A Nightingale in Winter Page 7

  The boy in the next bed looked very young—seventeen at the most. He was weeping into his pillow, anticipating the pain of the dressing to come, but in truth he’d been weeping on and off ever since his arrival at the hospital two days before. His leg was virtually smashed, the brachial artery having been pierced by a shattered piece of bone. It was touch and go whether the leg would heal or whether an amputation would be necessary.

  Kit joined her, going to the head of the bed to stroke the boy’s hair. “Shh,” she soothed, while Eleanor changed the leg dressing as quickly and as painlessly as she could.

  Over in the far corner of the ward, the volume of the conversation had risen well above Sister Palmer’s normal level of tolerance.

  “They’re like a lot of children trying to outdo each other with their tales of daring do,” Kit said. “Hard to believe they actually go out killing people, isn’t it? I’d better put a stop to it before Sister Palmer leaves the doctor in the lurch and comes to sort them out. Not to mention us.”

  She gave the weeping boy’s hair one final stroke and made her way unhurriedly across the ward. “Oh, I say, boys, taisez-vous, s’il vous plait. C’est un hopital, pas un café tabac!”

  All male attention promptly diverted itself her way, prompting a barrage of appreciative glances and suggestive comments. It was quite some time before order was restored.

  By the time Kit returned to help, Eleanor had finished with the weeping boy and had moved on to a man who had lost the struggle with his own leg wound the previous day. He was lying, staring up at the ceiling with blank, unblinking eyes, and he didn’t appear to have heard either the raucous chatter at the far end of the ward or the weeping of the boy next to him. But the rattle of the dressing trolley brought his head round, and his eyes sought Eleanor’s out. He was looking, she knew, for signs of repulsion, and while this was not what she felt, having seen and dressed many hundreds of leg stumps since the beginning of the war, the directness of his gaze did make her feel nervous. Yet she knew that if she looked away, he would draw his own conclusions.

  “We’ll try to be as gentle as possible,” she told him as best she could in French, expecting Kit, who had just rejoined her, to make her own assurances. But not only did her friend remain silent, she didn’t move to help either.

  “Can you hold the leg, Kit?” she asked at last.

  She saw to her surprise that Kit seemed to be trembling slightly.

  “Are you all right?” Eleanor asked softly, aware all the time of the soldier’s dark eyes absorbing their every reaction.

  “Yes.” The word came out in a dry rasp, and Kit cleared her throat and tried again, reaching out at the same time to take hold of the stump. “Yes, quite all right. You carry on.”

  Later, when they came off duty, Eleanor broached the subject again. “Is anything the matter, Kit?”

  Her friend sank onto her bed, tearing off her nurse’s hat and shaking free her dark hair. She looked worn out. “You mean the business with the stump, I suppose,” she said irritably.

  “Well, yes,” Eleanor said cautiously, wondering whether she just ought to mind her own business.

  “I told you on The Sussex. I’m squeamish sometimes, that’s all. It comes out of the blue; I can’t help it.”

  She still sounded irritable, and Eleanor was about to drop the subject, only there was something bleak and lost about Kit’s expression. So, taking a deep breath, she told her about her conversation with the VAD earlier on in the day.

  Kit instantly flushed with anger. “The little vixen! How dare she?”

  “It…it isn’t true then?” Eleanor asked hesitantly. “I mean, I haven’t noticed myself, but…”

  She expected Kit to angrily profess her innocence of shirking, but instead there was a long silence. Suddenly, Kit’s face seemed to crumple. “Oh, damn it, it is true. They’re right, all of them. I have been doing my best to avoid the worst of it. But the wounds are so very awful here, aren’t they?” She sighed heavily, rubbing her face with her hands. “Oh, no more awful than in Blighty, I suppose. It’s just…Oh, Eleanor, I am so afraid I’ve lost my nerve.” There were tears in her voice, and Eleanor went to sit next to her on her bed, looking at her with concern. This was the same fearful Kit she’d seen on The Sussex, and because Kit was normally so brim-full of self-confidence, it was all the more disturbing to see her like this.

