Home for Christmas (36 page)

‘It’s a flying hat. I take it you don’t like the goggles either,’ said Agnes tartly.

She watched gleefully as the woman’s face reddened as though she were choking. She had grown up waited on by a houseful of servants. They had flitted around her, doing her will, never showing in their behaviour that they had opinions or were as human as she was.

Agnes had met plenty of her sort since arriving in France; from men of good family but not terribly bright leading other more worthy men into battle to young ladies who seemed to think that being a nurse meant looking saintly whilst soothing a fevered brow. Quite a few had been sick on peeling back dirty rags from septic wounds, picking out the maggots, cleansing the flesh of fleas and lice before applying new dressings.

Female ambulance drivers were less numerous than nurses, but the story was much the same. Dealing with the dirt, the stink of gangrene and the screams of men holding their own guts in place were either the making or the undoing of them. Those who recovered stayed; those that were sickened and traumatised went home to a gentler life. Not that they would ever forget what they’d endured; nobody could do that.

Hortense continued with her outburst, her accusations of unfeminine behaviour interspersed with declarations of her firm belief that the British military was invincible.

Agnes said nothing. She’d learned quickly that her supervisor relished receiving an emotional response, preferably tears. Agnes gave no sign that the words pouring down on her head were having any effect. They were like so many pebbles thrown at a window. The glass might break or it might not.

Heaving herself to her feet, Hortense leaned on the desk with thick fists, her anger erupting into red roundels on each cheek.

‘I can think of no reason why you wear such a ridiculous outfit!’ she finally exclaimed.

‘Goggles are far from useless. I used them when my windscreen exploded, hit by a piece of stray shrapnel. It was raining heavily. Without them, I wouldn’t have been able to see. As for wearing trousers, they make sense. I can climb up and down into the back of the ambulance, and help to retrieve injured men from deep trenches. I’m doing the army’s bidding, patching them up so they can fight again. One less casualty to upset the British public at their breakfast! We wouldn’t want that now, would we?’

Agnes kept her gaze fixed on the face that had now turned as red as the poppies scattered amongst the corn back in August. Such a brief period of sunshine, summer sky and the passing fancy that the war was just a dream and they were merely here on holiday.

The small eyes regarding her narrowed, the thin lips pursed in a livid line.

‘I have made notes. I will refer those notes to Major Emerson who, as you know, is the medical officer in charge of all of us. His decision will be final. Is that clear?’

‘If you have to.’

Agnes was purposely casual in her response, as though she couldn’t care less if they sent her back to England, her service record marked as unsuitable. Going back in fact would be anathema to her. Here was where she belonged. She had never felt more alive, more needed. She went out of her way to do all she could for these men. In her mind, every single one was Robert, and now he was out there, shot down, missing presumed dead.

Once outside, Agnes took herself into the shaded fruit garden to the rear of the property where the dark earth was barren around bare stalks.

The smell, the freshness reminded her of a similar garden, long before the war, when she was just a child, not sure of her place in the world, but loving those closest to her.

Leaning against a brick wall, she lit up a cheroot. She’d taken to smoking cheroots back in England in order to shock; cheroots formed part of her risqué, outrageous image, in the same way as did her leather helmet, goggles and jodhpurs. In the present circumstances, the pungent smoke falling into her lungs was especially pleasurable. She was tired. Tired and frightened. Shot down behind enemy lines, Robert was either dead, lost or already a prisoner.

Closing her eyes, she imagined herself back at Heathlands, the sound of clattering pans and her mother’s voice coming from the kitchen, the smell of wood smoke mingling with that of the dark, loamy earth.

And Robert. There had always been Robert, Sir Avis’s nephew. She’d loved him from the first time she’d popped up in front of his pony. She’d loved him more on meeting him in the depths of a cold mid-winter when the ice on the lake at Heathlands froze over and the grass was thick with frost before being buried under six inches of snow. That was when she first became aware of him, though in truth they’d known each other since they were babies – not that she could remember very much about that!

