The boat train disgorged its weary passengers onto a wet platform at Victoria station. Flora stood for a moment remembering wartime ‘stand-tos’, waiting for the ambulance trains to offload their sick patients, while onlookers were held back, lest the sight of the wounded lowered public morale.
Her escorts left her by the ferry port and now she was alone. The postcard to Kit was burning a hole in her pocket. It had the wrong stamp and must be rewritten.
She gave her address as the VADs’ hostel in Upper Cavendish Street. Here there was time to collapse. If asked she would say she was back from France on sick leave. Taking an omnibus to the nearest Bank of Scotland, she withdrew enough money from her allowance to tide her over while she was in London. She wanted to buy fresh clothes, to rid herself of the smell of travelling grime. When Kit returned, she wanted to be looking her best for him.
For a few hours after making her way to Oxford Street, she lost herself in Mr Selfridge’s store, browsing the latest fashion in gowns. Hemlines were above the ankles now, with looser-fitting dresses that looked comfortable but expensive. She must eke out her allowance and budget carefully for a while. There was enough for a pretty blouse, though. She sent a postcard to Kildowie, saying she was on leave and would return when her contract was terminated.
In her heart Flora knew she was not ready to return to the bosom of her family, to a life that, if she was honest, no longer held much appeal. Better to stay down south, and wait for Kit’s letter. But after a week without a reply, she felt restless and concerned so she wrote again and again but there was still silence.
One night she wrote a long letter to her dear friend Rose in Glasgow, explaining the truth about her return and her relationship with Kit Carlyle. A letter came back to the hostel almost at once, containing a letter from Maudie Wallace and was full of apologies.
Dearest Flo
I didn’t know where to send my letter when it was returned from the Rose Villa. I’m so sorry that you have been dismissed. If only you had confided in us, Olive and I would have covered for you willingly.
Kit has a lot to answer for, in putting you in such a position. I hope he’s worth all the trouble he has brought to your door. I must say he has changed a lot since we first knew him, but then the war has done strange things to all of us.
Olive and I have decided to stay in Switzerland. There is a clinic specialising in those with mental scars from their war wounds and experiences. It is by a lake in Lucerne and the views are wonderful and food delicious. We were hoping you would come to visit us but Rose tells me you are in London at the hostel.
Perhaps this enforced separation from Kit will give you both a chance to reflect on your future plans. Don’t be downhearted. But a sisterly warning. If he has let down Muriel Armour-Brown, he could well do the same to you. I don’t want to see you hurt. Men are so weak and unreliable, I find, the best of them being long gone from us now. I thank God I have such a chum in Olive, for she is now my companion. We are different in many ways, but we work and live amicably together. Do write to me to say all is well and again I apologise for letting you down, but perhaps it is for the best in the long run.
Cheery bye and best love
Maudie
Oh, Maudie, she sighed, putting down the letter. How little you know me, or what Kit means to me. We are two of a kind, though his silence is unnerving. What if he was sick again? What if he had been dismissed? Write to me please, she prayed, not able to settle in idleness. The days were long, waiting for the post to arrive, but still she refused to attend the headquarters for another dressing-down. VADs were volunteers, after all, and she no longer felt the loyalty she had so proudly embraced. When Kit returned, she would marry him quietly, with no fuss and no family. Then they could begin their new life together.
One morning a maid arrived, carrying a small package. ‘For you, miss…’ It had been posted from abroad but not in Kit’s handwriting and she feared it was from Miss Burke, demanding to know why she had not gone to HQ. Flora left it unopened, until curiosity got the better of her. What did she care now for Matron’s opinion? The address at the top was from the officers’ hotel and dated nearly two weeks ago. Inside were her own letters.
Dear Miss Garvie
I do apologise for opening your letters, but I needed to find your address. There is no easy way to explain my action, except that I am afraid I have bad news regarding Captain Carlyle, who I know was a particular friend of yours.
Three weeks ago, Carlyle, who had a habit for sea bathing even in inclement weather, took himself off for his usual swim. When he did not return to the mess, a group of us went in search of him, thinking him perhaps unwell, for he has been much troubled of late.
We found his uniform folded on the beach, along with his towel and shoes, and the alarm was raised. We fear a terrible accident befell him in the chill water; cramp or fatigue while he was swimming. It has been a great shock to all of us, for he was a popular chap and an excellent padre, much decorated for bravery at the front.
His belongings, papers and effects were returned to his next of kin in Scotland, but I could not let you go on thinking he was still resident here. I am so sorry to be the bearer of such shocking news.
Please take comfort from knowing he would not have suffered for long in that cold water.
Yours Sincerely
Charles Fox (Major)
Flora sank to her knees in shock. Kit, no, no, Kit, why did you risk the chilly water? Or did you? She recalled him walking in a daydream into the sea, the first time they had talked alone. A terrible thought filled her with dread. Was this an accident or was it… She could not say the word.
