The Shadow of War (26 page)

‘Listen, you are not the first and you won't be the last woman to have gone through what you've experienced. You need to be strong. If you are, you can get over this.'

‘Leave me be! There's no way back for me. When I left Presteigne, I walked and walked, until I couldn't walk any further. I had no money, so I stole food and milk, anything I could find. I was at my wits' end. I managed to get to Brecon, sleeping rough. I must have looked dreadful; dirty clothes, hair all over the place. It was late and I was exhausted –'

‘You don't have to tell me this.'

‘I do; I want you to understand what I've become.'

‘You haven't “become” anything. You're just a little girl lost.'

‘I'm not a “little girl” any more! Philip Davies saw to that. And then the landlord at the Boar's Head in Brecon … It's by the river. I was going to throw myself in, but I couldn't do it. I ended up sleeping in the pub doorway. He found me the next morning, said I could trust him. He gave me money, cleaned me up. But, of course, he wanted something in return. First with him, then his regulars.

‘When I'd saved a few bob, I ran away and got the bus to Cardiff. But it was the same there. I had nowhere to go, but I knew what to do. It didn't take long to find Tiger Bay. It was horrible, but the gin helped, and then my little bottle of Papine. So you see, that's what I've become!'

‘Bronwyn, I'm a nurse, nothing shocks me. I've been in France with the army. Philip died in my arms. I know what happened between you. And your brother told me about what happened at Pentry. As for the shame in what you did, it's a guilt you share with thousands of women. Including me.'

Bronwyn turns to stare at Margaret. Her words have made a connection with her.

‘You didn't do what I did, end up shaggin' men, an' worse, for two bob!'

‘I'll tell you what I did … one day. But for now, we need to get you out of here.'

‘Was Philip badly injured?'

‘Yes.'

‘Was he in pain?'

‘Yes, he was, but he was very brave. His final words were for you.'

‘What did he say?'

‘He asked me to tell you that you made him very happy and that you should take wing and fly.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘I think he meant that you were capable of doing good things, or important things. And that you should try to achieve them.'

Bronwyn begins to heave with more sobs. Margaret takes advantage of the moment and grabs the bottle of Papine. She empties its contents out of the window, then does the same with the gin flask standing next to it. Finally, she pulls Bronwyn up and steadies her.

‘Is there a back way out of here?'

‘Yes, but George will see us.'

Margaret looks at her fob watch; it is turned 10 p.m. She hopes the landlord is going to be busy at the bar.

‘Come on, let's go. Do you have many things?'

‘They're in a bag under the bed. I have fourteen shillings in my purse; it's all I have.'

Margaret helps Bronwyn to get dressed, then manoeuvres her down the stairs to the carriage she has asked to wait for her.

The cab driver is suddenly roused from his sleep, his horse from its nosebag.

‘I nearly gave you up, miss. Is this the young lady you were looking for?'

‘Yes, and I'm very relieved you're still here. Take us back to my boarding house, please.'

As the carriage pulls away, Margaret looks back to the Bute Dock Hotel. The light from its windows is spilling on to the pavement outside, where dozens of men are drinking and smoking. She can hear English and Welsh but also several languages that she has never heard before, spoken by men who seem to represent all the nations of the earth. She turns to Bronwyn, who has closed her eyes and is resting her head in the corner of the carriage.

Although she has tried to reassure Bronwyn, she reflects on how far and how disastrously the girl has fallen: a young and innocent farm girl from a quiet valley in Radnorshire just a few months ago, and now a two-bob whore in Tiger Bay. Getting Bronwyn's life back to even a semblance of normality is not going to be easy.

When they reach Margaret's room close to Cardiff Castle, she gets to work with her usual expert efficiency. Bronwyn's clothes are discarded and she is deposited in the boarding house's bath for a prolonged soak. She washes her thoroughly from head to toe, brushes and combs her hair and then checks for lice. Fortunately, although there are a few nits, Margaret doesn't find the infestation she had feared.

When she gets the girl to bed, she gives her a small sip of laudanum to help her relax and then sits with her until she falls asleep – probably the first decent night's sleep she has had in a long time. Margaret smiles to herself. Bronwyn already looks more like a young farmer's daughter than a docklands' tart.

Margaret watches over Bronwyn until the early hours. After a while, the temptation to read Philip's letter becomes too strong. She rescued it from Bronwyn's grasp in her grimy room earlier and put it in her handbag.

It begins not unlike many soldiers' letters to their sweethearts. She has read several; men in her care will often ask her to proofread their stilted prose. Some even dictate to her what they want to say to wives and girlfriends back home because they cannot write themselves, either as a result of their injuries or through a lack of education.

Philip's immaculately penned letter is, at first, written in the formal Edwardian style of the day, almost as if composed by a town clerk, telling of the Welch Fusiliers' journey to France and what they have been doing since. But then, towards the end, the language changes. Margaret guesses the latter part might have been written on the eve of battle, or after witnessing the death of a comrade. The final passage makes her weep.

