The Summer Before the War (13 page)

“You knew of this plan, Hugh?” said Agatha.

“This is where I usually get dressed down more severely than Daniel for just knowing of some nefarious action for which he has been discovered,” said Hugh to Beatrice. He ate his last spoonful of trifle and waved the spoon about. “This time I draw the line, Auntie. Daniel is a grown man and I am no longer responsible for his scraped knees and wayward nature.”

“I can't imagine his father would have approved,” said Agatha. “Of course it is the fashion for young men to experience
la vie boulevardier,
I suppose.”

“Boys with more means than sense,” said John. “These times will call for men of sterner character.”

“I can only hope you are proved wrong,” said Agatha. Jenny came in to signal that tea was ready in the living room, and Agatha added, “Oh, just bring the tea in here, my dear. The ladies will not be withdrawing early tonight.”

The tea had been poured and the doors were just being closed to the ears of the staff when Daniel slipped into the dining room again.

“I apologize for my abrupt withdrawal,” he said. “My distress at the thought of Paris and all her treasures under threat required a moment of composure.”

“Do you need some brandy?” asked his uncle.

“I'm sure Hugh would agree it's a good idea, if only for medicinal purposes,” said Daniel. “Assuming you have more dismal news to share?”

“I can't really say much more,” said John, pouring brandies for himself, Hugh, and Daniel. He tilted the bottle towards his wife, but she shook her head. “There may be yet a few days in which to urge Germany to reconsider, but as you can imagine, military action has its own forward momentum.” He sighed and walked over to stand in the open French window and breathe deeply of the evening's fragrant air. “With Russia also on the move, I fear it may be like trying to stop a runaway train by putting out one's hand.”

“And we were honor bound to guarantee poor Belgium's safety, were we not?” asked Beatrice.

“There is no honor in diplomacy, Miss Nash,” said Daniel. “The loud declaring of its violation is usually designed to produce some advantage.”

“Daniel!” said his aunt.

“The boy may not be wrong,” said his uncle. “Though I have spent many years struggling in its cause, I believe the age of honor among civilized nations may be coming to its end.”

“So we will not defend Belgium?” asked Beatrice. She felt sadly confused, and she was sure one should not be confused about the need for war. “But we have a treaty!”

“Oh, we will defend them,” said John. “If Germany were to defeat France and gain a stranglehold on the northern French ports, they would threaten our channel shipping and our dominant position over the sea-lanes.”

“So we will fight them for our own benefit?” she said. “Saving Belgium is just a story to tell the humble masses?”

“Quite the opposite,” said John. “The saving of innocent Belgium is a story for the benefit of Parliament and all the important people who must agree to give us the troops and money to fight. You can't get anything in politics without telling the politicians a good bedtime story.”

“Will there be conscription?” asked Hugh.

“I don't know that it will go that far,” said his uncle. “We have the Expeditionary Force mustering now. They are seasoned and experienced. We'll ask for volunteers. I think the immediate response will be a rush of the inexperienced but well-connected yahoos, looking for a plum spot from which to help run the proceedings in perfect safety. My own office is already receiving a deluge of letters of introduction and requests for commissions.”

“Now that Paris is out, I hope you'll see that this is the perfect time for you to enter the Foreign Office with your uncle, Daniel,” said Agatha. “I know your father wishes it.”

“I have no interest in sitting in Whitehall learning to order woolen socks by the bushel,” said Daniel. “Craigmore and I will just start our journal in London and contribute to the cause through our art.”

“I'm sure a journal containing stirring poetry and patriotic sketches would be a welcome and successful enterprise,” said his aunt. Beatrice noticed her dry tone and was not at all surprised when Daniel took violent exception.

“Good God, that's the worst idea ever,” he said. “We would surely suffocate under the mudslide of maudlin submissions containing nothing but cheap sentimentality and empty blusterings. No hint of patriotism must be allowed to corrupt the art. If anything, the cause of poetry must always be peace.”

“You may not find many subscribers in time of war,” said Hugh. “Poets must also eat and pay rent.”

“If necessary we'll run the journal from here,” said Daniel. “We'll just move into your garage, Hugh.”

“Behind every poet stands not the muse but a well-provisioned aunt with a country house?” said Hugh. He remained deadpan, drinking his tea, and Beatrice hid a smile.

“Exactly,” said Daniel. “What would I do without you, Aunt Agatha?”

“What should the rest of us be doing, Mr. Kent?” asked Beatrice. “One wants to do one's duty.”

“Keep one's regular routine and refuse to show agitation,” said John. “It is important that we set a good example, because news of this kind has a way of stirring up the population.”

“I had better get in a few supplies,” said Agatha. “You know I like to be prepared.”

“Hoarding will be frowned upon officially,” said her husband. “It produces shortages and drives up prices.”

“Then I will be circumspect about the town,” said his wife. “But I'll expect you to go to Fortnum and Mason on your way to the office and put in a respectably small order for immediate delivery.”

“I should get a few things for town too,” said John. “My club dinners are bad enough in time of peace. A stock of Gentleman's Relish and some potted oysters should see me through some months of hostilities.”