You said I brought you back to life. Surely our love was enough to calm your fears? You stupid, stupid man, I loved you from the moment I saw you pleading for Bertie Wallace to be put on that ambulance train all those years ago. I loved your off-key singing. I loved every beat of your heart as we lay together. How could you risk your life when so many of our dearest lost the chance of life?
They had no choice, but you had life and the promise of the future and you let it go. It was no accident, of that I’m sure, and I hate you for it. I thought my loving gave your whole new life purpose and now you throw it back in my face like this. I can’t believe you took the coward’s way out. Did you give in to fears and weakness, or did you see it as a brave act of defiance?
Now you have brought grief to all who love you, Aunt Jessie, Andrew, Muriel, but most of all to me. I would have waited a lifetime, until you were free to be with me. How can I go back home, bearing such news? They must never know I lost my reputation because of you, and I gladly lost it. I was not ashamed of giving myself to you, but now I feel only shame to have loved such a coward.
Flora sobbed hot tears of anger into her pillow, a bitter bile burning in her throat. She cried until sleep overtook her wounded soul.
*
Kit pedalled like a man possessed, ever westward along the coastline. With each calf-aching mile on this old boneshaker, he felt himself releasing his past life. His mind was on fire with possibilities. What he was doing not only freed himself, but all the others in his life. This plan was the kindest of all. There would be no body to return, no military funeral, no inquest, no suspicion about his motives. Any doubts or shame stabbing within him were shoved from his mind. Thoughts of the consequences of his action were no longer important.
A burst of euphoria fuelled him with excitement. He was breaking free from his past life and setting everyone else free from his failures. Taking this flight from reality no longer worried him. He could not go on living a lie. He didn’t love Muriel, or his vocation. The war had drained his faith. As for Flora, she was better off without him. He didn’t deserve her. He had betrayed her trust and for that he hated himself. You are a weak waste of space in the world. How can anyone ever trust you again? These were his disordered thoughts, as he cycled on, until he lay exhausted in a barn, dead to the world.
He woke next morning and the euphoria of the night before was punctured like a blown tyre. Hungry and aching, he suddenly realised what he had done and felt sick. What had prompted such cowardice?
Now he lay, covered in straw, in the shabby workman’s clothes he had cunningly bought in a flea market. The familiar itch of lice rubbed his skin. His head, shaved in a cheap barber shop, hid any evidence of his flame-red hair, making him look like a convict. He had a hunk of cheese and a stale crust of bread in his pocket. Now he rose in search of water to quench a raging thirst. What had he done? It was too late now to go back. His legs were aching, his chest was tight. You’ve made this bloody bed for yourself, now you lie on it, old boy. No looking back. It’s too late for second thoughts. No one would recognise him wearing these old clothes and a beret. His French was basic, but he would soon learn. He bought a loaf and slice of jambon, a bottle of cheap wine and found a fountain in which to douse his face. He would sleep wherever there was shelter from the winter chill: in barns, church porches, washing in streams. He was travelling light, possessing only two clean shirts. As for his identity, he had figured it best to lose his real name in favour of something close but different.
Kristian was easily translated into Christophe. As for Carlyle, he thought of the moorland railway track north, stopping at Beattock and Carstairs en route to Glasgow. There was an asylum at Carstairs. What better reminder of this act of madness than to call himself Chris Carstairs? When he eventually reached Marseille, he would register his lost papers and claim a new identity. Then he could lose himself in the countryside and throw himself into a new life.
Only at night, under the stars, did his conscience torture him with thoughts of Flora. His death must be added to all her other losses. She was strong and deserved a better man than he had become. There would be no other women in his life. His desire was spent, but he would cherish that winter night of love-making for ever. The door to that sort of happiness was slammed shut. A wretched man like him was no longer worthy of joy or sympathy.
He had made this reckless plan one night when sleep eluded him. Once Flora had gone, it was as if some strange mania had taken hold of him. He made a list of what he must purchase and store away until the opportunity came to put his flight into practice. He stepped up his swims, so everyone knew his routine. Purchasing a bicycle came next. He told his fellow inmates he wanted to be fitter, making sure it was in its usual place when he left. The old boneshaker was hidden in a shed along with the flea market clothes. He took care that everything in his room looked as untidy as usual, even leaving a bottle of best malt whisky half drunk. Taking his bathers down to the beach as usual, he diverted along a path back to where he had hidden everything ready for departure when darkness fell. It was a devious plan and it worked.
Now there was no turning back. Bridges were burnt and a new life was opening up before him. He had no idea what he would do to earn a living, but chances came to those who went in search of them. One thing he would do, though, was observe people and places, sketch and perhaps paint. He tried not to think of Aunt Jessie in mourning, or Andrew advertising for a new assistant. It was only when Flora’s dark eyes flashed before him that he knew this act of escape was unforgivable, cruel and cowardly, but it was too late now for second thoughts.