Evie's War (19 page)

When the time came to depart Charles proposed escorting me to Cambridge and from there catching a London train. Mother, somewhat doubtful, acceded on strength of Uncle Aubrey's approval. It felt slightly alarming to be setting off together, rather as if we were already a married couple! On the train Charles took my hand and laughed at me for blushing when the conductor came to check our tickets. When we reached the Station he asked — I think perhaps he had been working up to it — whether I had yet decided if I might consent to accompanying him to Cheshire so that I might meet his parents. I said I should have to ask Matron about leave, and Mother as well. Charles adopted that teasing expression I rather like and enquired which of the two I considered most important. Of course I said I should need both.

Ignoring the London train at that moment due to depart, he insisted on walking me to Selwyn, stopping just before we reached it (I thought his leg was giving trouble) to ask whether a liberty might be allowed. I did not know what he meant! And felt quite foolish when I realised. On Christmas Eve three years ago Ada's middle brother Ernest held a twig of gorse — which he claimed as mistletoe — over my head and kissed my cheek, but this was not at all the same. There is an infinite sweetness in being kissed properly. It left me quite breathless. Charles next kissed my brow and tucked my hands between his and said he was not at all inclined to leave me and go back to the Station. Instead, he proposed posing as one of the patients so that he might wake in the morning to find me leaning over him. I told him that I doubted Matron would be fooled, and he laughed and said in that case he had better go, or miss his train. He walked me to the door and a group of nurses in the foyer stared quite covetously. Charles winked, which caused them to giggle, and I asked
if it was in such a way that he ignored all the young ladies of London. He kissed my fingers (more giggling) and whispered that he should not sleep a wink for thinking of me. I do not think I shall either!

I have read what I wrote yesterday, and feel breathless all over again. I have made an appointment to see Matron tomorrow after tea.

Newspapers full of the German withdrawal at Verdun. It has taken the French ten months but they have finally driven the enemy back. French casualties are said to be in the vicinity of one million. It is inconceivable.

Sister took me aside to say that she had heard reports of my behaviour, one of the nurses having seen me holding a man's hand. It does make my blood boil that anyone should be so ready to tattle! Sister, very frosty, said she was obliged to report the matter to Matron, to which I replied that, as I had an appointment with Matron already, I would raise it myself. That took the wind from her sails!

A note from Charles to say he was quite fuzzy-brained all day on Monday, for which he blames me entirely. Of course I wrote denying all responsibility, but added a postscript to say I could accuse him of having the same effect.

Seeing Matron in an hour. I confess I am nervous.

Sister has complained about my attitude, claiming I ‘gave cheek' when she raised the question of my Moral
Reputation. Matron first asked whether Charles had spoken to my Father. I assured her he had and that my parents had given permission for him to accompany me from Littlebury. She said that being the case, it was not unreasonable for Charles to have walked me from the Station, but that it must be made clear that he is my fiancé. I had not thought of the situation in quite those terms, but suppose she is right. With regards the question of leave, I am to have ten days from the 27th. Matron thinks it a good idea that I meet Charles's parents ‘before matters progress'. She also suggests I review my attitude towards Sister and curb my ‘Colonial outspokenness' — rather putting me in mind of that ancient incident with Miss Winstanley. Matron added that she believes my effect on the Officers to be positive, and therefore hopes I can prove my value to Sister. I shall try.

I am most definitely In The Doghouse. Sister has me running hither and yon nine hours a day and has withdrawn any hint of approval. I am afraid my letter to Charles was full of complaint, but I did tell him I should like to visit his family, if Father and Mother give consent.

Sister tells me off if I so much as speak to one of the men. It does not go unnoticed: Major O enquired what I had done to annoy her.

Charles says he has written to Father, and also offers to come and box Sister's ears, though I rather doubt it would help.

My parents allow that I might go to the Millers from the 29th to the 2nd. Edmund is hoping for leave early in January. I should very much like he and Charles to meet.

