The Best of Daughters (31 page)

‘You know a Belgian soldier?'

‘Not very well. It's a long story.'

‘He seems to have made quite an impression on you,' Clarice said seriously. ‘I mean, you must have thought a lot of him to go haring off like that. You could have been in real trouble if I hadn't covered for you. I told Boss that you'd had a sudden case of the runs and had to rush to the latrine. It's lucky she believed me.'

‘Thanks. I know I shouldn't have done it but I was concerned for his welfare. He should have been kept on a ward, but the doctor thought he was malingering. I think he was suffering from shell shock.'

‘I'm sure he'll be better off at home. They'll treat him sympathetically in a military hospital.'

‘I don't know about that,' Daisy said, turning the wheel to avoid running into a donkey cart loaded with potatoes. ‘He could end up in prison or even in front of a firing squad.'

Clarice whistled through her teeth. ‘No. Surely not? What had he done?'

‘He tried to get himself repatriated illegally, but he might have been better off taking his chances here.' Daisy honked the horn as a man on an ageing bicycle wobbled into the centre of the muddy road ahead of them. ‘Let's not talk about it any more. There's nothing to be done except take this contraption as near to the Front as we can and start serving hot soup and bread to the poor devils in the trenches.'

Clarice shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. ‘It's bad enough in the truck; I can't imagine what it's like being up to one's knees in cold water for any length of time. I wish this war would end.'

‘Amen to that,' Daisy said with feeling. ‘But until then we've got a job to do, Clarice. I hope you've brought your waders, because it's going to be very muddy where we're going.'

Daisy drove on, knowing that their efforts could only bring comfort to just a few of the thousands of troops on the front line which stretched from the North Sea towards the Swiss border at Alsace. When they arrived at their destination they found a scene of total devastation, houses riddled with shell holes standing out like skeletons in a sea of mud. Half deafened by the reverberating boom of guns, they handed out food, cigarettes and garments knitted by loving hands at home. It seemed little enough to give the battle-weary soldiers who were barely recognisable as men, with gaunt, unshaven faces and eyes reflecting the full horrors of war. But despite their suffering they still managed to smile and thank the young women for their bravery and kindness. Daisy found herself fighting back tears
on many an occasion, especially when the soldier who clutched her hand and thanked her so sincerely for a bowl of lukewarm soup was little more than a boy. She wondered what his mother would say if she could see him now, but she knew it would break the poor woman's heart.

They returned to Lamarck as dusk fell, exhausted and silent. Daisy was painfully aware that the small amount of comfort they had brought to the trenches would be short-lived when the shells rained down again. Men were dying in their tens of thousands and existing in the most terrible conditions; she could only hope and pray that Teddy and Rupert were not amongst them.

Having parked the vehicle in the courtyard, Daisy and Clarice spent a good hour or more cleaning it and making it ready for the next day. It was late by the time they finished restocking the shelves and filling the petrol tank so that everything was prepared for an early start. Having missed supper, they sat in the tiny kitchen huddled over a paraffin stove on which Daisy had boiled water to make cocoa. By the light of a single candle they ate bread smeared with a little blackcurrant jam and washed it down with cocoa sweetened with a few grains of sugar. Daisy could see that Clarice was falling asleep even as she sat on the hard wooden chair, and she took the empty mug from her hand. ‘Go to bed. I'll clear up here.'

With a grateful smile Clarice rose somewhat shakily to her feet. ‘Thanks, Daisy. Sorry to leave the washing up. I'll do it tomorrow.'

‘Night, night,' Daisy said, as Clarice stumbled out of the kitchen, half asleep already. She began clearing away, but as she listened to the rain lashing down on the roof her thoughts turned to Bowman, and she could not help wondering what had become of him. Almost certainly he would face a firing squad when he arrived back in England. He might be there already if he had boarded the troopship that morning. Perhaps he was languishing in prison. She could not find it in her heart to blame him for his apparently cowardly act. He had told her that he had gone to such extremes in order to be near her and somehow she believed him. He was not the sort of man who would behave in such a quixotic manner unless driven by strong emotions. She wiped the mugs and hung them back on their hooks with a heavy sigh. War made men behave in extraordinary ways.

