The Passing Bells (40 page)

“He's English?”

“Royal Flying Corps. They have a field near Maintenon. I must telephone them and tell them that their Lieutenant Dennis Mackendric will be as good as new. Perhaps they will be grateful enough to send me some of their excellent cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey.”

Lieutenant Mackendric shared a room with Captain Morizet, a gloomy officer who had been shot through the lungs in May. He soon had the captain out of his depression, and it was not long before the twenty-year-old aviator was known as “Merry Dennis” by all the English nurses and “The Crazy One” by the French. He was not English but Scotch, from Lochgelly. Sandy-haired and ruddy-faced, he was of medium height, with a lean and wiry body—an athlete's torso that was always on display for he refused to wear a nightshirt—and incredibly strong hands and arms. He had a rich, melodic voice with just a trace of a burr to make it even more interesting. Alexandra fell in love with him on the spot, as did every other nurse in the hospital from Matron on down. He did not suffer from inattention by the staff, nor did he lack visitors. A steady stream of RFC officers and French aviators came to see him, and Doctor Jary's supply of cigarettes and whiskey overflowed.

One morning, a week after the accident, Alexandra sat rolling bandages at a table in the cool entrance hall of the château. It was monotonous work and her thoughts were drifting in a dozen more pleasant directions. She did not hear the man as he crossed the tiled floor from the front doors, and his voice startled her.

“Excuse me. I'm looking for a Lieutenant Dennis Mackendric.”

A tall, gaunt-faced officer with the emblems of the Royal Army Medical Corps on his lapels stood facing her. He was perhaps thirty, but could have been older or younger. The mouth had a youthful quality, but the eyes, dark brown and deeply recessed in shadowed sockets, were ageless. He smiled slightly, a mere twist of the lips.

“
Parlez-vous anglais, mademoiselle?”

“Yes,” she stammered, “of course. I
am
English.”

“I rather thought you might be. I'm Major Mackendric—the lieutenant's brother. He is a patient here, is he not?”

“Yes . . . he is. And you say you're his brother?” Her surprise was registered in her tone of voice. No two men could have been more opposite in looks and manner.

“Half brother, to be precise. May I see him?”

Visitors were not permitted during the morning hours, but the RAMC badges excluded him from being put in that category.

“If you'll follow me, I'll take you to him.”

“Thank you. By the way, who's in charge of this hospital?”

“Doctor Jary.”

“Gilles Jary? Burly man with a beard . . . chain smoker?”

“That's right.”

“Thank heaven for that. Some of these Red Cross surgeons couldn't set a watch, let alone a fracture.”

“We're an extremely capable hospital,” she said coolly. “Perhaps the best in France.”

“No doubt . . . no doubt.” His gaze wandered, taking in the marble walls, the broad staircase curving gracefully to the second-floor landing. “Certainly grand enough. I do my work in a tent.”

She could not have cared less if he did his work in a field. He seemed an arrogant, caustic man. Even his own brother did not appear to be overjoyed at seeing him.

“Oh, Lord, Robbie!”

“Hello, Dennis. Took a tumble, I gather.”

“Oh, aye, dinna have the sense to watch the petrol gauge.”

Major Robin Mackendric eyed his brother sourly and then turned his cold eyes on Alexandra.

“Do you permit all your patients to lie about half naked?”

“No,” she blurted. “It's just that—”

“It's bluidy hot, man,” Dennis protested.

“One is as liable to catch pneumonia on a hot day as on a cold one. Put a flannel top on him, nurse.”

“Now, look here, Robbie. . . .”

The major ignored him as he walked to the end of the bed and glanced at the chart. “Slight fever last night. Must be mad to let you lie about uncovered.”

“I take the bluidy top off on my own. I won't wear the scratchy thing. Don't go about blamin' the lass.”

“If you kept taking your top off in my ward, I'd have the sisters tie your hands to the frame.” He nodded curtly at Alexandra. “Not blaming you, of course. Probationer or VAD?”

