IN 1915 IN BRITAIN, IN stately mansions in the south of England, in farm cottages in Angus, in tiny crofts in the Western Isles, two names became known by everyone. One was Edith Cavell, a British nurse who had been working in Brussels since 1906. In August, while Kirsty waited for a letter from Hugh and Meg prepared for her wedding to her Will, Miss Cavell was arrested by the Germans for helping Allied servicemen to escape to Holland.
The other name was that of Flight Sub-Lieutenant R.A.J. Warneford, and it was the exploits of this young airman and his fellows that caused many young men, including Bob Cargill, to rush to join this new band of heroes. There had been a number of air raids that summer and all Britain looked forward to a fight between a German Zeppelin and a British aeroplane. It happened on June 7th between Ghent and Brussels. Warneford, in a very light monoplane, found himself above one of the huge ungainly monsters at a height of some 6,000 feet. He swooped down on top of the Zeppelin and dropped six bombs on it, one of which burst open the envelope, and in the tremendous explosion the little plane was turned upside down. Warneford had barely graduated from the Central Flying School. This new force in the air was, in fact, scarcely a year old, but the fledgling pilot managed to right his machine and to land safely – in enemy territory. Before he could be captured he restarted the plane and flew back to Britain and immortality.
*
Hugh Granville-Baker heard neither of Warneford, nor of Nurse Cavell, whose execution in October filled the nation with righteous anger and made the British people more determined than ever to win the war. Hugh was in the midst of a nightmare not of his own making at a place called Loos. Hugh did think of Kirsty. He did not try to hide his thoughts; he welcomed them. He could stand exhausted, held up by the mud that almost held his trench together, his boots rotting on his feet, and his soul would be in Scotland lying in a bower of roses and honeysuckle, and in his arms would be a girl who smelled cleaner and sweeter than either. He had tried to tell her he was sorry – their lovemaking had got out of hand.
‘I should have been stronger: I’m experienced. Dear God, I’m a man.’ He went over it again and again. ‘I should have guarded her, protected her. She didn’t know what was going on. Please God, let her be all right until I get back.’
The thought of what life would be like for Kirsty if she was not all right brought him out in a cold sweat. He looked for a letter. Kirsty wrote every day: she told of the harvest, of her new class, of the bramble blossoms turning to berries on the bushes. None of the letters had, so far, reached him.
Loos is in that area that became known as the Western Front. The German armies had begun their huge offensive in the East in May, and so it had seemed only sensible to hit them as hard as possible in the West. There were no Gettysburgs in the First World War, no Waterloos: no battles that lasted a day or a little more and decisively changed the course of war and of history itself. The great battles of this First World War dragged on for days, for weeks, for months. Now Hugh stood hardly aware of the continuous bombardment, the likes of which men had never heard before. It was like thunder that rolled above his head hour after sleepless hour. The thunder rose every now and again to a crescendo and there would come the cry from somebody, ‘Here it comes, lads, man the parapets,’ and . . . nothing, nothing but the boom, whine, boom. General Joffre had encouraged the quietening down of activity. He needed time to reinforce, to repair the roads that would bring in supplies: tents, huts, food, drink, ammunition and men – in the British case, since they had lost most of their trained soldiers in 1914, raw, confused recruits.
One night, towards the end of September, Hugh stood in a blessed break from the shelling, the lull before the storm, and reached inside his vest for the little box sent by Princess Mary as a Christmas gift for the soldiers. He’d meant to give it to Kirsty; she would have loved the little silver pencil he had been given because he was one of the few men who did not smoke. Paper? Surely to God, somewhere he had a piece of paper. His paybook. He’d write on the back page and square that breach of regulations with the CO later. Christ, he was the CO! Forsyth was dead, and Hendry, and Smythe, and, and, and . . . Dear God, would it ever end?
Dear Kirsty,
You wouldn’t let me speak. I would have said, what would I have said? That those moments with you in the Dell would stay in my heart for ever. I pray you are well. As soon as this is over I’ll come back to you, I promise. Meet me in . . .
‘Captain, Captain,’ the hoarse voice interrupted him, and hurriedly he pushed the paybook and the little pencil into his pocket. ‘We’re to expect another attack, sir. All hell’s . . .’
It was as bright as noon on Midsummer’s Day. And the noise! After that moment of quiet he felt his head would burst. He ignored it. Now that it had started again the hideous fear that sat constantly in his belly, so that sweat broke out on his cold body, disappeared. He straightened his shoulders. He was not a man with loves and fears, he was an expensively trained machine. His voice, strong where a moment ago it had barely croaked, shouted the right orders.
