Nightingale (16 page)

‘Everything I have or ever will have is yours now, Claire, including my hometown.' He smiled. ‘Population three hundred but once we get there we can make it three hundred and ten.'

‘Sounds as though I'll be permanently pregnant rather than permanent nurse.'

He raised both eyebrows suggestively and she giggled, barely believing the delight she was feeling. It was spreading through her like the first glow of dawn after a long, cold night. Yes, her life had been a long, cold night for too long and Jamie was the sunlight, warming her.

‘Claire, I don't know how long I'll be here but I'm grateful to you for keeping that book and letter safe for me. It's the first thing I'm going to do when the war is finished . . . after kissing you, of course.'

‘I don't want to talk about a dead Turk any more,' she admitted. ‘I have only tomorrow until midday before I must report back for duty in Alexandria. We sail tomorrow night.'

They talked for another hour about inconsequential things, from Jamie's longing to taste a good South Australian beer again to Claire's admission of a new dress she'd bought on a whim during her last break in Alexandria, and her meeting with Eugenie Lester.

‘I'd love you to meet her. She knows all about you. She's going back to England, though; she lives in a place called Radlett. I've promised to visit her sometime.' Claire's shoulders drooped. ‘We're all making promises we can't be sure we'll keep.'

‘I shall keep mine. You will marry me, won't you?'

She lifted her gaze from their hands: his large and battered – but warm and reassuring – encompassing hers and making her feel like a little girl again holding her father's strong hand, feeling safe. ‘In a heartbeat. I love you, Jamie. I don't need a ring or any fuss . . . just your promise is enough.'

‘I know everyone will think us mad.'

Claire laughed. ‘Madly in love.'

‘I know I am . . . but there's guilt as well in feeling this way in the midst of war.'

‘Guilt is for those who have led us to war, not for those who are prepared to lay their lives down for it. Spud, Shahin, the men who fought beside you . . . these are the shameless innocents and they would celebrate your ability to survive, to find happiness in the darkness.'

‘I've changed my mind. Why don't we just marry tomorrow?' he said suddenly. ‘I can ask the hospital chaplain to perform a ceremony,' he pressed.

She watched his eyes cloud at her hesitation. The summery woodland colour she loved turned to a night forest.

She kissed his hand. ‘I do want to marry you more than anything in the world, but not tomorrow. I want to marry you in peacetime when I can hear birdsong rather than men weeping. I want you to stay focused on staying alive . . . not worrying about your wife. You could be back in Turkey or sent somewhere else with your regiment. It's very likely I could be sent into Europe any minute. Everything could change again in a blink.'

He nodded. ‘All right, let's swear a different sort of oath to each other.'

She looked at him quizzically. ‘What sort of oath?'

‘A pact. When is your birthday?'

She frowned, amused. ‘April the eighteenth.'

He grinned. ‘Mine's March the seventeenth. So the midpoint between that is roughly . . . April the first. Agreed?'

‘April Fool's Day!' she said.

‘Righto, then. No matter where we're both posted, or where we end up, whatever happens, let's make this promise to each other – from the moment peace is declared, let's meet on the first day of April that follows. And on that day I'll ask you again to marry me.'

‘Yes,' she whispered, feeling swept up in the romance of it. ‘April Fool's Day, in peacetime.'

A nurse arrived pushing a trolley and Claire hastily sniffed back any threatening tears.

‘Bath time, Trooper Wren,' the nurse said brightly.

He winked at the nurse and beamed her a smile that Claire imagined could win him any heart he wanted. ‘My favourite time, nurse, is surely going to be with you and your sponge.'

‘Oh, go on with you now, cheeky fellow.' She smiled at Claire and then frowned with dawning. ‘Unless you'd like to do the honours, Nurse Nightingale?'

Claire cleared her throat. ‘I'd be delighted to,' she said as she pulled the screen around them.

