Nightingale (11 page)

He'd kissed her, apologised, and she could have left it like that – a moment's madness, an error. But she had pursued him, suffering her own heartbeat of insanity by encouraging him. By the time Matron had happened upon her in the stores room, Claire had accepted the truth that she'd been entranced by him from the first moment she'd seen him stagger towards her, wearing that agonised look of entreaty, which seemed directed only at her.

She'd thought about it far too often since and it now felt like a well-trodden pathway in her mind. So many unrelated incidents had conspired to bring them together on that beach of hell, within the same sun-drenched hour, and in that same moment of heartbreak. Claire had decided that they were two lone birds that had flown with the guidance of fate to this island. James Wren with his disarming smile and melancholy mood had trapped her, just like the tiny nightingale she was named after. And now, even though they were separated by many nautical miles, she was convinced he still held her heart captive.

Is this what it felt like – that most elusive of emotions? If love was meant to empower, why did she feel so suddenly and helplessly bound? Sitting here, fully dislocated from her life in either Britain or Australia, Claire wondered whether she was in love. How was it possible outside of novels to fall for a stranger so swiftly, so hard, in fact, that one's whole world seemed wrong unless that person were part of it? Her new grief stemmed from this pain of separation and the sudden relentless fear for Jamie's safety.

Rosie's voice gushed into her mind with a stream of words about the hotel and Claire dug up a grin for her friend and stopped pressing the bruise. Over the rim of her glass she saw an elderly woman watching her from another table. She was dressed in cream linens, far more suitable for the climate than her own starched uniform. They exchanged a polite smile.

‘Ready?' Rosie said, gathering her bag, hat and cape – no veil at least. When in uniform Matron insisted they wear it proudly and properly. ‘Wish we'd taken time to change now,' she grumbled, smoothing her uniform. ‘I've paid, by the way.'

‘Oh, thank you. Yes, ready, but now I need the lav. Why don't you go find us a horse and cab? My treat. I've got nothing else to spend it on.'

Rosie gasped. ‘Oh, what fun. We'll make him take the long way to Cherif Pasha Street.'

Claire excused herself and went in search of the rest rooms, dawdling to peer into the elegant dining room and at the frescoes. A silent female attendant, dressed sumptuously in the hotel colours of deep crimson and ultramarine, stood guard to supervise the handing out of small towels and tiny scoops of soap paste. While Claire was washing her hands another guest arrived at her side to use the second basin.

Claire immediately recognised the elderly lady who had smiled at her from the verandah. ‘Oh, good morning.' She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Nearly good afternoon,' she grinned.

‘Hello, my dear.' Her refined accent told Claire she was English. ‘Are you from the Australian hospital?'

‘I'm from the hospital ship,
Gascon
.'

‘Oh, my word. You brave thing. Is it truly as terrible as the news we hear from the Dardanelles?'

‘Worse,' Claire admitted with a sad smile.

The woman sighed. ‘I've lived in Egypt for the last score years. I just can't seem to get any enthusiasm up to return to wet and windy Hertfordshire, although that's precisely what I'm doing, and while the news in Europe feels too incredible to counter, I still can't quite believe what's going on in our backyard here.'

‘It's hopeless. That's the truth of it. We should pull out. Too many thousands already dead, or so badly maimed they probably wish they were.'

‘War is a dreadful business. Women should run the world.'

Claire chuckled.

‘Eugenie Lester,' she said, drying her hands before offering to shake Claire's. ‘Do call me Eugenie.'

‘I'm Claire Nightingale.'

‘Oh, charming name – now there's a woman for whom I hold immense admiration; your inspiration, no doubt.'

Claire nodded. ‘You're right.'

‘You're wearing an Australian uniform, but you sound English.' Her eyes sparkled with interest.

Claire was used to this query. She kept her explanation brief, then concluded, ‘I returned to England, did my nurse's training and . . . here I am in Egypt. I guess I straddle both countries, although I feel as mixed up as my nationality today.'

‘Good gracious. But I sense you rather like the adventure of such a dangerous place. What's more, I doubt you'd take up nursing unless you enjoyed being valued?' The startling bright blue of her gaze searched Claire's and pinned her down as though she could see into all her private thoughts. ‘I'll bet all your patients find a will to recover when treated by you, my dear. Don't underestimate the balm that a beautiful face, gentle manner and tender hands can be for a wounded man.'

The only one not surprised by Claire's sudden tears was Eugenie, who stretched her thin arms, tanned and wrinkled like tissue paper, around her. Claire instinctively bent into the embrace and wept. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cried. At the funeral of her father, perhaps, although those had been slow, silent tears, not this shaking outburst.