  Kit reached into her pocket for a handkerchief and blew her nose noisily before continuing. “On The Sussex, I really believed we were going to die. I saw such sights, such dreadful, dreadful sights. I know I’ll never forget them. When the lifeboat capsized…Oh, God, Eleanor, it was so terrible, and the point is, I completely lost my head. I was perfectly useless. It was as if my two years’ experience had been wiped out. Whenever I think of how I behaved, I despise myself. I’m not fit to be called a nurse. If you hadn’t kept calm, Dirk would certainly have died.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you, Kit,” Eleanor told her. “Not for all those hours. You’re being too hard on yourself.”

  But Kit only shook her head, her eyes filling with fresh tears.

  “D’you want to go back to England?” Eleanor asked her gently at last, and the question seemed to bring her friend round with a jolt.

  “No!” she replied straight away with such vehemence that she made herself smile a little. “No, I definitely don’t want to go back to England. Wouldn’t Mama just crow and crow if I did?” She shuddered. “It doesn’t bear thinking about; it really doesn’t.”

  Eleanor smiled with her, but she still felt concerned. “So, what are you going to do?”

  Kit sighed. “I haven’t got much choice, have I? I’m going to have to pull myself together.”

  “Do you think you can?”

  Kit was silent for a while, then she nodded. “Yes. If I set my mind to it. I’ve been coasting along, doing my best not to think about the problem, but now it’s out in the open. When a problem is out in the open, then you can’t avoid it, can you?”

  Eleanor’s smile faltered. Kit’s words had reminded her of the reason she’d been so desperate to come to France. “We shall have that conversation,” her father had said. “See to it that you are sufficiently recovered by the time I return from my meeting with the bishop tomorrow.”

  “I do so want to make a go of it here,” Kit was saying, and Eleanor blinked to clear the images in her mind.

  She too wanted to make a go of it here. More than anything else in the world. And she wouldn’t do that by continually thinking about the past.

  “Goodness,” Kit was exclaiming. “All that emotion has worn me out. I think I’ll get a bit of shut eye before supper.”

  Eleanor got up from the bed. “See you in the refectory then.”

  Kit spread out on the vacated space. “Going for a walk?”

  “Yes.”

  Kit was used to her walks; they were Eleanor’s way of unwinding after a hard day on the ward.

  “I’d join you, but I’m too whacked.” And indeed, Kit was asleep almost before Eleanor had gotten to the door. Eleanor, who counted insomnia as a long-term acquaintance, experienced a now familiar twinge of envy. She was convinced that Kit would sleep even through the hospital being bombed, though she hoped very much that this theory would never be put to the test. When Kit was awake, she was so very full of life, and for this reason, it had been easy to assume she’d recovered from their ordeal on The Sussex. Apparently, this was not the case at all.

  When they’d first arrived at the Abbey and had been assigned a room together, Eleanor felt concerned that she would be too quiet a roommate for Kit, and had suggested that she might like to find someone more lively to share with. But Kit had seemed genuinely horrified by the idea.

  “But I couldn’t possibly share with anyone else, Eleanor!” she’d protested, then just as quickly frowned. “You haven’t had enough of me have you?”

  Eleanor had hastily reassured her that this wasn’t the case at all. Truth to tel
l, they were probably good for each other. She hoped very much that Kit wouldn’t return to England. They needed each other; she could keep Kit’s feet on the ground a little, while Kit’s liveliness kept her entertained, if nothing else.

  Provided she could escape to get some peace every now and then like this.

  Making her way down their staircase, Eleanor walked along a corridor away from the wards and let herself out of a side door that led to a courtyard garden. She’d discovered it on her second day at the abbey and had visited it as often as possible since. Neglected for some years, the once neat beds were choked with weeds, but there were a few benches close to the rambling walls of the abbey and an old dovecote still with its doves. Eleanor liked to sit and watch their comings and goings, and the sound of their cooing was peaceful after a busy day.

