Evie's War (27 page)

There is also one enteric fever (in isolation), contracted in Egypt or else on board a Hospital Ship off the Dardanelles. One of the pneumonias and one neurasthenia also have trench foot.

Sister says she first thought me a quiet thing, but ‘clearly not the case'. In response to my questions, she has told me that the Nurses' Home was moved here because the last, at Aldershot, was ‘prone to visits from enemy aircraft'. Imagine that for a ‘rest'! She has me walking twice a day (half a flight of stairs my highest achievement to date) and, if the sun shines, bundled up and sitting on the terrace. I have today written six letters: one to each of my cousins, and also to Edmund, Mr Lindsay and Emma Carr.

Newspapers thoroughly depressing.

Winifred telegrammed to say she was bringing her Colonel ‘for an inspection'; unsure who is inspecting whom!

Though I find myself increasingly ambivalent, it is rather disapproved of if one does not attend Chapel, which is held in a room suitably adorned with altar and statuary. There is a stained-glass window on the left wall, not religious in theme but admitting the most lovely light. The local Minister, Mr McGechie (whose wife is a staunch pillar of the Ladies' Support), took the Service. I felt him somewhat out of touch with the reality at the Front.

Colonel Mallory is older than I expected — perhaps forty — and rather fine looking: beaked nose, intelligent eyes, heavy moustache liberally scattered with grey, with a further dusting at the temples. Military bearing and quite a good wit. I believe they shall suit one another, and said so, though spoiled the effect with a fit of coughing. Winifred appeared pleased with my assessment. Colonel M asked where I had been posted and I gave an abbreviated account. On the subject of the German Advance he was tight-lipped.

Sister had a prank at our expense this morning, telling us we were all to be evacuated due to an infestation of owls in
the attics. I should not say many believed her; she cannot hold a straight face.

Sunshine with the first proper hint of warmth, and I managed a circuit of the garden, which is nicely set out. The blossom on the cherry trees is out, and also hyacinths and lily-of-the-valley. Two of my fellow inmates departed to conclude their recovery in the bosoms of their families, three new cases arriving to replace them.

Managed the stairs in one go and without coughing: I am to begin a proper exercise regime tomorrow.

Rain again. Really, this climate is impossible.

I fear my letters this week may have shown my discontent. Thoroughly sick of being cooped up.

Escaped the Ladies' Support by walking in the garden. The sunshine very welcome. Sister Hopkins (pneumonia) kept me company. She has been working at the New Zealand Hospital at Brockenhurst, and believes the men much happier for having nurses from home.

Several of us were bundled up and whisked off to tea at the Officers' Convalescent Hospital. Delectable cakes and the men appeared delighted to have our company. We are invited back for a piano recital on Thursday.

Guns at work again this morning. I despair that they will ever stop.

Major T is convinced I nursed him in Flanders and it may be so; I did not like to say I recall wounds more than faces, but in any case it would be impossible to remember all the thousands who passed through the wards.

We have lost Armentières, Le Bassée, Messines — surely we must stop them soon!

Two flights of stairs, and now sitting on the terrace, lungs rattling. Hopkins tells me I am overdoing it. Millie's birthday today — card sent several days ago. I have decided to stop reading the papers: Passchendaele is lost, after our boys gave so much to take it. Mood rather bleak.

A note from Major T; declined his dinner invitation as gently as possible.

Mr Lindsay writes that I must be patient. Also that the sacrifices made are not in vain while we continue to fight; and that America's entry into the Conflict, though late, has every chance of ‘bringing a reversal in the fortunes of War'.

Dr Talbot says I might soon be able to go home. Note from Edmund, who sounds rather low.

My resolve against further fraternisation weakened by boredom, I joined the others for tea with the Officers. Major T was at first a little hang-dog, then pulled himself together. My dearest Charles is much in my thoughts; more so here than in Flanders, perhaps because I have so much time on my hands. Even so he feels distant, as if by going to the Front I have lost something of him that I cannot get back. Written down it appears foolish.

Dr Talbot has approved my despatch to Deans Park for a fortnight. Sister says she will make the necessary arrangements, but only if I promise to rest ‘because otherwise we shall see you back, which we absolutely do not want'.

Winifred arrived (without her Colonel) and, hearing of my imminent release, proposed that we travel together as far as London. Sister looked dubious, so Winifred has gone to present her credentials to Matron, which may do the trick.

Rather tired on arrival; staying at Winifred's flat. Cannot think when I was last ‘upon my own recognisance'. To celebrate I put my feet up on her couch and drank brandy!

Lunch with Winifred and Colonel Mallory, who was at pains to be charming. Of the German Advance, he says ‘all that can be done is being done', and that the Americans may well swing the balance. I said it was a shame they did not come in sooner, with which he did not disagree.

Winifred obtained a day off and the loan of Colonel M's motorcar so that we might drive to Hornchurch. Edmund did not know we were coming; he was in the garden playing quoits and declared himself ‘deuced pleased to see us'. We talked at nine to the dozen then gained permission to take him out for lunch. (He says the food is abysmal, but it was similarly mediocre at the Hotel — the result of shortages.) Overall he looks well (and rather rudely announced that I did not!). He has only limited use of his left arm. As to that, he said he is ‘better off than the poor blighters who have lost arms or legs or both'. I replied that even they were better off than those who had lost all and had not the chance to sit around in the English spring taking tea and playing quoits — I am not sure what riled me, I think it is only that I hate the thought of the War going on and on and more and more young men ending thus. Edmund studied me calmly then said he didn't know whether he'd told me how sorry he had been about Charles. And I burst into tears. What a fool I felt! And I do not know why I did so, as I had not been thinking of Charles just then.

Have just read my last. It is made more difficult by being back in England, I think.