Claire rolled the trolley closer. ‘So, let's get your nightshirt undone.' She moved Jamie to his back and undid the ties to lower the shift carefully over his shoulders and down to his waist.

He grinned for her to go right ahead. ‘Guess you've done plenty of these before.'

‘Hundreds,' she said, giggling.

‘Come on now,' he insisted. ‘Where's that strict nursey look?'

She was annoyed at herself for blushing at the sight of his exposed chest, the hollowed belly of starvation dipping beneath the sharply defined rib cage that now had thick dressings above it. Claire squeezed out the sponge. ‘Let's start with your bare shoulder, shall we?'

‘You start where you like, Nurse Nightingale. I'm going to close my eyes and enjoy myself.'

She began gently passing the sponge over his skin, and the normal distance she kept from a patient closed itself as the noises of the ward around her diminished and she could hear only her heartbeat. The smell of antiseptic was overridden by the soapsuds and the aroma of his skin, earthily male. Helpless desire now pounded inside as her knuckles grazed his stubbled jaw, and her hand followed the line of his prominent right clavicle across to his injured shoulder.

‘That feels so good,' he admitted, eyes closed, which she was glad about because he would see her staring at his body in a state of building longing.

‘I'm going to lift your arm. It'll hurt, but you'll feel better for it.'

‘Do what you have to do, Nurse Claire. In your hands, I'm helpless.'

‘Is that so?' she murmured dryly, gently easing his injured shoulder, trying not to tear sutures. ‘What else did you do in Farina?'

‘Oh, we played cricket, tennis, we even had a bowls team. There's a post office, couple of hotels, a bank. We even have our own bakery, built underground.'

‘Are you teasing me?'

‘No – the stove was put in around the time I was born. Works a treat. Fresh bread daily, if you can get there, although we're about ten miles out.'

She reached for the sponge again, and lathered up one hand.

He smiled tenderly. ‘Tell me, where is your happy place?'

‘Oh, that's easy,' she said, as she soaped and then sponged his neck. ‘A village called Charvil near Twyford. That's in Berkshire, one of the southern counties of England. It was the house of my mother's closest friend, Anne – who I called Aunt – and whenever we visited, my father used to take me fishing at the ford at the end of the country lane behind. I wouldn't mind renting a place there sometime.'

‘So we meet in southern England, then. And what was your happiest day ever?'

She laughed. ‘Happiest moment? No doubt that would have to be the day Aunt Anne, father and I went to the Langham Hotel in London, at the top of Regent Street.'

‘Means nothing to me,' he admitted, looking embarrassed.

‘Well, let me tell you about it. The palatial hotel was built maybe six decades ago, famous for its elegance, and I've never forgotten being told that it had the first hydraulic lifts installed in all of England.'

‘Did you ride in one?'

She shook her head. ‘I was far too scared to. I was little. Anyway . . . it's terribly grand and I was dressed in my very best to travel to London with Aunt Anne, who was quite wealthy as I understand it now. She took my father and me for afternoon tea as a farewell before he went off to war and I sailed for Australia. She was bitterly upset that I couldn't be left behind with her.' She shook her head. ‘I wanted to, but I wasn't allowed.'

‘Is she still alive?'

‘She died not long after I arrived back in England from Australia. It was heartbreaking but I suppose I was lucky to hug her again. I guess her loss was another reason I fled into nursing in London and not teaching in Winchester as I'd planned.'

‘Tell me about that time at the Langham Hotel.'

‘Aunt Anne chose the Palm Court for an afternoon tea – she called it “High Tea” because she was Scottish. I swear it took my breath away. It was the first time in Britain that a formal afternoon tea was served in a hotel, I was told. It's like you've stepped into a different world of hushed voices and silver salvers and cutlery, of exquisitely painted porcelain and dainty sandwiches and cakes.' She heard the brightness light in her voice at the memory. ‘There are colours, Jamie, and flavours and smells that are so different from the ordinary world that you really could believe you've been transported to a magical realm. There was a small orchestra playing too . . .' Claire momentarily forgot herself, closing her eyes and travelling back to that happy afternoon of music and laughter. ‘And I was allowed to meet the
Brigade de Cuisine
, as they called the kitchen staff, so I could tell the pastry chef just how much I enjoyed his team's amazing array of treats.'

