Authors: Mackenzie Ford
Gifts of War (19 page)
I can’t say I achieved a great breakthrough in that first week and what I remember most was the drink after work on the Wednesday, when I was buttonholed by several of the others in the department, who wanted to know who I was, how I had got my limp, how I had been recruited, whether I was married, whether I played bridge, how well I knew Germany, if I spoke any other languages, and, in one case, if I could lend them five pounds.
On the Friday morning at the end of my first week, I saw Colonel Pritchard as arranged. Or at least I turned up outside his office. He was just leaving as I arrived and merely said, “Everything all right?”
“Yes sir.”
“Splendid. Sheila said you seemed a good egg, so don’t let me down.” And he was gone.
I went back to my chair and newspapers and worked on throughout the day. The War Ministry Intelligence Department was the only place I have ever been—apart from the Front, that is—where Friday afternoon was just like any other part of the working week. We sat at our tables, diligently keeping at it, until six o’clock on the dot. No one shirked, no one left early, no one gossiped about what they were doing at the weekend. In a way I was surprised that we didn’t have to come in on Saturday and Sunday but Sheila said it would be counterproductive. “People need a break. The work is wearing as it is.” She smiled one of her gloomy smiles. “You’ll probably find that you can’t bring yourself to read your usual newspaper tomorrow. There’s a price to pay for everything. But try to have a good weekend if you can.”
I had a better weekend than Sheila Small could have guessed. Sam and I found a flat. And not just any flat—a large flat, a vast flat, furnished, on the first floor of Penrith Mansions, a red-brick block overlooking the Thames in Chelsea. I was at first surprised that it had been so easy—until I realized that with so many men away at the war, and with so many dead already, there were empty flats and houses all over London, all over the country. It was sobering.
The flat had a huge living room, with two sets of full-length windows giving a view onto the river, a dining room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and four bedrooms, one for Sam and me, one for Will, when he got a bit bigger, and two spare. Sam had found the flat on Thursday, I saw it on the Saturday morning, and we moved in the next day. Between the block and the river there was a small patch of grass, a tiny park, where on good days Sam and Will would be able to sit out.
We spent the morning rearranging the furniture. During our stay at the small hotel in Bayswater, I had bought a gold band for Sam, so she wouldn’t attract any unwelcome stares, as had happened in Middle Hill. And we had shared a room, which meant sharing a bed. We had been self-conscious to begin with. Embarrassed even, and of course nothing occurred. But when we moved into Penrith Mansions, she put her clothing and mine in the same chest of drawers and the same tallboy in the biggest bedroom, the one with the best view of the Embankment and the river. That held out the promise of… I was encouraged.
In the afternoon we took a walk, exploring the area. Chelsea is one of those places you hear about, but I had never been before and had no preconceptions. I was agreeably surprised. There were lots of small streets, lovely old houses—small, large, and huge—with more trees lining the pavements than I had expected. It felt more like a village than the capital of the empire. There were a couple of decent churches in the vicinity, the Lister Hospital wasn’t far away, and, on
our way back, we passed a picturesque pub, the Thomas More. It had a small garden, with rickety palings separating the seating from the street.
As we approached Penrith Mansions, on our return, I noticed a young woman sitting on the bench that was located on the patch of grass between the flats and the river. As soon as she saw us, she got up and moved purposefully in our direction.
“You expecting a visitor?” I said, turning to Sam.
She was fiddling with Will’s clothing at the time. “What?” she said. “What did you say?”
“There’s a woman over there—”
“Oh yes,” Sam said. “She’s early.” And she waved at the woman. “It’s my sister Charlotte. It’s Lottie.”
I could see now, as Lottie came closer, a faint family resemblance about the eyes. She was darker than Sam, shorter, a touch wider, but not unattractive, nowhere near as plain as I had been led to believe. She was wearing an off-white frock, flat shoes, and, like Sam, an Alice band.
The sisters kissed, Lottie kissed Will, who objected loudly, and then she looked up at me.
“Hal, this is Lottie … Lottie, this is Hal.”
We shook hands. “So you’re the hero,” said Lottie. She had more of a West Country burr in her voice than Sam did.
