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When she next goes to Lewes Crescent on Tuesday afternoon, the first convoys of wounded men have arrived.
They were greeted at the station that morning by crowds of cheering well-wishers. (She knows this, because Mrs Van de Berg was one of them, having gone with one of the ladies from the bridge club, to distribute chocolate and cigarettes to the Poor Brave Boys.) At Lewes Crescent, she finds stretchers leaning against the railings, drying in the sun after being scrubbed clean. The elegant hall is cluttered with trolleys and screens, and a laundry hamper has been left at the foot of the stairs. The space is filled with male voices; and through the doorway to the inner hall, she sees a queue of men, dirty and bedraggled. Upstairs, on the gallery, Corporal Maloney is talking to one of the doctors, too grimly focused to give her a second glance. The front of his white tunic is smeared with blood.
The smell is overwhelming. The tang of disinfectant has been swamped by the stench of the slaughterhouse, of meat gone bad. It makes her gag.
She finds Sister Pinkney at Matron’s desk, writing rapidly in a ledger. She waits, not wanting to intrude in this place of purpose and protocol. When Sister Pinkney glances up, she finds herself apologising. ‘Mrs Van de Berg has provided postcards, with stamps attached, for the men to send word home, but I’m sure now isn’t the time—’
‘On the contrary, Miss Simmons.’ Nurse Pinkney’s face is drawn, and she removes her wire-framed glasses to rub at the red welts they have left on the bridge of her nose. ‘Now is the perfect time. A lot of families will be waiting for news.’ She lowers her voice. ‘But, please, prepare yourself. If you’re shocked, do not show it, and if you’re upset, do not cry. I hope you don’t faint at the sight of blood?’
A flash of memory. A white shirt splashed with red, scarlet drops on the stone flags.
She shakes her head.
‘Good.’ Sister Pinkney’s expression softens. ‘These men are soldiers, Miss Simmons, but they are also sons, brothers, husbands. Without nursing experience it’s quite natural to be daunted by their injuries, but you must look past them and see the man. Think of him as someone you might know yourself.’
‘Of course, Sister Pinkney.’
But as she goes into the ward, where the smell of the charnel house is stronger than ever and the pristine beds she made up are occupied, it is exactly that possibility that makes her heart falter.
Autumn
Chapter 16
The thin, metallic note of the church bell started up as Eliza leaned over the washbowl and splashed her face with cold water. Behind her, Abigail had unpinned her hair and turned her head upside down to brush it vigorously. On hearing the bell, she flipped it back, so that it settled around her shoulders like an expensive sable cape.
‘Oh Lord, that must be Davy telling us he’s here! I’m not ready. I wanted to try that new style I saw in the magazine.’
‘He won’t be here yet; Davy will have just seen him. And anyway, even when he does get here it’s going to take him ages to set up all his fancy equipment, isn’t it? You’ve got plenty of time.’
Even to Eliza’s own ears her voice sounded weary and snappish. Not so long ago she would have shared Abigail’s excitement about a photographer coming to take staff portraits to hang alongside the others on the kitchen passage wall, but she couldn’t seem to muster much enthusiasm for anything these days.
Yesterday evening Abigail had carried up cans of water to wash her hair and Eliza had intended to use it once she’d finished, but in the end the effort had seemed overwhelming. It had been a long day; Sir Randolph was back from Scotland and as demanding as ever, and with the additional work for the wedding celebrations and the couple’s permanent return to Coldwell, everyone was rushed off their feet. By the time tea was cleared Eliza had been done in and decided to make do with sponging the roots with a bit of cider vinegar. The smell wafted about her now, and in the mirror, her hair hung lankly around her pasty face, a stark contrast with the silken swathe Abigail was pinning into a shiny pompadour. Eliza regretted not taking the trouble.
She found she was regretting quite a few things, these days.
She buried her face in the towel to smother her envy, and the nausea that rolled through her. Abigail had already changed her morning print dress for the smarter afternoon black, but Eliza was putting off undressing until Abigail had gone downstairs.
‘I wish we didn’t have to wear these stupid caps,’ Abigail grumbled. ‘I’m going to pin mine right on the back of my head so’s you can’t see it. I hope the photographer doesn’t want us to do that ridiculous thing of holding something to show what job we do. The one we had at my last place did that. So embarrassing. I was standing there holding a dustpan and brush like a right lemon. I looked like a crossing sweeper.’
In spite of herself, Eliza laughed.
‘That’s more like it,’ Abigail said, securing the last pin in her cap and letting her arms fall to her sides. ‘Haven’t seen you crack a smile in weeks. Not since London.’ There was a little pause, and she sighed. ‘You really fell for him, didn’t you?’
Eliza picked up the hairbrush from the washstand and pulled the dead hair from its bristles. Acid-tasting saliva pricked at the back of her throat and with difficulty she swallowed it down, shaking her head. That was the most galling thing about this—she hadn’t been that keen on Walter Cox at all, but if she opened her mouth to say that, she feared she would succumb to the tide of sickness that was slowly rising inside her again.
Abigail turned away, clearly hurt that her attempt to bridge the new distance between them had been rebuffed. ‘Well anyway… I’ll go down.’ She nodded to the two folded aprons that were laid on her bed; the ones for best, with lace edging and pintucks. ‘Which one do you want? Square neck or round?’
‘Either. You choose.’
She didn’t look to see which one Abigail took. Fixing her eyes on the garlands of roses circling the china wash jug, she focused on breathing in through her nose and releasing the air in a steady stream, without parting her lips too much. At the door Abigail paused. ‘I could help you with your hair if you like?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s fine,’ Eliza said, in a strangled voice. ‘You go down—I won’t be a minute.’
Sweat broke out across her forehead and she breathed in again, holding it until Abigail’s footsteps had reached the bottom of the stairs and she could fumble under the bed for the chamber pot. Crouching on the floor with her arms wrapped around her body, she gave herself up to the paroxysms of nausea, though she had long since brought up her breakfast and there was nothing left to spit out but bitter-tasting bile.
The photographer was a twitchy little man in a dapper suit who reminded Kate of a music hall turn. He set his camera up on the gravel in front of the house and got the gardeners’ boys, who were first to arrive, to stand on the steps while he buried his head beneath his black cloth, then emerged again to dart around, adjusting the position of his tripod and mopping his forehead with a spotted silk handkerchief.
It was a crisp morning of blue skies and cool, damp air. The end of the summer heat wave had brought a sense of renewed energy and purpose, heightened by the imminent wedding. Yet another troop of men had arrived that morning to begin setting up a large tent on the stretch of grass to the west of the house for the dance that was to be held for local people—tenants and villagers as well as staff—to celebrate the return of Sir Randolph and the new Lady Hyde to Coldwell. Standing at the top of the steps, Kate watched them unfolding the huge canvas and hammering in poles. Behind them, the trees were already wearing their autumn colours, the hills painted in shades of brown and khaki. Change was in the air.