‘Cry it out, my girl. I'm very glad we've met. I think we were meant to,' she soothed.

The attendant offered another towel and a shy, soft smile.

Claire sniffed and thanked her. ‘
Shokran
.'

‘
Al'afw
,' she murmured, her dark eyes full of understanding. She tapped her heart and nodded.

‘I think she's right,' Eugenie probed. ‘This is not about war, I suspect. This is about your heart.'

Claire swallowed back a small sob. ‘I don't know what it is, but it hurts.'

‘“It” surely has a name, my dear?'

‘James Wren.' It was out before she could censor herself.

Eugenie didn't look surprised, and leaned harder on her walking cane. ‘Ah. He's fighting, presumably?'

She nodded miserably. ‘I'm good at my job, Eugenie. I wouldn't say I don't get involved because I feel touched by every man's wounds that we try and repair, but there's always the next in line and I've managed to keep a clear head and not get too lost or overwhelmed by it all.'

‘Until this one, you mean?'

‘Yes.' She told Eugenie about their two meetings on that fateful day. ‘I'm not a girl with her head full of roses and romance. Part of this mood is my shock that I can't seem to think of anything else but him, filled with fear and dread. I barely know him, and —'

‘Oh, you know him,' Eugenie assured. ‘As Layla here can see, and so can I, you already love him; it happens. Accept. Love comes out of nowhere for the majority of us. And the best love is unexpected, while the least successful in love are those who plan it or force it. This young man has flown into your heart and made a nest.' She chuckled at her jest. ‘Your very names make sense together.'

Claire dabbed at her tears with the towel and gave a watery smile. ‘What if I lose him before I've even had the chance to tell him how this feels?'

‘He knows.'

‘But my whole life has suddenly changed. Now I spend every moment worrying. I never used to worry – not even about a bomb hitting the ship.'

‘That's because, my dear, you've probably convinced yourself that you had no one to go home to, or give your love to. Now you do. Now there's every reason to fear not only for his life but for yours. Don't you see, this is precious? For whatever it's worth, I believe love is one of the greatest reasons for being alive.'

‘What if he dies and —'

Now she folded Claire's damp fingers together and clasped them between her gnarled, slightly liver-spotted hands and fixed her with a pale stare that wasn't unlike her own. ‘Claire, dear, you have no control over his fate in the same way that you had no control over fate bringing him into your life. But given what you've told me about him, I have a feeling that Jamie Wren, who was feeling just as adrift as you in this war when he met you, now has a reason to take great care and find you again.'

Claire blinked, relieved she'd shared her heartache with someone, though privately amazed that it was with this stranger.

‘I feel certain that he wants to hold you and kiss you again and that will drive him to stay as safe as he can. You just have to believe in him.'

‘But I don't even know how I'll ever see him again.'

‘You will.' Eugenie said this with such confidence that Claire believed her and for the second time in a few minutes surprised herself by hugging her new friend.

‘Thank you. Thank you for listening and making me feel better.'

‘Keep him here,' Eugenie said, gently tapping above Claire's heart. ‘Do you know the old German fable of the kinglet?' Claire shook her head. ‘The birds of every land had a competition to see who could fly the highest in order to choose their king. The eagle outflew all and proclaimed himself their ruler until a tiny wren that had hidden in his plumage leapt higher still and claimed the crown.'

Claire laughed and Eugenie patted her arm.

‘So, my dear, I think you should trust your wily young Mr Wren. Come visit me when you find your way back to England. Radlett in Hertfordshire. Loom Lane is not far from the station. I'm returning early July, I suspect.'

‘Thank you,' Claire said. ‘I don't really know where Radlett is.'

‘About fifteen miles north of London, very direct on the railways.'

Claire already felt cheered for knowing Eugenie.

‘Anyway, promise me you'll visit?' She clasped Claire's hand. ‘Loom Lane,' she reminded. ‘I would love to see you again and offer you tea in my garden.'

‘I promise.'

The elderly woman smiled and the lines around her eyes crinkled easily and deepened the kindness in her already gentle expression.

‘Excellent. Now, in the meantime, stay busy. If you're always engaged in life, Claire, you won't have time to feel sad for yourself.'

Eugenie left and Claire, feeling much brighter for the illuminating chance meeting with the older woman, tucked some coin into the attendant's hand, thanking her again in her language.

She found Rosie impatiently waiting.

‘Sorry, I got chatting with one of the guests.'

‘Why are your eyes red?'