Claire laughed, rinsing out the sponge again as he watched her intently. ‘My aunt forbade us to dunk anything in our tea, and I was encouraged to eat very daintily. We had egg and cress sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and fluffy scones – still floured and warm – with black cherry jam and clotted cream so thick that my teaspoon actually stood up in the tiny pot on my plate. And the cakes! Oh, they were as gorgeous as precious gems – pink iced fancies, puffs of choux pastry with custard and draped in rich chocolate, soft jelly slices glistening in jewel colours, almond delicacies and coconut macaroons dipped in chocolate.' Claire nearly licked her lips in memory. ‘Aunt Anne took her Darjeeling tea black with thin slivers of lemon that she elegantly stabbed with a special fork. Gosh . . . it was all so perfect and feminine. She taught me how to pick up the small sugar lumps gently with special tongs and stir in the milk without clinking against the side of the porcelain, and to sip as a lady must, like this,' she said, her little finger cocked expertly.

Jamie grinned.

‘It was a wonderland.'

‘Then that's where we're going to meet when the war ends: in that place of magic and wonder, on April Fool's Day.'

She stared at him, bemused. ‘You're going to meet me at the Palm Court in the Langham Hotel in Portland Place on the first day of April whenever the war ends?'

He shrugged. ‘I want to see you smiling like that again. And I guess I'll have to learn how to hold my little finger in the air.'

‘I was wrong. I thought all Australian men – especially the farming boys – were rough and tumble, but Jamie, I do believe you're a diehard romantic.'

‘Well, just don't tell everyone,' he grinned. ‘Do we have a promise?'

She nodded.

‘I'll be there, Claire, I promise you, even if I have to —' Claire placed her fingers over his mouth to prevent whatever next he was going to say.

‘Yes, I will be there too, come what may, for afternoon tea at three o'clock. And I'm going to keep the memory of us making this promise to each other as the most important and lasting image in my mind of you.'

‘You do that,' he said, kissing her fingers and sending a fresh thrill of arousal through her. ‘I'll marry you that same day if you'll let me because then we'll be free of all this,' he said, gesturing around the ward.

Claire checked the curtain was fully drawn around his bed and kissed him, this time long and tenderly. She knew it surely hurt him but he lifted his arm so his fingers could sketch the outline of her ear, her jaw, her chin before sinking his fingers into her hair, and as he gently raked it she cast her normal caution aside and with a mind empty of anything but the taste of Jamie, she deepened her kiss, knowing she had never opened herself this way with anyone. It felt intoxicating to communicate silently through their lips, soft and comforting. This was love: a pure, bright ache that would streak through them no matter how far apart they were, and it would bond them as closely as their mouths joined now in perfect union.

‘I have to go,' she finally said, pulling away and noting they were both breathing hard. ‘You need to rest and I have to report back to our digs. They're quite strict and I have to pick up Rosie too.' She glanced at her watch and gave a horrified look. ‘I'll be late meeting Rosie at the pyramids.'

‘What about my pyramid?' he groaned, gesturing towards the sheet between his hips.

She exploded into delighted laughter.

He gave a soft groan of embarrassment. ‘You're killing me.'

‘No better way,' she whispered and her fingertips slid away from his.

‘Tomorrow?'

She nodded. ‘I've only got a couple of hours.'

‘They're mine. I'll meet you on the verandah.'

Claire blew him a kiss and he caught it and mimed throwing it beneath the sheet, which sent her into a squeal of soft, rapturous laughter and then she was gone, hurrying from the hospital, hugging herself that maybe fate finally had a kinder plan for her.

It took a mighty effort and much as the doctor didn't approve, Jamie was determined to meet Claire the following morning in his wheelchair rather than from a hospital bed.