“VAD,” she said, a quiver of rage in her voice. “And we happen to have the best—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “The best nurses in France. Your loyalty to this hospital is admirable. Where will I find Dr. Jary?”

“In his office . . . down the corridor to your left and then up the garret stairs.”

“What do you want to see him for?” Dennis asked. “Don't go leapin' on the poor man because of my bluidy flannel!”

“I want to study the X-ray plates.”

“He did a bluidy fine job of it, man.”

“I'm sure he did.”

“And if he didn't, you'd bust my bluidy legs again, I suppose!”

“Exactly right. And go easy on the word ‘bluidy.' Makes you sound like a Clydeside riveter.”

Dennis flopped back on his pillow with a groan of exasperation.

“Christ! Wasn't there enough to keep you busy up at Ypres?”

“Yes,” the major said with a quiet intensity. “More than enough.”

The younger Mackendric sucked in his breath and looked quickly at his brother.

“I didn't mean to say that, Robbie. You know I didn't.”

“I know.”

“And I'm really awfully . . .
damn
glad to see your ugly mug.”

“And I yours. Put your pajama top on, that's the lad. I'll be back shortly.” He strode off, boots clicking briskly down the marble corridor.

“Well!” Alexandra said, letting her pent-up sense of outrage underline the word. “Well! What an exasperating man!”

“That he is,” Dennis said with a grin. “He'd drive a saint to drink. The annoying thing about Robbie, though, is that he's always right.” He sat up and held out his arms. “Slip the smelly old flannel on. There's no point in sendin' him into a bluidy blitherin' rage.”

She saw Major Robin Mackendric later in the day as he toured F Ward with Dr. Jary and Dr. Lavantier. He smiled at her, but she made a point of ignoring him.

“There are two or three cases you could help us out with,” Dr. Jary said. “Abdominals . . . fecal abscesses . . .”

“I only have a few days' leave.”

“I can have them prepped right now . . . cut after lunch. You were Sir Osbert's pupil, after all . . . your cup of tea. . . .
Cela est dans vos cordes.
Shall we say yes?”

“Busman's holiday . . . what the hell.”

They wheeled the last patient from the operating room at one o'clock in the morning, Matron told them during breakfast.

“He was marvelous to watch. Very sure of himself. Took nine feet of intestines from number eighty-seven and snipped more than that from the Turko and Papa Celine. ‘Better a short bowel than a rotten one,' he said!”

“I had to laugh,” an Irish surgical nurse said. “Dr. Jary was leaning over his shoulder and ashes fell from his fag into the cavity. I'm used to that, of course, but I thought, ‘Oh-oh, the Englishman is going to spin like a top,' but he kept on cutting cool as you please and said, ‘Well, at least there's somethin' sterile in the poor man's gut!' ”

“He must have been very tired by the time it was over,” Alexandra said.

The Irishwoman nodded. “He was that. Quite the color of paste. Dr. Jary pressed a bottle of whiskey on him and sent him into town in an ambulance.”

“He could have slept here.”

“That he could, but he said he'd be damned if he'd spend one night of his leave on a canvas cot.” She winked broadly at Alexandra. “The English are a grand race. I wonder why I hate them so!”

She felt a compulsion to see him again and volunteered for double duty in order not to miss him. He arrived late in the afternoon, looking pale and drawn.

“Your brother's sleeping,” she said, meeting him at the top of the stairs.

“Good. Best thing for him.”

“In a pajama top,” she added pointedly.

“Sorry I made such a strafe about it.”

“You were quite right to do so. It's just that your brother has a talent for getting his own way.”

He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead. “Do you have such a thing as a cool drink, Miss—I'm sorry, I don't know your name.”

“Alexandra Greville.”

“Robin Mackendric . . . now formally introduced.” He shifted the handkerchief to his left hand and held out his right. The palm was damp, the fingers icy.

“Do you feel all right, Major?”

“A bit under the weather. I could use that drink . . . and a couple of aspirin tablets.”

“Of course. I'll fetch you a glass of lemonade.”

He was seated in his brother's room, talking quietly to the wounded French captain, when she brought the glass to him. He took the aspirins from her hand and drank the lemonade almost without pause.

