The Heroes’ Welcome

He needs to see a proper doctor! she thought. But he refused to see even Dr Tayle.

And anyway, Rose had her own work. Today had been particularly demanding: two skin flaps had failed, one fellow – borderline already – had had a full-on attack of hysteria, in front of the entire ward, and another had moved from what had been a small infection into life-threatening sepsis, and Major Gillies had actually shouted at Sister Black about hygiene – unimaginable! the idea that he would shout, or that Sister Black would let standards slip. While there were no new patients as such, thank God, there were still men coming through from other hospitals with badly healed facial injuries, or badly done sew-ups or attempts at reconstruction – which were worse, because of having to tell them they need to go through it all again – or worse still, that they can’t – and the men’s disappointment … But they were getting there. If the end wasn’t in sight, at least there were no more new beginnings.

She was pushing her bicycle up the lane and into the shed, wishing that Nadine was there to talk to about it. Or Riley. She missed their good sense and their humour – it was all so bloody tragic round here! But she would hardly write to them while they were on honeymoon: ‘Sorry to tear you from your bliss; can I moan on a bit more about my cousin and his wife?’ If they think of us at all it would be to give thanks to the Lord above that they’re not still stuck here with us, she thought. They’ve escaped. They’re not really anything to us any more. Or perhaps they are. But they’re not family. They’re not responsible like I am. She realised she didn’t know what wartime friendship meant, now that war was gone. Would we even have met, without the war?

It all brought up again a question that had been bothering Rose for a while. Her big question. Should she leave Locke Hill? She’d stayed – had special permission, even, to move out from the nurses’ residence at the Queen’s Hospital – in order to help them all. Her former patient, Riley; exhausted Nadine, back from nursing in France; poor sick Julia; shattered Peter … But now that Riley and Nadine were married and gone, and order – well – order was meant to be being restored to the world, did Peter and Julia need their own house back just for themselves and Tom? Because ideas had been emerging even in reliable Rose, over the dark winter, and – not that she could think of mentioning it – she very much wanted to leave. Throughout the war she’d given her donkey work to the hospital, and her affection to Peter and Julia, Riley and Nadine, Tom. Now, her intellect was dragging its nails down the walls of her captivity, demanding its turn. Thirty-two years old, a virgin, an old maid, and likely to remain so.

In other words, free.

She pictured Riley and Nadine – or tried to – but as she had never been to the south of France she didn’t have much to go on. Their one postcard (Nadine’s writing: ‘Missing you! (well, not really!)’) showed slender palm trees along a curving road and a curving beach. It was apparently a corniche. She remembered eating cornichons once or twice in France: same shape! Someone had told her – Peter, it must have been – that the word came from ‘horn’ … She pictured Riley and Nadine on a curving beach, eating tiny gherkins, with tiny horns growing out from their foreheads through their curly black hair. They would be wet and happy from the sea, young and beautiful—

She found herself suddenly blushing. She knew perfectly well what Riley’s body looked like, from nursing him. But he was a married man, not a patient, and she was no longer his nurse.

Rose spoke to Julia about Peter. ‘I do think,’ said Rose, ‘that he might see a more … sophisticated doctor.’

‘Is he ill?’ said Julia. ‘Do you really think so?’ She perked up at the idea. Of course she would, thought Rose. Illness is something you could do something about. Illness is a reason.

‘Worth checking,’ said Rose, and, nourished by this new possibility, Julia agreed to get up after all. Rose’s constant concern was whether Peter was sticking to the new rule – Dubonnet instead of whisky, and not until six o’clock – and how one could civilly find out, without provoking a small English furore.

