So what now? It was like being admitted to Coldbrook Hall all over again – the confusion, the utter panic and disbelief. But here, here at least there was a glimmer of hope. If she could post a letter to Robert tomorrow morning, it might even reach him the same day. He would know that she was in France – a flesh-and-blood person, and not a figment of his imagination.
If he’s still alive. The thought clasped icy hands around her heart. It was March 1917 now, not 1916. Time always seemed to go by more quickly in the past. Anything might have happened.
But he had to be alive; she had to believe it. Why else had fate brought her back to the past? Every time she’d come back in time it had been because of Robert. Somehow, he was behind everything. She was here to find him. There was a meaning and pattern to all of it – it wasn’t random craziness. Something strong linked her with Robert, and with others besides. Why was Marisa here if not? And then the business with Pam. Not only that, but Louisa had come back to the past as a VAD nurse, when she’d been studying medicine. It couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.
And the fact that people in the past could see her now – did that mean there was more permanence to her place here? And that she had a name – a legitimate, documented existence? Or could she be hauled back to 2017 at any minute, just as before? And who, who was Rose Ashby? They all clearly believed that she was Rose. But had she really become Rose, or did Rose herself exist somewhere else now, an exile in another time, like Louisa was?
She found the chamber pot and used it rather inexpertly, after taking a good while to find a way through all the foreign-looking clothes and underclothes she had on. Everything was so old-fashioned: a long woollen skirt and cotton blouse, thick black tights held up by garters, a pair of drawers, two frilled petticoats and, under a cotton chemise, a pink satin corset that was digging into her, all terrifying hooks, eyes and laces.
Then, feeling like a snoop and a thief, she opened the heavy wooden trunk with Rose Ashby’s initials painted on it in large white letters. At the top of the trunk lay an oil stove and a kettle, looking brand new, as well as a pair of wellington boots, a rubber hot-water bottle, a bristle toothbrush and jar of Euthymol powdered toothpaste. There were books by Dostoyevsky, E. M. Forster and G. K. Chesterton, an anthology of poetry and two well-thumbed textbooks: A Manual for the Military Nurse and War Nursing: A Text Book for the Auxiliary Nurse. Under all these were several sets of VAD uniforms and nursing caps packed neatly in tissue paper with sachets of lavender, a number of stiff collars and cuffs – and more complicated-looking underwear.
How was she supposed to pass as an experienced VAD, she wondered, when she didn’t even know how to put on a corset? It would be obvious that she didn’t have a clue about anything in 1917, least of all First World War military nursing. Her stomach knotted. But then what on earth else was she meant to do? Throw up her hands and concede defeat? Admit to everyone that she was a refugee from 2017, and ask for more time to get used to life a century ago? If she didn’t want to end up consigned to a mental asylum in 1917 as well as in 2017, then there was no other option but to play the role she’d been given and be Rose Ashby.
Further down in the trunk she found an umbrella, a stationery set and a wind-up alarm clock – and buried beneath a thick, hand-knitted cardigan, a sepia-toned photograph in a silver frame. She pulled it out – and her hand flew to her mouth. It was a photograph of herself, arm in arm with an older woman. She gazed at her image, transfixed: not exactly a ghost, but someone from another world all the same, a slim, pale girl with solemn eyes, wearing clothes in the fashion of a century ago. She seemed at once familiar and foreign – as if she might be Louisa’s ancestor.
Who was the woman in the photograph standing next to her? It wasn’t a face she recognised. What on earth would she do if she came face to face with her? Or anyone who knew Rose well? And how and why had she seemingly survived a terrible accident which ought to have killed her? She had nothing but questions, to which there were no answers. Everything was as vague and formless as the whirling sleet on the other side of the window. She could only trust that the universe would show her the way forward, as it had always done so far.
She propped herself up on her bunk with the nursing books. ‘On Active Service’, ‘Camping and Camp Hospitals’, ‘Bomb Raid’, ‘Gas Attack’… The different chapters seemed endless. She took a deep breath. She just had to get on with it. She’d had more than two years of preclinical medical training after all – anatomy, biochemistry, pathology. And VADs were just auxiliary nurses, expected to perform only basic tasks like washing and feeding. It should be straightforward.
She kept reading until her eyes hurt. Her eyelids grew heavier and heavier. And then at last the world, with all its questions and strangeness, slid away, and she fell into an exhausted and dreamless sleep.
Louisa awoke with a start. She was still in the wooden bunkroom, but now it was daylight. She was freezing cold, even though she was still wearing the clothes from the night before and someone had laid a blanket over her. Her breath misted in front of her face. Next to her head was a note in pencil: You were sleeping so soundly we didn’t want to wake you. Sister Andrews has requested to see you at 10 a.m. Don’t be late! Flora.
What time was it? The clock on the wall showed it was already nearly nine thirty-five. She flung off the blanket. Where did she find hot water? Or even cold water? There was no sink, only a ewer and basin on a rickety washstand. The stove had gone out and she hadn’t the faintest idea how to relight it. She found a little cold water in a tumbler and used it to rinse out her mouth and wash her hands and face. Then she tried to restore her pinned-up hair to some semblance of order, fumbling with the hairpins that were still digging into her head from the previous evening, and trying to poke back into place the bits of hair that had come down.
Eventually, flustered, she stumbled out of the hut. Outside, the wind and sleet had blown themselves out, leaving everything in a chill, empty stillness. She hurried back along the duckboards, trying to remember the way from the previous evening.
Twice she went the wrong way and had to ask for directions. Then, finally, she knocked on the right door and a sharp voice told her to come in. Sister Andrews glanced up, then turned back to her papers, dipping the nib of her pen into a glass pot of ink. Her headdress was stiffly starched and very white.
‘Miss Ashby,’ she said coolly. ‘I gave specific instructions that you were to conduct yourself here for ten o’clock. It is now almost ten past ten.’
‘I’m very sorry. I got lost.’ Louisa made a move towards the wooden chair opposite the desk, but Sister Andrews frowned. Quite clearly, Louisa was to remain standing.
‘And why are you still in travelling uniform and not your hospital uniform?’ Sister Andrews didn’t wait for a reply. ‘You’re dishevelled. This is a military hospital, Miss Ashby. If you’re unable to follow orders, you’re of no use here. And stand to attention when I am addressing you.’