This afternoon I had a lovely surprise: Mr Lindsay called to see me! Having got wind of The Situation, Lady Braybrooke has invited him for Christmas. He is looking very well, the facial scarring much improved, and has regained a tolerable range of movement in his arm. He admits to being somewhat overawed at the scale and grandeur of Winifred's home, which I assured him would pass. When I asked after Winifred he said it was difficult to tell — I feel rather bad that I have not seen her, but have sent Christmas wishes and promised to call on the 28th if there is time.

Roast goose with all the trimmings followed by plum pudding (with no less than four buried ha'pennies), made all the more cheery by Christmas decorations and gifts (one for every man, of whom there are 1,500!). Major O made a toast to The Men at the Front, Major C adding another for President Wilson's Peace Conference. My poor Lieutenant S had to have his dinner turned into soup with just custard for afters, but blinked happily. Midway through tea I was called to Matron's office to take a telephone call. Of course it was Charles, who wished me a Happy Christmas and said he would come up to Cambridge to collect me on Wednesday. I said it were better not, as of course I do not want any further tattling to Sister, to which he replied that he must ‘bow before my stronger will'. Sometimes I wonder whether he can be serious at all.

Sister has thawed a fraction, allowing that I might sit and talk to Lieutenant S for one quarter of an hour. Major O also claimed a little time and Nothing Was Said, other than that I still had teas to do and must stay until they were finished. Which of course I would have done anyway.

Spent the day managing hasty good-byes to all my Officers, in between running about at Sister's behest (her Seasonal Goodwill having dissipated), and received a Disapproving Look for being seen to pat Lieutenant S's hand. And then was late getting away and ran to the Station, arriving very flustered, and there found an anxious-looking Charles standing by the train, which was about to depart.

He said he hoped my hurry was on account of my eagerness to see him, and laughed quite happily when I said he was not supposed to be there at all, but in Littlebury, and that I must look a fright. He would not allow me to straighten my hair but attempted to do it for me, which raised more than one eyebrow on the platform. I took his ring from my purse and slipped it onto my finger. Charles rather beamed for the rest of the journey.

We called to see Winifred and Mr Lindsay this morning. Both were downcast that we would so soon be departing Deans Park, but Charles is determined that we should reach Lymm as soon as possible. Winifred seems slightly brighter and was at least being kind to Mr Lindsay. When I enquired whether he might return to his studies in Oxford, he replied that it was not yet clear — it seemed not the moment to ask whether the impediments were physical or
otherwise. Charles was quiet after the visit and spent much of the afternoon engaged with Monty in a battle involving the deployment of legions of lead soldiers. I am surprised he can bear it.

Farewells to Mother et al being achieved, Father drove us to the Station where it felt very strange and oddly finite to set off in company with Charles. I studied our surroundings eagerly as the train sped north. Sheets of fog draped the low-lying fields, occasional trees and buildings rising like ghosts from the shrouded land. Near Ely, where we were to change trains, the sun had begun to cast a weak light across the surrounding Fens. Charles settled me in the Station Waiting Room and went in search of a cup of tea. He had seemed unnaturally introverted all morning, but when I enquired whether anything was wrong he shook his head and left again ‘to stretch his legs'.

During the next stage of the journey we had the carriage to ourselves. Charles made several attempts to start before finally announcing that he wondered whether what I felt for him was not predominantly pity. I was quite flabbergasted, and no doubt looked it. He did not withdraw the accusation but hastened to add that he did not intend this as a criticism but only an observation that reflected the true goodness and generosity of my character. I told him it did not do so at all, were it true, and I could not think why he should have said such a thing. Eventually it came out that he had thought my affection for Mr Lindsay quite strong, and this, combined with all my chatter about my Officers and other men, made him see what a soft and caring heart I had, and perforce to wonder whether it was not some similar sentiment motivating me in respect of himself. (Not until later did I reflect on Mother's warning,
which I have considered in a new light in the hours since this exchange.) In response to Charles's accusation (for I saw it as such) I declared it quite an achievement to present such seeming compliments in such a hurtful form. Charles replied rather stiffly that he had not meant to upset me and apologised that he should have done so. I was in no mood to be mollified and demanded to know whether he truly believed that I thought of him no differently to all my Officers, in which case did he accuse me of also holding their hands and kissing them? He replied rather hotly that he ‘jolly well hoped I did not'. To which I said that I had in fact held the hands of many men as they died, and felt no guilt or remorse for it at all.

