Angels at War (24 page)

And tomorrow, Friday, Matthew would be leaving to join the war in France. She’d lost him, too. Livia suddenly turned on her heel and walked quickly back the way she had come. By the time she reached his office she was almost running, and quite out of breath.

Without even pausing to knock, she flung open the door. There he was, seated at his desk, as conscientious as ever, despite what he faced on the morrow, and every bit as dear to her.

‘May I see you tonight? You could give me a glass of that Madeira you promised me.’

His face lit up with joy. ‘I’ll pick you up the minute I’ve locked up.’

They strolled by the lake, the sound of the gentle lapping of the waves almost soporific on this warm August evening. Soon it would be September, leaves would die and fall from the trees, and who knew where either of them would be by then. The thought brought a beat of fear to her heart.

‘You will take care, won’t you, out there at the front in France? You won’t catch any stray bullets.’

‘I will do my very best to avoid them,’ he
assured her, linking her arm with his. ‘Would you mind very much if I failed in my efforts?’

‘Of course I would mind.’ Livia stopped walking to gaze up at him in shock that he should even ask such a question. He was so dear to her it pained her just to look at him, let alone imagine him at the front, under fire. ‘I can’t bear to think of anything happening to you – or to Jack either, to anyone I know.’

‘You’re a very tender-hearted girl beneath all that grit and determination. Perhaps that’s why I love you.’

His words so startled her that Livia did not anticipate what he was about to do. He captured her chin between his finger and thumb and kissed her. It was not a light kiss, not in any way that of a friend and work colleague, and she made no effort to prevent it, allowing the kiss to deepen further, her tongue dancing with his.

When the kiss broke she gazed up into his eyes, transfixed. She had never seen him look more serious. ‘I think I must be mad to come here.’

‘If so, then it’s a delicious sort of madness, one that I welcome. I love you, Livvy. I believe I have loved you from the moment you walked into the solicitor’s office on the day of your wedding. I can’t go off to fight a war in France without telling you that. I’m sorry I didn’t make it crystal
clear how I felt about you much, much earlier.’

‘So am I, although in truth I doubt I needed telling. I think I knew it already, in my heart. I just stubbornly refused to accept it.’

He smiled. ‘Too bound up in your campaign for freedom and independence?’

‘Something of the sort.’

A silence fell between them while they both digested the honesty of this statement.

He took her to his steam yacht then, but they both forgot all about the Madeira wine as he pulled the crimson cushions from the seats and fashioned them into a make-shift mattress on the floor.

Livia thought his body beautiful as he quickly shrugged off the smart suit and cravat he’d worn specially to please her. She helped him with stubborn buttons, kissed his bare chest as she pushed his shirt from his shoulders. She could hardly breathe as he set about removing her blouse and shift, teasing and nuzzling her breasts; peeling off her stockings one by one, quickly followed by her skirt.

Livia was no coy, blushing maiden and she loved this man. He was going off to war and she might not see him again for months. Or he might be killed and never return. She surely owed nothing to Jack now. Their marriage was all but over, and she returned Matthew’s love
gladly, with all her heart. By turn tender, loving and passionate, they came together as two people might who had been kept apart too long by fate, and circumstance, and stubborn pride. It was the most romantic, beautiful experience of her life. If they never had anything else, at least they would have this night.

Livia’s first posting was at a military hospital in the north-east. She was able to travel free in her uniform, but the train was so crowded she could only sit perched on her case in the corridor. The starched collar felt stiff and uncomfortable, rubbing against her neck. It was just like a man’s, complete with black tie. The thick overcoat was suffocatingly warm on this mild September day, as was the wide brimmed felt hat. Most unbecoming. Yet fashion wouldn’t be a priority and warmth vital in the coming winter months.

The station platform had been crowded with soldiers and sailors being seen off by their loved ones, and a lump came into her throat now at the memory of saying goodbye to Matthew only days before. They’d clung to each other for one
last time, oblivious to the curious gaze of anyone who might know that she was actually married to another man, far too caught up with the pain of losing each other.

Oh, but after he’d gone Livia had been overwhelmed with guilt. What had she been thinking of? Was it wounded pride at hearing how her husband had betrayed her that had made her behave like some wanton trollop? Matthew’s mother had accused her of being a woman of loose morals. Perhaps she was right.

Yet it had been the most perfect night. How could she ever regret showing Matthew how much she loved him when they might not be together again for months? At least he would have some sweet memories to cherish as he lay in the mud of the trenches. And one day, God willing, he’d be back in her arms for good.

Ella had seen her off today, weeping and worrying, bestowing many food parcels upon her and plenty of advice about keeping warm and eating her vegetables.

‘I love you, dearest. Do take care,’ she’d cried as the train had pulled out of the station.

Her sister’s concern had made Livia feel vulnerable and cherished all at the same time. But she was young and strong and intended to look upon this as an adventure. All that mattered was that Matthew come home safe and well.
Jack too. It was too soon to consider what would happen to them all after that. For now, they had a war to win, and personal feelings, hopes and dreams didn’t come into it. Livia knew she’d made many mistakes in her life, albeit with the best of intentions, but she intended to put her heart and soul into this enterprise and try to at least make a success of it. Lifting her hand to brush away a stray tear she accidentally nudged the passenger beside her.

