Chapter Thirty-Six
Thirty-six
There’d been snow then rain then sleet. Not the weather for mass slaughter, but perfect for illness and rot.
I stood at the back of an ambulance, only half full.
‘It’s you,’ the ambulance driver said.
I stared at her, trying to recall.
‘You were wearing silk pyjamas the last time I saw you.’
I remembered her then – petite, with dark hair and brown eyes. She’d reminded me of Helen. She no longer did.
‘Hardly the weather for silk,’ I said, pulling my greatcoat around me.
‘Shame,’ she said.
‘What have we got?’
‘Phlegm and feet. Nothing urgent.’ We have time was what she was saying. To chat and to flirt.
Or am I flattering myself?
‘The lucky ones,’ I said. Though we both knew there was no such thing.
He was on a stretcher this time, but only because no one else needed it.
‘T-t-tilda,’ he said as I leaned in.
He was covered in blankets and his face was so thin and old it took me a moment. I pretended it hadn’t.
‘We have to stop meeting like this, Jack.’
His smile was disappointing, so I tried again.
‘If I’d known you were coming I would have worn my red silk pyjamas.’
He smiled harder, to please.
‘Though I still haven’t got the mud out from last time.’
It was the wrong thing to say. Jack’s smile turned into a grimace, all the more disturbing when he realised the slip and tried to fix it.
‘Oh Jack, I’m sorry.’
‘N-n-n-n-no. No need.’
I wondered how often he’d needed to be told about his lieutenant and his friends, lost at Loos. And then I wondered how many other friends he’d lost since. And then I stopped wondering. Jack had survived the Somme, his losses would be many; too many to count.
‘Phlegm or feet,’ I said, as cheerfully as if I was offering ice-cream flavours. I looked at the tag pinned to Jack’s chest: trench foot; acute bronchitis. ‘Both, it seems.’
‘Is, is, is that permitted?’ he said.
‘Not usually, Jack. One ailment per patient, that’s the rule at 24 General. But for you, we’ll make an exception.’ I winked and he nodded and I realised we were both grateful that the other was making the usual effort to deny what was obvious.
I looked to the orderlies. ‘Respiratory ward,’ I said. Then to Jack, ‘I usually work on the ward next door. You’ll get sick of me popping in.’
I was on nights that week so I spent an hour with Jack before each shift on the German ward.
‘He sleeps better when you’ve been,’ the sister told me.
‘I tire him out with inane chatter.’
‘And the extra helping of cocoa.’
‘What’s the point of knowing people in high places if you can’t have an extra cup of cocoa?’
Jack was sitting in the chair so I sat on his bed, reading his patient notes.
‘You’ve still got all your toes, I see.’
‘All my little p-p-piggies can still g-go to market.’ He only just got the sentence out before coughing.
‘That’s good,’ I said, ‘it means you’ll be able to visit the Covered Market when you go home.’
He looked confused.
‘They’ve authorised sick leave, Jack. A month at home. You’re not much use to anyone here, full of snot and rotten feet.’
He shook his head, disbelieving, or perhaps refusing. Some did. They were not who they’d been when they left home and they were afraid.
‘I’ll write to Rosie and the girls. Tell them what to expect, though you might arrive before the letter.’
His eyes filled and tears fell and he began to cough.
‘Rosie will have you better in no time,’ I said, my hand on his shoulder. ‘And it will do her good to see you, Jack. It will do them all good.’
He nodded, but didn’t speak. Words did not come as easily as they once had. I stood up and put the notes back on the end of his bed. ‘Extra cocoa tonight, I think. To celebrate.’
Jack smiled when I handed him his cocoa. ‘Thank you, Tilda.’
‘You won’t get this back home, you know. Mostly powdered milk over there and the cocoa tastes a bit odd.’
‘Nothing but the b-best for us.’
‘That’s one way to look at it,’ I said.
We drank in silence for a while, then Jack said, ‘I have no gifts.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘For Mum and Nan. For Maude and P-Peggy.’
I smiled. ‘You’re the gift, Jack.’
He shook his head. ‘They’ll be hoping for something b-better,’ he said.
‘What would you take home for them, if you could?’
‘F-food for Mum and Nan, a book for Peg.’
‘And Maude?’
He looked into his lap where his hands were fidgeting. ‘Something nice,’ he said.
I smiled, then teased. ‘Something nice…’ I pondered, ‘like a jar of herring?’
He looked at me, annoyed. ‘Mum would like the herring.’
I nodded. ‘Something pretty, perhaps?’
‘P-p-perhaps.’
I visited the next day, before Jack was put on the train to Calais.
‘Gifts,’ I said, handing him a small box that had once contained rubber gloves.
He opened it and took each thing out in turn.
‘Two jars of pickled herring,’ I said as he lifted them out.
‘Mum and Nan,’ he said and placed them on the bed beside him. He picked up the book.
‘The Rainbow by DH Lawrence.’
‘T-t-trust you to have a copy.’
I shrugged; he smiled.
‘P-peggy will love it,’ he said.
‘Apologise for its tattered state, every VAD I know has read it.’
‘She can rebind it.’
‘Of course she can.’ I peered into the box. ‘Now, who’s left?’
‘Maude,’ he said, as clear as a bell. Then he pulled out a length of Chinese silk, blues and greens and ivory.
‘A silk scarf,’ I said.
Jack looked at me. ‘This is yours.’
‘They are all mine, Jack.’
‘B-but this is special. I r-recognise it from last time.’
‘It is special, Jack. I thought that might be the point. Tell her you got it in Paris.’
His pale face went scarlet and we said no more.