Conan said, his voice rather breathless, ‘Well, lucky old Gerald. Goodbye, sweet Coz.’
I turned and ran towards the high gateway.
On 10 March Matron called me in and I signed on for another three months; as long as Gerald fought the enemy in the trenches of France and Flanders, then I too would wage my war on disease and squalor in this ugly barracks in the heart of London’s slums. There was no other option.
Chapter Seven
A week after I had signed on again I opened my weekly letter from Gerald with the familiar throb of excitement – and found it was just a short note to say that he was coming home on leave for five days – in forty-eight hours he would be in London. I began to tremble.
When we were sent back to sweep and dust our rooms I rushed through the work, dragged on my clean apron and hurried to Matron’s office. She seemed quite sympathetic; she almost smiled at me as she said, ‘Of course you must take the full time off while your fiancé’s on leave – enjoy yourself, my dear.’ I thanked her gratefully.
I waited all morning at Cadogan Place, and sent my lunch back barely touched; it was nearly teatime before he came. He strode into the drawing room in his khaki tunic and riding breeches – his pale skin had weathered, he was lean and tall and handsome – and he looked like a stranger. I was overwhelmed with shyness and it was obvious he felt the same. He barely touched my outstretched hand as he greeted me very formally, ‘Good afternoon, Helena.’
All the words of love and longing which had coursed through my mind over the past long months fled from me. At last I stammered, ‘Did you – did you have a good journey?’
He shrugged his elegant shoulders. ‘Good enough.’ I dared not ask him why he had not come sooner – he was so spick and span he must have been to his club first. So we sat and talked of the weather until Mother came in to pour the tea. She took the reins of the conversation into her capable hands and they laughed and chatted together while I sat silently by, like a girl still in the schoolroom; but I did not mind, he was here and that was enough.
After tea Mother made her excuses and left us; Gerald sat down again and smiled at me.
‘Well, Helena – and how are your brothers?’ So I talked of the twins and Guy as we sat together in the darkening drawing room, and we were at ease now. I gazed at the shape of his beloved mouth and happiness surged through me. Cooper came in to draw the curtains and light the lamps, but Gerald waved him away. ‘The firelight’s quite adequate – you don’t mind, do you Helena?’ Of course I did not – it was such bliss to sit with him like this.
We began to talk of other people – he had heard of Lady Maud’s canteen in France – I told him Julia’s new husband had just gone back from sick leave. ‘She was very upset, but of course, soon she will have…’ I faltered then gathered all my courage together and blurted out, ‘Gerald – couldn’t you – couldn’t you get a special licence – so that we could be married now?’
I saw the dark shape of his head jerk suddenly upright. He sprang to his feet and moved to the fire before he spoke. ‘But you wouldn’t be able to carry on with your nursing, then, Helena.’
I said at once, ‘I could go to a Red Cross Hospital – besides – I might – I thought…’ The memory of the little round babies curled up so safely in their mothers’ wombs swam before my eyes and at last I managed to say, ‘I want to bear you a son, Gerald.’
A glowing coal fell, the fire blazed up and I saw his face – and the longing in his eyes. I jumped up and ran to him and flung my arms around him. I pressed my empty womb against his hard flat stomach and suddenly, desperately, I wanted him to fill it. I whispered, ‘Gerald, please,’ and he held me tight as his lips found mine. And as his arms gripped me I felt the sweetness rise in my belly preparing myself for him, and I began to moan a little as my hands clung to his back. Then he took his mouth from mine, his strong hands moved up to seize my elbows – and he pushed me away.
I stared at his heaving chest as he took several long, deep breaths and heard him say, ‘No, Helena – no.’ His hands fell so abruptly from my arms that I staggered a little, and almost fell on to the sofa. He strode across to the window and stood with his back to me and there was silence until I began to cry with the searing humiliation of his rejection. He came back and stood over me and turned on the light beside my seat, but I could not look at him – I was sobbing now. He knelt down in front of the sofa. ‘Helena, dearest Helena – I’m so sorry to have distressed you like this.’ He put out a gentle hand and turned my chin up to the light. I fought to control my sobs, but I could not stop the tears from trickling down my face. He looked at me for a long time, then said, ‘You’re just a child, Helena, aren’t you?’ His voice was very kind as he took out his handkerchief and began to dry my cheeks. I sat still, sniffing a little, until he handed me the handkerchief, ‘Blow your nose now, Helena.’ For a moment he sounded just like Nanny, so I did as he told me.