Upon reflection during the
days that followed, Hugh could see that the gathering storm clouds in Europe had been well reported in the newspapers, but that, like so many, he had failed to notice the goings-on of the Continent.

“I avoid the papers altogether,” said Daniel. “I'm pretty sure wars would be shorter if we weren't all so eager to read about them.”

“And what are we to do now?” asked Hugh. “I feel anxious just sitting here.” They were in the garden, Daniel lying in the hammock and Hugh sprawled in an old canvas deck chair.

“My dear cousin, sitting still is quite the best option,” said Daniel. “Did you not hear Uncle John say we are to carry on as normal and refuse to appear concerned?”

“What is normal when there are soldiers guarding the train station and one can't change a five-pound note anywhere?”

“I should be so lucky as to be in possession of a five-pound note,” sighed Daniel. He let his book fall to the ground and placed his hands behind his head. “The scent of war does add crispness to the outlines of one's day,” he added. “I detected a certain urgency of purpose in the gait of the milkman's horse this morning.”

“Oh, do be sensible, Daniel,” said Hugh. “Between you playing the fop and Colonel Wheaton enlisting every drunken idiot in front of the Town Hall, it's as if the whole world has gone mad.”

“I saw the Finch woman photographing a handsome young recruit draped in the Union Jack, with his mother and three little sisters all weeping into bunches of daisies,” said Daniel, sighing. “I was quite tempted to enlist myself, just so I too could swoon under the flag and send the picture to Craigmore to make him weep for me.”

“Dr. Lawton says the recruits are a feeble, malnourished lot and liable to succumb to a chill from the first route march,” said Hugh.

“Are you going to help him fatten up the Sussex youth for the front lines?” asked Daniel.

“I have written to my surgeon for advice as to what I should do,” said Hugh. “I do not feel able to sit idle if I can be of service in some capacity. I hope to be called to London any day.”

“And will your surgeon's daughter be willing to give you up to some war effort, or will she cling to you in this hour of desperation?” asked Daniel. Hugh frowned, for he was quite sure he had not mentioned her to Daniel, and this meant Daniel had been nosing about his desk again, no doubt stealing all his best pen nibs and laughing at the many drafts it took him to compose a suitably casual note to a woman.

“Miss Ramsey has far too many beaux about her to notice me,” said Hugh. He hoped Daniel would probe no further as he was not about to confide in his cousin and be rewarded with endless gibes.

“Perhaps you should join the cavalry,” said Daniel. “Women love a man in uniform.”

“And you would stay in flannels and play cricket until the Hun are at the beaches?” asked Hugh.

“I'll have you know I wrote to Craigmore to propose an immediate launch of our journal in London,” said Daniel. “We shall give our finest young poets and artists a superior forward position from which to defend our nation through art and language.”

“I thought you said patriotism is anathema to art?” asked Hugh.

“I have decided that, like money, it is best considered a necessary handmaiden to the cause,” said Daniel. “Of course I shall keep all patriotic items to the rear of the journal and smother them with illustrated borders so that no one will actually read them.”

“You are in a practical mood,” said Hugh. “War has had a sobering effect on us all.”

“And with concrete results,” said Daniel. “Craigmore writes that he and his parents are coming down to visit.” He reached down for his notebook and pulled some onionskin pages from the middle. “Part of some sort of commission to assess local defense arrangements.”

“And does he say his father agrees to your venture?” said Hugh.

“Not in so many words,” said Daniel. “But the universe brings all together. I am sure Craigmore and I can make an unassailable case for art and poetry as part of our national defenses.”

By the last post of the evening, Hugh received a letter summoning him to London, and after some difficulty at the Rye railway station, where the ticket office had no change and the stationmaster graciously allowed him to write an IOU, he set off for London the next morning.

The London home of the surgeon Sir Alex Ramsey was a tall Harley Street house of warm red brick, handsomely ornamented with stone and appointed with large windows trimmed with lead window boxes of late-summer flowers. A discreet brass plaque was the only suggestion that the house contained the surgeon's consulting rooms, a small suite just beyond the front door. Behind the gracious façade, the home contained a number of commodious rooms with lofty ceilings and wide hallways. Hugh had seen both upstairs and downstairs parlors, the library, and the surgeon's private study. He particularly enjoyed the lower back parlor, which was Lucy's domain, and from which her charmingly arranged conservatory led to an elegant garden with a small carp pond and brick walls lined with espaliered peach and apple trees. Waiting on the front step, Hugh allowed himself a moment to imagine owning such a house, and perhaps a large, well-managed medical practice of similar renown. It would require many years to attain such eminence through his talent and hard work, but he was not afraid of the effort. He acknowledged the flowering of some hope that Lucy Ramsey's affections might smooth his way, but he knew himself innocent of any dark motive. If they were to marry, he thought, any advancement would be mere gilding to the sufficiency of love.

“Come in, my boy, come in,” said the surgeon, waving as the butler showed Hugh into the book-lined consulting room, where only the plainness of the carpet and the slightest hint of carbolic suggested a professional use. “Lucy has the usual crowd in to tea, but she insisted I must have a few moments' private talk with you alone, Grange.”