“Thank you. Very refreshing.”

“The service here is as good as at the Crillon,” the Frenchman said.

“And cheaper,” the major added. He handed the glass back to Alexandra and stood up. “I shan't wake Dennis. He's sleeping too peacefully. Tell him I'll drop by in the morning before I go.”

“Is your leave over?” she asked.

“No. I can take a few more days if I want it, but I'm feeling a bit guilty staying away.”

“Where is your hospital, Commandant?” Captain Morizet asked.

“Number twenty CCS, near Kemmel.”

The captain nodded, his expression grim. “Hellish up there. Yes. I know what it is like. My battalion was in reserve at Messines in April. A bad place for soldiers, that salient, I can tell you.
Très pouilleux!”

She walked beside him down the hall to the stairwell.

“In case I don't see you again, Major Mackendric—”

“Tell me,” he said, interrupting her, “what time do you get off duty?”

She looked at him blankly. “Get off?”

“They don't chain you to your post, do they? Aren't you permitted free time?”

“Yes . . . of course. My shift is over at six-thirty.”

“Will you have supper with me in town? Say . . . seven o'clock?”

She could only stare at him. The invitation was totally unexpected. The man was at least ten years her senior. What on earth did they have in common? What could they talk about? Her instinct was to murmur a polite but firm no, but there was a look in his eyes that made her hesitant. She saw pain there—an almost desperate appeal.

“All right. Will you pick me up or shall I meet you somewhere?” Her voice sounded alien to her.

“It's a pleasant walk. I could meet you by the river.”

She nodded gravely. “Yes. That would be better than coming here.”

They walked slowly along the towpath in the orange light of early evening, the sun turning the poplars to slim columns of brass. Barges moved up the river, pulled by plodding horses, while the bargemen sat cross-legged on the narrow decks, munching bread and onions and drinking wine from dark green bottles.

“France is such a beautiful country, don't you agree, Major Mackendric?”

“Yes . . . quite lovely.”

“And so historic. Chartres . . . such an unspoiled old town. The cathedral is certainly one of the finest examples of Gothic architecture to be found anywhere. I developed a passion for Gothic architecture when I was about eleven. It didn't last, of course, one of those stages that one always outgrows, but I can remember looking at stereoscopic views of Chartres. We had thousands of stereoscopic views . . . every country on earth . . . all in color. . . . I think the views of Chartres and the cathedral were my favorites among all the sets . . . those and the ones on Japan . . . the cherry trees and the geisha girls. . . . But I did love Chartres so, and here I am, practically living in its shadow. Curious, isn't it?”

She was talking too much and too rapidly. Lydia had once told her that rapid, garrulous speech was a form of hysteria. She took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself. She found the taciturn doctor disconcerting. She sensed complexities in him beyond her ability to unravel and depths to his moodiness that she didn't feel capable of probing. He paused for a moment to light a short briar pipe. She noticed that his hand as he held the match trembled slightly. That only disconcerted her more and loosened her tongue again.

“I do love your brother. He's such a—bonnie Scot!”

“He's really more English than Scotch, but he can turn on the burr when he feels like it. Dennis is a bit of an actor.”

“And, oh, the pranks he pulls! One day he stuck his thermometer in his tea and nearly scared one of the girls out of her wits when she read it.”

“Yes,” he remarked dryly, “he's quite the cutup.”

“You . . . you're a bit older than he is, I take it.”

“I'm thirty-two. Dennis is twenty.”

“I'm . . . nineteen.”

“A very good age to be.”

“But I feel a good deal older. I suppose it must be the war. Have you been out here long, Major Mackendric?”

“Since last October . . . first Ypres.”

“What a dreadful battle that must have been. And you're assigned to a casualty clearing station?”

“Yes.”

“It must be quite dangerous being so close to the front.”

“Only the longer-range guns bother us once in a while.” He stopped and faced her. “Let's not talk about it.” He turned his head slightly to one side. “No matter how still it is . . . no matter how hard you listen, you can't hear the guns. So let's forget the war.”