He knew she was staying in a small hotel in the city not far from the Heliopolis that had become the AGH1. One of the ambulance drivers had offered her a lift back to the pyramids to meet Rosie and Jamie had felt a pang of jealousy that another bloke would share Claire's company for a while.

He had woken from his drifting doze believing he had been flying. He preferred not to think of it as a memory of being flung by an explosion but more as hearts beating together like wings of their namesake birds, both of them small and unimportant in the great scheme of life, yet courageous and full of song. The notion of getting their marriage blessed again in the tiny Farina church in front of the townsfolk who'd watched him grow up made him smile as one of the nurses combed his hair. She'd shaved him this morning and even dampened his untidy mop, agreed to neaten it with a few well-chosen snips with her scissors too.

‘There, you look smart now. I have to say you make a handsome pair of sweethearts,' Agnes admitted.

‘Glad you approve.' He winked, ignoring the pain as she gently manoeuvred him into his uniform jacket. She'd kindly brushed it as clean of the dust and dirt as she could. He could see how hastily it had been mended.

‘It's not perfect,' the nurse warned.

‘But then neither am I,' he'd replied, making her laugh. His uniform jacket, its arms left empty and simply placed over his shoulders like a cape with a hospital shift beneath, looked comical, but he couldn't care a jot.

‘She really fought for you,' Agnes continued. ‘I've never heard of anything like it.'

Jamie looked up at her quizzically.

‘Oh, hasn't she told you?' She made a tutting sound. ‘She's too modest, that one. They were just about ready to give up on you in theatre – you were bleeding profusely and your pressure was dropping.'

‘I did hear about a blood transfusion; pretty dangerous, I guess.'

‘So daring, so romantic.' Agnes gave a small shrug of a smile. ‘I can only imagine the complications at sea. It must have been so critical.'

‘They made us all give blood before we left Australia to identify our type.'

‘Very smart. I hear Claire was unstoppable but don't let Nurse Nightingale know I told you so.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, everyone was refusing the procedure but Nurse Nightingale just kept demanding until they let her lie down next to you.'

He frowned. ‘What do you mean?'

‘To give you her blood, of course.'

Jamie barely heard what Agnes said next as he digested the scope of her revelation.

‘You see, Nurse Nightingale already knew she was group three and begged them to use her as the donor.'

‘What? She risked her own life?'

She nodded with glee. ‘That's what I mean,' she said, ensuring his hospital gown was straight and tied up neatly at the back. ‘It's so romantic I'm breathless. Now the two of you are joined in blood.' She stood back and admired him, not grasping the impact of her chatter. ‘She could have died, you know, but apparently she said not even the threat of death was going to cheat her of a life with you.'

Jamie was grateful in that moment that Agnes was called away by her matron.

‘Thank you, Aggie . . . for everything.'

She nodded, left him seated painfully in the wicker wheelchair that was his choice. He was in a small back ward of the hospital that had been a guest room the previous year. Here seven other men were recovering from shocking shrapnel wounds and his injuries seemed minor by comparison. Each was either lost in an opiate haze or sleeping deeply to escape the pain.

If he were honest, he'd admit that his rib cage felt as though it were on fire while his right shoulder was screaming its own agony and his left protested with equal rage. It was what they called ‘healing pain', and Jamie was surprising the medics by his rapid recovery. His body had decided that it could heal itself, especially now with Claire arriving shortly, appearing in the trembling heat like a cool, sweet drink for a thirsty man.

They were joined in blood. He shook his head. He now felt the urge to take a vow today and become man and wife, no matter the pressures of war or the cruelty of imminent certain distance.

Claire had told him about an ankle-length softly embroidered ivory dress that she'd bought only days ago. It would make an ideal wedding dress.

‘I'll bet you look like a goddess in it,' he'd remarked.

She'd laughed. ‘I don't pay much attention to all that.'

