Might he be reading it even now? Would the next person to walk in through the ward door be him, tall and pale in his uniform, scanning all the nurses’ faces, wary, incredulous, hardly daring to believe it could be true? Or was he already dead, and she was just as alone in 1917 as she’d been in 2017?
‘Am I going to die?’
‘Of course not,’ she said, putting a hand over the soldier’s. ‘You’ll be back on your feet in no time. After a good rest.’
His eyes closed again. He was lying on a thick towel on an oil sheet laid over the bed to protect it. His puttees were so caked with evil-smelling mud she couldn’t see how to start unwinding them, so she took the heavy metal shears from the trolley and started cutting and throwing the stiffened strips into a sack of things to be incinerated. His calves free, she carefully unlaced and pulled off his first soaked boot. Turning away so that he wouldn’t see the disgust on her face, she tried not to gag. Half the skin on his swollen foot seemed to have come off along with the boot, together with bits of disintegrating woollen sock. The smell was indescribable; he couldn’t have had his boots off for days on end.
She recognised trench foot. The big toe and the one next to it were covered in large purple blisters containing yellow pus. Carefully she removed the other boot, which revealed his right foot to be in a similar state. A doctor would come in a while to examine his feet and take swabs, which would then go to the laboratory for testing. The results would dictate the order in which the men were taken to theatre.
She carried on up his body, keeping him covered, working out how to undo his braces and unbutton his flies, peeling off the filthy, wet uniform like layers of rotting papier mâché, then his woollen shirt and long cotton pants. She washed him as quickly and thoroughly as she could, checking for any sign of injury.
At last he looked and smelled human. An orderly appeared and helped her dress him in a pair of striped flannel pyjamas.
‘Did you check his pockets?’ the orderly asked, looking at the bare locker top.
‘No,’ she admitted, ‘I didn’t think…’ She found the soldier’s tunic, hardened with mud, and felt in the pockets. One contained a leather wallet and a small Bible, the other something cold, round, metallic and heavy. She pulled it out – and her heart stilled.
‘Gordamighty!’ The orderly jumped back. ‘It’s a Mills Bomb!’
Louisa stared in horror. It was a hand grenade, small and grooved, like a deadly black pineapple.
The orderly exhaled. ‘It’s all right, Nurse,’ he said, carefully taking it from her. ‘The pin’s still in. I’ll dispose of it. It’s not the first time by any means. Someone came in yesterday with a cocked rifle splinting his leg.’
‘What is all this commotion?’ Sister Crawford put her head around the screen. ‘Heavens! Orderly, take out that beastly thing at once. What can you be thinking of, Miss Ashby? We might all have been blown to kingdom come! And why aren’t this man’s things labelled? Now hurry. You’re far too slow. This is France, and we don’t have all day. And Orderly, please keep your oaths for the barrack room.’
‘Don’t mind her,’ whispered the orderly once she’d gone. ‘Her bark’s worse than her bite.’
Louisa moved to the next bed, hot with humiliation. She worked rapidly and methodically, removing the young private’s thick, rubbery false teeth – the men’s dentition was appalling – sponging mud from his hair, washing, towelling. She moved to the next man, and then the next, gradually finding her stride, and managing to keep ahead of Sister Crawford and the doctor.
The men were filthier than if they’d been dragged through a swamp – mud up their noses, in their mouths, even under their eyelids. It was difficult to see the pitiful condition to which their young bodies had been reduced. But each man seemed only profoundly grateful to have survived.
The dress stud holding her starched collar in place was digging into her neck, and Rose Ashby’s brand-new white ward shoes were giving her blisters. But Louisa didn’t dare stop. Eventually, she finished and saw that more than three hours had elapsed.
Sister Crawford reappeared. ‘What’s this?’ she asked sternly, holding out something in her reddened hand.
‘A prosthetic eye,’ Louisa said.
‘A prosthetic eye. Precisely, Miss Ashby. How did you miss it? You must pay more attention. Now, the three Newfoundlanders near the door are to have invalid custard. Use the kitchenette at the end of the ward. No powder mind you – proper eggs. And don’t take long.
Invalid custard? Oh God. How on earth did you make custard? She’d only ever eaten tinned custard at home with Granny. What went into it? Eggs, milk, flour…? She looked around, desperately trying to find someone who might be able to help, but more ambulances were pulling up outside and the ward had emptied of staff.
She found the kitchenette, where a small cast-iron range that looked antiquated even by 1917 standards glowered blackly from the corner. Hunting around she eventually discovered a well-thumbed copy of Mrs Beeton’s Volume of Household Management which contained a recipe for boiled custard. She ran through the ingredients: milk, eggs, loaf sugar, lemon rind or vanilla essence, and a tablespoon of brandy. Brandy? Would Nurse Crawford expect her to put brandy in it?
She found most of the ingredients in a larder, the milk in a large metal jug covered with a cloth. There were no lemons, but she found a small corked bottle of what smelled like vanilla essence. According to the recipe, everything went together into a jug, which then sat in a pan of boiling water and was stirred until the custard set. But she could find neither jug nor basin. So, she decided she would just have to put it all straight into a saucepan. She put the pan onto one of the two hob plates and stirred for what felt like ages, before realising the hob wasn’t hot enough. Behind a small metal door embers were faintly glowing. She found chopped wood in a basket on the floor and poked some in. It caught straight away and she began to stir again. The custard started to thicken, and she felt a rush of relief. But then, to her horror, a lump surfaced, then another, and another, like pustules forming on skin before her eyes. She snatched up the pan, almost burning herself on the handle, stirring furiously. But the whole thing was separating – and the bottom of the saucepan was turning brown.
‘Miss Ashby!’ Louisa froze. It was Sister Crawford. ‘What is that burning smell? What… what in heaven’s name are you doing?’
‘I… I’ve burnt it. I’m so sorry.’
Sister Crawford peered angrily into the saucepan. ‘What a revolting mess, and what a terrible waste of milk and eggs! This oven is far too hot. Really, are you incapable of making a simple custard, one of the most basic sickroom recipes?’
Louisa’s face felt as hot as the bottom of the pan. ‘I’m very sorry, Sister. I’ll do it again.’