The lake at Heathlands had attracted her, weak sunshine making it sparkle like a bluish-white mirror.

Sir Avis, her mother’s very generous employer, had given her a pair of skates for Christmas. They were second hand and a bit too big for her, but her mother had said she would grow into them. Sir Avis had also bought her a new dress and chocolates, but the skates, with their promise of an adventurous outdoor pursuit, had captured her imagination. In January, the temperature outside plummeted and she picked up her skates.

Early in the morning, just before breakfast, she’d crept out of the house and made her way through the copse of tangled trees and down the path to the water’s edge.

The rushes and tall reeds of summer were dried and shrouded in white. The lake was thick with ice. Her heart had soared. She would glide across the lake like a swan, though faster. Speed had always excited her.

After brushing snow from a handy rock, she’d sat down, unbuttoned and pulled off her boots. Bearing in mind that the skates were too big, she’d had the foresight to bring a spare pair of socks with her. She’d put these on quickly, totally absorbed in what she was doing; excited at the prospect of what she was about to do.

Wobbling at first, she’d made her way down the final few feet to the edge of the lake. She’d been just about to push forward, when a warning voice rang out.

‘You can’t skate on there. I say! You can’t skate there.’

The boy shouting the warning was standing between her and the small copse of trees on the hill. Once he’d seen he had her attention, he broke into a run.

‘Stop right there,’ he’d shouted.

Agnes had looked at him, then back at the lake. She was close, so very close to fulfilling what she wanted to do. Nobody, she decided, including him, was going to stop her.

She’d pushed herself on to the ice, first one foot, and then the other. Without a single wobble, she sped forward, arms outstretched to either side, face glowing with excitement.

‘I’m doing it! I’m doing it!’

She spun on her feet, amazed at her speed, enjoying the icy air on her face. She laughed and laughed.

‘See? It’s easy!’

The boy edged forward on to the ice at the side of the lake.

‘Keep away from the middle! Come back!’

She heard his shout, but didn’t obey it. This was living. This was wonderful.

‘Keep away from the middle,’ he shouted again.

She saw him edge further forward on to the ice as though he were placing his feet on stepping stones, one after the other.

‘Can’t catch me,’ she shouted back.

Being only a child, she didn’t fully comprehend the look of alarm on his face. It was a game, just a game; wasn’t it?

Suddenly fine cracks spread over the ice that earlier had seemed so thick, so capable of taking her weight. She’d come to a stop and had watched, fascinated, as the cracks had spread out from where she stood.

Like cracks from a hard-boiled egg hit with a spoon.

Somehow, she could never remember how, she’d taken a flying leap from the breaking ice, back the way she’d come.

A sliver of a crack appeared where she’d landed; water began to spill upwards, flowing over the ice.

Pushing forward with all her might, she headed back, determined that she wouldn’t end up in the cold water, sensible enough to know, even at that age, that it might be the end of her if she did.

He’d been waiting for her, halfway between her and the safety of the bank.

The ice was firm where he stood and she managed to skate all the way up to him.

She looked up into his face, saw the blue eyes, the wisps of hair curling out from beneath his hat.

She saw something else in those eyes then and heard the admiration in his voice.

‘Hello,’ she’d said, her tone far too confident for the average seven year old. ‘Were you worried about me?’

The boy, who looked to be about four years older than her, had shaken his head in disbelief. ‘You are the most amazingly brave girl I’ve ever met. I think I like you.’

Even now, looking back, she could feel how it was to bask in his admiration.

‘My name’s Agnes Stacey,’ she’d told him. ‘And you’re Robert Ravening. I popped up in front of your pony. Do you remember?’

His smile had made her forget that the sky was grey and the air bitingly cold.

‘Nobody could help but notice you.’

Smiling at the memory, she flicked the remains of her cheroot into the undergrowth. The smile did not last. Her face clouded. So much had changed. Robert had fallen in love with her friend Lydia. She’d survived the heartache, swallowing her pride and her pain.

