Evie's War (23 page)

His name is written in these pages 139 times. We were to have been married today.

Mother says I simply must attend Church. I cannot.

I have written to ask Matron for the date on which Charles was admitted to 1st Eastern. The first mention of him in these pages is on 15 April 1915, but he had been in the Hospital some days prior to that. It seems wrong not to recall the exact day on which we met.

At lunch Uncle Aubrey spoke of little besides the arrival of American troops in France. I had a vision of the grief
of this War spreading around the Globe like a creeping canker. Guessing at my reaction, Father patted my hand.

My uncle walked to Church by my side, having shooed ‘the hens' of the party ahead of us. Somewhat awkwardly he said that he respected my grief but that I must not allow myself to lose sight of the overall purpose of this War, from which we may not shirk, which was to make the world a safe and fit place for our children. I did not say the obvious, which is that I shall not now have children. He said also that Charles had been a very good man, and was mourned by all who knew him.

Matron came; I scarcely recognised her out of uniform. To her apology for not being at the funeral I replied that I quite understood, and that Charles had been amongst the lucky ones in having had a funeral. She advised that I must eat, and exercise, and consider returning to work. I cannot think of it for the moment. She did not press her case.

My conversation with Matron keeps playing over in my mind, my words having spilled out in a way they never have to Mother. When I confided that Charles had wanted to marry in April but that both our mothers had counselled otherwise, she said I should not blame myself, nor Mother, for that decision. Instead I must remember that I brought joy to Charles's life, and that, on a lesser scale, I have had similarly uplifting effects on the spirits of many, having a Gift for it. Also that I must stop feeling sorry for myself.
‘Do you think any mother or sweetheart does not feel as you? But we cannot let it stop us. We must simply go on doing all the things that caused our men to love us in the first place.' Perhaps she is right; I do not know, nor know exactly why Charles loved me at all. It is too painful to think of.

I wonder if Matron once loved a young man who died?

Winifred called, very tired and nervy, though Aunt Marjorie says she seems exactly as I used to when I came down at weekends. She did not mention Charles, only told me the Russian Army is in retreat and likely to crumble, which will send more German troops to the Western Front. Also that she intends returning to Belgium, where her skills are of greatest use, and proposes that I go with her.

Eugenie winkled me out, insisting I look at her cabbages. Their outer leaves proved rather tattered by caterpillars, but she has assurances from Mr Tolley that these assault troops will not have got into the hearts. She has been much assisted in her labours by Mr Tolley's son, Dickon, who returned from the War with his right arm paralysed and less than half the wits he went with. He has rigged up the tennis net to keep rabbits at bay.

I found myself enjoying the sun on my face and the smell of freesias. I do not know whether to feel hopeful or guilty.

Winifred stopped in ‘to have my answer' (I have none). She is to go to London next week to complete a driving course, which is apparently compulsory even though she has already spent two years driving ambulances in Cambridge and Flanders.

My most fervent prayers brought no answer. Does God mind, I wonder, that it is to Charles, rather than to Him, that I pray?

Letter from Edmund, dated a month ago. He has had the news, and expressed his condolences. Mother was quite cross when I would not give her his letter to read.

Winifred ‘disappointed' by my response. It seems I have become adept at displeasing.

Aunt Marjorie asked my help in making over my cousins' outgrown dresses for those estate children whose fathers have been lost. My fingers proved clumsy, perhaps because I could not bear the thought that this will be my future: patching and making do on behalf of other people's children. Matron may be right: I am at least more practised in tending men.

To avoid needlework I offered to assist Eugenie in the garden. I doubt I was much use though the sun felt good; a little as though I were a mole, newly climbed to the light. Monty joined us, his mood rather matching mine, I fancy.

Uncle Aubrey is not coming up. I do hope it does not mean another Push.

If Mother says ‘Poor Dear Charles' one single time more I shall scream.

Newspapers describe an attack at Ypres. Matron will be clearing out wards in preparation.

Lady B called to quiz me on my plans. How can I have plans, I wished to cry, when my plan had been to get married, live in my own house and walk in the little park and greet my husband each night when he arrived home from work? Lady B has no time for wretchedness. ‘We must have plans, my Dear. It is how we proceed. And most especially in extremis.'

Edmund has received a minor wound and is out of the Front line. He says nothing of the battle, but describes the village
where they are billeted (battered beyond belief) and the weather (atrocious). I have requested details of his injury.

I wonder if perhaps Edmund is near Saint-Julien. Reports are of continuing vile weather and a great deal of difficulty due to muddy conditions. Thousands of German prisoners have been taken, which must surely be a good sign.

Uncle Aubrey declined to discuss the situation in Flanders. He looks worn to a thread.

Edmund has received a shrapnel wound to his left hand, and is now returned to his Unit. I wrote to advise that he must take great care to keep the wound clean.

Winifred and Lady B were at Church. Winifred has completed her course and is awaiting her papers.

Lettie has written to offer her condolences. She has joined the Women's Auxiliary Corps and is milking cows on a farm near York, aside from which her main interest seems to be attending Servicemen's Dances.

Mr Miller writes to ask how I am and to invite me to visit. I do not believe I will go. Tomorrow it will be three months. Uncle Aubrey has agreed to look into whether I might be able to visit the site where Charles was killed.

Mother opposes my going to Folkestone, I cannot think why. I confided my desire to Winifred and she could see the sense of it.

I am extremely tired of being treated as though I were an invalid!