  Or at least, it usually was. The second time she’d gone there, it had been anything but peaceful. When she’d rushed to investigate a noise, she’d discovered a skinny black cat attempting to climb the pole of the dovecote. She’d shooed him away, but he’d sat watching her from the other side of the garden. The next time she could come, she brought some scraps for him from her breakfast. Gradually they’d become friends, and now Eleanor made a point of coming every day, even if it meant getting up at the crack of dawn to fit in a visit before her shift. And now that he was getting fed, the cat seemed content to leave the doves in peace; or at least, he did so while Eleanor was around.

  “Monsieur,” she called to him gently through the darkness now, getting her little bundle of scraps out from her pocket. It hadn’t seemed right to give him a proper name, since he might already have one.

  There was a rustle from the undergrowth and suddenly he was there, weaving around her legs and purring in anticipation of the food. Already there was a little more flesh on his bones, and Eleanor didn’t miss the food she saved for him, since the portions they were given were large, if uninspiring.

  “Hello, Monsieur, and how are you today?”

  She crouched to unwrap the bundle, laying it out on the overgrown gravel path, her eyes accustomed now to the dim light afforded by lamps lit inside the building. Then she sat down on one of the benches to watch him first eat and then go through the ritual of washing that inevitably followed his meal. As she watched, Kit’s words returned to her mind, instantly tensing her up. When a problem’s out in the open, you can’t avoid it, can you?

  It was true, but it was also true that the past was the past, wasn’t it? And here and now, she would only think about her work. Lazare, for instance, and the funny way he’d acted today. It had been foolish of him really, for she knew she was no better at changing his dressing than any of the other VADs. Though she was, perhaps, quieter, as he’d said. Was he asleep yet? He found it so difficult to sleep, lying as he had to on his front and in constant pain. And then she thought of the young boy who’d been weeping. It seemed more and more likely that they’d remove his leg; perhaps it had already been done.

  So absorbed was she in her thoughts that she wasn’t aware of the figure until a crunching footstep on a clear area of gravel caused the cat to vanish into the undergrowth. She got to her feet, heart suddenly racing, wanting to vanish as instantly as the cat had done.

  “Miss Martin? Oh, I say, I’m awfully sorry. I thought you’d seen me.”

  It was the priest, Edwards. “No,” she said, the peace of the garden ruined for her by his presence.

  “I am sorry. Next time I’ll cough, shall I?”

  When she remained silent, he did cough. “I’ve been administering anesthetics for the doctor,” he told her, seeming to have forgotten that she’d been there when he’d been volunteered for the task. “Much to my surprise, he seemed to be tolerably pleased with my efforts. At any rate, he’s asked if I’ll help out again tomorrow. In between my other duties of course.”

  Eleanor said nothing, and finally he seemed to notice her silence. She could feel him looking at her closely through the darkness.

  “I say, is everything all right, Miss Martin?”

  “Yes, perfectly all right.”

  He was blocking her way on the path. She was hemmed into a corner, and she could feel the panic beginning to rise up inside her.

  “Excuse me,” she said, speaking in as ordinary a voice as she could manage. “I was just on my way inside.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, of course,” he said, but didn’t move straight away. “But before you go, nurse, don’t forget that I’m here for everyone—staff as well as patients. Should you ever wish to talk about anything that’s troubling you…I know you had a traumatic journey here. Anybody would be troubled after such an experience.”

  “I’m not troubled,” she said, anxious to convince him so he would leave her alone.

  “Sometimes these things take a period of time to manifest themselves,” he went on, finally moving to the side slightly. “Should you find that to be the case, then—”

  “I don’t think I shall,” she said. “Good evening.”

  “Good evening, Miss Martin.”

  She walked away, imagining him watching her through the darkness. It was all she could do not to break into a run.

  Chapter Eight

  April 1916

  EMERGING FROM THE CHEAP PENSIONE he’d stayed in for the night, Dirk made his way directly to the station, buying his ticket and carrying his bag onto the platform. The ship that had brought him from England had arrived without incident this time, but too late for him to catch a train to continue his journey, and now he was impatient to be on his way.