A week ago, she’d received the news that the hospital where Lydia was stationed in Flanders had fallen into German hands. She’d assumed a Red Cross hospital would be spared occupation, but had found out otherwise.

She eyed the pale sun sinking behind pink clouds. What innocents we are, she thought.

It had felt as though she’d swallowed an iron bolt when she’d heard that Robert had been shot down. A navigator involved in the same skirmish had given her that piece of terrible news. So much for Siggy and his comments about flying machines being limited and not likely to get involved in real fighting, she thought grimly, and felt like crying and laughing all at the same time.

The injured navigator told her how he’d hid by day and travelled by night, sneaking through the lines.

‘Didn’t do my leg much good, Miss, but at least I’m still alive. Next stop the Old Kent Road!’

She’d helped him down from the ambulance knowing by the rancid smell of his injured flesh and the bone sticking through his trouser leg that he would end up a cripple.

He’d escaped. He’d survived. There was a chance Robert might have survived too.

Two nurses helped him hop his way to the hospital. She watched until he disappeared from sight, though it wasn’t really the navigator she was seeing. She was seeing Robert, injured, cold and alone.

He needed help. He might need an ambulance. She leaned against the bonnet of her own vehicle, feeling the heat of the engine suffusing through the metal. She had the vehicle and she had the will. She would do her best to find him.

Hortense Corbett, Agnes’s superior, was true to her word. A great one for making lists and notes, she stood there in front of Major Darius Emerson with her completed notes on each one of the girls under her supervision.

Major Emerson had the patience of a saint, but even he failed to hide his exasperation, rubbing at his eyes and sitting back with a sigh. He was the son of a British officer of the Indian army and an Anglo-Indian mother, though nobody would guess that. He’d inherited the red hair of his father and a skin colour that was something close to Asian but lifted by the fact that his eyes were blue.

He had far more important things to do than study the copious lists this woman produced. The government had forbidden the likes of volunteer auxiliaries running hospital field units, but somehow this woman and her team got through. She obviously knew the right people, damn her!

He flicked through the papers without really reading anything. He just didn’t have the time.

‘Look, Hortense, I think you will appreciate it when I tell you that I’m snowed under with paperwork at present. Are there any pertinent points amongst your lists that need my attention right at this minute?’

‘Oh,’ she said, looking decidedly deflated. She so loved those lists, loved remarking on her ‘girls’.

‘Here,’ she said, snatching the papers from him and stabbing at one particular sheet of paper, one particular name. ‘Agnes Stacey is the most insolent young woman. She refuses to dress appropriately, insists in fact on wearing jodhpurs, a flying helmet and goggles.’

Darius Emerson jerked his chin as he read the particulars – just the first line. He’d met Agnes and liked her. Still, he had to play the part, appease this woman and get on with what was important.

‘I think we have to ask ourselves if this mode of dress affects her performance as an ambulance driver. Reports already in my possession tell me they do not. In fact, I am given to understand that she is hard working, brave and willing to help anyone in need. Would you disagree with that?’

Hortense Corbett spluttered before collecting herself. If there was one thing bred into her, it was the art of collusion. If the major took the opposite view to hers, she had to appear to comply – even though she simmered with antagonism.

‘If nobody objects to her outlandish outfit, then I cannot object. However, I do wonder how she was accepted with such an attitude. She is so unfeminine. Have you seen her driving that ambulance? Regardless of mud, stones or barrage fire, she drives it full pelt; most unseemly; most unfeminine.’

Major Darius Emerson, a doctor in peacetime, rubbed at his eyes in an effort to massage some life back into them. ‘She does her job, Hortense. I’m happy with that.’

‘That may be so, but …’

She went on to list a variety of reasons why they should perhaps review the situation. ‘Perhaps at a later date?’

Darius pretended to be listening whilst considering other, more serious matters.

A pile of paperwork relating to the growing casualty lists destined for prominent posting in England and throughout the Empire was getting dangerously high. It was time to begin a new one.

Moderating his voice, he explained the situation quietly and confidently.