8

They left for France four days before Molly was due for her next visit home. She had seen neither of her parents since she had left the farm on that last occasion, and as far as she knew her father had no knowledge she was going away. Had Mam managed to keep the secret after all she wondered? Or had she not really believed that Molly would go? Had she simply assumed, as no doubt her father had, that Molly would obey his dictates and come home docilely after working her month’s notice? Whichever it was, Molly was relieved that her father had not arrived breathing fire at the manor to button-hole the squire and announce that his daughter was leaving the manor and going to work in the munitions factory. If Dad had heard about nursing in France, he would have dragged her home on the spot, notice or no notice.

Sarah had had a battle with her own father. The evening she had followed him into the library, the squire had remained adamant that she could not go, but as she finally pointed out to him, “You can’t stop me, Father. I shall use mother’s money and Molly and I will travel together quite safely.”

“Your aunt says that the Reverend Mother, or whatever the woman is called…”

“You know perfectly well what she is called, Father,” put in Sarah patiently.

“Your aunt says that she must have my permission in writing to allow you to go, and I shan’t give it!”

“Then I shall go without it,” Sarah returned quietly. “They are crying out for nurses, and I doubt if they will actually turn me away if I turn up, even without a letter from you.”

“I shall write and say you are not coming,” her father said firmly.

“And I shall go just the same,” Sarah said, equally firmly. “If they turn me away, I shall find another hospital that will have me.” She smiled seraphically at her father. “Of course that would mean wandering about France on our own with no particular place to go, but I expect we could find somewhere in the end.”

Her father looked at her and saw, on his daughter’s face, the steely expression of determination her mother had worn when she had announced to her parents that she was marrying George Hurst, not of the Roman church. It was an expression with which he had grown familiar, and seeing it again on Sarah’s face now, he knew when he was beaten.

“You can’t drag young Molly Day round the battlefields!” Sir George continued to sound outraged. “What does her father say to all this nonsense?”

“He says that provided we are travelling together to a relative of mine, he has no objection to Molly going. After all, maids travel with their mistresses every day. Why should this be any different?”

Molly had taken a risk. When Sarah had asked her if her parents had any objection to her going to France, she had said, with a perfectly straight face, “None at all, Miss Sarah. I work for Squire now, miss, and if he’s says I should go then that’s all right with them. They know I’ll be quite safe with you, miss.” Sarah had been so pleased that Molly had agreed to go that she didn’t query this easy acceptance of the situation from Molly’s parents. She made no effort to check that they had given their approval, and with her acceptance, Molly was relying on the fact that the squire would accept it too. Once they had gone, and her father discovered they had, he would be over to the manor in a towering rage, but with luck he wouldn’t discover immediately and by then it would be too late.

As she had left the farm that last afternoon, Molly had hugged her mother tightly, taking a silent farewell. Her mother had returned the hug and then they parted, neither of them speaking another word. Molly, turning away, strode out of the farmyard without a backward glance. Her father, returning through the autumn twilight for his tea, had seen her tramping up the footpath to the hilltop, and knew that she had left early to avoid him. He was not surprised, but he certainly expected her to be moving back home in a month’s time.

Once he had given in, Sir George had been generous in his defeat. He gave Sarah a three-month advance on her allowance, and promised to arrange for her to continue to receive it whilst she was in France.

“You’ll have to pay young Molly her wages as usual,” he told her, “so I’ve added them to what I’ll be sending.” He looked resignedly at his daughter and said, “Oh Sarah, I do hope you know what you’re doing.”

Sarah’s answering hug confused him, he was not a demonstrative man, and he turned away to hide his emotion.

Sir George drove them to the station in his motor. Molly felt very grand sitting in the dickey seat, their luggage piled round her. Her one fear was that her father might see them on the road or be in Belcaster that day, but as they followed the road past the end of the Valley Farm track there was no sign of him, and even if he were in Belcaster, Molly thought, he was most unlikely to be at the station.

They reached the station in plenty of time and when the London train chuffed in, blowing steam and smoke up into the glass roof above the platform, the porter Sir George had found put their luggage into an empty first-class carriage compartment. They stood on the platform, surrounded by crowds of men in uniform saying goodbye to their loved ones, packs and kitbags heaped beside them. The noise and the bustle were exciting, and Molly felt the hollow feeling she had had in her stomach all morning, give way to the contagious excitement around her. Her eyes roved the platform, but returned hastily to their own little group as she saw several women bravely fighting tears as they said their farewells.

While they were waiting for the guard to whistle them aboard, the squire looked down at Molly and said genially, “Your parents not coming to see you off, young Molly?”

Molly flushed but offered her prepared lie smoothly, “No, sir. We didn’t want to say goodbye at the station, like. We said our goodbyes at home.”

Sir George nodded approvingly and slipping a guinea into her hand said, “Something to keep by you on the journey, Molly, just in case.”

