The Walnut Tree (9 page)

“Sister Douglas. Going on to London, are you? I envy you. I've to take the orthopedic cases to a clinic in Suffolk.”

I did indeed have forty-eight hours of leave. And I was prepared to spend them searching for Peter Gilchrist if I had to.

“I'm looking for Captain Gilchrist. The chest wound. The one added to the list at the last moment. Has he already been put on the train? Or is he remaining in Dover at present?”

“The dark attractive one? Yes, he had a turn for the worse while you were seeing to your cases. I put him in with several other chest wounds. The doctor in charge was concerned—his fever had spiked, and that's never a good sign.”

It meant the infection was spreading. It could mean death was imminent.

I said, “I'd like to know where he's being taken. It's important—if he's that ill, his brother ought to be informed straightaway.”

“Yes, that would be wise. He's already aboard. Number one fifty-six. The third carriage, I think.”

I thanked her and turned to walk along the carriages toward the one I was after. The stationmaster called to me from his office. The train was gathering steam, but he was insistent, and I had no choice but to stop and listen to him. Apparently he thought I was seeing the wounded off, and he wanted to tell me that transportation was available down to the ship just about to embark for France. The train was now pulling out of the station. Turning my back on him, I ran after it, waving and calling, frantic for someone to open a carriage door for me so that I could swing myself aboard.

And the ambulatory wounded at the windows waved back and blew me kisses, believing, like the station master, I was only saying good-bye to someone.

I stopped at the edge of the platform, out of breath from running, feeling desperately tired, desperately afraid.

But there was nothing I could do.

I watched the train growing smaller in the distance as it climbed up from the port.

And then behind me, I heard a man swear.

I turned, just as he saw me and apologized.

“Sorry! I just missed that blasted—Lady Elspeth? Is that you? And in uniform? My God, I didn't know you were a nurse!”

It was Tommy Nesbitt, with whom I'd dined and danced and casually flirted any number of times, a dear friend who had gone to school with my cousin Rory.

He was wearing the uniform of a staff officer, a Major, and I said, “Yes, your eyes aren't deceiving you. I didn't know you'd gone back to your regiment.”

He'd resigned his commission when his father died and taken over the family estates.

“Yes, there was nothing for it but to put on the uniform again. But what are you doing here in Dover?”

I explained about the convoy of wounded. “I was supposed to be on that train,” I ended, “but the stationmaster stopped me, and it was gone before I could do anything.”

“Well, I must be in London for a meeting tomorrow morning, but they held me up at the castle. I can't afford to wait. Come with me, and let's see what can be done.”

I went with him, and we caught up on what had become of mutual acquaintances. I told him about Bruce—he hadn't heard the news—and about Rory, amongst others, and then said, “I just saw Peter Gilchrist as well—in fact, he's on that train, badly wounded.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Peter and I are good friends.”

We were part of a small social circle, and it wasn't surprising that Tommy knew Peter.

We had reached the port commandant's office, and I waited in the anteroom while Tommy went in to speak to him.

He came out half an hour later, saying, “We're in luck! A Guards officer drove down to Dover on his way to France, and he's left his motorcar and his wife at one of the local hotels. She can't drive, and she's looking for someone to take her back to London.”

We left the port and walked toward the line of hotels that faced the sea, popular before the war with travelers and holidaymakers. The Dover Strand was tall, white, and imposing, with turrets that—it was said—made it possible for one to see the coast of France on a clear day, given a good telescope. Indeed, brass ones were mounted on the narrow balcony that ran outside the long windows.

At Reception Tommy asked for Mrs. Larkin, and the hotel manager came out to speak with us. Apparently Mrs. Larkin had taken rooms for a fortnight but had changed her mind and was preparing to return to London, we were told. “She saw the ships bringing in the wounded, and it was too much for her. Recently married, you see.”

I did see. She wouldn't care for any reminder that her husband too might be brought in on one of the hospital ships someday.