Winifred drove over to tell me she has her orders and is to depart from Folkestone, to which end she proposes we travel together, en route visiting Canterbury where we might perhaps spend a night. Then we will have a day in Folkestone, after which she suggests I can easily return to London by train and there meet up with my uncle for the return journey to Littlebury. Mother decreed the entire venture foolhardy while Aunt Marjorie enquired, sotto voce, whether I ‘really felt strong enough'. You would think I had proposed an excursion to the Front the way they are carrying on! I said that the journey will assist me in coming to terms with Charles's death, and that I am quite resolved to do it.

Mr Lindsay writes of the countryside around Oxford, awash in a ‘froth of blue and white, set off by rippling fields of ripening grain', and of a bird he watches on his garden wall each morning. He also mentions his birthday, which I forgot. I have sent a belated card.

Millie has quite piqued her mother by announcing that she intends to join up to whichever Service will have her — of course she is far too young, but her enthusiasm inclines me to think I am shirking. I do not feel I can go back to 1st Eastern, there being too many memories, but perhaps I might try Hornchurch; I am sure Charles would approve.

Winifred and I leave on Wednesday and shall spend a night en route. It will be a relief to get away from Deans Park.

We are installed in a delightful Hotel on Best Lane, just a few steps from Canterbury's magnificent and famous Cathedral, around which we managed a hurried tour. Standing before History — specifically, at the place where Saint Thomas Becket was murdered nearly 750 years ago — reminds one that this terrible War is not unique, except perhaps in scale and breadth of suffering.

A Memorial has been erected to honour the soldiers and civilians killed in the bombing. I was very grateful to have
Winifred with me, being quite overcome. But still it does not seem real. Tomorrow we shall climb to the cliff top and look out towards France. I have no doubt Charles would have done the same during his brief visit.

I am filled with both trepidation and a strange detachment, which is not quite courage. Nor can I imagine what Mother and Father will say. Yesterday afternoon disaster struck: Winifred sprained her ankle on the cliff path. A group of Canadian soldiers from the Camp was enlisted to carry her back to the Hotel and a doctor was called. The ankle was already swollen; it was clearly impossible for her to join her Unit. The obvious thing would have been to let them know the situation, but she was completely distraught at the thought of letting the side down, and my arguments slowly fell to her insistence: we are more or less the same size so her uniform would do well, our varied looks do not signify as she had not yet met the others of her Unit, I am quite as competent a driver as she and she could tell me all I needed to know of the job before I left, and Deans Park could be told I am staying in Folkestone to assist the injured Winifred, which would defer any parental intervention for at least a week, by which time I shall be settled. All arguments besides these, she simply refused to hear.

And so here I am, looking out across a quiet Ocean, the dark shapes of Destroyers protecting our flanks as we steam towards France. I remain in great doubt as to the wisdom of the venture. Winifred claims one pair of hands is as good — and necessary — as another, and is quite sure that I have only to ‘prove my mettle', which she does not believe will take more than a few days. I remain dubious. I have decided to give my own name on arrival, and if they send me home, I shall, at least, have tried.

After a brief and broken sleep — excitement and terror in equal proportion — I woke to the dark line of the French coast. By ten we were disembarked in a very tired and grubby town. All signposts having been removed, I was not entirely sure where we were, other than that the ambiance was entirely un-English. Unlike the town, which felt rather dejected, the Station was positively bustling with activity. With some haste we were herded onto a train, shunted several miles then pulled into a siding. And here we have sat for several hours! It is hot, and we are none of us very fresh. We are twelve in total, all in uniform with insignia showing our status as drivers. I have said as little as possible; we are all tired and I feel rather guilty, besides. As soon as we find an Official I shall confess the truth — though hopefully before that I might somewhere find a cup of tea.

Our train finally began to move at 6 p.m. and we rattled along through the night, stopping four times (a jolt awake on each occasion), but we were each time only pulled into a siding while other trains rumbled past. One girl said the trains passing from behind would be carrying troops to the Front, while those going back would be Ambulance Trains, but it was too dark to confirm her supposition. We had neither dinner nor breakfast save what we had with us, which in my case was very little. Fortunately one of the girls had a tin of fruitcake that she shared, so I am not entirely famished. A Major came along at our last stop to say we should reach our destination this evening, but would not be drawn on where it might be.

Around 3 a.m. we were roused and instructed to disembark. All up and down the platform were grey and brown lumps, which some of the girls took to be sacks of dirty laundry but I recognised immediately as wounded men, bundled up, unwashed and reeking of the mud of the trenches, and worse. It turns out only four of our group have experience in a Hospital, and only two have previously been to France. Consequently I feel less a fraud than I did! And have confided my name and background. No one seems aware that it was not I who was supposed to be with the group.

About two hours after arriving we managed to secure a cup of tea — lukewarm and benzene-tainted, having been stewed in tins whose prior role in life had been to store fuel. After another hour we were told we were not yet at our destination but must wait for a further train. My parents will by now have my letter from Folkestone explaining that Winifred has sprained her ankle and that I am staying to look after her. I believe she was right that I should not worry them needlessly, in case it should all come to naught, or at least until I can provide more complete information.

When at last we arrived (2 p.m.) we were all greatly relieved to no longer be confined to (or attempting to sleep on) a rattling, clanking train, though our current facilities are not greatly improved. We had none of us washed or had a proper meal in three days, yet we were expected to go on duty an hour after arriving! Though our first assignment was only to accompany experienced drivers so that we might learn our way about, so in the event it did not prove too onerous.