‘I got some grit in an eye and, gosh, it hurt. She helped me get it out.'

Rosie seemed satisfied by the fib. ‘Come on, our ride is waiting.'

They scrambled into the carriage and Claire sat back quietly to let her gaze drift absently over the passing scenes. It didn't need much more than the odd agreement or nod to keep Rosie happy and Claire was able to admire the elegance of this city that somehow blended its Arabic heritage with the tall European buildings of sandstone. Trams rumbled alongside and advertisements on hoardings promoted everything from suit outfitters to the Salonica Cigarette Company. They overtook other carriages dropping off travellers and watched new arrivals wiping perspiration from weary brows as they finally arrived at their hotels.

Their horse clip-clopped into the familiar Cherif Pasha Street and passed Zivy Frères Jewellers and Horologists at number ten and onto Phillips & Lawrence, military and ladies' tailors at number fourteen, reminding Claire that she still had a dress fitting in this salon for a new frock.

The Welsh department store loomed and Rosie gave her a soft prod. ‘Here we go. Have you got change?'

‘Yes,' she said, digging into her bag for some of the Egyptian pounds and piastres she kept in a separate pocket. As they prepared to alight, Claire took a deep breath and Eugenie's advice to let go of her fear.

She now must trust that Jamie would somehow, amidst the carnage, find her again.

Jamie lay facing the wall of the trench, his left shoulder stiff from pressing down on that side for most of the night. Sleep had predictably eluded him but being left alone to meander through his grief was the best medicine right now. The rest of the blokes had lost three of their mates too. The sorrows were shared, but not having Spud at his side felt daunting – as though he'd been cut loose from the land and was now on an ocean, alone on a tiny raft. Claire Nightingale was the sea on which he found himself, dragging him further and further from the safety of the shore of his life.

He'd never felt more adrift than this moment, recalling her intimacy. She'd encouraged him, and he sensed she was no flirt. She had surged pure and without any warning or agenda and made him fall in love with her.

And that's what hurt the most: his guilt was the reason he had lain awake staring at the night-black wall, listening to sporadic gunfire and not caring about the ants or the itching lice. He should be grieving for Harry Primrose; instead he was yearning for the touch of Claire Nightingale.

He was no longer scared. He planned to outlive the Turkish bombs and bullets, the sickness and the sadness; he had a girl now whom he loved, and she was worth fighting to live for. He could picture her features in perfect detail: eyes that spoke of a sparkling winter's morning, clear and bright, skin he'd dared to touch so briefly, the colour of his pet hen's egg, with porcelain-like shells of golden tint as though recently burnished from the sun's warmth. That was Claire's skin, unblemished – save a tiny translucent silvery scar in the middle of her brow. Only she mattered. Seeing her again meant everything. He would stay alive just to see that smile of hers.

He felt someone shove him with a boot but not unkindly. ‘Come on, Wrennie. You're on orderly duty.'

He pretended he was still asleep. ‘What?'

‘You and Smithy.'

‘Where's Dag?' he groaned.

‘As usual, busy as a one-legged bloke in an arse-kicking contest,' his companion muttered. ‘He's on the crapper but I'll be giving him the hurry on too. The boys are looking for fried eggs, bacon, toast, butter, marmalade, tea with milk and sugar, and then a big slice of sponge cake with orange icing. All right, mate? Don't let us down.' The soldier chuckled dryly – they all knew their next meal would be only more bully beef and dry biscuits.

‘It can't be my turn already,' Jamie grumbled, desperate to hang on to his private thoughts.

‘'Tis, cobber. Smithy's up. Come on, we're parched for a cuppa. Easy on the flies today.'

Jamie muttered beneath his breath, as odd cracks of gunfire were as determined as his grinning companion to make sure he knew another dawn had arrived. Mind you, cooking roster was more agreeable than being earmarked on the cookhouse fatigue for carrying up the water from the tanks in Shrapnel Gully, or searching for the wood to build the fires.

They all slept in their uniforms, so there was no need to do anything but swiftly visit the latrines, then make his way gingerly to the cookhouse under the shelter of some overhanging rock to get bully beef sizzling with a scarce supply of bacon. Eggs and toast were only in their daydreams, but he was alongside Smithy, one of those people who insisted on being disgustingly cheerful, whistling while he fried the food. He let Jamie make the tea in an old kerosene tin and get the hard biscuit sorted; Jamie knew his unit was taking it easy on him. There wasn't a man in the regiment who didn't know the stunned mindset of losing a close mate to a cruel death.