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ came the reply, followed by a stifled giggle.

‘Mercy? What on earth …?’ Livia stared in disbelief as her sister set down a suitcase and squashed in beside her.

‘I’ve volunteered for the VADs too. I did the same first aid course, remember, and I thought you might need someone on your side when the going gets tough. We survived prison together, so happen we can help each other get through this war. We are still sisters, or were last time I looked.’

‘I don’t believe this. You are the most irritating, the most vexatious, the most confusing and surprising person I know.’

Mercy shrugged, looking somewhat shamefaced. ‘Perverse, my mam used to call me. Look, I wish I could say I was sorry – you know,
about me and Jack – but I can’t. I love him, so that’s that.’ Her cheeks suffused with pink. ‘I didn’t think I’d get over losing my George, but then I realised that it had been Jack I really loved all along. So there it is.’

‘I understand.’

‘Aye, I think you do. It knocked me sideways that you were so generous and forgiving. I don’t really deserve that.’

‘Yes, you do. You’ve had a hard time of it, Mercy, and underneath all that bluster and obstinate quest for vengeance, I think there’s a warm, loving heart hidden in there somewhere. I’m sure you inherited it from your mother. You certainly didn’t get it from our father.’

Mercy managed a smile. ‘You might be right there. It’s being so needy that makes me mean. I don’t want to be that way, but I suppose that’s what I am. I want to belong to someone, d’you see? To be loved.’

‘We all want that, Mercy, it’s human nature. But don’t feel bad about loving Jack. I always knew, deep down, that you loved him, and that I butted in. Jack and I – well – let’s just say he was there for me when my father was making life impossible. Maybe I was too needy at that time, and mistook the emotion for love. Much of what you said hit home, and I’m not in any position to throw stones.’ The pair exchanged
a look that was both frank and revealing.

‘Anyroad, I thought happen you and me could try again with this sister lark, what do you reckon?’

Livia smiled. ‘I’m willing if you are. Welcome aboard.’

Livia had had no idea what a hospital might be like, never having been inside one before. She imagined it as a haven of peace and quiet, faultless organisation, and white-walled sterility. The reality came as something of a shock.

It was certainly the latter, but far bigger than she’d expected, with long echoing corridors and huge wards with absolutely no hope of privacy for the patients. Not that there were many of those yet, a mere handful occupied the long rows of beds that stood largely empty, which was all rather disappointing.

The work, too, was far less glamorous and adventurous than she’d hoped for. On her first day she was given a mop and bucket, and a bottle of disinfectant, and told to wash the floor. Livia had never done much in the way of housework before. Certainly none had been expected of her at Angel House as her father had kept several servants to wait upon them. Since then she’d lived at the store where they employed an army of cleaners for the task, and sweeping
the tiny two-roomed cottage and dusting their few bits of furniture was no comparison to the hard manual labour demanded on these wards in order to keep everything clean and hygienic.

‘I dare say you’ve never used a scrubbing brush in your life,’ Mercy teased, watching her first feeble efforts.

Livia laughed. ‘Except for those few days in that prison cell. I dare say it will soon come back to me.’ In no time Livia’s hands were red raw from the carbolic soap and washing soda, and her back ached dreadfully, but no one could say the floors weren’t clean.

Both girls were half longing for a bit of excitement, but for that to happen it meant some poor souls had to be injured first. It was not a comfortable thought.

Sister Rendell, a bustling, formidable woman with brown hair and the faintest hint of a moustache over tightly pursed lips, was in charge of the ward. One morning she took them all into her office and issued a stern lecture about what they might expect when the work really started.

‘I won’t have any VADs fainting on my ward, is that clear? You are here to do a job, and if you aren’t up to it, then keep out of the way of my nurses. Go back home to papa.’ Sister was convinced the VADs were delicate gels more familiar with tea parties than blood
and bandages. In some instances, Livia thought, looking around at her fellow volunteers, she might well be right. She hoped she wasn’t considered one of their number.

‘I want you to cast your eyes over these,’ Sister said, laying out a batch of photographs on the table. ‘If you can’t stomach these pictures, I won’t allow you anywhere near my ward.’

There was a photo of a young man whose legs had been blown off, the stumps blackened and bleeding; faces that had been badly burnt, holes in stomachs and thighs, and other horrors. One girl backed away weeping, another fell to the floor in a dead faint. They were both swiftly ejected from the premises. Livia felt the bile rise in her throat but gritted her teeth against a strong urge to vomit. These poor boys needed help, not pity or revulsion.

Many of the VADS were suffragettes like herself, some were married women with a knowledge of first aid learnt from the Red Cross or the St John Ambulance, while others had no qualifications at all. In that first week, tasks were allocated and the untrained women became cleaners, drivers, and orderlies, cooks, kitchen maids, clerks or even fund-raisers. Only those considered suitable were allowed to work with the nurses, who rather tended to look down their noses at the less well qualified VADs.

