The Shadow of War (36 page)

‘Bloody
hell! I wish you'd told me all this ages ago; it would've helped a lot.'

‘I'm sorry, but it's not an easy thing to talk about.'

‘And your boyfriends?'

‘Most were young, immature and, you know …'

Bronwyn smiles – a warm, sympathetic smile.

‘I know! They're big, 'airy, smelly things, aren't they?'

Margaret smiles back, but then stops herself. She sits down next to Bronwyn again.

‘Bron, I told you I love you and bared my soul so that you know how much I care about you, because I think you're going to need me. There's something else.'

‘Oh God, Margaret, your face!' Bronwyn begins to shake her head wildly. ‘Not one of the boys? Not Geraint or Morgan?'

Margaret is struggling to maintain her composure. Bronwyn stares at her friend's now stern demeanour and begins to scream.

‘No! No! Please don't tell me.
Please!
'

‘Bron, Geraint and Morgan are dead. They were both killed yesterday, in the same attack in which Hywel was injured. Few of the Welch Fusiliers survived. I'm so sorry.'

Bronwyn howls in a fusion of anger and sadness.

‘Why our family? Look at what's happened to us! Ma an' Da gone, two brothers dead, another injured. And me, a so-called redeemed whore who spends her days emptyin' tins o' shit, moppin' up blood, an' pickin' up bits of bodies.'

Margaret lets Bronwyn wail for a while. She longs to comfort her friend, but is afraid any gesture on her part may be misconstrued.

‘Morgan and I were so close as kids. We even knew what the other was thinking. And Geraint, well, he was my baby brother; no more than a child, really.'

Margaret feels inadequate in the face of such grief and attempts to put her arms around Bron, but the girl recoils and pushes her way.

‘No!
No! And on top of everything else, my best friend's a fuckin' fanny-licker!'

Margaret swings round and runs out of the room in floods of tears. She keeps going, even though she can hear Bronwyn calling after her, shouting that she is sorry.

Margaret does not reappear on the ward until over an hour later, when Dr Chavasse is just finishing his second round of the day. He notices immediately that Margaret has been crying.

‘Sister, are you all right? You've been away rather a long time.'

‘Sorry, Captain, I've just been telling one of the nurses that she has lost two brothers, one of whom was her twin. And it's her nineteenth birthday today.'

‘Oh, I see, how very distressing for you. And for her; poor girl. Do I know her?'

‘Yes, I think so, her name is Auxiliary Thomas. She happens to be Hywel Thomas's sister, as well.'

‘Oh dear, what a terrible business all round. She's the pretty little Welsh one; the one who's caught the eye of several of my juniors.'

Margaret winces.

‘Yes, she's a pretty little thing; I'm sure all the young men are after her.'

‘Her nineteenth birthday, you said? How did she become a nurse so quickly?'

‘It's a long story.'

Chavasse changes the subject and brings them back to the unintentionally callous cataloguing of injury, healing, infection and death; the daily routine of the
Royal Army Medical Corps
.

‘Sister, most of today's operations have gone reasonably well. We lost four men in theatre, but they were pretty irretrievable. The rest are a mixed bag.'

Chavasse begins to hand notes to Margaret, who keeps them carefully in order.

‘These
are two amputees above the knee, and three below the knee. They are in good shape, but they'll have to go upstairs to Ward Two to recover before being sent home. I have three for the top floor. Grimwood: I'm afraid his lungs will not recover, he's going to need morphine and will spit blood until he dies. Matthews: I've stitched up his stomach, but there's nothing further I can do for him; just give him enough morphine to take the edge off, but he won't survive the night. And this poor sod, Macpherson: he must be as strong as an ox, he should be dead already; give him a lot of morphine, he deserves it.'

‘What about Hywel Thomas, Captain?'

‘Ah yes, he's with this lot' – Chavasse hands several more notes to Margaret – ‘all fit enough to stay downstairs and convalesce before going up the line. Thomas begged to stay here, said he had scores to settle. I've patched up his hand. I think he'll retain feeling in his thumb, and perhaps his index finger, but the rest will be useless. Infection is the problem with him. Try and get him to behave himself. One of my lads has telegraphed London to see if we can get him a reinforced glove.'