“I was only in the war for—”
“I meant you taking on Sam and the boy. Much braver than shooting Germans.” She smiled.
“I’m damaged goods, I’m afraid. Sam was doing me a favor.”
“Rubbish,” Sam whispered. “Now come on, you two. Will’s getting tired—that’s why he’s making such a noise. I need to feed him; then he’ll sleep.”
“Let me carry him,” said Lottie. “You must be tired, Sam, moving
house
and
looking after the boy.” She took Will and cupped her arms around him.
I let us all in through the door to Penrith Mansions and we trudged up the stairs.
“I’ll make some tea,” I said as I turned the key in the lock. “Sam, you do what you have to with Will, and then show Lottie around.”
I noticed the sisters exchanging glances as I went through into the kitchen. The gas was on a meter but I had plenty of shillings. I filled the kettle with water and lit the ring. I readied a tray and took it through into the living room. The afternoon sun shone directly into the room and glittered on the river.
It took about five or six minutes for the kettle to boil and when I carried the teapot into the living room, Lottie was standing by the window, looking out.
“Sam’s putting Will to bed,” she said, turning. “I like the view.”
“We were lucky with this flat. Sam did well.”
“She did well, all right, finding you. Think this pretense marriage can work?”
She had been told the truth.
“It suits us both, Lottie, while the war lasts. Do you disapprove?”
She moved into the room. “Not if you really love her.”
“Ah, well. There’s no doubt there, I can promise you.”
“And after the war?”
I shrugged. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Just like that?”
“I told you. I’m in love with your sister. There’s a war on. Unusual situations are now normal, for the duration. I’m sorry if our arrangements seem wicked to you—”
“I didn’t say that and I wasn’t thinking it.” Lottie sat down. “She says you are a good man. She’s been through a lot, she’s been a bit of a chump, if you ask me, and it’s a good job our mother’s not alive …
but if… she needs stability and she needs support, emotional, psychological, practical… if you can provide that… then for what it’s worth, you have my blessing.”
I started pouring the tea and as I did so Sam came through from our bedroom, and Lottie moved next to the fireplace. It had an elaborate, carved overmantel.
I flopped into a chair myself and said, “So, Lottie. What do you do? Are you married? Do you live near here?”
Instead of replying, she looked at Sam. They exchanged glances as before.
“What is it?” I said.
Sam drank some tea before saying, “Lottie’s in a bit of a pickle … She’s been working in the West End, in the theater, as an assistant to Todd Makepiece—maybe you’ve heard of him… he’s a director?”
I shook my head. What was coming?
“Well, Todd’s been asked to take a show on the road, to France, to entertain the troops. Of course, he can’t say no—he doesn’t
want
to say no. But the money’s tight, there’s some danger, and… the long and short of it is… Lottie’s out of work. She’s been living in the West End, in a tiny flat near the theater, but she can’t afford it anymore.” Sam put her teacup and saucer on the low table and looked up at me. “I thought she could maybe stay here for a bit, till she finds another job. She could have one of the spare rooms and maybe babysit, so you and I can get out now and then. Do you mind?”
Did I mind? It was a bit sudden. It was
very
sudden, but did I mind? I—we—now had Lottie’s blessing.
“I don’t know if I mind, Sam. You and I have spent exactly ten nights together so far. I’m not sure it’s completely fair for you to spring this on me,
but”—
I raised my voice as she attempted to interrupt
—“but…
when I was at the Front, we had a show that had been sent out from London, and I can’t tell you how much everyone loved
it.” I smiled at both of them. “So I’m not going to be hard-hearted about this. I’m sure Lottie will find another job soon. Of course she can stay here for a while.”
At which Lottie jumped up, rushed across the room, and gave me a big kiss.
That night, our first night in Penrith Mansions, was different from all the other nights that had gone before, and we both knew it. The hotel in Bayswater had been a temporary stopgap but now, in the Chelsea flat, the flat where we would be living for the foreseeable future, as man and wife, we were sharing a bed and there was no hiding the fact.