Some of the single girls had indeed volunteered as an escape from an unwelcome marriage, or from the expected role of an unmarried daughter destined to care for ageing parents. But what they found was not excitement and adventure, only boredom and drudgery.

Within days the first casualties came pouring in and they were witnessing the horror in reality. There was no time then to be bored, or even to sleep or eat on occasions. The VADs were on duty either from eight in the morning until eight in the evening, or vice-versa if they were on nights. They were long shifts, yet Livia did them gladly, without complaint. It was a job she meant to do to the best of her ability.

Visitors who called in the calm of a quiet afternoon, seeing beds neatly made and flowers on the tables, the VADs sitting sewing sandbags or rolling bandages, might think it a pleasant, agreeable place to work. But then they couldn’t see the horrific injuries beneath the dressings.

‘This place makes the workhouse look like paradise,’ Mercy wryly remarked as she watched a nurse pack salt into an open wound in a sailor’s side. His desperate cries made her shudder, but earned him no more than a sharp reproof from Sister.

Not all the patients were physically wounded; some were suffering from a form of dementia,
which was the result of a condition described as shell shock. They only had to hear the siren go off, or a buzzer go, and they’d run for cover or throw a fit, as if terrified they were about to be shot. It was all most distressing. Mercy seemed to be especially good with these poor souls.

‘They remind me of my lads, the poor boys labelled as imbeciles in the workhouse ward. They weren’t that at all, of course, just needing time and attention, and someone to talk to.’

Few of these boys, however, wished to talk, but Mercy did what she could to offer comfort, and the doctors, too, felt they were still learning how best to treat these injuries of the mind.

The two girls worked well together, busily making beds, assisting with feeding the patients, helping to change dressings or draw sheets, take temperatures or pluck out stitches. There was a good deal of rushing about, fetching and carrying, and generally providing a second pair of hands for the qualified nurses. The work was utterly exhausting but infinitely more satisfying than scrubbing floors. Livia tried to watch everything the nurses did, studiously observing and learning the whole time, but it was all new and strange, and nothing was easy.

The first time she was asked to give a young man a blanket bath she was hugely embarrassed. Livia had seen a man naked before, of course,
but only Jack or Matthew, not that of a perfect stranger.

‘I won’t look if you don’t,’ he teased her.

The fact he could even manage to joke, having lost an arm and a leg above the knee, filled Livia with humble admiration. He seemed to be on the mend now, following at least two operations, but was still in considerable pain. And there was the ever-present danger of infection setting in.

Livia carefully spread a rubber sheet beneath him, then very tenderly covered him with a blanket. She’d brought a bowl of warm water with soap and towels, and was about to set about the task of washing him when Sister Rendell appeared at her elbow.

‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea if you undressed the patient first, girl?’

‘Oh, of course. I forgot,’ Livia said, cheeks blazing.

‘Dear me, some ministering angel you are.’

The woman stood by, clicking her tongue with impatience, watching closely as Livia fumbled with unfamiliar buttons beneath the blanket. She finally managed to remove the man’s clothes, but when she found naked flesh, something quite firm and well shaped, her cheeks burnt even brighter. Her young patient just winked at her, and Livia had to stifle a giggle. Fortunately, Sister
walked away and left her to it, and she was able to apologise.

‘This is the first blanket bath I’ve ever given,’ she confessed.

‘Don’t worry, I’m enjoying every minute,’ the soldier joked, still able to smile despite his horrific injuries.

He would look out for Livia after that, saying she could give him another bath any time she liked. ‘Nurse,’ he would call, but when a nurse went over to him, he’d send her away. ‘No, I want the other one, the one with the titian hair and the lovely smile.’

‘She isn’t a proper nurse,’ they would say, glowering at Livia as if it were her fault the patient had made this foolish mistake.

‘I don’t care, she’s got lovely soft hands.’

Livia would giggle and gently scold him. ‘You’re very naughty, and you’ll get me in trouble.

He was called Donald and he would tell her about his girl back home in Birmingham, how she was eager to come and see him once he was considered fit enough to receive visitors. Livia would write his reply for him, full of words of love and reassurance, as if there was nothing at all wrong that a few weeks in hospital wouldn’t put right. Yet he never told her the full extent of his injuries, and put her off coming time and time again.

Livia also wrote letters to his widowed mother, who wasn’t fit enough to make the journey. She would read him snippets from the local newspaper, or stroke his head when the pain from the amputated leg was too much for him to bear, or his shoulder throbbed – although she quickly found that nursing wasn’t just about putting a cool hand on a fevered brow. It was grisly work needing enormous amounts of energy and compassion.

Healing was slow and infection set in. Keeping the wound clean was an unpleasant and painful task and sometimes it smelt quite foul. Livia was worried that if it didn’t get better soon he might be facing another operation to have more of the stump removed.

‘I’ve a day off tomorrow, would you like me to bring you anything back from the shops?’

‘Only your lovely smile,’ he told her, his face grey with fatigue and suffering.

She took his letters to the post and promised she’d find him a nice jokey postcard that he could send to his girl next time, and a pretty flowery card for his mother. On her return the following morning when she went to give him his breakfast, she found his bed stripped and empty.