‘Why, Captain? Surely he's no use to the infantry with one hand?'

‘Apparently he's a crack shot. An officer came over about an hour ago, an odd fellow, wearing a Stetson cowboy hat. He looked like a big-game hunter, called himself Major Hesketh-Prichard. He said Thomas was the best shot the Royal Welch has ever had and that his scores on the range broke all British Army records. They're going to make him a serjeant when he recovers and get him to help train others to shoot.'

Margaret goes to Hywel's bedside before she goes off duty that afternoon to reassure him about his hand. He has already been seen by Major Hesketh-Prichard and is ecstatic about the news.

‘What did the major tell you?'

‘He wants me to join this training unit he's startin' up, to improve our snipin'. Apparently, our average soldier is a
much better shot than the average Fritz, but their snipers are much better than ours. I did a deal with him.'

‘Really?'

‘He agreed I could go back to my battalion for three months to pop that Hun who plugged Lieutenant Orme.'

‘How will you find him?'

‘If his unit is still here, I'll find him. Then I told the major I'd nabbed a telescopic sight off the sniper I shot. I thought he was goin' to kiss me! He's taken it off to be tested.'

‘That's excellent news. Well done!'

‘So, how's Bron? Did you tell her about the boys?'

‘Yes, I did.'

‘Is she in a bad way?'

‘I'm afraid she is, Hywel; she's going to need you to lean on.'

‘Please ask her if I can come and see her. The Doc said I can get up in a few days, if I wear a splint.'

‘I will, Hywel. I've given her some time off, but I hear they're expecting another big battle later this week, when I'll need her back. Why not wait until Thursday.'

‘Thanks, Margaret.'

Margaret makes her way back to the nurses' quarters, where she finds Bronwyn waiting for her in her room.

‘Margaret, I hope you don't mind me being in your room, but I didn't want to miss you.'

‘Of course not. How are you feeling?'

‘A little better, but still very raw. Listen, I'm sorry about what I said. I was upset.'

‘Don't be sorry, it was a crude way to put it, but I've heard worse. So now you know, you're not the only one who has to live with guilt. You said you thought you weren't normal; well, how many women do you know who are lesbians?'

‘Is that what you're called?'

‘Yes, “lesbian” describes what I am, but most people use expressions like the one you used.'

‘Oh,
Margaret, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it.'

Bronwyn embraces her, but this time Margaret is the one to reject the approach.

‘No, Bron; if we're going to stay close, you can still treat me like a friend but you can't be intimate with me.'

‘Oh, I see, but I liked our cuddles together.'

‘So did I, but they were also an agony for me, because I so wanted them to go further.'

‘I understand; it must have been awful for you. Let's go out for a drink in the Maison de Ville tonight. After all, it
is
my birthday!'

‘Are you sure? What about your brothers, isn't it in poor taste?'

‘It might be, but me an' the boys always had a drink together – in good times and bad – so let's go an' have one for them.'

‘All right; you know, Bron, you are so strong. I just don't know how you do it.'

‘I do it thanks to you.'

‘Come on, I think we both need a drink.'

Forty-five minutes later, having taken a bath and changed their clothes, Margaret and Bron have toasted Geraint and Morgan and are sitting in the Maison de Ville, in Pop's Grande Place.

Neither one says much to the other; they are both deep in their own thoughts. So much has happened to them in the space of just a few months. There is so much pain and suffering all around them. Their emotions are strained almost to breaking point, and yet, they are sitting in a bar enjoying a drink. After a while, Bronwyn utters a long tortured sigh.

‘If I was at home now, I'd be dressed in black, sittin' by the fire. No one would say anythin'; all the men would look grim, the women would wail. But look at us, drinkin' wine!' She looks around the room with a wry smile on her face. ‘And look at this lot, all drinkin', laughin', lookin' for a quick one with any old tart. What's the war doin' to us?'