Jamie counted only eight flies in his dixie this morning and took it to be a good omen. Spud had once told him that one of the Chinese workers on his dad's farm had said eight was the luckiest of all numbers. Spud hadn't been able to back up that claim, but the notion had stuck. Jamie found himself counting off in eights. Eight steps, eight bullets, eight bombs, eight hours; his birthday date added up to eight, and he'd met Claire on the eighteenth, hadn't he?

He skimmed off the drowning insects as bullets zipped and popped, one piercing a sandbag that flung some of its contents into his face just as he sipped the horrible brew, grit adding to his first mouthful. He ignored the porridge he'd been given.

A drizzle had decided to become insistent, turning his surrounds into a steadily dampening swamp of mud and blood. His only consolation was that at least it wasn't cold. If they'd gone to the Western Front in Europe as originally planned, he couldn't imagine how much worse these war conditions might feel in freezing rain, waking up covered in frost. The flies suddenly seemed trivial.

‘You all right, Wrennie?' someone asked. He looked up, glad that no one else called him by Spud's nickname. ‘Eat it, man, before the flies do.'

They both glanced at the gluggy porridge.

‘Do you want it, Jimmy?'

The older man, exceptionally tall, forever bending as a result in the trench, leaned in now. ‘What's going on in here, lad?' he asked, tapping Jamie's head.

Jamie shook it. ‘Nothing much.'

Jimmy's expression told Jamie he didn't believe that for a second. ‘I think you think too much and too deep, son. Eat, drink, sleep, kill Abdul before he kills you. It's simple. We're here now. We can't change anything.'

‘Thanks, Jimmy.'

‘Good lad.' He looked to his right as they heard an odd eruption of voices too. Jimmy must have straightened a little too much because a shell exploded just outside the trench and some shrapnel caught him across one side of his head.

He dropped, his dixie of tea falling with him to spill into the trench.

‘Strike me,' he moaned. ‘Those fuckin' pipsqueaks.'

Jamie was at his side in a heartbeat. ‘Jimmy? Where else are you hurt?' he urged, noting the head wound.

‘Just here, mate.' He gestured to his head. ‘I'll be right. My bloody tea!'

Jamie had to smile, felt a surge of pride at how most of the men managed to keep up the cheer for each other. He had no right to be mooching around.

‘I'm sorry, Jimmy. That was my fault.'

‘You didn't launch the seventy-seven, son. Bastard German weapons.' Blood was flowing freely, bright and glossy from the wound.

‘You need to get that seen to,' Jamie cautioned, nodding at the pale flap of flesh that now hung from Jimmy's parting.

‘My own fault not wearing a helmet. But my dear old mum insisted I take my hat off when I sat down at her table to eat.'

The comment pricked at Jamie's memories of his own mother: how she had grumbled at her sons to comb their hair and wash their hands before they sat down to their evening meal. ‘No substitute for manners, boys,' she'd murmur to the hungry men scraping back chairs and reaching for her freshly baked bread cut into slices as thick as gravestones.

‘Here, Jimmy, drink mine.' Jamie reached for his barely touched tea. ‘I sneaked one back at the cookhouse,' he lied.

Jimmy's eyes widened with gratitude and he took the mug, swallowing it greedily.

‘Do you want some help getting to the dressing station? That wound needs attention.'

Jimmy waved him away. ‘Don't fuss. I'll go.'

A commotion seemed to be rippling through the trench and he sensed, rather than heard, its arrival as it passed from man to man. He noticed suddenly that all firing had stopped and Jimmy was handing back his dixie and sighing as he hauled himself to his feet. The man weaved his way between other men and the angles of the trench.

‘What's going on?' Jamie asked Bert Johnson next to him.

‘Something about the armistice.'

An officer lumbered into view and all the men began shooshing each other to hear what he had to say.

‘Tell the blokes up front to send it down the line,' Jamie growled.

‘They're looking for volunteers to help clear the dead in no-man's-land,' came the reply back via the men ahead of him.

He waited.

‘Yeah, it's an armistice. Officially from seven-thirty this morning.'

He listened to some of the men around him complaining about not wanting to help Johnny Turk while others spoke of the airborne diseases from the corpses that could kill able men in the trenches. Discussions parried back and forth.

‘I'll go,' Jamie offered in the spirit of his new decision. ‘Anything to change the scenery,' he added and pushed forward.

‘Watch your bloody boots, mate.'

‘Can't help it if you've got feet like battleships, Jacko,' he replied and grinned even though he wasn't yet feeling nearly as chipper as he sounded.

‘Come on then, handsome. Make room, boys. The movie star's coming through.'