She was about to extinguish the candle when a soft tapping on the window made her spin round. Her hand flew to her mouth as she saw a pale face pressed against the glass. It disappeared into the darkness only to be replaced by a beckoning finger. She snuffed the candle and opened the door leading into a narrow passageway which opened out into the courtyard. She gasped with fright as someone grabbed her by the arm and drew her deeper into the shadows. A hand clamped over her mouth.

‘Don't scream. It's me.' Bowman released her and she turned on him in a sudden fury.

‘What on earth d'you think you're doing? Why weren't you on the boat for England?'

He laid his finger on his lips. ‘Hush, you'll have the orderlies rushing to your aid. I don't mean you any harm, you know that.'

‘Answer my question. Why did you come here?' In the half-light she could not make out his features but she could tell from the way he was standing that he was tense and nervous. ‘What do you want from me?'

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘A bite to eat and a place to sleep.' He staggered and leaned against the wall. ‘I don't feel so good.'

Forgetting everything other than the need to tend to a human being in distress, she felt his brow. ‘You're feverish. I told the doctor that you shouldn't have been discharged in this state.' She thought quickly. There was a small room kept for special cases where the patient was either disruptive or exhibiting the symptoms of cholera or dysentery. At present it was vacant and it was unlikely that anyone would think to check it at this time of the evening. She knew she was taking a risk but she could not send him out into the teeming rain. ‘Come with me and don't say a word.' She led him through the kitchen and down a long corridor at the side of the main ward. She made him wait outside while she checked the room, and to her relief it was unoccupied. ‘Come in and close the door.'

She helped him out of his sodden greatcoat and top clothes, and made him comfortable in the narrow iron bed. ‘Don't make a sound,' she said, tucking him in. ‘I'll get you something to help you sleep, but you'll have to leave again first thing in the morning.'

‘I'm thirsty,' he mumbled. ‘Water, please.'

‘Of course. Just lie quietly and I'll be back in a minute.' She hurried off to fetch water and laudanum.

He was lying quietly staring up at the ceiling when she returned and he took his medicine without a murmur. There was little else she could do other than to ensure he had a good night's sleep and did not give himself away. He would be clapped in irons and put on the first boat for England if anyone discovered his whereabouts. She waited until the drug began to take effect before returning to the kitchen. She locked the laudanum in the medicine chest, put on her coat and hat, and went outside to brave the rain as she made her way back to the billet.

She climbed into bed and fell into a deep sleep, awakening with a start as the first cold grey light of dawn filtered through the ill-fitting curtains. She was up and about before anyone stirred. The night staff were still on duty when she arrived back at Lamarck, but all was quiet apart from the muted moans and groans of the patients. She found Bowman sleeping fitfully and obviously in the grip of a high fever. She frowned, gazing down at him. They would both be in trouble if his presence was discovered, but he was obviously too ill to leave. She went to the kitchen to fetch fresh water and another dose of laudanum from the medicine chest, but to her dismay she found one of the newer recruits sitting at the table with her head bowed and her shoulders shaking.

Daisy put her arm around her. ‘What's the matter, Mary?'

‘He died holding my hand and calling for his mother.'
With tear-filled eyes Mary gazed up at her. ‘I'm supposed to lay him out but I just can't do it, Daisy. I got to know Soldat Smets when I was nursing him and I can't bear to look as his poor dead face. He wasn't much older than my brother and he was so scared of dying. D'you think I'm a frightful coward?'

‘No, of course not. It's perfectly natural to feel like that, and you've been on duty all night. You're just overwrought and exhausted.'

Mary sniffed and twisted her mouth into a feeble attempt at a smile. ‘You're always so kind, Daisy. I don't think the others will be so sympathetic.'

‘Of course they will. We were all new to this six months ago, and we've had to learn to cope.' Daisy stared at her thoughtfully as an idea came to her. It was bold and shocking in its simplicity. ‘Where is the poor fellow?'