Tommy went up to speak to her, and when he came down he was carrying a valise. I suddenly realized that my kit was on the train I'd missed, in the baggage van with that of the other Sisters.

“The staff is seeing to the rest of her luggage,” he said. “The motorcar is being brought around. Do you have a valise?”

“It will be in London before I am.”

“Then we must set out as soon as Mrs. Larkin is ready.”

She came down shortly after that, a tall thin woman whose eyes were red from crying.

Tommy presented me simply as Sister Douglas, and Mrs. Larkin frowned.

“I doubt there will be room for a passenger,” she said crossly.

Tommy smiled. He wasn't a staff officer for nothing. His diplomatic skills were legendary. “I think we can manage quite well.”

And indeed we did, under Tommy's direction. He regarded the motorcar for a moment, then instructed the hotel staff where to put Mrs. Larkin's small trunk and three valises. Grateful that she hadn't traveled with a maid as well, I tucked myself in a corner of the rear seat, a hatbox poking me in the ribs and a picnic basket taking up most of the room under my feet. I said nothing about that when Tommy asked if I were comfortable, for this was my only hope of reaching London before Peter was taken off that train.

Tommy was an excellent driver, threading his way through the busy port traffic, climbing past the castle, and settling down to a smart pace as we picked up the road to London. Mrs. Larkin was quiet at first, and I wondered if she had begun to regret her decision to leave Dover. Very soon she began a querulous monologue, telling us about her fears for her husband, the shocking sight of so many wounded being brought in and the smoking ruins of a ship out in the Channel that had been torpedoed by a submarine.

“I quite understand that Raymond is a soldier,” she said. “When I met him in Shropshire, there
was
no war. And even when Belgium was invaded, it all seemed so far away. And Raymond's regiment was on duty at Buckingham Palace. I had no idea it would be sent to France. Yes, all the young men I know were going on and on about getting into the thick of it. Rushing off to join the Army or the Navy. The Vicar's son went to be a flier, of all things. There should have been more than enough men to fight, and I can't think why Raymond was
needed
. He should have thought about
my
feelings, and stayed in London.”

When she had married her soldier, it must have seemed an exciting life, lovely uniforms, regimental dinners, balls, their only worry being where they might be sent next, for most of the standing regiments took turn about postings to various parts of the Empire. Rory had served in South Africa, and he'd been on the point of going to Canada when Germany marched. Mrs. Larkin hadn't bargained on war and death. She wasn't prepared to cope with it.

Before we reached Canterbury, she had begun to cry, and it wasn't until Rochester that she breathed a huge sigh and said, “He'll be all right, won't he? I'm sure he will.”

Tommy reassured her, and blessed silence fell at last. I'd have liked to talk to Tommy myself, but it would have been awkward from the rear seat, and Mrs. Larkin's presence prevented me from touching on anything personal.

We pulled into London late, and even though Mrs. Larkin was set on going directly to her brother-in-law's house, Tommy told her that I must meet a train at Victoria Station. With poor grace, she agreed, murmuring something about having to make the best of it. I wondered if Raymond was quite aware of the true nature of the woman he'd married.

The train was in the station when we arrived, and as I thanked Tommy and then Mrs. Larkin for bringing me to London, I could see a line of ambulances drawn up. Tommy walked with me to the gate, kissed me on the cheek, and told me to take good care of myself. And then he was gone.

The transfer of patients was already in progress, those intended for London hospitals or further treatment being carried on stretchers to the waiting ambulances, others being transported to other trains.

I walked down the line, looking for the third carriage, but it was already empty.

I found the Sister in charge, and she said, “Not now, please,” as she dealt with the organized chaos. Impatient though I was, I admired her calm skill. Finally she turned to me. “Kits are in the baggage van, Sister.”

“Yes. I'm looking for Captain Gilchrist. Chest wound, he was having difficulties when he was put into carriage three.”

Her eyes narrowed as she studied me. “Is your interest professional or personal, Sister?”