He got slowly to his feet and returned to the armchair opposite; he leant back until his face was in shadow, then he spoke quietly. ‘Helena, you must realize that I’m a soldier now, under fire – I may be killed or wounded at any time.’
I swallowed, and whispered at last, ‘But if – the worst – did happen, then I should still have…’
He said flatly, ‘Nature is not always so obliging, Helena. You might find yourself a childless widow.’ I opened my mouth to protest but he went on, his voice stronger now. ‘Besides, death, that is at least clean and final – but in this war – you have no idea of the damage an exploding shell can do, and yet still leave a man alive.’
I said quickly, ‘If you lost an arm or a leg, Gerald, I would still…’
‘Helena,’ he cut me off in the middle of my declaration, and stood up, looming over me. ‘I’m not talking about arms or legs, Helena. This morning I went to see a corporal-trooper of mine – he was wounded at Warneton, I saw him as they carried him out – the whole of the lower half of his face was blown away – just a great gaping hole, with his eyes, looking very puzzled, above it. I knew he was in the 3rd London and he was a good NCO – so I thought I’d look him up. I had some vague, stupid idea that they’d have patched him together again.’ He shuddered. ‘God forgive me, when I saw him I could scarcely look into those eyes of his.’
I asked at last, ‘Was he – was he conscious?’
‘Oh yes – quite conscious – he knew everything that was going on – even that his wife was already carrying another man’s child. She’d only been to see him once – ran screaming out of the ward in hysterics – but some officious neighbour had taken it upon himself to write and tell him what she’s been up to since – the sister had told me beforehand. I emptied my notecase on to his bed and I left – came straight back to Town – what else could I do?’
I drew a deep breath and said, ‘Gerald, even if…’
He broke in roughly. ‘Don’t be silly, Helena, you don’t know what you’re saying.’ I could not speak again. At last he sat down again and said, more quietly, ‘I’m sorry Helena – I know you meant that. You would make your vows, and keep them, whatever it cost you. But I won’t accept that kind of promise from a young girl.’ His voice was final and I knew there was nothing more to be said.
He came after lunch each day. I did suggest, timidly, that he might come earlier, but he said, ‘A chum of mine’s in hospital, Helena – he’s very down, poor fellow – I like to spend the mornings with him.’ I dared not try to argue with him; besides, I did not want him to think me selfish. So each afternoon we walked in the Park and I hung on his arm in pride and joy. Then he would bring me back to Cadogan Place and sit in the morning room while I played and sang to him. One afternoon I heard a faint snort, and when I turned round he was sprawled on the sofa, asleep. He began to snore, softly, and I felt a wave of love and tenderness wash over me – my handsome, immaculate Gerald – sprawled out and snoring. I sat quite still, just watching him, until he began to shift and groan, then I swivelled quickly round and
began to play again – I did not want to embarrass him.
In the evening we would dine early at Cadogan Place before going on to a show. I would drive back in the dark cab with my shoulder resting against his, and feel that for a little while I was in heaven. After he had gently kissed me goodnight I ran up to my bedroom and sat curled up in a chair by the fire – I did not want to go to bed and fall asleep until I had remembered every word he had said, every expression that had crossed his beloved features, every movement of his fine hands as he had helped me into my cloak and escorted me through the crowded foyer.
But on the fourth evening he said, ‘Goodbye, my dear Helena – I’ll write to you as soon as I get back.’
I stared at him, aghast. ‘But – I thought – you wrote five days.’
He looked away, towards the heavy velvet-shrouded windows. ‘I’m afraid that nothing can be guaranteed in wartime.’ Then I realized that he must have known all today that he would have to return early – but he had said nothing, he had kept it to himself, rather than spoil my pleasure in the day. And in my disappointment I loved him even more for his thoughtfulness – I must not be less brave.
