Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘That’s what they tell us,’ Clara said. ‘But is it the truth?’
‘Would they tell us lies?’ Kate asked.
‘Lies are not the same as holding back on telling the whole story,’ Clara replied, ‘and I’m not sure we’re getting the whole story.
Carnforth’s letters arrive with sections blacked out, for security reasons they say.
The only people who will know are the men themselves, Philip and Carnforth, and at the moment we’re not getting any letters, no information at all.
We only get to know when one of our own has .
. .’ Clara stopped herself. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Kate, I didn’t mean to .
. . your poor brother . . . I haven’t even asked you how your mother and father are coping . . . such sadness for you all.’
‘They just have to go on,’ Kate said, tears forming. ‘We all do.’
‘I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a brother,’ Clara said. ‘I think about Philip every day. Where he is, what’s happening to him.’
Kate felt her stomach clench. Her face surely betrayed her. There was an awkwardness between them.
‘You are very fond of Philip, aren’t you?’ Clara asked, in a probing tone. ‘It’s like he’s your brother too,’ she added, looking directly at Kate.
Kate faltered. How much should she confide in Clara? She so wanted to tell her the depth of feeling she had for Philip. She didn’t know what to say and, when she found the words, they sounded so inadequate to her own ears.
‘Yes,’ Kate replied, ‘I’m very fond of him.’
‘What about that young man you were seeing? Have you heard any news of him at all?’ Clara asked.
‘Archie? No news recently. I hope that means he’s all right,’ Kate replied, pleased that Clara had changed the subject.
She felt the flushing in her cheeks subside and a sense of relief that Clara hadn’t pressed her about her affection for Philip.
The two men both occupied her thoughts daily, although perhaps not equally.
‘I must tell you something,’ Clara said. ‘I’ve volunteered for a new project. The Relief Fund needs women to supervise the running of a knitting factory and workrooms over in Woolwich. I’m going to recruit the workers. I need to stay in that area for a while.’
‘Where will you live?’ Kate asked.
‘Oh, the fund has plenty of contacts in that area. I’m staying with friends of the Astor family, Colonel and Mrs Gardener. It will save all the travelling back and forth. Will you miss me?’ Clara said.
‘Of course I will,’ Kate replied.
* * *
Clara had only been gone a week or so when Kate came down to the kitchen, one Saturday morning, to a commotion.
‘What’s the panic?’ Kate asked Ida as she scurried about answering Mrs B’s demands.
‘It’s Mr Philip,’ Ida replied. ‘He’s been badly injured and they’re sending him home from the hospital to recuperate.
Mistress says that his room hasn’t been used in so long it must be given a thorough clean and we’re even to take the summer curtains down and put the winter ones up, says they’ll keep the room warmer. ’
Kate’s heart plummeted at the words ‘badly injured’.
‘How badly?’ she asked.
‘No one knows ’til he gets here,’ Ida said. ‘Or if they do they’re not telling us anything. It’s a big job, getting the curtains down out of the loft and giving them a good brush down,’ she added.
‘Well, you’d better get on with it then,’ Mrs B said, overhearing Ida’s complaints.
The rest of the day Kate found herself running between the nursery and the kitchen without time to take a breath.
Her feelings lurched from excitement to trepidation, expectation to fear.
She wanted to see him but she knew they couldn’t be together.
They would be under the same roof but separate.
By the time the evening came she was ready to collapse with physical and emotional exhaustion.
‘He’s here,’ Ida announced. ‘At least I think it’s him.’
‘What do you mean, you think it’s him. Either it is or it isn’t,’ Mrs B said.
‘Well he looks different. He’s so thin and his face is . . . is . . .’
‘Spit it out, girl, what about his face?’ Mrs B snapped.
‘I’m sure the doctors did their best but . . .’ Ida began.
‘He’s scarred?’ Kate asked.
Ida nodded.
The atmosphere in the house was subdued.
What should have been a cause for celebration had turned into the grim reality of the true meaning of this war, the sacrifices that were being made.
Kate was desperate to see him, but the family had asked to be given their meal and their coffee and then not to be disturbed.
Kate hadn’t been called to help in the dining room and had therefore not seen Philip’s injuries for herself but, as she came out of the kitchen late in the evening, she watched him, from a distance, painfully climbing the stairs.
She hated to see him in this state but at least he was safe, he was home.
Just as she was retiring to bed and turning off the lamps for the night, she passed Philip’s room and could hear him sobbing.
The sound cut her deeply. She stood and listened for a while, unsure of what to do.
Thoughts crowded her mind. He was suffering, alone, racked with the wounds inflicted on both his body and his mind.
She knocked gently on the door. When no answer came, she opened it quietly and whispered, ‘Philip, Philip, it’s me, Kate. Is there anything I can do?’
A low triangle of light lit up the floor. A shape moved beneath the bedclothes.
‘Sorry to disturb you. I was wondering if . . .’
‘Come in, Kate,’ Philip said, in a broken whisper that hardly reached her.
She stood just inside the door and waited for him to speak again. She could see that there was a very pale light coming from a bedside lamp turned down very low. The yellow glow gave the room a sickly tinge.
‘Come . . . closer . . . come,’ he said. His voice was weak and punctuated with deep intakes of breath.