Assured Winifred I would not mope, and have been for several short walks. The leaves are bursting everywhere and beds of tulips add a cheering note.

Colonel Mallory and Winifred took me to dinner at a very smart Club. No dancing for me and I felt rather the dowdy cousin, but W said it was good to at least see a little colour in my cheeks. The Colonel confided on the QT that they have had a ‘devil of a job' halting the German Advance but that things were beginning to look up, with the Australians — ‘your lot' he said! — yesterday driving the Boche back at Villers-Bretonneux. ‘Dashed fine fighting men, the ANZACs.' Despite his gaff, I confess I felt a warming touch of pride. It is today three years since the onfall at Gallipoli, and our men have shown themselves staunchly courageous throughout.

Uncle Aubrey to collect me at 1 p.m. If he asks why I have not gone straight to Deans Park I shall tell him I felt too tired, as well as being eager to visit Edmund.

Uncle Aubrey was a perfect dear and treated me to a jolly nice lunch at The Savoy. On top of last night's dinner, I feel positively bloated. He did not see any harm in my spending a few days in London but ‘trusted I had contacted
my parents to let them know'. In fact I had not, but did so forthwith. Regarding the War, my uncle would say only that they were presently hopeful of a turnabout, and that the Germans had ‘queered their own pitch' with last year's rampage of destruction as they withdrew to the Hindenburg Line. That they should reap the rewards of their labours is a rather rose-tinted pleasure, but if it teaches them the cost of their savagery, then that is something.

Traffic along the Strand was overwhelming, especially compared to Winifred's quiet, leafy street — which comparison brought my visit of a year ago to mind and Winifred came home to find me dissolved in tears.

Colonel Mallory drove me up to see Edmund, en route discussing a range of topics. Of women's enfranchisement, he said he had no doubt it must come: ‘In this War women have shown themselves absolutely able beyond the domestic sphere.' Of the War itself, he remains confident we will win ‘because we must'. I did not say what I felt, which is that it is perfectly likely the Germans feel the same.

Edmund was in a buoyant mood and introduced me to a great many of his friends. To my enquiry regarding when he would be going up to Deans Park, he said that it was ‘all rather difficult' and diverted the conversation onto another track. But I suppose I shall find out for myself. Uncle Aubrey is to escort me to Deans Park tomorrow.

Pleasant trip — the countryside charmingly pretty now that winter has released its grip — followed by a rather turbulent arrival. Eugenie has grown at least two inches, Millie become a young lady. Mother was tearful and
flustery; I was rather touched that she seemed so pleased to have me home. William is a dear, trotting about on his fat little legs. He did not remember me at first, and hid his head in Mother's lap until I won him round. To Father's enquiries, I replied that I was feeling much better (rather belied by my coughing, about which I can do little). I described my visits to Edmund and reassured Mother, who has only once been down to see him — it is apparently ‘rather difficult with William'; her words an odd echo of Edmund's own.

The War has left its mark even here. All the lawn is torn up and turned into gardens — well beyond Eugenie's original patch — and the population of hens and pigs vastly increased. Eugenie has claimed charge of both, with Dickon to assist with heavier jobs. (I fear she has quite abandoned schoolwork, with which change she appears thoroughly content.) Black rosettes adorn a great many doors in the village and there is an altogether worn-down air to the place — one would say ‘embattled' if one did not know the true meaning of the word — but it is without the frenetic activity that fills London. Removed from that context, it is clear that Uncle Aubrey is exhausted; he has aged quite ten years. In response to my blunt questions about the situation in Flanders and the Valley of the Somme (there is no point pussy-footing on matters of such importance), he acknowledged that we have lost a good deal of ground, but still hold Ypres and Hazebrouck in the north and Arras and Amiens in the south. He added that he was glad to have me out of it. Which begs the question of the future for all those who must remain.

May Day. The village did not hold its usual celebration; instead there is to be a special Commemorative Service on Sunday. No doubt I shall be expected to attend.

Putting a second slice of cheese on my plate this morning earned me a lecture from Mother. Was I completely unaware that cheese is now rationed? Apparently I have ‘no understanding of the hardships' they have suffered. I told her that the diet at Deans Park appeared far more agreeable than that enjoyed by both soldiers and civilians in France, and received the blackest of looks. No doubt Aunt Marjorie will attempt some placatory ploy later. As it happens I was not aware that dairy, as well as meat, had been added to the list of rationed items, though of course I knew of the shortages. It is all the fault of the U-boats and German blockade.

Doubtless as a consequence of my acrimonious discussion with Mother, Eugenie told me I might help myself at any time to the fruits of her vegetable garden. I assured her I was not in the least hungry, and that any extra must go to her and William, who are both still growing.

The third Reading of the Banns in Church. Lady Braybrooke called at the house after to ‘fill me in regarding plans' — I confess I had all but forgot. Winifred will be up next weekend to see to arrangements; the wedding is to take place on the 18th. After her departure Aunt M asked whether I was aware of the Colonel's history, which is apparently that
he has been married before, though not for long (‘something of a scandal, my Dear'). As Mother chose that moment to join us, I heard no futher details and fear Aunt M is retrospectively become close-lipped on the subject.

Having listened to my lungs and witnessed an unprovoked bout of coughing, Dr Chiltern advises a further month's convalescence. I confess I do not feel ready to return to Active Service. Relevant paperwork duly completed.

Lady B dropped by with an armload of dresses from which, given the difficulty of obtaining fabric, she hoped I might find something that could be utilised. Mother is not at all pleased at being offered our ‘Lady Patron's charity'. Aunt M pooh-poohed such squeamishness with a breezy ‘we must all make do in times of War, Dearest' and fell upon the pile with gusto.