I went to him and raised my face to his and kissed his lips, then said, ‘Goodbye, Gerald,’ and ran out of the room. I heard the front door close as I was on the stairs, and I sank down and clutched the bannister rails and wept.
Next morning I knew I should have gone back to the East London early, but I did not; I was too unhappy. Instead I buttoned on my walking boots and set out. I did not turn back until I had gone far beyond Kensington Gardens, but as I returned I realized my feet were taking me to the Albert Gate, to the place where I had met him unexpectedly, and he had introduced me to his sister-in-law. I retraced my steps and stood on the very spot where he had stood on that long-ago afternoon of peace – and thought of him today, on the train to Folkestone, or even, perhaps, already steaming across the Channel.
There were tears on my cheeks as I walked down to Hyde Park Corner, but I felt a little calmer as I passed St George’s and turned into Grosvenor Crescent. I came level with the entrance to King Edward VII’s Hospital for Officers, and glanced across at it, remembering my visits there to Guy – and stopped dead. Gerald was coming down the steps. I told myself, ‘No, it can’t be,’ but I recognized his companion too, so I knew it was. Edward Summerhays was leaning heavily on Gerald’s arm, his thin face very pale. A cab drew up, and through the grimy window I saw Gerald carefully help Edward in; then he sprang in beside him and the motor quickly accelerated away. I stood staring after it, my mind in turmoil.
He had told me he was going back, early this morning! But then I remembered his exact words, as I remembered every word he had ever spoken to me – and knew he had not said that, but he had spoken as if… No, perhaps there had been some last-minute alteration of plan: he was just taking Edward Summerhays to the station, and then he would come straight round to Cadogan Place… I broke into a trot and ran all the way round Belgrave Square, into Chesham Place and down Pont Street, to arrive home panting, my hand clutching the stitch in my side.
I sat all day in the drawing room, but he did not come. Straight after dinner I said goodbye to Mother and Papa and caught a bus back to the East End.
I waited for his letter; he would explain. But when the letter came it was just the same as usual. I scanned the neat handwriting – there was no explanation. He wrote that he had had a good crossing, mentioned that the trains in France were as slow as ever; he had ridden up to the transport lines, left his horse with his groom and then made his way to the support trenches where his batman had soon had a hot meal ready for him – but there was not one reference to dates or days. He had deceived me.
I felt a surge of blazing bitter jealousy; I knew what he had done – I pictured him, waving goodbye to Edward Summerhays then going straight to Piccadilly and accosting one of the gaily dressed tarts there – a girl like the one I had seen hanging on Guy’s arm in Dover Street – and then he had used her. He had rejected me, but like all soldiers, he wanted to take his pleasure before he went back to the front. In a blaze of fury I picked up my pen and wrote to him of my bitterness and humiliation, my anguish and despair. I heard footsteps in the corridor – I was already late back on duty. Crushing my letter into an envelope, I ran down the stairs and thrust it into the postbox.
I woke the next morning sick with remorse, but it was too late, the box had been emptied. Sister sent me off duty in the morning and frantically I picked up my pen and wrote again – I wrote that I trusted him, that whatever he did I would always trust him, I understood – nothing mattered as long as he loved me. Then I put on my outdoor uniform and took it to the nearest post office.
Four days later, I was pulling the beds out and dusting the back rails, when I heard one of the men rustle his newspaper and call to his chum. ‘One of the nobs bought it, Charlie – shot by a sniper, nobody’s safe in this ’ere war.’
As I dusted the end of the bed I thought idly, knobs – no, nobs – and remembered Eddie’s voice at Eton, ‘How were the nobs, Lord Gerald?’ and the amused reply, ‘Knobbly, very knobbly!’ and how we had all laughed together. Now I felt very cold as I bent down and asked quite quietly, ‘Who has been shot, Number Twenty-four?’
He grinned up at me from under his walrus moustache. ‘Oh, just some Markis or other, Nurse.’ So I asked him very politely if I could borrow his newspaper and standing there amidst the bustle and clatter of the busy ward I read that my love was dead. Then I folded the paper up neatly, and said quietly, ‘Thank you, Number Twenty-four,’ and picked up my duster and began to rub at the brass rail. I did not know what else to do.