I was sitting against the pillows in my pajamas, reading, when Sam came through into the bedroom from the bathroom. She smelled of toothpaste, and soap, and Will (she always smelled a bit of Will) and, as she took off her dressing gown, her nightdress underneath could not conceal the fact that she had taken off her camisole. I hope I may be forgiven for saying this, but although they were concealed by the pink cotton of her nightdress, her breasts moved in a way that I had never seen before. I thought I had been aroused enough for ten men on that hill overlooking Quinton Villa. How much more was I aroused now?
She went to the window and looked out at the river. “Will’s asleep. Out cold. I think he likes it that there’s more than just me around.”
She pulled the curtains closed and slipped into bed. Her smell grew stronger.
I felt out of breath.
She leaned over and kissed my shoulder. “Not yet, Hal. Not long, I hope, but not yet. Sorry.”
Dear Hal
,
You were right, and I was wrong. War is every bit as bloody—bloody horrible, bloody tragic, bloody stupid, and just plain bloody—as you said it was. How I miss our cozy evening in that pub in Stratford, and how long ago that seems now. I especially miss the taste of a G&T
.
I’m sorry I haven’t written before. To be frank, this unit took a bit of getting used to, and to be even franker (is there such a word, bookworm?), we get a lot nearer the Front, the actual action, than I anticipated, and that has taken some getting used to as well. It’s some comfort that I’m a nurse—not actually firing any weapons in anger. Our unit is saving lives, here and there, where we can
.
Anger. I’m getting to know a little bit about anger. I’ve noticed that as soon as men who have been wounded learn that they are not going to die, their fear changes to anger. Not at the Germans—you will understand this—but at their superior officers. With the Stalemate so Stale at the moment, there doesn’t seem to be any point to anything that happens out here. If their wound is bad enough to mean they’re being shipped home, then fear quickly turns to relief. In a way, they are the lucky ones
.
Our unit—you will remember my little lecture on blood transfusion, that night at Stratford—has had a mixed reception. To begin with, we were everybody’s favorite. Blood transfusions save lives—and who can argue with that? But they also mean that some wounds, which beforehand would have meant the Tommy being shipped back to Britain, now mean that he can be kept in France and, after a break of only a few weeks, brought back into the lines. That is not what everyone wants
.
Of course, we cannot save everyone and it is this that I have found most challenging. Dealing with the dead is wearing, harrowing—sad
,
sad, sad. But, in a sense, it is the dying who need us—need me—most. I say “me” not out of any sense of pride or in any egotistical (egoistical?) way. I am the only woman. Or, at least, I am usually. For these men who are dying—eighteen-year-olds, twenty-five-year-olds, forty-year-olds—I am their mother, their wife, their sister, their girlfriend, their daughter. You should see them, Hal. No one tells them they are dying, but one day, one night, early one morning, at some point, they realize that that is what is going to happen—and happen quite soon
.
And then you should see the way they look at me. They ask me to wear lipstick, makeup, to wear perfume. I hope I can say this to you, Hal, and that you won’t take it wrong, but I have to tell someone. They look longingly at my breasts. Yes, lustfully. These are men, nearing the end of life, most of whom haven’t got the strength to get up from their beds, yet I am made love to, ravished every day, in their heads
.
I don’t pretend that it is me that they are ravishing I just happen to be the nurse who is here. But I tell you, if there were some way I could share myself out, if there were some way I could satisfy these men, all of them, if the archbishop of Canterbury, or the pope himself, gave me some sort of sanction, I swear I would do it
.
I have held men—boys—as they trembled themselves to death, those who cried right till the last, and those locked in a sullen, solitary, resentful silence, who hate this life and the fate that has brought them here. I observe that the ministrations of a priest can comfort some, but for most, I dare to say, the warm flesh of a woman is a far better pillow from which to start whatever journey it is that the dead undertake
.
Sorry, Hal. I couldn’t say any of this to Ma and Pa, or to my flatmates in London. You’ve been out here, seen what I’ve seen, so I know you’ll understand
.
I’ve been shocked by the number of men out here who can’t read and
write. Did you ever notice that? We expect people to die for their country but can’t give them a simple training that you and I take for granted. Don’t worry, I’m not going to get political, not in my first letter anyway!
Hundreds of kisses. To think that I was frightened by an owl, and a bull in a field!!!!!
Izzy