‘The last bed on the left. I pulled the screens round him but the thought of going back there and doing the necessary makes me feel sick, and then there's the paperwork to do. I'm so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open.'

The plan was maturing in Daisy's mind. It was risky, but these were desperate times. ‘Go to bed, Mary. I'll see to everything. It's time you went off duty anyway.'

‘D'you mean it?' Mary stood up, gazing at her in astonishment and awe. ‘You are a brick, Daisy.'

‘Just go and don't mention a word of this to anyone.'

‘I won't. Cross my heart and hope to die.' Mary's eyes widened. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. It was silly of me.'

Daisy patted her hand. ‘Go and get some sleep.' She waited until Mary had left the building before unlocking the medicine chest, and taking the bottle of laudanum she slipped it into her pocket.

The night staff were in the process of writing up their notes and making ready to hand over to those coming on duty and no one noticed her as she walked into the ward. Despite her encouraging words to Mary, she felt that she would never get used to the sight of a dead body, and she had to steel herself to take over where Mary had left off. She made the unfortunate Soldat Smets ready and called for an orderly to take his remains to the mortuary, but she took the identity disc from the soldier's neck and tucked it into her pocket. Leaving his hospital notes on the foot of the bed, she closed the curtains and she hurried from the ward.

Bowman was awake but still drowsy as the effects of the laudanum were beginning to wear off and he was able to cooperate to some extent. With a superhuman effort Daisy managed to get him into a wheelchair. The changeover from night to day staff had begun and she thought it unlikely that any of the hard-pressed and overworked nurses or doctors would spot the difference between the two young men. Soldat Smets had suffered similar injuries to Bowman's, although in the end he had succumbed to pneumonia. She eased Bowman's identity disc from around his neck and replaced it with that of the dead soldier. She wrote up a fresh set of notes describing Bowman's treatment and hung them at the foot of the bed. The only flaw in her plan was if someone
realised that there was one Soldat Smets in the mortuary and another lying in the ward, but it was a common enough name and it was a risk she would have to take. Having given Bowman another dose of laudanum potent enough to make him sleep for several hours, she had no alternative but to leave him in the hands of the day staff. With a degree of reluctance she went to find Clarice and made ready to leave once again for the Front.

It seemed that the angels were on their side. It was early evening when Daisy visited the ward and found Bowman semiconscious but improving. She read his chart and notes with grim satisfaction. She was harbouring a war criminal but she did not care. Everything was topsy-turvy in this war-torn land, and the normal rules that people lived by seemed to be of little importance when it was a matter of life and death. She laid her hand on his brow and he opened his eyes. Despite the fever she knew that he recognised her and she smiled. ‘Go back to sleep. You're safe here as long as you keep your mouth shut. Try to remember that you're a Belgian, Soldat Smets, and for God's sake please don't tell anyone your real name or you'll get us both shot.' She patted his hand and tucked it beneath the thick grey blanket. ‘I'll be back first thing in the morning.'

Bowman remained in a critical condition for several days but, to Daisy's intense relief, no one questioned his identity. He was accepted as Soldat Smets, and as soon as he was capable of grasping the situation he had little alternative other than to play his part.

Daisy and Clarice were relieved of their job operating the mobile kitchen when the original driver and her helper returned from a brief home leave. Those who had remained on duty clustered around them eager for news of home and the small treats they had brought with them. There was real coffee, chocolate and best of all a dozen eggs, which were almost unheard of luxuries in the war-ravaged French and Belgian countryside.

Daisy ate her boiled egg slowly, savouring each mouthful. She tried not to hark back to the days in Warwick Square when the sideboard had groaned with silver breakfast dishes filled with steaming hot bacon, kidneys and buttered eggs, or kedgeree and her father's favourite, a grilled kipper. She, like all the other women, had lost weight and her clothes hung about her like a flour sack. She had to fasten her leather belt several notches tighter in order to keep her skirt from falling down, but there was little time to fret or indulge in vanity; the work at Lamarck was never-ending. The casualties and sick men arrived daily.