Molly looked at the coin in her hand. She had never had so much money at one time. “Oh, sir, thank you, sir.” She managed a flustered bob and then as she scrambled up into the carriage, Sir George added, “Look after Miss Sarah for me, Molly, and make sure she doesn’t get into mischief.”

Molly looked down at him, startled, and said, “Lord, sir, I can’t tell Miss Sarah what to do!”

The squire smiled and said, “No, nor can anyone, but look after her all the same.”

The train stopped at several stations on the way, and at the first three officers clambered up into the compartment. Seeing Sarah and Molly seated there already they apologised. One of them introduced himself as Captain James Shiner and said, “So sorry to disturb you ladies, but may we share your compartment? The train is devilish full today.”

“Certainly, please do,” Sarah replied, and for the rest of the journey, she, at least, was supplied with interesting and congenial conversation. Molly, of course, took no part in this conversation, but spent the journey looking out at the countryside through which they sped. She was fascinated by the glimpses of the country she saw. Villages, nameless in the distance, crouched round their parish churches, factory chimneys stood out against the sky belching out smoke into its autumn paleness; wagons drawn ploddingly along the lanes and the occasional gleaming motor, speeding along at anything up to forty miles an hour, a policeman on his bicycle and a woman pushing someone in a Bath chair; it seemed to Molly an endless tapestry of other people’s lives. Workers in the fields paid no attention to the passing train, but children on bridges and beside level crossing gates jumped up and down and waved vigorously, and Molly, after one quick glance over her shoulder at Sarah, laughing with the officers, waved back.

I can’t believe we’re really on our way, she thought with a surge of excitement. We’re really going to France. It will be the adventure of my life and I must never forget a minute of it. I’m going to keep a diary, a journal, and write down everything that happens to me.

Molly had been made to read diaries at school, but though she liked the idea of recording her doings she had always considered her own life too ordinary and boring to write about; the parts that were not dull, she would never have dared to record. How her father treated her and her mother, she could never have put down. There was nowhere safe in the house to hide that sort of diary. But now, on the train rushing her, unknowing, into the future, she tried to clasp to herself all that had happened so far that day, so that she wouldn’t forget it. Suddenly, clearly, a diary was the answer. At the first opportunity, she promised herself, she would buy a notebook and several pencils and she would begin.

At each stop more and more servicemen poured into the carriages, so that when the train finally approached London, it was crammed to capacity. It lumbered slowly through the outskirts, and the scenes through the window changed. Fields and woodland gave way to built-up areas, villages to sprawling suburbs. Molly was amazed at the views she got of terraced houses in endless rows, their small rectangular gardens running to the edge of the track. Bustling streets, lined with houses or rows of shops, and the occasional church on a street corner towering over it all. How could so many people live so close together she wondered?

At Paddington, Captain Shiner helped them to find a porter and then a taxi to take them to Carver Square in Bloomsbury, where Sir George’s widowed sister, Lady Horner, lived. He asked if he might call on Miss Hurst there, but Sarah felt that meeting on a train hardly constituted being introduced, and regretted that they would be on their way to France in a couple of days, and preparing for the journey would allow them no time to receive social calls. Captain Shiner appeared to accept this refusal and wished them the very best of luck in France.

Sarah wished him the same, and when he had handed her into the cab he added, “All of England will be grateful to you, ma’am,” he said and saluting smartly, turned away and was swallowed into the crowds on the station.

Looking out of the taxi window, Molly exclaimed, “Oh Miss Sarah, I’ve never seen anything like this. When we was on the train I thought we was in London long before we got here, what with all them houses and all! Look at this traffic! There’s motors everywhere as well as trams, and people, hundreds of people.”

Sarah laughed. “It is the capital, you know,” she said. “It’s the biggest city in the world.” But even she had not expected such a crush at the station. Last time she had ventured up to London, it had been with Freddie and her father, before the war. The trains had been half empty, and the station concourse had not been a mass of khaki. She had been very grateful to Captain Shiner for helping them with luggage and cab, and was looking forward to their safe arrival at her aunt’s house in Carver Square.

Carver Square proved to be a quiet little square near the British Museum, with a fenced garden in its centre, shaded by tall trees. There was a sharp wind as they alighted from the taxi, and leaves whirled down from the garden trees, scurrying across the road in swirling eddies.

Sarah shivered and said briskly, “Now Molly, run up and pull the bell, it’s too cold to stand out here.” She paid off the cab and turned to find that Molly had done her bidding and there was a manservant coming down the red and white brick steps to collect their luggage. He picked up Sarah’s valise and left Molly to struggle with the dressing case and her own suitcase.

“Follow me, Miss Hurst,” he said leading the way up the steps again. “Madam is expecting you.”

At the door another man was waiting to greet them, older and far more imposing, whom Sarah recognised from previous visits as Roberts, the butler.