Margaret
has her own thoughts. Other than the lover she had at Guy's, she has not talked to anyone about being a lesbian since she left Swaledale. She is still not reconciled to her sexual feelings and spends many hours hoping that, miraculously, she will revert to ‘normal'. The trouble is, to her, her feelings
are
normal. She has not really heard what Bronwyn said.

‘Margaret?'

‘Sorry, I was daydreaming.'

‘I was saying, the war is turning us into thoughtless, cruel creatures.'

‘Yes, I suppose it is. We talk about the men like a vet talks about cows: put this one with the poor milkers; this one can go to the knacker's yard …'

As she continues, the two nurses suddenly hear the crisp tones of an aristocratic male voice.

‘Good evening, Margaret, I was told I would find you here. How are you?'

It is Hamish Stewart-Murray. He is back from Blair Atholl; his wound has healed and he is rejoining the Camerons, who are billeted near Ypres. Margaret is flustered and, not helped by the red wine, her cheeks glow a rosy red.

‘Hamish, good heavens … er, I'm fine. Please sit down; have some wine.'

‘That's most kind, thank you. But only if I'm not intruding?'

‘No, no, not at all. And how about you; your wound is healed?'

‘Yes, it's fine. I'm going up to Ypres tomorrow, back to the Camerons.'

Hamish looks at Bronwyn and smiles.

‘Oh, sorry; Hamish, this is Bronwyn Thomas. We nurse together.'

Margaret realizes at once that she should not have mentioned Bronwyn's first name, thus revealing who she is.

‘Bronwyn, what a lovely name …' He pauses as he
remembers where he has heard the name before, but manages to stop himself saying so.

Bronwyn realizes who Hamish is.

‘It's all right, Margaret, Hamish. This is a day for shocks. You must be the officer who was there when Philip died. I hope you don't think me too wicked, sir.'

‘Not at all, Bronwyn, and please don't call me “sir”; it's Hamish, this is Civvy Street.'

Bronwyn has a mischievous look on her face.

‘Well, Hamish, I think you should take Margaret out to dinner and buy her the best bottle of wine in Pop. She needs cheering up.'

Hamish's face transforms itself into a broad grin.

‘That was exactly my plan, Bronwyn; how astute of you. Would you like to join us?'

‘That's very kind, but three's a crowd.'

Hamish's grin gets broader still. But Margaret is looking less than pleased.

‘Hamish, you're so kind, but I have to be on duty at –'

Bronwyn interrupts her.

‘Margaret, don't be a spoilsport! Hamish has come all the way to Pop to see you; you can't stand him up.'

Bronwyn is right, and Margaret knows it. Her face softens.

‘Yes, of course … Hamish, that would be lovely.'

An hour and a half later, Margaret is enjoying herself. She and Hamish have both heard that the Germans are likely to make one last attempt to break through at Ypres before winter finally takes control. There will be no time for relaxation for many days to come, so, despite her initial reluctance, she is now grasping the opportunity with increasing relish.

She has been treated to the best food and wine in Poperinghe, at a small, inconspicuous family restaurant behind the Grande Place. Somehow, it manages to provide the local
senior French and British staff officers with fare on a par with the giddy heights of Parisian cuisine.

‘Hamish, that was astonishing food, better than anything I've ever had in London. Thank you so much. How do they do it?'

‘They always find a way to serve fine food here, even in the most trying circumstances.'

Their conversation flows.

Margaret tells Hamish a little of Bronwyn's story and of her life amidst the horror surrounding Ypres. It is good therapy for her.

Hamish tells her about his family problems, Geordie's likely death, and his father and brother's indiscretions.

‘And what about yours, Hamish?'

‘There have been a few, but not with the same consequences as Bardie's.'

‘I should hope not!'

‘And what about yours?'

Margaret's mood changes and becomes sombre again.

‘There haven't really been any – at least, none I care to remember.'

Hamish seizes the moment.

‘Would you like to change that?'

Margaret takes a while to answer. She is on the horns of a dilemma. She had so hoped that Bronwyn might reciprocate her feelings, but it does not look like she will. Perhaps she could love a man, after all, and find satisfaction with him? Hamish is not like the other men she has met. He seems kind and gentle, and she is sure he is an experienced lover.