly easily into our usual routine. I suspect Winifred quite wrong; we are simply friends. He is staying in London for a few days and will call again on Wednesday evening.

Weather rather bleak. I am glad to be beneath a solid roof and beyond the reach of sleet, snow and Gothas. Edmund was sitting up when I called into his ward. He is painfully thin; I told him firmly that he must eat, which caused Sister to laugh.

Private Prescott proposed marriage as I changed his dressing. I told him he was far too young to consider such a thing, to which he gamely replied that he would consider it if I would. The shadow of Charles passed over me. One of the older men, perhaps seeing it, told my young suitor that enough was enough, and we all went about our business.

A dozen new amputees, including a very sweet young Lance-Corporal from Wellington, painfully shy, and one man who has lost both hands. Also a Sergeant, older than
the rest, who it transpires has lost not only a leg but two sons to the War. Then there is Private Evans, who is at one moment the life and soul and the next completely downcast. He has lost both legs. Sister told him he was lucky to be here and able to get his prostheses so quickly, as there is apparently a long waiting list. He did not appear greatly soothed.

Later accompanied Arthur to a musical soiree at the Church hall; it was not up to much but at least made a change. Walking back he smiled tolerantly as I described the concert party in Abbeville, but did not find at all funny (as Edmund did) the story of my recent proposal of marriage.

Sister wonders whether I might be interested in the School of Massage, opened on site in response to the increased demand for Therapists. I have told her I will think it over, but that at present I am happy as I am.

I am somewhat a-fluster! A note was delivered to me late this afternoon. It was from Arthur, requesting I meet him ‘with some urgency'. Sister gave me leave and I hurried to the YMCA hut, where he said he would be waiting. On my arrival he sprang up, very agitated, to the great interest of a crowd of spectators. To secure a little privacy, and despite the cold, we stepped outside, and Arthur proceeded to explain the reason for his summons. It seems the thought of an offer of marriage made by another has caused him ‘considerable agitation, such that he knew he finally must speak, even should it cost him my friendship'. Winifred's words were by now echoing in my ears. Arthur took my
hands and avowed his very great affection; I stuttered and spluttered and blushed like a beet. Heaven knows how we should have gone on, had a voice from inside the hut not called, ‘Give her a kiss then!' Spurred on, Arthur plunged in. And all is changed. It is as if a further aspect of our mutual regard was simply lying in wait. Cheers and whistles came from the hut while Arthur's smile jumped all over his face. With nothing further said he tucked my fingers through his arm and escorted me back to the ward.

Over tea I was obliged to field enquiries as to what had ‘brought me out in smiles' — to which I replied that my brother is much improved (which is true after all).

Apparently some miraculous change is apparent and I have come in for a good deal of ribbing, to which I smile (in truth I seem able to do little else) and attend my work. Sister read aloud an extract from the newspaper; it seems an end is entirely possible, and far sooner than the War Office expected. It cannot come soon enough.

When I received word I had a visitor I flew to reception, but it was Father, come to visit Edmund. So I must then compose myself and discuss the War and the Hospital and my little brother William's health, and chat with Edmund (who cast me a rather shrewd look), and politely decline Father's invitation to lunch as I must get back to the ward. He walked me across, chatting about this and that, and really, I don't know why I was so keyed up, as Arthur is not coming until I am off duty at four.

All is the same and all changed. Arthur and I spent a pleasant evening, just as we might have before, but also held hands, which set me a-shiver.

Sister rushed into the ward and announced the War is over. No one spoke. It is so hard to imagine.

Eventually Evans said, ‘Shame they didn't call it off a week ago and I'd still have me legs.' It was somewhat unfortunate as it started everyone thinking of what they had lost, which was not at all the right tone. Then my lovely little Lance-Corporal said, ‘And now it won't have to happen to anyone else. We should be celebrating.' He didn't sound much as if he cared to, but it worked a treat in changing the mood.

Sister disappeared and came back with champagne just as bells began to ring, and we drank a toast to Peace, and to no more Wars, and then the men drank a toast to us and we drank one to them. ‘And one to the bloody lice,' Evans said, so we drank to that as well. By which time we were all more than a little tipsy!