A Girl in Wartime (29 page)

A hundred or so miles to the south George had worked through the night along the lines of the injured and dying at the field hospital, doing what he could to alleviate their suffering.

It wasn't much compared with what the doctors did but he worked hard and with all his soul. If he was going to do this right, if he was going to make up for his past misguided beliefs, he was prepared to spare nothing of himself; he worked long after others had done their bit tending the wounded. He was no medic; he had learned a little, but his job as he saw it was to stay beside wounded and horrified men in extreme pain, administering whatever aid and comfort he could while the doctors worked on the injuries: holding each man's hand, his grip painful as spasms of agony darted through that patient's frame. He'd often come away with fingernail marks embedded so deep into his own flesh that it bled.

He thought of that first leave, the way his father had spoken to him after all that time spurning him, accused of being a son to be ashamed of, refusing to greet him as his own flesh and blood. His words: ‘Wonder you bothered to see us' had still held animosity.

Mum had intervened. ‘You look well. How are you, love?' Neither of them referred to him now being in the forces or asked what he did.

‘I'm with the medical corps now,' he'd supplied.

His father hadn't acknowledged that, but his mother had said, ‘We got your letter telling us what you was doing. It worried me, though, how safe you was. You said you was training before you went, but I thought medical stuff took years to study, but I suppose in wartime things is different.'

She had gabbled on. Nerves probably. But what he'd really needed was to explain why he'd changed his mind about the beliefs he'd held. He'd turned to his dad. ‘About why I did what I did, fooling myself all that time and—'

‘Well,' his father had cut in, his voice a deep growl. ‘Ain't much to be gained going over old sores.' His father's words left George feeling like an intruder in his own home.

His visit had lasted just as long as it took to drink the cup of tea Mum had made for him. Leaving, he'd tentatively held out a hand to his dad, who, to his relief, had taken it, not firmly, but had said, ‘Take care of yourself, then,' which he felt meant more than the half-hearted handshake.

Dorothy with her little daughter had joined them but his brother Ronnie hadn't. ‘Still not able to face the world properly,' she said, ‘but he says he wishes you well.'

He'd never been back since, preferring to spend any leave he had in Paris, where he felt more at home these days. As for that chapel with its odd beliefs, he'd turned his back on that for ever.

He had stopped writing to his parents. It was futile, he felt, but his sister Connie often wrote, telling him all the family news. She'd told him all about her and this Stephen chap – a friendly letter that he'd answered, wishing her well, and she'd replied saying she hoped he'd be at her wedding – she was the only one of the family who had ever understood him.

June 1917

Connie had been summoned to the chief editor, Desmond Mathieson's office. It was beautifully furnished and had a clear view of St Paul's Cathedral, its dome basking in the bright summer sunlight, catching her attention the instant she entered.

Why she'd been summoned she had no idea, only that he wished to see her, and now she was filled with concern that he might be considering dispensing with her services now that the date of her marriage to Stephen had been set to November and the news had been leaked out. She'd had lunch with Stephen half an hour before but he'd not mentioned that Mathieson wanted to see her. Surely he would have known, being the editor in charge of his department.

As she entered, Mathieson, who had been leaning back in his swivel chair like someone about to bestow a marvellous gift, had leaped to his feet and come round to conduct her to sit.

‘Please, my dear, sit yourself down,' he chortled.

He seemed so full of camaraderie that it couldn't be the sack for her. Wondering what he wanted she let herself be helped to sit, after which he made his way back to his side of the large desk to seat himself in his own chair, all the while beaming across the desk at her.

‘I expect you are wondering why I have sent for you, my dear.'

It couldn't be to give her notice; he was too full of smiles for that. She was sure she had given the newspaper satisfaction during the time she'd worked there. It had always been an odd sort of employment and she'd been well paid for it, had even earned a rise only recently.