  A hospital train was stopped on the neighboring platform, and as he watched, he saw two orderlies carrying a stretcher from the train. A nurse followed close behind them. It was Eleanor.

  “Eleanor!” Dirk ran toward her, his bag clumping heavily on his shoulder, and Eleanor straightened and looked at him, frowning. And was not Eleanor at all.

  “Afraid not,” she told him cheerfully.

  He saw at once that, save for the blond hair and the uniform, she was actually nothing like Eleanor, her figure and face somewhat plumper, her eyes brown instead of blue.

  The orderlies moved away with the stretcher.

  “Goodness,” she said in the same bright voice, reminding him now of Kit, “you do look crestfallen. So sorry to disappoint. You must be smitten with the lucky girl.”

  To his chagrin, Dirk could feel his face beginning to flush. “Actually, I hardly know her,” he said, and she laughed.

  “Well, in that case, I should jolly well make sure you get to know her just as soon as you possibly can!” She climbed back into the train, looking back at him through the open door. “Must push off,” she said. “There are plenty of men in here who don’t want me to be called Eleanor, bless them. Bye bye for now.”

  “Bye.”

  As the train pulled away, she gave him a cheery wave, and he lifted a hand in response before making his way to a vacant bench and sitting down. He’d been so utterly convinced she was Eleanor. This wasn’t the first time this had happened since he’d been discharged from the hospital. He seemed to see her everywhere, and he guessed it was because he just couldn’t stop thinking about her. Maybe it was always that way, if someone saved your life. And thinking about Eleanor was a whole lot better than thinking about Jimmy.

  In the hospital in England, he’d received of all things a blood transfusion—the very treatment he remembered Eleanor speaking of before the explosion. When the hospital staff told him about it afterward, he’d laughed until they began to wonder whether the torpedo had injured his head as well as his neck. Then he’d asked for a pen and paper so he could write about his brush with death, and they became more understanding. He was a writer, which meant he was probably naturally a little crazy.

  He felt crazy—crazy with anger. This war wasn’t America’s war, and he’d set off from home as a neutral correspondent. But there was no question of him being neutral any longer, not when the Germans had deliberately torpedoed a civilian ship a
nd women and children had died. Not when Jimmy had died. Surely it was only a matter of time before his country would be drawn into this war to help put the Germans in their place? In the meantime, he was going to do everything he could to hasten this moment along. What good was it being a journalist if you didn’t do your damnedest to make sure the world heard the truth?

  But first, before he could get really get stuck into reporting that truth, there was the small matter of thanking Eleanor for saving his life to do.

  The journey took a long time, involving a walk from where the train dropped him off. After weeks of doing very little as he recuperated from his ordeal on The Sussex, Dirk was exhausted when he finally drew near to the Abbey at Revigny, where Kit and Eleanor were stationed. As Dirk turned a corner to take his first full view of the historic looking building, he was greeted by the sound of laughter. It was a good sound to hear, and he found himself smiling in response as he walked closer.

  Grouped around the front of the building were around a dozen or so men enjoying the late afternoon sunshine together. It was only when he got closer still that he saw they were casualties of the war—a man with only one arm seated here, a group of double amputees seated there. And beds. There were men in striped pajamas with bandaged heads and arms lying in beds that had been pulled out into the sunshine. Some were asleep; some were sitting up. Those who were able to were playing cards. A couple of nurses were doing the rounds, checking everyone was all right. No, they weren’t nurses, they were VADs, the same as Eleanor and Kit; he recognized their uniform. Unfortunately, none of them were Eleanor or Kit.

  Dirk walked up to the group, attracting interested glances. One of the VADs smoothed her skirts down and came his way.

  “Hello,” she said with a smile, and he smiled back, putting his bag down and wiping his face with a handkerchief. It was still very warm, and it had been a long walk from the station.

  “Hi there,” he said. “Is Eleanor around?”

  The VAD frowned. “Eleanor? I don’t think I know any Eleanor.”