‘You don’t trust me, Rosie darling, do you?’ he’d say, politely, glittering, and she’d say, ‘Oh Peter, it’s not that …’

And then one morning he interrupted the regular cycle of this dull and dangerous conversation to shout at her, suddenly, ferociously: ‘Then what is it? I tell you what it is – it’s a pretty sorry state of affairs, Cousin Rose, if a man can’t have a glass of whisky in his own study, in his own house …’ – and Rose stood, pinioned, shocked – ‘without some bloody woman—’ And he stopped as suddenly as he had started, and cocked his head, and then turned and looked at her as if he had no idea where he was.

Rose had a secret.

She and Nadine had talked, during the winter, about how a nurse could be, when returned to her family. For Nadine, who had only been a nurse at all because of the war, who hadn’t been one for very long, who had hardly seen her wounded hero during her nursing days, and who would never be a nurse again if she could help it, the issue was how to avoid nurseyness in marriage to a physically damaged man. Nurse and patient was not a model of marriage to which she aspired, and she believed they could avoid it.

For Rose, it was quite different. Nursing was taking her in more and more. It had given her a function where she had had none, an outlet for the natural love she carried but for which she had had no object – no man, no child, no art or passion beyond her deep affection for her once-glamorous cousin Peter, with his clever brain and the sweetness he had always shown her, and his mild, elegant manners. And of course she was fond of Tom. It had turned out to be easy enough for her to be competent in caring for both of them, and Julia. Looking after people was going to be her life now. She accepted it and was looking forward to it. But not domestic. Healing, not tending. Science, not soup. She wanted more. She wanted, among other things, to know what was wrong with Peter. She had plans.

In February, Rose had received a letter from Lady Ampthill of the Voluntary Aid Detachment Committee.

Devonshire House, London W1

Dear Madam,

On behalf of the Joint Committee of the British Red Cross and the Order of St John of Jerusalem, I have the honour to ask you to fill up the enclosed ‘Scholarship Scheme Form’ if you wish to train for definite work after demobilisation. The Joint Societies have decided to give a sum of money for scholarships and training, as a tribute to the magnificent work so generously given by VAD Members during the War.

Training will be given for those professions for which the work done by members would make them particularly suitable, such as the Health Services or Domestic Science. A preliminary list is appended, with the approximate period of training and probable salary to be gained when fully trained.

A limited number of scholarships to cover the fee and cost of living will be given to those who pass the qualifying examinations with special proficiency, but in other cases it is hoped to assist materially those members who wish to be trained for their various professions in centres all over the country.

The work of VAD Members is beyond all praise, and we very much hope that they will again be leaders in important patriotic work, which equally demands the best of British womanhood.

Yours faithfully

MARGARET AMPTHILL

Chairman, Joint Women’s VAD Committee.

Rose read it carefully. A woman – Lady Ampthill – was writing to her, a woman, offering money, training and support. She read the final sentence three times: the words leader, important, best, work, and womanhood in the same sentence. This, Rose thought, was the most beautiful letter she had ever received. (Not the most beautiful she had ever read – those were Nadine’s letters to Riley while he was in hospital, which Rose had had to read to him – my gosh, they had been something.) But no – this was about a future in which she could see herself. This was like Madame Curie setting up x-ray labs in the Belgian field hospitals, and fixing the wiring while she was at it, and rigging up field telephones. This was potentially …

There would be a catch.

She didn’t want to study domestic science! But health services? What did that cover?

The list of requirements was enclosed. Breathing steadily, Rose unfolded it and sat down to read it.

1 1) Length of Service. – Members must have worked officially in a recognised British Unit prior to January 1917, and have continued working until their services were no longer required. Well, that’s all right.

2 2) Recommendations. – Applications for Scholarships must be forwarded with a recommendation from: (a) The Matron … … … For Nursing Members working in Military Hospitals. Well that should be all right too. They will probably be sad to see me go. I think.

3 3) A new Medical Certificate will be necessary. Again, all right.

4 4) Age Limit. – 20–40. Unfair on the older ladies. But all right.