Maybe he intended to talk to her about her coming marriage to Stephen. But that was months away yet, and would be a quiet affair anyway. After all, he having been married before, one shouldn't make a big do of a second marriage out of respect for the deceased first wife, and she'd been content with that.

Maybe he was thinking that she should leave the newspaper prior to the wedding. Before the war, women, once married, did not go to work, their task being to look after their husband, his house, and whatever children came along. It was no doubt that, despite him saying how indispensable her talent was to his newspaper, Stephen himself had no intention of her continuing to work after they were married, and why would she need to? He could give her all the things she'd never had – a nice house, a suitable allowance – something girls like her could only dream about.

Mr Mathieson leaned forward, the fingertips of both his large hands touching to form an arch beneath his chin. ‘I understand,' he began, ‘that our Mr Clayton and you have arranged your wedding for late autumn.'

As she nodded he sat back in his chair, allowing it to swivel very slightly.

‘Well, my dear, I've not spoken to Mr Clayton yet, but felt I should speak to you first in order to see what you might think about a proposition I have in mind, being that it mostly concerns yourself.'

She stared at him. For no real reason that she could find she felt a coldness creep below her flesh. Was he asking her to continue working for a good deal longer? Only this month, June the fourteenth, London had again been bombed after all that time of relief from attack. This time it hadn't been German zeppelins but German aeroplanes that had attacked the city.

Five days ago, in broad daylight, the East End had gazed up with wonder at the fine clean lines of the twin-winged aircraft, the German cross plainly visible on the tail and on each side of the fuselage. Someone had counted twelve aeroplanes; others said fifteen daring the barrage of anti-aircraft fire from the ground. But hardly had the realisation of danger gripped ordinary Londoners when the bombs had fallen. In an air raid lasting just fifteen minutes some hundred Londoners had been killed and four hundred injured; one bomb had fallen on a local school killing ten children – innocent kiddies who'd harmed no one; it was appalling. Another bomb had hit a train standing in a local railway station; there had been fatalities there too.

Connie had been sent with two photographers to one of the scenes to record the parents of the murdered children. It had been distasteful and sickening; she'd returned feeling a nervous wreck but her sketches had been praised by Mathieson.

She'd stood in his office receiving his praise, seeing his broad smile of satisfaction, hearing him exclaim with a note of unconcealed triumph that this would double – no, treble – their readership. But she had felt no triumph in this gift of hers. In fact, his praise had left her feeling contempt for him. Even now, several days later, she was still unable to get the scenes out of her mind.

Now, Mathieson was regarding her with a look of contemplation.

‘My dear,' he began. ‘If you accept my proposition, I will see that your salary is doubled, all your expenses paid, and the paper will make certain that you come to no harm.'

What was he talking about? She made to ask but he was already forging ahead. ‘It may mean you and Mr Clayton putting your wedding back to the beginning of next year, say January. As I have said, I will see you are well rewarded.'

As she sat dumbfounded and a little bewildered, he leaned towards her as if to impart some wonderful news, elbows leaning on his desk, fingers linked.

‘I have an assignment which I think will be the pinnacle of your achievements to date. Since you came to us, the
London Herald
's readership has increased unbelievably. I am very proud of you and extremely grateful. Sadly, once you are married, you will leave this company. But one last assignment is needed before you leave for good. And that will be in a blaze of glory and triumph, of that I can assure you, my dear.' My dear! Not once had he used her name. ‘And I for one believe that the
London Herald
will remember your name for many years to come.'

Then why wasn't he using her name at this moment? She wished he would get whatever it was off his chest and she shifted in her chair. Noticing her impatience, he smiled. ‘Right, my dear, I expect you are wondering where all this is leading.'

She
was
wondering, and growing more suspicious by the minute, There was too much being said for this, whatever it was, to be palatable.