Jamie loathed the constant references to his looks but had realised long ago, even as far back as school days, that he couldn't have it all ways. His looks had made him popular but they had made him various enemies too, especially blokes who weren't good around girls and loathed his easy manner with them.

‘You're the one who has to make room, Richo. Your gut's too big.'

Richo rubbed his belly. ‘Can't help the awning over the toyshop now, can I?' he said, grabbing his own crotch.

The men around guffawed and Jamie couldn't help but join in. Right now the teasing felt somehow reassuring.

‘Bugger me, well done, Wrennie,' someone said and slapped him on the back as he passed. ‘Here comes another one, sir,' the bloke called out.

The officer nodded at all the men volunteering, pointed them to one end of the trench. Finally, when he'd gathered a sufficient working group, he addressed them as one.

‘Well done, you men. There will be no firing from either side guaranteed. The truce begins officially . . .' He checked his watch, flipping the leather case open and nodded. ‘. . . in about eight minutes.'

Jamie swallowed. It was a sign from Spud.

‘What if they're really doing a reccy of our trenches, sir?' one of the men piped up.

‘A fair point, Trooper. It's been considered and decided that a line is to be pegged out down the centre of no-man's-land. We'll be handing out some Red Cross flags for you to use to do that. The Turks will work on their side and our men on this side of it.' He raised a hand at the obvious question rushing to be asked. ‘Any Turks found dead on our side are to be picked up and taken to the centre line. They will do the same for our boys. On other ridges, it's more complicated but that's not our problem today. Each of you is to wear one of these Red Cross armbands. Please ensure it's clearly visible. I have no idea how jumpy Johnny Turk might be today but let's not give them an excuse, all right, lads?'

‘What about weapons, sir?'

‘Good question. No one is to carry a weapon during the course of today's work in no-man's-land. Is that understood?' The men nodded. ‘The Turks proposed this so we'll respectfully agree. Any rifles found on no-man's-land are to be gathered and placed on stretchers. Same pack drill. If they're foreign, you take them to the centre line after removing the bolts and return them to their owners. If they're ours, we collect them from the pegged line as well.'

The staff officer continued, speaking through his ingenious bullhorn fashioned from an old can. ‘Sounds like the ceasefire has begun. Your job is to clear the dead as efficiently as you can. I'll warn you this is going to be an unpleasant and above all emotional task, so you need to keep your wits and stay strong, boys. Concentrate only on our brave fallen and get them swiftly back so we can bury them with the respect they've earned.'

Jamie nodded with his fellow soldiers.

‘The Turks are estimated to have lost ten thousand men nine days ago, when they promised to drive us all back into the sea. They've got their work cut out for them and we may be moving some of our men into work groups at the worst areas to help the Turks. So we're handing out red armlets. You're to wear those so everyone can recognise why you're there and what your job is. Each unit will have a staff officer and medical officer to accompany it. I want you all to tie a strip of calico to the top of the stakes over there. You're to raise that as you go over the parapet so Johnny Turk understands.'

The officer glanced at his watch again. ‘It's eight o'clock exactly.' Jamie blinked. ‘Stand by for orders once the demarcation line is set up and readied. Finish your breakfasts and get your armlets on. I'll be back shortly.'

________

When the staff officer reappeared with the medical officer the men were told to move. Jamie estimated nearly a hundred of them were involved. Everyone else in the trenches was ordered to keep their heads down and not give away any positions, any clue to their numbers.

Jamie was one of the first to raise his head over the lip of the parapet. Weeks of keeping their heads low at all times made him feel tentative, but when no bullets came spitting back, he grew bolder and scrambled up the slippery wall until he stood at the edge of the trench that had been his home for more than a month now.

Red Cross flags marked out the centre line. Opposite, no more than a dozen strides away, stood the Turks in a variety of uniforms, from olive green through to one presumably important person wearing sapphire with gold braiding. They were short, stocky men by comparison to his compatriots – even Spud might have stood taller than most of them – but they stood proud, bearing red crescents on armbands, and made his contingent look positively scruffy in their shirtsleeves, some even stripped down to singlets. He sighed out the breath he'd been holding and without fully registering that he was doing so, he lifted a hand in salutation to one of them.

The man on the other side of the line who noticed smiled and followed suit. Other men scrambled up beside Jamie and also began hailing the opposing force like friends. The feeling was genuinely mutual despite the obvious air of suspicion. He heard a familiar sound of flute music, and turned keenly to see a young man in the distance. In delighted response, he slipped out his harmonica and played a brief riff. The young man turned instantly and they both waved, grinning helplessly.