5 5) Standard of Education. – Certain Scholarships will require a high and definite standard of education, which will be taken into consideration. Ah. High and definite. That could mean anything. Will my plain old girl’s education count? Or will they want a degree or something?

6 6) Applications. – Applications should be made before 31 March 1919.

7 7) Further Correspondence. – When a form has been filled up by a Candidate, forwarded by her Officers, and approved, further correspondence will be carried on confidentially with the Member with regard to the amount of financial assistance required and other matters.

And on the other side was the nub of it: ‘Scholarships may be awarded for the following types of work …’

First on the list: ‘Medicine’.

Rose read no further. Fascinating though Midwives, X-Ray Assistants, Hospital Almoners and Instructors of the Mentally Defective might find their work, she read no further.

It wasn’t just that they would pay the fees. It was the idea of it. That she, Rose, could study medicine! That she could be a doctor! That all she had to do was work bloody hard – as if that wasn’t second nature to her – and she, Rose Locke, could walk out into the world fully equipped with the abilities, the duties, the dignities of a doctor … This isn’t just permission – this is an invitation. This is tantamount to an order …

She had believed, when she failed to get anyone to marry her, that she had let everyone down, and been, in fact, a failure. She had, quietly, felt the fact that some of the nurses were definitely quicker off the mark than some of the doctors, and could have made better medics than those in authority over them. And now – Lady A. might as well have written to me personally, saying Rose, yes, we have seen you, we have noticed you, we want YOU to step up.

Dr Rose Locke.

She found herself grinning. This isn’t vanity, it’s not arrogance. It’s possible. They want me to do this! Think how sad they would be if nobody applied!

And of course the money made the vital difference. She would not have to ask Peter, or be beholden, and nothing anybody thought about it would matter. My work is beyond all praise, and this is my reward.

She was so happy she almost skipped.

So she had filled in the form, got the new medical certificate, dug out her old school reports and certificates and birth certificate and service record, and given it all to Matron, who had, most gratifyingly, said she’d be sorry to lose her, and it was up to Major Gillies.

And Major Gillies had wondered why on earth a nice girl like her would …

And she had looked at him straight and said, ‘Major Gillies, sir, ignore the fact that I’m a nice girl, and think about my brain.’

‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Have you got one?’

‘Have you never noticed it?’

‘Tried not to,’ he said. ‘A bit of brain in a nurse is just the ticket, but not too much. It only makes them sad.’

‘No longer,’ she said. ‘It’s about, I hope, with your blessing, to make me very happy.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘If we have to have lady doctors, I’m glad it’ll be you.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Sir.’

Since then, Further Correspondence had been large in her mind.

But when Peter had shouted at her, her response was not scientific or nursely at all. It was purely and deeply emotional.

It wasn’t so much the shouting. So he had become a man who shouted: it was very unpleasant, but men could be like that, she knew, she’d seen enough of it on the wards, and though it made it harder to love him as she had when he was a boy, he had been to war and therefore she accepted it. What upset her was the phrase ‘in his own house’. Rose had lived and stayed at Locke Hill since before the war, and throughout the uncertainties of the war years she had taken comfort in calling it home. But now the underlying message lay there like a crushed snail underfoot: she was the poor relation – which was sort of true – and she’d better mind her step. He had never said, or implied, any such thing before, ever – he had always been the kindest man, the funniest companion, most loving cousin …

When he said that – ‘in his own house’ and ‘some bloody woman’ – Rose felt slapped. She left the room, and went upstairs with her feet odd on the steps, and an aerated feeling in her arms. Peter, her generous sweet cousin, friend of her youth, companion of her heart – he would not – but he just had. He had. Hadn’t he?

And then she sat on her bed for a while, wondering if she was overreacting, and why she didn’t understand Peter at all any more, and what she could do to make things easier for him, and whether perhaps it was, well, not her fault, of course she was not responsible for what had happened at Loos, which seemed, really to be the beginning of where he started going wrong, not that he’d talked about it, but she’d seen the lists of the dead, and how many had been his men.

