‘Yes, Sister,’ Louisa said, copying what she’d seen Flora do the previous night, and immediately understanding that any further attempt at explanation would only make things worse.
‘Major Patterson says you’re none the worse for your ordeal, but I think it best that you return to London and recuperate.’
‘No!’
Sister Andrews gave her a stern look.
‘I’m sorry,’ Louisa said. ‘What I mean is, I feel fine. I think my confusion last night was just the result of the cold. I… I remember what happened now. I’d got out of the lorry because… because I wanted to relieve myself,’ she said. ‘It was then that it exploded. I want to stay here in Amiens and do the job I signed up for.’
‘Just because you feel capable, Miss Ashby, it doesn’t mean that you are capable. The life of a VAD on active service entails countless hardships and sacrifices. We cannot go to pieces.’
‘Yes, I understand. I won’t go to pieces.’ You have no idea of the stern stuff I’m made of, Louisa thought.
‘I had my reservations about you at the time of your interview,’ Sister Andrews said, ‘because of your youth and your aunt’s recent death, and I communicated as much to the selection committee. It’s only because you assured us of your commitment and because your previous matron at the Shepherd’s Bush Military Orthopaedic Hospital gave you an excellent reference that we were persuaded to take a chance on you. We are not a refuge for young ladies without families.’
Louisa tensed in surprise. So Rose Ashby was also on her own in the world without family, just like she was. ‘No, Sister,’ Louisa said. ‘If you’d just give me a chance…’
Sister Andrews now looked at her properly for the first time – and it made Louisa’s skin prickle. She wondered if Sister Andrews could somehow see inside her to the kernel of truth: that she was an imposter.
‘Very well,’ Sister Andrews said. ‘If I weren’t in such desperate need of VADs, though, you’d be on your way back to England this very night. And I warn you: if you are not up to scratch, I shall give you no quarter. The wellbeing of the men in our care is our only consideration. Do I make myself quite clear?’
‘Yes, Sister,’ said Louisa.
‘Show me your hands.’ Louisa held them out. ‘Turn them over. Your fingernails are too long. Cut them – they’re unhygienic. And make sure to disinfect them in solution frequently and scrub them thoroughly with a nail brush – particularly after touching a dressing. The least scratch must be covered with gauze and collodion, or you’re liable to contract blood poisoning. Grease your hands every night without fail. I shall expect to see you first thing tomorrow morning. And I shall be watching you closely, Miss Ashby.’ She turned back to her papers, and Louisa saw she was dismissed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
France, Western Front, March 1917
It had been a terrible day. Robert had spent it on horseback, leading his men through a hellish landscape, following as closely as he dared on the heels of the German retreat. Buildings had been razed to the ground, bridges and railway lines destroyed, crossroads blown up, crops and orchards laid to waste – and all the wells were poisoned with corpses. Scores of ancient trees at the sides of the long French pavé roads had been cut down and left to block the way.
Worst of all, the Germans had taken away all the healthy inhabitants for forced war work, leaving only the sick, the very young and the old behind, peeping out from the ruined cellars of their former dwellings. It was an act of pure evil.
Weakened by the Somme and the hard winter, the Germans had made a tactical withdrawal to what was being called the Hindenburg Line, abandoning miles of hard-fought-over land. But determined that the British shouldn’t gain any advantage, they’d made sure that nothing of any possible use was left standing. Not only that, they’d set up booby traps. One of Robert’s men had had his head blown off earlier that day after picking up a Pickelhaube – a German helmet the Boche had left lying nonchalantly on the ground, the perfect souvenir for a British Tommy to take back home and show off to his family.
Robert felt nauseated. But now, at least, it was almost time to make camp. They were passing through the former village of Le Piquet. Its medieval church and all its ancient little stone houses had been ransacked and burnt out; smoke was still rising from the scorched rafters. Humble bits of furniture and possessions littered the roads and gardens. They passed what appeared to be a wedding photograph album lying in the mud at the side of the street, the Victorian bride, wearing a tight, high-necked white lace dress, staring stiffly and solemnly at the camera on the arm of her moustachioed new husband. Where was the couple now? he wondered. Forced labourers making bombs for the Germans, their faces as solemn as in their wedding-day photographs?
He spied another photograph on the ground: a young woman in a pale dress, her long hair loose around her shoulders. Immediately, he thought of Louisa – and the memory of her flooded in with such force that he tensed in the saddle, then had to rein in his horse, which had understood his reaction as a command to go faster. Oh God, the pain was still so acute. He’d imagined that by leaving her, by trying to force himself to forget her, it would ease. But he saw he’d been fooling himself. Distance had only made the ache stronger. He felt the lack of her as if someone had hacked his heart out of his body. Would he have to live like this forever? How could he bear it?
On and on they went through the scarred, muddy landscape, the air misted, thick and sour with the smell of burning. The ground shook constantly: the Germans were blowing up their own ammunition dumps behind them as they retreated. Ahead huge black plumes of smoke curled up from the horizon.
‘Well, they’ve certainly been thorough,’ sighed Lieutenant Balan, on horseback next to Robert, lighting a cigarette. ‘I’ll bet my new trench boots they’re Prussians.’
‘Most likely Prussians, yes,’ Robert replied. ‘You know, it’s the puerile sense of schoolboy delight in the whole sorry business that I object to most strongly. The damned lot of them deserve to be put down like dogs.’
Balan proffered his cigarette case but Robert shook his head. ‘Ah, of course, you don’t,’ Balan said. ‘I keep forgetting. An odd choice. Surely we all need as many vices as possible, in present circumstances?’
‘It’s quite all right. I’m cultivating other vices to compensate.’
‘Including this one?’ Balan felt in his pocket and produced a hip flask. Robert took it. He liked Balan. He’d joined their company a couple of months ago from another unit that had been decimated during the first days of the Somme. He’d been out since 1915, the same as Robert. He was from an unconventional family of writers; his father was Romanian and reputed to be a socialist. Many in the officers’ mess didn’t like Balan: they distrusted his foreignness, suspected him of being a Jew and considered him too cocksure by half. But Robert had warmed to him immediately.