“Professional. I was the sister who brought him on board, but I was occupied with paperwork in Dover when he took a turn for the worse. I'd like to know”—I had to fight to keep my voice steady—“to know if he survived the journey.”

She nodded, consulting her list. “
D—E—F—G.
Ah. Gilchrist. Yes, his fever continued to rise. He was taken off in Rochester and sent to hospital there.”

I stared at her. We had been in Rochester only hours ago. But I hadn't known—there was no way I could have known that Peter was there.

I thanked her, very quickly collected my kit from the baggage van guard, and then went to find the stationmaster.

But there was no seat on any train traveling to Dover. They were filled with troops, and the stationmaster said, “You'll have to show me orders, if you want to travel in that direction.”

The only orders I had allowed me to travel back to Dover in three days' time.

“I have just a few hours of leave. I was hoping to see my family.”

He couldn't be persuaded to give me space. And in England bribes were unacceptable.

In the end, I turned and walked out of Victoria, wondering how in the world I was going to reach Rochester. Tommy had already gone, and even if I could find him, he had an urgent meeting in the morning. This morning. Besides, the motorcar belonged to Mrs. Larkin. I didn't think she would allow me borrow it, under any circumstances. Not even if I used my title. A Scottish earldom carried little weight in Shropshire, I thought wryly.

A cab slowed as I stood undecided on the pavement.

“Sister?” he called, waiting to see if I wished a cab.

There was nothing more I could do. I nodded, just as he was about to give up and move on.

I got out at Mrs. Hennessey's house, and looked up at the windows belonging to our flat. No lights. It must mean that no one else was on leave at the moment.

I let myself in the door, climbed the stairs, and walked into the flat, feeling exhaustion overtake me.

As I hung up my coat on the rack by the door, a voice called drowsily from one of the other bedrooms.

“Mary? Diana? Elspeth?”

It was Bess Crawford. I answered, “It's Elspeth. I've just brought a convoy of wounded to London. I think I'm dead on my feet.”

Bess laughed. “So did I, and then I had to travel on to Gloucestershire. Go to bed, I'll see you in the morning.”

I wished her a good night and walked quietly to my room. Sitting down on the bed, I took stock.

There was nothing more I could do. I'd said that outside the station, but it was brought home to me now, sitting in the flat with no hope of reaching Rochester.

I tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn't come. And then it did, and when I opened my eyes again, it was morning.

I went to Victoria Station and begged for a ticket to Rochester. But travel was limited to essential personnel. With a straight face, I said to the elderly ticket master, “Please, I'm assigned to a hospital there. If I don't arrive in time to take up my duties, I'll be in such
trouble
. You don't know Matron—”

It was not difficult to leave the impression I was close to tears. I was worried enough to cry from sheer frustration.

In the end, he gave me a third-class ticket, all that he had, and I found myself in a carriage filled with young recruits on their way to France and their first test of battle. They laughed, played cards, wrote letters, sang songs to the tunes played by a corporal with a mouth organ. He was no more than one and twenty, I thought, his face still young but his eyes already old. I'd seen that look before, in battle-weary troops trying to hold on against desperate odds. He was on his way back to the nightmare that was war, but he said nothing of that to the untested men around him.

They skipped several verses of one song they were singing—in respect to my presence—but I thought,
who can blame them for making up verses about finding love in France?
Most of them will die before their next birthday, and never find love at all. Or if they survive, mutilated, how many will wed their sweethearts or the girls they dream about? One man from Staffordshire carried a photograph of Gladys Cooper, the actress. No sweetheart for him, and probably just as well.

He said to the soldier who sat next to him, gesturing to the photograph, “Reckon she'll come over there and sing for us?”

There was a roar of laughter, and the young soldier flushed. “Well, what do you think, Sister?” he appealed to me.

“I think there's a very good chance,” I agreed. He nodded, pleased, and then they were singing again.

I got down from the train in Rochester, asked directions to the hospital, and rather than wait for a cab, I walked to it.