‘We’ll do our bit with what we have, Sergeant.’ They had more men, and the British had instigated the attack and so they had surprise, but there was too little ammunition.
‘Keep your heads down.’ As yet there were no steel helmets; military caps afforded no protection, even if they stayed on the head.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Oh, sweet Christ, the wind’s changed. Put your masks on,’ he shouted above the bombardment, but the sergeant didn’t hear and Hugh hurried over to him. ‘Your mask – not that it’s much use, but better than nothing.’
‘Come on, Frazer, lad.’ The private was about seventeen, his eyes wide and staring, his mouth open in a silent scream for his mother, for sanity. ‘It’s all right, lad. We’ll beat the buggers. Here, get your mask on.’ Mask, what mask: an impregnated flannel bag with a celluloid window. The Germans were uncivilized, there had been an outcry when they had first used gas. Now, he, Hugh Granville-Baker, was ordering his troops to throw gas at the Germans. Science dehumanizes.
The boy clung to him. Hugh smelled the smell of urine and for a moment his mind went back through the years to wee Tam and the school at Aberannoch.
‘Pull yourself together, lad. That’s it, that’s it. Got a girl, have you? Wait till she sees your medals.’
‘It’s our own gas blowing back on us,’ Hugh mouthed to his sergeant.
‘It’s the bluidy shells the Germans are throwing that I could dae withoot.’
Hugh managed a smile.
The madness went on. Noise, silence, darkness, brilliant light, screaming, blood, mud, stumps of trees – or were those bodies slumped over fence posts? Pain, pain, and always, always trying to make sense, trying to do the right thing. Was he thinking, rationalizing, making conscious decisions, or was some inner force outside looking down objectively and forcing his exhausted mind and body through the motions? He saw Frazer, or what was left of Frazer, still with his mouth open. Where were the boy’s legs? He scrabbled in the bloody mud. He had to find the legs. What was that bloody lump of meat over there? ‘I’ve got your legs, lad. Don’t fret. I’ve got your legs.’ Fingers. Legs didn’t have fingers. Whose arm? Whose arm? Where was everyone? He crawled back to Frazer and tried to close the mouth but the jaw wouldn’t move. Rigor mortis – How could that have set in? Didn’t it take time? Surely he’d only chivvied the lad a few minutes ago.
He wiped the rivers of sweat from his brow. How warm it was – it wasn’t sweat, it was blood. He looked at it dispassionately and the smell, warm and sickly, rose to him. It changed . . . it was honeysuckle. Honeysuckle in September – or was it October now? Honeysuckle and wild roses and in the field there, on the left of the Dell, barley red-gold like the tips of the waves in Kirsty’s hair when the sun caressed it. He would wait here in the Dell for Kirsty to come. He was so tired. He could sleep now with the scent of honeysuckle. He pulled a rose from the briar and sat down on the fallen log.
‘I’ll wait for you in the Dell, Kirsty.’
He smiled.
*
Meg’s wedding was as perfect as any hastily arranged wedding can be. The bride was radiant, and the groom proud, nervous and very shy.
‘Don’t ask,’ said Meg’s grandfather as he happily poured real and very expensive French champagne into newly bought crystal glasses. ‘There’s never been champagne in this hoos and certainly nae fancy glesses, but for wir wee lass, the best of a’thing we kin get. No much o’ a waddin’, Kirsty. Landsakes, there should be dancin’ fer days – and her in a blue suit! She should hae her mammy’s veil.’
‘It’s a lovely wedding, Mr Stewart,’ Kirsty consoled him honestly and then very abruptly, so abruptly that she almost broke its delicate stem, she set the glass down on a table. Her head reeled and her stomach heaved.
‘Losh, lassie, ye’ve only hid ae sip. Kin ye no haud yer drink?’
Kirsty waved him away and ran for the door of the cottage. ‘So hot, so hot,’ she explained to those she rushed past.
Outside she managed to reach the nettles and willow-herb that grew among the rubble at the back of the cottage before she was violently sick.
‘Kirsty, how could you, how could you?’ It was her mother. ‘You’re pregnant, aren’t you? You gave yourself to him, didn’t you? How could you? How could you?’ she asked the unanswerable question again and again and again. Maybe if she asked enough times she would get the answer she needed. ‘Thank God, oh, thank God, I never thought I would ever say it, but I’m glad your father is dead. University, he wanted for you. “Why, John?” I asked. “She’s a girl. Some lad will come and wed her, and what price a university education then?” And do you know what he said? He said, “Education is never wasted, and I want it for our lass. She’ll be a better mother.” A better mother? Oh, Kirsty. In a million years, would the likes of Hugh Granville-hyphen-Baker wed a lass like you?’