Jamie's instincts had already clued him that whether she was aware of how heart-stoppingly pretty she was, she displayed no outward show of vanity over it. She wore no jewellery, rouge or lipstick, not even perfume . . . nothing that enhanced her presence, but then in his opinion nothing was required to do so. He couldn't wait to see her smile, radiating warmth into the room as though she'd brought summer inside.

‘I bought it last time I was in Alexandria simply to shut my friend Rosie up.' She'd lifted a shoulder self-consciously.

Jamie pictured her now in the pale cream cotton and lace as a bride, with her brightly golden hair caught up in soft tresses behind her head. He would live for the day when he could unlock that clasp and watch the waves fall to her shoulders, run his fingers without the hampering of bandages and pain through its pale strands that, even tied up, glinted as though each hair was individually polished to catch the light.

Agnes was back.

‘Come on, then. Sorry I'm a few minutes late. I thought Nurse Nightingale might be here by now. I'm under very strict instructions that you remain in your wheelchair and be taken only as far as the verandah. And if you begin to bleed —'

‘I won't, Aggie. To the verandah. Tally ho!' he pointed dramatically, ignoring the pain it cost him. Agnes giggled and wheeled him gently out of the ward and down the airy corridors onto the shade of one of the many breezeways surrounding the hospital. Patients dozed and men smoked quietly, staring out at the tall palms and the pure blue sky, unblemished by clouds, the sun still low enough for its light to reach beneath the eaves and make them squint.

‘Should I find some flowers? There are carnations and even roses growing in the hospital gardens, as well as magnificent lotus lilies.'

‘Would you?'

She nodded. ‘Don't go anywhere,' she warned and grinned.

As Agnes left, a small dark man approached from below the verandah nodding at him. He was dressed in robes.

‘Did you manage it?' Jamie asked.

‘Yes, sir, yes,' he said, his lips splitting to reveal crooked teeth like old gravestones. He held out his palm and placed what had been a piece of shrapnel but was now a polished charm that had been drilled through its centre.

‘Oh, good bloke, Bakari! Thank you. Did Agnes give you the money?'

‘Yes, sir, yes,' he repeated.

Jamie admired it. He didn't have a ring to give Claire but he had thought about it after she'd left yesterday afternoon and now wanted to give her something meaningful and easily portable. He had nothing of his belongings other than the piece of shrapnel. She could wear it on a chain, perhaps. It would be a symbol of his love until he could give her a gold band they could bless in a church. He should write to his parents. What would his father say? His mother would cry. His brothers would shake their heads and tell him he was always the soppy one. But he'd be the first to fall in love with a girl and bring her into the Wren family. He sat beneath the shade, his pains forgotten, and let his thoughts drift to the garden he'd carve out of the hard earth of Farina for his bride. Roses grew well in South Australia, so did geraniums and —

His gaze had lazily followed the arrival of one of the ambulances as his thoughts had drifted. He watched absently as the driver alighted and walked around the front of the van, and the man's fearsomely red hair and sun-reddened complexion caught Jamie's unwitting attention. He knew the man's name: Bluey Wentworth. He'd heard Claire name him, had seen him come by to call her name the previous evening. Bluey had been the ambulance driver who'd offered her a lift back to her hotel.

Jamie whistled. It seemed polite to say hello. ‘Hey, Bluey!' he called, and the man halted in his tracks looking for who had hailed him. He squinted in Jamie's direction. Then, as if Jamie was exactly the person he was searching for, he raised a hand and seemed to let out a breath of relief and pointed to the hospital steps to suggest he'd see him shortly.

In the meantime Agnes returned, clasping a sweet bunch of blushing flowers.

‘They're beautiful, like you, Aggie. Thank you.'

‘Oh, go on with you.'

‘She'll be here any minute and I'm going to give her your flowers and this odd but meaningful piece of jewellery and ask her properly to be my fiancée,' Jamie assured, smoothing his hair. The importance of yesterday's decision moved from relief and effervescence to become somewhat daunting – how could he protect Claire when after today they were to be separated indefinitely? The thought had grown into a tight web of fear that had ensnarled him through his restless night.