‘Right, then,' he continued briskly. ‘We have our war correspondents and photographers out in France and Flanders, and who are also making contact with those who have been hospitalised before returning to Britain. That is all very well, but others of the press are doing exactly the same thing. The whole of Fleet Street is at it. What we are looking for is a new slant, a crowd-puller if you like.' He paused for a moment, then said, ‘This is where you come in, my dear. Your talent, your wonderful, exceptional talent, could help us increase our readership still further. What I am asking of you, my dear, is that we send you over to France. But nowhere near the front line, of course. You would be required to go round the hospitals, the wards, and sketch what you see, with your special talent for, shall we say, delving into the soul.'

All this time she had said nothing, but her heart had begun beating heavily. Now her back straightened as suddenly as an arrow striking its target. ‘No!' It was hopeless to modify her tone. ‘No, I can't do that!'

She thought of her brother, once a vibrant young man, brought home utterly destroyed by what he'd gone through, crippled for life and he not yet twenty-one. And Albert could also end up crippled or even killed as this endless war continued.

True, the USA had entered the war in April and people had been heartened by the news, seeing the Americans as saviours, adding weight to the ending of it. Others muttered – maybe unfairly – ‘about time too'. But would that bring Albert back home whole, or not at all?

And then there was George, who'd never believed in war and the taking of another man's life for any reason, but who'd finally volunteered and was now endangering his own life to bring the wounded back to safety. He was maybe the bravest of all her brothers, for he had known full well what he would be facing when he'd opted to do the job asked of him.

And here was Mathieson, asking her to go over there and consign to paper the haunted, horrified, despairing expressions in the eyes of wounded, exhausted, devastated men. No! She would not do it. And if she got the sack for refusing, what did it matter? She would be leaving by the beginning of autumn for her wedding.

In her breast there had arisen a loathing for Mr Desmond Mathieson that must have shown on her face. But all he did was lean back in his seat, crossing his arms as he continued to smile at her.

‘You will receive twice the salary you are getting now, my dear, plus the best of accommodation whilst you are there. Your travel expenses will be paid, plus whatever clothing you may need – you can name your own costs.'

He waited for her reply but it felt as though her tongue had cleaved to the roof of her mouth. This was practically a bribe. What else could it be? Her mind flashed to how she'd felt those few days ago, seeing the mothers of those children killed in such a depth of grief that it tore the heart out of any watching. Some had fallen to the ground, others had been transfixed by their grief, staring into nothing as a neighbour held them tight in their arms to prevent them sinking to their knees in utter despair at their loss.

‘And your answer, Miss Lovell …?'

Mathieson's voice broke through her thoughts. It was the first time he had used her name since she'd entered his office.

Still unable to believe he was asking this dreadful request of her, she shook her head. ‘I'm sorry,' she replied with what minuscule respect she could muster. ‘I'll soon be leaving the newspaper, and all I want is to get married, to settle down, and start a family.'

She watched him unfold his arms and regard her with those intense blue eyes of his, they now suddenly becoming a hard stare, a brittle stare.

‘My dear,' he said very gently, ‘I cannot sack you for refusing to bow to my request, as you will soon be leaving anyway in order to get married. But your Mr Stephen Clayton will continue working here, will he not?' Not waiting for a nod of agreement, he went on, ‘He has many, many years ahead of him with the
London Herald
– exceedingly promising years – perhaps finally to have the seat I now occupy. I'm getting on, my dear, and in a few years I will be retiring. I shall look forward to having someone replace me, maybe in time be on the board of directors. And it is Mr Clayton whom I have in mind – a brilliant man.'

There came a pause for her to digest this bit of information. Then he gave a great sigh. ‘But there could always be a slip, just as there ever is in this world. Your Stephen Clayton could quite suddenly do something that could shock this firm. Something unforgivable … I don't know what – yet. But what if this unforgivable episode could cost him his job? Together with no reference, could he ever get employment on any newspaper ever again? Human beings can be so frail without realising it. That would be awful, a man expecting to marry and provide for a wife and family, to keep her in the luxury she has never known, instead reduced to scrimping and scraping, seeking any job that could bring him a living lower than any of his calibre would ever expect.'