A few minutes later Staff came up the ward. ‘One of the office sisters has come for you, Girvan – to go over to Matron.’ She hesitated, then added, her kind face grave, ‘She said your father is here – I hope it’s not bad news.’
I said, ‘I’m afraid it is bad news, Staff Nurse,’ then I folded up my duster and put it tidily in its box and carried it down the ward to the kitchen.
The telegram had gone to Moira Staveley at Bessingdon. She had immediately telegraphed to Papa at Hatton, but both my parents were in London, so it had lain there unopened for some time until a maid had noticed it and sent it on. Gerald had already been dead two days by the time I had read of it in the newspaper.
Papa put me in a cab for Cadogan Place, but halfway there I asked him to take me to Alice’s instead. He said Alice was away, but I insisted. When we arrived I climbed very slowly up the steep flights of stairs, like an old woman. Nanny looked up as I came into the nursery and I said, ‘Gerald has been killed,’ and she opened her arms to me and I collapsed in a flood of tears on her broad bosom.
When I got back to Cadogan Place that evening I went straight to the morning room, opened the piano and began to sing. I sang the Maiden’s Lament:
‘Das Herz is gestorben,
die Welt is leer’
My heart was dead, my world was empty – my lament would not be able to waken he who had died, my tears would flow uselessly.
And now at last I sang to him the final stanza of Frauen Liebe und Leben:
‘Du schläfst, du harter, unbarmherz’ger Man,
Den Todesschlaf.’
Cruel, pitiless man – you sleep the sleep of death – and now I have no more life. So I sang of my dead love in German, in the language of those who had killed him.
I played and sang until my voice was hoarse and my fingers numb – and the house was silent around me. Then I climbed stiffly off the stool and went out into the hallway. The drawing-room door opened, and Mother stood there very tall and straight. ‘I’m sorry, Helena.’ Then she added, ‘When my sister Alice died I thought it was the end of the world – but I lived on, and so will you.’ The door clicked shut and I climbed the stairs to my bed.
In my room I picked up his photograph and stood gazing at it – and it was only then that I remembered my angry, jealous letter. I threw myself on the
bed in an agony of guilt and remorse. For two days I stayed in my room and wept. My parents came to the door but I screamed at them to go away; Fisher brought trays but I thrust them outside untouched – I could live with myself no longer. Then Nanny came panting and puffing through the door. ‘Now stop being a silly girl and have a taste of this nice soup.’ I swallowed, dumbly; then she said, ‘My lady, my chick – we didn’t know how to give these to you – they came back yesterday.’ She held out two letters, my two last letters. I took them from her and turned them over and saw that neither flap had been unsealed. Someone had written across the back of each: ‘Much regret this officer has been killed – returned to sender.’
I began to cry again, but more quietly now – God had not completely abandoned me after all.
Chapter Eight
I did not go back to the East London. I had been defeated, and I knew I had been defeated, but I did not care – nothing mattered now. I roamed round Cadogan Place and out to the Park; I could not stay still, except at my piano, and there I sang every day of my heartache and grief. Mother forced me to answer the letters which came, otherwise I might not have done so. Moira Staveley wrote inviting me to come and stay with her at Bessingdon. Part of me wanted to accept, to see the places where he had grown up, to see his home – but then I thought that it would never be my home now. Moira’s son had grown up in that nursery, but mine never would – so I could not bear to go.
Eddie and Robbie both came up to see me. They were in camp at Gainsborough now – it was a long journey to make for a few brief hours – and they were not both allowed to be away at once, so they had to come separately. But because they knew I would need them they each came and sat with me patiently while I wept and stormed at the cruelty of fate. I told Eddie what I had told no one else – of my terrible angry letter. He listened quietly, then said, ‘Hellie, perhaps he went straight back, after you saw him – and if he didn’t – men are different, it wouldn’t have meant anything to him if… You must accept that. The important thing is that he never knew that you saw him and how you felt – remember that. Now wipe your eyes and we’ll go for a walk in the Park before I catch my train.’