We cannot ever know, but that doesn’t mean we can’t help, she told herself. Don’t mind one thoughtless comment.

What was he thinking, to say that?

Oh, he wasn’t thinking. It was the drink talking.

But a man chooses to get drunk. Doesn’t he?

At least, he could choose not to. Couldn’t he?

But alongside her hurt impatience, she felt a deep, naked sympathy. There had been such suffering. And there was Tom, little white-haired, milk-skinned Tom with his furious eyes and his great silences, wandering the house, lurking in the hall by the elephant-foot umbrella stand, watching, growing, needing . . . He misses Nadine. She was so sweet with him.

Rose recalled, suddenly, a day when Tom had called Nadine ‘Mummy’. Julia had tried to laugh it off, and Nadine had been mortified, and Tom had not known what he had done wrong … Later Julia had said, ‘Well, it’s all in the genes, isn’t it? Clearly I’m going to be as foul a mother as my mother was. Girls like me shouldn’t have children,’ and Rose had wanted to slap her, and Julia had noticed and wept and gone and got Tom and carried him off into her dim bedroom and hugged him nearly to death when he had already forgotten all about it and just wanted to play with his ball.

Time is flying by and they are all suffering. There has been so much silence, and it is so hard to tell if it is the silence of healing rest, of peace and contemplation, or the silence of fear and loneliness, emptiness and pretending … Are they dying there behind their closed doors? Or dealing with it all in their own way, taking the time it takes?

Should I be doing something? Something else?

In a way, Peter being foul gives me permission to leave, if I get the scholarship. But in another way, it’s another reason why I have to stay with him. He’s so helpless he can’t even be nice.

But I want to go. I want to live my own life.

But—

Is it pride and nothing else, to want to stand around with the men, with my notes and my professional judgement, and have other people act on my instructions, when my family needs me here?

Then she told herself that this was their own storm, and would work itself out its own way, no matter how much she threw herself at the stone walls surrounding it. Then she told herself that it was selfish of her to want to leave – if she got the chance – when they were all so helpless. Then she told herself it was arrogant to think she could help by staying. Then she thought of Tom again, and asked herself, if I leave, I will create a vacuum, and who’s to say if either of them will be able to expand to fill it? And finally she said: Go to sleep, Rose. It’s not your fault. He’s not your husband. She’s not your wife. He’s not your son.

It was not, in the end, Peter’s outburst that made up her mind. It was the sight of a plucked, untrussed chicken on the kitchen table a few days later. Headless, footless, wing-tipless, pink and naked, it looked alarmingly like a dead baby, arms out, knees pulled up, splayed. Flesh and skin and bone. I know about flesh and skin and bone. I know how they work. I would rather work with them.

Bugger Peter, and bugger Julia, she thought, enjoying the language she’d picked up – only for mental use – from the men she’d been caring for. When the Further Correspondence comes, if I get the chance, I will be off. I will be off.

Chapter Four

Locke Hill, April 1919

What Peter had been thinking was what he was always thinking, one way or another: the phrases and repetitions that garlanded his dance with whisky, excusing and justifying on the one hand, denying and defying on the other.

He might have been thinking: Locke, you bastard. What a bastardly horrible thing to say to Rose, who has never done a thing wrong to you, who only cares about you, who has always looked after you. You really are a selfish nasty uncontrolled man. Why would she trust you? You’re not to be trusted by anyone. Just ask (and here the string of names and faces began again, and the tight gulpy feeling would start up in his chest as he slipped into the familiar routine) Burdock … Knightley … Atkins … Jones … Bloom, Bruce, Lovall … Hall, Green, Wester … Johnson, Taylor, Moles, Twyford … and Merritt … Half of them unburied … loss upon bitter loss. An armful of Atkins; Bloom’s head on his shoulder and Bloom’s arm round his neck, resting like a woman’s or a tired child’s. His own long-fingered hand white against Bloom’s hair, embracing the dead head to keep it from flopping … The warmth of the German boy’s body next to his in the shell hole … You were a lousy officer, Peter, and now you’re being a lousy civilian. It’s not surprising you’ve turned out to be a lush. Go on, lush. Have another drink. If you’re honest with yourself, Peter, don’t you see that the pain you’re feeling now is all you deserve? You’re probably causing all this pain on purpose so you can feel worse about everything. It’s all you’re good for … all you’re good for … makes no bloody difference …