At that moment Bluey emerged from the doorway.

‘He seems to be looking for you,' Agnes said.

‘Hello again,' Bluey said.

‘Hello, mate. We weren't properly introduced yesterday.' Jamie shrugged and grinned. ‘Neither arm's much good right now or I'd shake your hand.'

Bluey smiled, dimples folding the flesh of his round face. He looked at Agnes, and Jamie sensed he was feeling awkward. ‘Lovely flowers.'

‘They're for Nurse Nightingale. How is she getting here if not with you?' Agnes wondered.

Jamie blinked, finally registering Bluey's anxious expression and unshaven, dishevelled appearance. Words were tumbling from the newcomer. Something was wrong.

‘Not coming?' he heard Agnes repeat.

As odd as it was, Jamie seemed to feel the alarms trilling through his three wounds, as if something of Claire remained with them and they too were responding to the news.

Bluey shook his head. ‘She didn't even have time to write a note. Just begged me to promise I'd find you.' Jamie realised Bluey was speaking to him.

‘What?'

Agnes answered. ‘Jamie, she's been recalled to Alexandria in some haste.'

Bluey took over. ‘The
Gascon
had to sail a day earlier than scheduled to outrun some weather, but there's also been a surge in casualties. They have to get them off that beach, mate, but heaven only knows where they're going to put 'em. Mudros is at capacity and they're already doing it tough enough on the island.' He must have realised that he was yet to make his point – the one Jamie and his companion were waiting to hear. ‘The girls received an urgent telegram and we left the city after four yesterday afternoon, only just making it. There was chaos at the docks and with talk of huge numbers of wounded coming in on the next ship, you'd better expect things to get a bit mad here too.'

He stopped talking abruptly and a thick, uncomfortable silence settled.

Agnes spoke first. ‘Jamie, I'm so sorry but it obviously can't be helped. Orders are orders. Seems like we're all deserting you.'

He frowned. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I haven't had a chance to tell you yet but I just got my fresh orders too . . . only moments ago. I'm going to be based in one of the Red Cross hospitals in Flanders.'

‘Right at the coalface, eh?' Bluey said.

She nodded, blushing. ‘Finally, I've got permission.'

Jamie knew he should congratulate her, although he couldn't find the words. ‘You'll be missed,' was all he said, for he knew it was going to be a dark, potentially life-changing experience for the young, bubbly nurse.

‘I'm sorry, Wren,' Bluey said.

‘I'll put these in a jar by your cot,' Agnes offered, taking the flowers from his limp hands. ‘They'll keep her close and they'll still be fresh for when she gets back, you'll see. And if not, you can ask one of the other nurses to cut some more,' she said, desperately feigning a brightness no one was feeling as she set off.

Control what you can
. ‘It's usually a three-day turnaround,' Jamie mused, swallowing his disappointment.

Bluey agreed. ‘She said to shave again in a few days.'

‘
You
need a shave, mate,' Jamie said, digging up his best cheerful voice. ‘And a sleep. Thanks for coming.'

‘I'll bring her back, I promise.'

Jamie nodded. ‘Cheerio, then.'

Self-consciously they exchanged awkward glances as they cleared throats and said farewell.

Jamie didn't know if he'd somehow used mind over matter to keep it at bay, but the fever, which he'd felt gnawing at him through the previous night, seemed to sense his loss and with his defences momentarily shattered by the news, it now rushed to fill the void.

By the time Agnes came out to check on him an hour or so later, the malaise had him and the nurse found him drowsy and incommunicative. Trapped within his nightmarish dreamscape, Jamie believed he was in a trench, all of his mates hit by a direct shell, dead where they hid, gunfire snapping and spitting above, explosions all around while he revolved slowly, taking in the dire scene as a hawk flew overhead and he fretted about all the events he could no longer control.