Kirsty, white and shaken, looked up at her mother, at the face of someone she had never before seen. She was not afraid. She was not angry. Suddenly she was a hundred years old and she understood the pain that was making Jessie scream abuse at her.
‘I’m so sorry, Mother, sorry that I’ve hurt you.’
She wiped her mouth with the handkerchief that Jessie had embroidered for her.
‘Oh, Kirsty, my bairn,’ Jessie whispered and held out her arms to her daughter.
‘What am I going to do?’ Kirsty sobbed in her mother’s arms. ‘Help me. Mother, I’m so frightened.’
‘We’ll get home quietly and then we’ll talk. Can you pull yourself together? We’ll need to say our goodbyes.’
‘The heat . . .’ ‘The excitement . . .’ They made their excuses and left before the bride and groom. Knowing looks followed them and people nodded at one another. They said nothing as they walked to the station; nothing as they sat and waited for a train. Jessie held her daughter’s hand as if it was a lifeline that she dare not let go. At last, at last the cottage welcomed them.
‘I’ll make a cup of tea and bring it in to you, lass. Take your shoes off and lie down on your bed.’
‘I’m fine now, Mother. I’ll sit in the front room.’
She noticed the best china. Why? What was Jessie saying? ‘He’s been gone a month’ – he was no longer Hugh, but he, he the seducer, the ruiner of young girls – ‘and he was only here a few days.’
Kirsty wanted to laugh. It didn’t matter how long Hugh’s leave had been; it had only taken a few minutes. She answered Jessie’s unasked question.
‘The last day.’
‘Not that that makes much difference. Have you told him?’
‘No. I didn’t know myself, tried to hide from the truth, I suppose. I’ve been late before. When Mr Buchanan . . . when I lived there . . .’
‘He must be told. He will admit responsibility, won’t he? He always seemed like a nice boy. You can write tonight. He has to marry you . . .’ Jessie turned away to dry her tears.
‘Mother, there’s a war on. It might be months before Hugh comes back.’
‘He’s an officer. They have power, and his father is high up, isn’t he? And Lady Sybill? Her father’s a lord. They can pull strings.’
Then Kirsty admitted to the nightmare, to the fear that had been growing with her knowledge of what had happened. ‘He hasn’t written since he left. Perhaps he doesn’t care for me . . . perhaps he thinks I’m a bad girl.’
Jessie stood up. ‘You’ve never even walked out with anyone else. I’ll tell him that. You write. I’ll walk into Arbroath and post it. It must go out as quickly as possible.’
*
Dear Hugh . . . Kirsty bit the end of the pen. What could she write? How do you tell someone something that, in the right circumstances, is so wonderful that it should only be spoken face to face, so that the joy in each soul could be seen reflected in the eyes. There was no joy here, only acute fear. Hugh hadn’t written. He had lost all respect for her. She was easy. Men didn’t marry girls who were easy. Oh, dear God, what was she going to do? The tears blotted the paper and she sniffed loudly, blew her nose, and started again.
Dear Hugh,
I haven’t heard from you and I hope you are well. The news from the Front is not good and I hate to think of you out there.
Hugh, I need to hear from you because I’m going to have a baby.
There, she had said it, coldly, badly. She wouldn’t beg, wouldn’t plead, wouldn’t assure him of her virtue. Hugh would know all that. He would not deny the baby was his, and if he didn’t want to marry her . . . Never once, never once had he said, ‘I love you, Kirsty.’ She could handle it. She would manage, somehow.
Please tell me what you want me to do. I’m all right for a few months.
Please write to me.
Kirsty
She wouldn’t say that she loved him. She had said that often enough in the Dell, in every way.
‘I’ll post it myself, Mother. I’m perfectly well, really.’
*
She walked back towards the town and looked out over the sea. How incredibly beautiful and peaceful it was. Not for the first time she thought how difficult it was to believe that there was a war on. The haystacks stood golden in the fields; a few early brambles were almost ripe. ‘A few days and we’ll be making jelly,’ thought Kirsty, ‘and while I’m making jam, soldiers not so far away will be killing each other.’ For the first time she thought not of her own soldier but of the French and Flemish, and even the German women who should by rights also be looking forward to making jam. Were their fields lying golden in the sun? Were the brambles in France, and the grapes, ripe and luscious and ready to pick? If the papers were correct and the drawings of the official war artists, Nash and Nevinson, true to life – or death – the fertile fields of France were blown to smithereens or churned up by the countless feet of marching men.
She continued her walk and did not know that she was followed by Jamie, who wondered what letter was so important that Kirsty could not wait for tomorrow for the train.