“I'm honored,” said Hugh, sitting in a comfortably upholstered chair in front of the polished mahogany desk. “How were the Lakes, sir?” They chatted awhile about the hardships of the lecture tour, the crowds at Bellagio, and the superior pleasures of the quiet towns of Lake Como's western shore.

“I think Lucy liked the quiet,” said the surgeon. “A baronet with a phaeton and matching set of white ponies saluted her every day in the gardens, but nothing could turn her pretty head. She's a sensible girl and no mistake.”

“And did you have any trouble getting home?” asked Hugh. “I hear the European banks stopped honoring our drafts?”

“We got out just in time,” said the surgeon. “The manager at our hotel cashed a check in gold sovereigns and we caught one of the last trains to get through to Paris before the borders closed for good. One or two people were taken from the train, but I'm relieved to say that Lucy did not have to witness any nastiness.” He stroked his beard and added, “They were warned not to take up arms, these Belgians, but apparently some of them would not follow orders. Of course I share the communal outrage, and I mean to bring all my expertise and resources to aid my country and my King.”

“I wanted to ask how I might be of service in those efforts,” said Hugh. “I do not wish to offer you any less than my full attention as your assistant, but perhaps on my days off I can volunteer some extra hours in one of the hospitals?”

“That is exactly why I wanted to talk to you, my dear boy,” said Sir Alex. He shuffled some papers on his desk and handed Hugh what appeared to be a list of equipment and staff needed to set up a full hospital with several operating theaters. “This war is the opportunity of a lifetime to advance our field at a rate unheard of in peacetime.” He rubbed his hands. “Think of a new specialist hospital and an unlimited supply of wounded, offering us the opportunity to catalog every possible type and severity of brain injury! I envision a whole battery of the new X-ray machines, the latest in equipment from bone saws to drug compounds, and of course, the brightest of our doctors to work with me on this Herculean task.”

“It would be an enormous advance in the field,” said Hugh. “Where will it be, sir? I heard they were commandeering an asylum in Chelsea?”

“No, no, my boy, we shall go over there!” said Sir Alex. “As close to the lines as possible in order to get the freshest cases. Head wounds don't travel well, as you know. I would prefer a seaside location…”

“In France?” asked Hugh. He was conscious of a thump of anxiety in his chest. Not fear, he told himself, but just a natural reaction to the idea of going into the war.

“The War Office is proving wary of civilian efforts—too many ladies of the realm wanting to stock a grocer's van and call themselves an ambulance. Then there is always the question of funding.”

“Some significant hurdles,” agreed Hugh.

“They have offered to set up my hospital as a military effort, part of the Royal Army Medical Corps,” said the surgeon. “I was concerned, of course—military bureaucracy and all that—but they have offered me a commission.”

“Congratulations, sir.”

“Just a colonel rank to start, I believe,” said the surgeon. He tucked a hand in his jacket and straightened his back as he spoke. His contented face suggested he might be contemplating other honors. “In the meantime I must recruit. I must have the best and brightest, and of course, that includes you, my boy.”

“I thank you for the compliment,” said Hugh, evading a direct response.

“You and Carruthers and possibly that Michaels chap, though he's asthmatic if you ask me; probably won't take him,” said the surgeon. “Some of you'll have to serve where they need you for the few months until we get set up.”

“It's just that I have only a few months left to be fully qualified,” said Hugh. “I had thought my place was here.” He had looked forward to assisting the surgeries, to conducting hospital rounds at the side of the eminent surgeon, to working in the clean, tiled laboratories, and to the writing of an academic paper or two. He had planned to continue living simply but to perhaps buy opera tickets and to invite Lucy to an afternoon or two at the British Museum. And he had seen volunteering in the evenings—an extra surgery here and there to save a limb, or an eye—looking for no recognition beyond Lucy's admiration for his indefatigable efforts.

“My boy, one month at the front will be worth ten years in the operating rooms of London,” said the surgeon. “Think of the experience, the papers to be published, and the advancement of our scientific understanding.” Hugh might have added the saving of lives to the surgeon's list of advantages, but he understood that the mind of such a great man was all on the science.

“With your permission, I would like to consult my uncle,” he said. “And I must write to my father abroad.”

“Plenty of time to decide before the autumn term,” said the surgeon. “I hope you receive their blessing. Those notes you put together for me on the effects of keeping patients warm after surgery were quite well received this summer. I had thought we might consider a paper on the subject?”

“Thank you,” said Hugh. Though he knew the name of a lowly assistant would not appear on any paper the great man published, he was thrilled to imagine his ideas being discussed by influential surgeons on the Continent.

“I would be sorry to lose you,” added the surgeon, giving him a stern look. “And I know Lucy would be sorry to see you part from us.” Hugh's elation evaporated. He did not know quite how to respond, for it was suddenly clear that the surgeon did not mean to continue to supervise any of his students who did not agree to go to France. It had been one of the proudest achievements of Hugh's life to have been chosen to work with Sir Alex, and he had come to feel secure under his wing. Now he felt, like a blow to the chest, that he might have seen genuine affection in what was, perhaps, merely an affable manner.