I know not what will become of me. This war is becoming a hell on earth and I fear many of us will not survive it. But what will be, will be. Far more important is what will become of you. I readily admit that my initial attraction to you was born of lust, which then became an infatuation of blissful proportions. However, I want you to understand that everything changed. I fell in love with you, and I'm still in love with you – a deep and abiding love that will never go away. You have a wonderfully inquisitive mind, a strong will and a shrewd intelligence – so much so that there is little you couldn't do if you put your mind to it –

The letter ends at that point. Philip must have intended to write more, but his wounds at Mons prevented it. Margaret eventually falls asleep in her chair as Bronwyn continues her deep slumber.

The next morning, wearing Margaret's clothes and make-up and with her hair brushed to restore a semblance of its dark lustre, Bronwyn could easily pass as her nursing colleague.

‘Are you ready for this, Bronwyn?'

‘No, I need a drink and a smoke.'

‘Sorry, you're off the booze and cigarettes – and anything else you've been using.'

‘But I can't cope without them.'

‘Yes, you can; you have to. If it gets too bad, there is something I can give you.'

‘What?'

‘A little laudanum. But in decreasing doses.'

Bronwyn answers like a forlorn child.

‘I'll try …'

In contrast, Margaret responds like a stern headmistress.

‘You had better! If you let me down, I'll let you go. You must understand that, Bronwyn.'

Bronwyn composes herself and smiles at Margaret.

‘Please call me Bron. And tell me one thing: why are you doing this for me?'

‘Because of the promise I made to Philip. And because of what you have had to suffer.'

‘Doesn't what we did disgust you?'

‘No, it doesn't.'

‘And what about what I've become?'

‘That doesn't disgust me either. But that was yesterday. Today is a new beginning for you.'

‘I can't believe what's happening to me.' Bronwyn embraces Margaret and clings to her. ‘Is it really true?'

‘Of course it is. Come on, let's get moving.'

‘Where are we going?'

‘To Hereford General Hospital. I can get us into the nurses' quarters there, where you can be looked after.'

Bronwyn recoils.

‘What does that mean?'

‘Bron, I have to be blunt with you. You have head lice and, from the look of your pubic area, you have gonorrhoea and vaginal warts at least; you may have caught other things as well. You have a bad cough from smoking and drinking, and
we have to get you off that Papine you've been taking. It's liquid opium, highly addictive.'

Bronwyn looks devastated.

‘One more thing; we need to make sure you're not pregnant.'

‘I know I'm not pregnant.'

‘How?'

‘I lost Philip's baby two weeks ago.'

Margaret pulls the girl more tightly to her.

‘You poor thing. Let's get going, so that we can make you better.'

Kitty Stewart-Murray has spent the month of September organizing concerts and generally supporting Bardie as he prepares his Scottish Horse in Dunkeld for the long journey to France. However, in late September, the true horror of the Great War reaches the grandeur of Blair Atholl.

When the old duke hears of Hamish's wound and the ominous disappearance of Geordie, he retreats to the bosom of his mistress, Mrs Maud Grant, who lives in a small estate cottage high up Glen Tilt, leaving Lady Helen to run the house and the estate. Several Blair families, estate workers and people in the household have already lost loved ones. Of the reservists who were summoned to their regiments two have been killed, six wounded and two more designated missing. Everyone remarks that Scotland has not lost so many men since it fought the English hundreds of years ago.

When Bardie's Scottish Horse is sent south to new barracks at Kettering, Kitty travels with him. When he subsequently hears that Hamish is on his way home from France to recover from his wound, he calls for a family gathering in Kettering.

Fortunately, the Stewart-Murrays do not have to accept accommodation that is any less luxurious than Blair Castle. Indeed, in many ways their surroundings for the latest gathering of their clan are even more sumptuous.

Old family friend William Montague Douglas-Scott, the 83-year-old 6th Duke of Buccleuch, has made his Northamptonshire home, Boughton House, available to them. Boughton's
Georgian splendour is grander and on an even larger scale than Blair. Situated only three miles from the Scottish Horse's improvised, ramshackle Kettering barracks and stables, it is a world away from the awful reality of the war that is currently unfolding along the French-Belgian border.

William Douglas-Scott is immeasurably rich – one of the wealthiest British landowners – and the Stewart-Murrays feel at home. In more normal times, the Friday dinner before a country-house weekend of much eating, drinking and debauchery would represent an enticing aperitif. But the Stewart-Murray gathering comprises only a small group of close family, and its mood is made sombre by the shadow of war.

With the Duke of Buccleuch ensconced in his London home – Montague House, in Whitehall – Bardie and Kitty act as hosts for the weekend at Boughton. Hamish hobbles in, protecting his lame thigh. Lady Helen brings her ‘friend' David Tod, about whom the rest of the family are highly dubious because of his middle-class origins, calling him ‘Edinburgh egghead' and ‘lowly salesman'. Lady Dorothea, ‘Dertha', is with her husband, Colonel Harold ‘Harry' Ruggles-Brise.