Shortly after, we were joined in the carriage by three soldiers in high spirits, being on furlough. Having ascertained Charles's status they withdrew to their own company, while we were obliged to sit in silence, it scarcely being possible to continue our conversation in their company. Once I calmed a little I began to suspect I had not handled the situation in the best possible manner. For the next few hours I sat staring out of the window, though I could not enjoy the scenery as I otherwise might.

At Nottingham we were advised of delays on the line and Charles went in search of an Official. By the time he returned I was somewhat overcome and rather tearful. Charles was immediately contrite, and moved us to the Station Waiting Room, having been told that we would be better to take a Branch Line via Bakewell, and having half an hour to wait. He then sat beside me and took my hand and apologised for his blundering manner, saying that it had not been his intention to cause me distress. I told him I had not thought it his intent, but that if he really felt my emotions so flimsy and fickle I must wonder whether there was any point to proceeding. He looked very thoughtful and set down my hand and I couldn't bear it; I simply had
to take his up and say that I should very much mind if that should be his decision. He looked quite severe, so that I wished I had never spoken, then he turned our hands over and stroked my palm with his thumb and I felt quite weak. But still he didn't speak.

I was expecting the worst when at last he cleared his throat, but it seemed all was well again between us. He said he had been extremely thoughtless and would not for a moment deny a dying soldier the comfort of my hand. With trembling voice I ventured that holding those Poor Boys' hands felt altogether different to holding his. Charles smiled at this and told me I had no idea at all of the effect I had on him. And our misery was forgotten.

But, in all this, it transpired that we had missed our train and had to wait for another, which did not arrive for several hours, so that we were very late reaching Warrington and his Father had all but given up on us. As a consequence I did not suffer a long Inspection — as Charles had warned I might — but was allowed up to bed with the judgement that I looked ‘thoroughly exhausted'. And truly I feel it. The house is large and rather cold. Charles's father was courteous and welcoming; his mother, having already retired, I will not meet until the morning.

The Honourable Mrs Miller, daughter of An Important Personage, is quite determined to disapprove of my Colonial Background, and is very fond of prefacing her opinions with ‘Charles, of course, agrees that …', as if I know nothing at all of what he thinks and feels. Of my friendship with Lady Braybrooke and Winifred she approves; of my having been born in New Zealand she does not. Truly, I do not see why this should be a slur against my name, but I held my tongue. After an hour Charles proposed a walk. It was
freezing, but rather that than continue in his mother's company. We wrapped ourselves in scarves and hats and I borrowed a large overcoat to wear over my own — Charles said I looked like the Wild Ape-man of the Himalaya, to which I replied that I resented his calling me a man, and we laughed, which quite took the sting from Mrs M's interrogation. As did his insistence that he should hold my hand to prevent me slipping in the snow.

The Millers live at the edge of a small village, at the centre of which, mounted on four-sided stone steps, stands an ancient Wayfarers' Cross (with the Village stocks at its foot!). There is also a pretty millpond and weir, lined by rushes and trees whose branches stretch bare to the sky. Charles says that in spring wild irises provide a spill of colour along the banks. The buildings in the centre of the village are either Elizabethan, with leaded windows and dark timbering over whitewash, or stoutly built of the locally produced red brick. There is an Inn called The Eagle, which stands on Eagle Brow — I wonder whether the name stems originally from a Roman Legion? And of course the Duke of Bridgewater's Canal (excellent name for a builder of canals!), which cuts through the centre of the village and which is higher than a good portion of the buildings — I should hate to think what would happen in the event of it breaching its banks. Our stroll led us back to Outringham Lane via the lake, at the edge of which sits St Mary's Church, which we shall visit tomorrow.