‘I thought perhaps you might like something to drink,’ Kate said. ‘Some warm milk perhaps with a little brandy?’
The bitter laugh that escaped him then was a shock to Kate.
‘Some brandy, yes, that will do it!’ he said choking over the words. ‘That will make it all go away.’
She knew from his tone that he was mocking her. It frightened her.
‘Well, if there’s nothing you need then I’ll . . .’ Kate began to move slowly back towards the door.
Philip sat up in bed and said more calmly and slowly this time, ‘I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry, Kate. You’re only trying to help, I know.
I have these times when I just don’t know what I’m saying.
There’s an anger inside me that has to come out.
I would like a drink, yes, if it’s not too much trouble. I’m having difficulty sleeping.’
Kate went downstairs. The house was quiet; all had retired to bed except her. She entered the room again with the drink and placed it on the bedside table.
‘Will you stay a while?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. I don’t think it would be . . .’
‘Proper? It wouldn’t be proper. Tell me what is proper in the current world as we know it?
’ Philip spat the words out at her, making her feel uncomfortable.
She didn’t know what to say. He was silent for a while until he was finally able to gain control of himself.
Then he spoke again. ‘There, you see, it comes at me just like that. I can’t seem to stop it. I’m so . . .’
‘No need to apologize,’ Kate said. ‘I’ve seen what this war can do to people.’
She tried not to stare at him. In the low light, with his face turned slightly away from her, she couldn’t see how badly he was hurt.
She could tell from his outbursts, though, that he’d been through the unthinkable and unimaginable.
She gently touched the side of his face.
The torn and patched ridges of his scars under her fingertips made her start but she wanted him to know it made no difference to her and she leaned over to kiss him.
At the touch of her lips he turned towards her. She took his hand.
‘He wanted to know all about it, my father,’ he snapped. Kate could feel the anger returning. She let him talk. She didn’t interrupt or try to calm him down. She just listened.
‘He kept saying what a great honour it was to serve and how well our boys are doing. He knows nothing. Mother just kept on looking at me and weeping. I don’t want their adoration or their pity, Kate.
I just want to be left alone. I’m here to recover so that I can go back.
I have a job to do. I need to get better and get back to my men. I need to . . .’
Kate stepped forward to take his hand. She sat down on the bed beside him and said she would stay with him for a while.
‘Don’t be kind to me, Kate,’ he said. ‘I just want you to listen and to be there but don’t be kind to me or I won’t want to go back and I must,’ he said. ‘I can’t get too comfortable here.’
‘But you can rest and I can help nurse you, if they’ll let me,’ Kate said.
He suddenly lurched forward and grabbed hold of her by her shoulders, thrusting his face up close to hers.
‘Look at me, Kate, look at me. That’s what shrapnel can do,’ he cried, his voice rasping. He began to cough and struggle for breath.
‘And that’s what . . . gas . . . does to your lungs,’ he said. The tears began to flow, tears of anger and frustration. The sobbing and coughing racked his chest and she drew him to her, letting him rest upon her breasts.
Eventually a calmness came over him, he pulled back and said, ‘You’re a good person, Kate. Has anyone ever told you that?’
She smiled at him. ‘Try to sleep now,’ she whispered.
She wondered if anyone had held Fred while he died.
She hadn’t been with her brother when he needed her, she couldn’t be there to soothe him and comfort him, but she could be with Philip.
He was here, he was real and his pain was real.
She could help him. She handed him the milk and brandy and watched him drink.
‘It’ll be cold,’ she said.
‘But you’re warm,’ Philip replied.
They sat for a while in the darkness until the cup began to tilt in his hands and his head dropped onto his chest. His anger had finally dissipated and his body relaxed.
She held onto the back of his head with one hand and took the cup with the other.
She placed his head gently back on the pillow and then crept towards the door.
‘Don’t leave me,’ he whispered.
She went back to the bedside and sat smoothing his forehead, just like she did for the children when they were sick.
Her fingers traced the raised and puckered flesh.
His whole body began to shake and she lay down beside him.
He kept repeating, ‘Cold, cold, cold.’ She put her arm over him and held him close.
They lay together, her breasts to his back, her knees tucked behind his knees, her arm across his chest. She didn’t dare move for disturbing him but couldn’t stop her shivers as the cool evening air filtered into the room.
Philip shifted as he sensed the ripples running through her body.
Slowly he turned towards her and took her hands in his and kissed them.
He threw the covers back and then he rolled her towards him.
She let her body fall into his. He carefully pulled the covers over them and they held each other close, until her breath merged with his breath and his lips touched hers.
She let her mind drift into a place where there was no time, no demands to call them, no walls to divide them. They were here, together, now.
When the morning light crept around the edges of the curtain, Kate’s eyes flicked open.
She was still in his embrace. She was warm with his love.
She peeled away from him and slid silently onto her feet.
He rolled onto his back but his breathing was heavy and rhythmical; he slept peacefully, one arm thrown above his head.
She could still feel the heat of the passion between them.
He had entered her oh so gently and taken her to a place where she felt as if her whole body would burst with the sheer joy of him.
She would hold the memory of this night in her heart.
Nothing and nobody could take this away from her.