Harry is the only member of the family with something to celebrate. He has been given command of 20th Brigade, composed of the 1st Grenadiers, 2nd Scots Guards, 2nd Gordon Highlanders and the Border Regiment, and will soon depart for France. He is in two minds. Partly exhilarated at the prospect of command, he is an accomplished soldier and musketry training expert who should be looking forward to his army pension, but now faces a long cold winter on the front line. He puts on a brave face.

Bardie proposes a toast.

‘To Harry, congratulations and bon voyage!'

Lady Helen then adopts the role of the surrogate Duke of Atholl. Despite being the heir to the dukedom, Bardie
accepts her suitability as titular head of the family with equanimity. Helen stands with her back to the fire, as her father would.

‘Well done, Harry. I've also got good news from Evelyn. She has written a brief note to Father. Her apartment in Malines was ransacked when the Germans took the town, but she and her companion managed to get away to the coast with all their valuables intact. However, she did leave them some presents. She cooked a dozen steak and kidney pies and left them in her larder, but laced them with so much pepper that they were inedible. She also left two carafes of wine on her dining-room table, but half filled them with balsamic vinegar!'

Evelyn's antics raise a smile among the assembled company, but Helen's mood then changes and she begins to make circles on the top of her wine glass.

‘Hamish, what do you make of the reports about Geordie?'

‘I have taken care to be positive in my letters to Father, but I fear the worst. For there to be no word of him, or those around him, suggests that a shell may have burst close by. There were also reports from men of the Black Watch I spoke to, confirming that the Germans executed anyone they found on the battlefield.'

Lady Dorothea is visibly upset.

‘Hamish,
please
–'

‘Dertha, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid the truths of a cruel war are brutal.'

‘I know that, but Father is worried sick. None of us like it when he goes running off to Mrs Grant, but it is his way of dealing with distress. He can't bring himself to show his emotions to us, so he goes to her. She mothers him, I think.'

Bardie mutters under his breath, ‘Among other things!' but only Kitty hears him.

Helen asks for a few moments of silent prayer for
Geordie's safety, after which Kitty changes the subject and tries to inject some levity into the gathering.

‘I have been given an onerous commission of my own.'

David Tod embraces Kitty's tactful diversion with an enthusiastic response.

‘For which I am sure you are eminently suitable, Lady Katharine!'

‘You're so kind, David. Do call me Kitty. Well, I'm delighted to tell you that as well as my work for the
Voluntary Aid Detachment
, my new contribution to the war effort is going to involve legions of knitters! As you all know, Scottish regiments go to war in their kilts, with not a lot of warmth beneath their pleats of Highland cloth, substantial as these are. General Sir John Cowan, our army's outstanding Quartermaster General, has asked me to produce fifteen thousand hose tops to warm the knees of our Scottish boys this coming winter.'

Bardie smiles. This is a family gathering, so unnecessary propriety is eschewed.

‘The truth of it is, knees are not the nub of the issue!'

Kitty continues without the slightest embarrassment.

‘Quite what part of the male anatomy is at risk has not been discussed. Regardless, “fifteen thousand hose tops” is the order of the day.'

Dertha's husband, Harry, the only non-Scot present, is curious about the mysteries of the dress of the ‘True Scot'.

‘Come on, Kitty, are they long socks or long johns?'

‘Harry, I can tell you categorically, they are hose tops and extend only to the top of a man's thigh, but they will still take some knitting. As I'm sure you know, a Scotsman's thigh is a fine example of the male anatomy.'

Everyone laughs at Kitty's wit. She takes their evident enjoyment as encouragement.

‘My sister, Imogen, who is an accomplished knitter, has provided the template. She told me that she had to carry out
some detailed research in order to do so …' She pauses, enjoying the innuendo. ‘Please note, Imogen is a spinster of mature years, so I refrained from asking how the research was done.'

There is more laughter.

‘In any case, General Cowan has approved the design, so I've enlisted Gwendoline Macbeth, Bardie's secretary, who is an organizational whizz, and all the wives of the Scottish Horse, who are now knitting feverishly. Unfortunately, there is not enough khaki wool to knit them all in battlefield colours, so we're using various coloured wools that match regimental tartans. We've got a team of scrutinizers to inspect the finished garments. Any that are too big are being sent to the navy, to be worn in their sea boots; any that are too small are being sent to the Indian Army, whose knees, God bless them, are more used to tropical climes and have arrived in Europe several inches below their short trousers.'

There is a further round of applause from Kitty's audience, who are eager to restore the good humour of the evening.

‘And I can assure you that the order will be complete by the end of October; well before the winter's chill swirls around the sporrans of our brave lads!'

An even bigger bout of enthusiastic applause and laughter ensues, which is followed by as convivial a dinner as worries about Geordie's well-being allow.

When Monday morning arrives, and the Stewart-Murray weekend gathering comes to an end, they will all realize that this is the last occasion they will spend together for some time. Nothing is said explicitly – that would be tempting fate – but the embraces and farewells are long and heartfelt.