Or he might have been thinking: Bloody woman! Bloody Rose, bossing me – and bloody Julia, too, upstairs in that bloody room stinking of woman, crying and blaming me for everything – some bloody Penelope she is to come home to – it’s not my bloody fault! Of course I want a bloody drink. What man wouldn’t want a bloody drink? You’d need a bloody drink to deal with all this – anyone would. You deserve a bloody drink …

Or it might have been: Rose, don’t go. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that. Of course you belong in this house. You can stay here for ever. Of course you can – you must – dear Rose. Don’t leave me here alone with Julia, with her dead face and her blaming eyes, and that poor child who stares at me like some kind of Cyclops. Rose, come back and have a drink with me. Come on. Sit down, come on. It’ll be nice. Let’s just forget about everything for a moment – for a few hours …

Before the war, after Oxford – where he’d managed to stay on a few years as a junior fellow, teaching and so forth, which had suited him very well – Peter had been steered into the family firm with a view to learning the business. It had not agreed with him, and the moment his father died in 1914 he had left. It was his shame and his mother’s good intentions that had steered him back there in January 1919. He had bowed his head and taken it on: part of his punishment. He had failed in so many ways, due to his own unworthiness as much as the idiocy of his leaders. Well, he determined, if he wasn’t good enough to die with his men, and since the Army couldn’t wait to be rid of him, he would at least make a go of being all that was marvellous at Locke & Locke.

He started on a dull grey morning, late January 1919. There was a meeting to welcome him, and lunch. His father had left a very practical team: they had not on the whole had to fight; they were self-perpetuating; and they respected Peter, as major shareholder, scion of the family, officer. Nobody would tell him he could not have his corner office and the lunches they assumed he would want, once he had his balance back, which everyone thought they understood would take a little while.

There was a young man there who had been instructed to update him on developments and practices, to type his letters, to, what, keep an eye on him? Peter sent him away, and settled in to catch up.

He didn’t really like the look of his office. There was something oppressive about it, and the books seemed rather wrong on the shelves. The filing cabinets seemed very full, and he felt observed. He needed, he decided, to know exactly what was where. That would help him to feel at home, as it were. So he took every book and every file from the shelves and cabinets – that way he would know how far he’d got, and wouldn’t miss anything out – and he stacked them on the floor, and unpacked them, and began to read.

Uncle Eric, wheezy, blinking, and old, who had been running the show, came in to see how Peter was getting along. He found him sitting on the floor like a grasshopper, his long legs folded, knees up by his ears.

‘Not sure you really need to go through everything in every file,’ Uncle Eric said, mildly. There were only a couple of other men in the office who had served. Uncle Eric had not, and he was wary.

Peter looked up politely, and said, ‘Don’t you trust me, old man? Not allowed to read my own pa’s company papers, is that it?’

‘Not at all, not at all,’ his uncle responded, looking foolish and apologetic. ‘Just, well – you do as you think best, and come to me with any queries.’

And Peter did not press him. His uncle’s concerns were transparent. I am not trusted, Peter thought. My judgement and my capacities are doubted. They know I lost men over there – do they know that those men and I were like fingers on a hand? That I held my men’s lives in trust, and they mine, and they are dead, and I am not? Do these civilians have the slightest understanding of what that means? They have been told that I drink; they probably know I was dragged out of a low club by a better man than me.