‘What is it, Kate? What has upset you so?’ she asked.
Kate struggled to reply, her chest refusing to stop heaving and her breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps.
‘Please, sit down for a while,’ Miss Clarence said. ‘You don’t have to say anything, Kate, if you don’t want to. Just take your time. I’ll fetch you some water.’
Miss Clarence returned and, after drinking the water, Kate managed to say a few words.
‘It’s Fred,’ she said, her voice hardly perceptible. ‘He’s dead . . . killed in action.’
‘Oh, Kate, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. No wonder you’re in such a state. Please rest a while. Must you go today?’
‘I’m expected back this evening,’ Kate replied. ‘In fact, I should be going now or I’ll miss my train.’
Miss Clarence said that she would hear of no such thing. ‘I’ll arrange with Florence Taylor for young Jamie Stephens to drive you in their pony and trap. I’m sure they’ll be only too happy to help,’ she insisted. ‘Now, I’ll make us some tea. I’ll leave you with this to read.’ She handed Kate a magazine. ‘I think you’ll find it both interesting and extremely moving.’
The magazine was opened at a specific page. It had been well thumbed and the pages were beginning to separate from the binding. Kate thanked Miss Clarence and, when she was left on her own, took a moment to take in her surroundings. The room was comfortable and the walls carried many pictures and a huge bookshelf which ran from floor to ceiling. There was a desk in the bay window with writing materials and a brightly coloured shawl hung over the back of the chair. A side table held a vase with a bright bunch of daffodils which drew the sunlight into the room. The whole feeling was one of lightness and calm.
Kate looked down at themagazine. The main article on the page was a poem called ‘In Flanders Fields’. It spoke of poppies and larks and guns. She read and reread the poem, seeking some meaning for herself. She looked again at the second verse.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow;
Loved, and were loved — but now we lie
In Flanders Field.
Kate knew that Fred lay side by side with these men that the poet talked about. It didn’t make her feel better to picture his body twisted and torn, next to another who had suffered the same dreadful fate, but the words ‘loved and were loved’ gave her new strength. For whatever this war took from her, it couldn’t take the precious memories of a brother who alwayshad time for her, no matter what else he had to do. He would listen to her as she prattled on about the latest book she had read or her dreams to become a teacher. When he set up his shaving kit in the kitchen, he would let her lather up the shaving soap and wait patiently while she applied it to his chin. He let her watch as he pulled the cutthroat razor across his chin and joked about how lucky she was not to have to perform this particular ritual.
She was grateful to the young poet who had brought the experiences of serving in the trenches to those who remained at home. The words of the poem made the harsh realities of life and death on the battlefield clear, but there was also some comfort in knowing that he didn’t die alone. As she read it through again, she knew that there would be many more families who’d receive the same terrible news as hers. There would be many broken hearts and empty arms across the country and there’d be no respite until this war was over. She thought of Philip, Archie and Carnforth and wondered if they were, at this very moment, lying in a Flanders field. She hoped beyond hope that they were still alive.
‘What did you think of the poem?’ Miss Clarence asked as she returned with the tea tray.
‘Such beauty in words and yet such a dreadful source of inspiration,’ Kate replied. ‘How could he write about such horrors?’
‘How could he not?’ Miss Clarence said. ‘He writes because it is the only way he can make some sense of it all. He writes to show us what he and so many other young men are experiencing. To bring us the painful truth. We all do what we can in times of crisis, Kate. You can’t help your brother but you can do something to help those young soldiers who need you.’
Miss Clarence was right, Kate thought. She must get back to the hospital. She would return to London and do what she could.
* * *
The train stopped at Woking station, a few passengers got off but more crammed on. The train became crowded and Kate was squashed against the window by a noisy, bickering family with four children. She tried to close her ears to the clamour of their voices. They were just a normal family, doing what families do, but their vital presence only underlined her loss. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts and memories of her brother but she was trapped in the present.
Kate began to feel unsettled and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Her head began to swim. The air was suffocating. She couldn’t breathe. A shudder passed through her and lodged itself deep in her gut. Beads of sweat formed on her upper lip and her hands began to shake. The child next to her was staring, so she put her hands in her pockets to hide them from view. Her fingers touched the bunched and pleated shape given to her at church, the palm leaf. She slowed her breathing and tried to calm herself. What had brought this on? She wanted this journey to be over. She wanted this war to be over.
The squealing of brakes announced her arrival and she lifted her bag down from the rack. As she was jostled along the platform and moved with the flow of bodies, she wanted to get away from all these people, to get back to Vanburgh House. She walked quickly, her shoes tapping rhythmically on the pavement. The sooner she got back, the sooner she could immerse herself in her work.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
September 1916
The Battle of the Somme began on 1 July 1916. News of the advance reached England.All Goes Well for England and France, the headlines read.Sixteen miles of German front trenches captured . . . our gallant soldiers . . . many German prisoners taken . . . the great British offensive, for which we have waited so long, has started well.In the two months since there had been nothing except positive news.Million shells daily fired by British. German Lines Broken.
‘That’s what they tell us,’ Clara said. ‘But is it the truth?’
‘Would they tell us lies?’ Kate asked.
‘Lies are not the same as holding back on telling the whole story,’ Clara replied, ‘and I’m not sure we’re getting the whole story. Carnforth’s letters arrive with sections blacked out, for security reasons they say. The only people who will know are the men themselves, Philip and Carnforth, and at the moment we’re not getting any letters, no information at all. We only get to know when one of our own has . . .’ Clara stopped herself. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Kate, I didn’t mean to . . . your poor brother . . . I haven’t even asked you how your mother and father are coping . . . such sadness for you all.’