“Please come in, Miss Hurst, Madam is in the drawing room. May I take your coat?” He entirely ignored Molly, but Sarah said straightaway, “Thank you, Roberts. How are you? This is my maid, Molly Day. I’m sure you’ll look after her.” She turned round to Molly and said in a lofty tone Molly had never heard her use before, “Molly, go with Mr Roberts and when you have seen where you are to sleep, you can unpack for me. I’ll send for you when I need you.” She turned away again and walked towards the door that Roberts was opening for her. Molly watched as she disappeared into the fire-lit room beyond and then, picking up the cases once more, followed the footman, who was called John, through the heavy oak door that led below stairs.

The next day was spent in a whirl of shopping. Sarah had written to Freddie to tell him of her plans, and though he, too, was doubtful of the propriety of her expedition, he knew her too well to think he could dissuade her from it, and answered in detail with a list of things which she should bring with her, most for her own comfort, a few things for his.

I hope to be able to get some leave before very long, he wrote, not Blighty leave, but at least a few days’ local leave so that I can come and see you at Aunt Anne’s convent. We are not allowed to name places in our letters as you know, but I am not far from there.

They spent an eye-opening morning in large London stores buying almost everything on the list including socks and shirts to take out to Freddie.

“He says it’s almost impossible to stay dry in the trenches,” Sarah told her aunt. “These are not all for him.”

It would be difficult to carry very much with them, but Sarah packed all their purchases into parcels and addressed them to herself care of the convent. There were bandages and aspirins, thread and needles, chocolate, paper and pencils, soap, towels and some fine tooth combs. Freddie had said that one of the problems they all faced were lice. Sarah shuddered at the thought of lice in her long hair and not for the first time hoped that she was not too squeamish for the task she had set herself. At the last minute she added some feminine requirements for herself and Molly. These had not been mentioned by Freddie, but had been suggested delicately by Lady Horner.

“It’s not the sort of thing a gentleman would think of, but you will need them nonetheless and they may be difficult to acquire in a military hospital.”

No less embarrassed than her aunt, a red-faced Sarah agreed and discreetly sent Molly to buy the required sanitary towels and added them to one of the parcels.

They sailed from Newhaven on the Sussex, a small civilian boat that still carried passengers across the channel. Although it was an entirely civilian boat and held firmly to the international agreement that no military supplies should be carried, the captain was a cautious man and the journey took twice as long as in peace time as he zigzagged his way to France for fear of German submarines.

Molly was terrified they would be torpedoed and sunk by one of these, but Sarah, though also afraid, tried to reassure her.

“We’re quite safe, Molly,” she said cheerfully. “This is not a military ship, you know. It’s just the steam packet. We’ve no supplies for the army on board or anything like that. Even the Germans wouldn’t sink a ship full of civilian passengers.” She lowered her voice and nodded in the direction of a middle-aged couple standing at the rail and gazing out towards France. “Those people are called Mr and Mrs Hodges. They’ve been called to the hospital in Etaples to see their son. He’s so badly wounded that they can’t even get him home to England.”

Molly flicked her eyes in the direction of the couple where the man stood with his arm round the woman and she gripped his hand in one of hers, an unusual display of affection in such a public place. “How do you know, Miss Sarah?”

“I heard Mrs Hodges ask one of the crew when we would dock. She said her son was dying.”

Molly stared at her for a moment and then murmured, “Oh, Miss Sarah, I don’t think I’m going to be any good at this, boys dying round me and that.”

Sarah put her hand on Molly’s arm and said, “Of course you will, Molly. Better than me probably. But we’ll both just have to do our best. At least we’ll have somewhere safe to live, and will be able to get cleaned up when we go off duty. My aunt says they have set aside a room for us in the guest wing of the convent.”

“Both of us together, miss, sharing?” Molly sounded startled.

“Certainly sharing,” Sarah said firmly. “And we’re lucky to have that. There’s no space for separate rooms. Some of the building has been turned over to make more wards, and I believe there are huts outside as well.” Sarah paused, gazing out over the steel grey sea that heaved gently as they chugged their way across. Might there indeed be a submarine lurking under the water? Might they unknowingly be minutes away from death in the cold English Channel? It put life into perspective; things that had seemed so important only recently now seemed of little consequence, and other things, other people, suddenly became much more significant. She glanced across at Molly, brave Molly, who had followed her to France because she thought she ought to, not from any real conviction of her own about nursing the wounded; who had left home and family and ventured out into a world from which she would have shrunk only weeks before.

“Molly,” she began, and then hesitated, wanting to say something of her thoughts, but unsure of exactly what.

“Yes, Miss Sarah?” Molly, clutching her overcoat about her thin shoulders against the wind, turned her gaze from the sea and looked expectantly at her.

“I think,” began Sarah and paused again before saying in a rush, “I think while we are out here in France together, you should simply call me Sarah. Drop the ‘miss’.”

Molly looked horrified. “Oh, Miss Sarah, I couldn’t!”

Her horrified expression made Sarah laugh and she took Molly’s hand. “Yes, you could. We’re in this together, Molly. I dragged you here, and while we face the same difficulties and dangers,” her eyes returned for a moment to the grey water, “it seems to me that we should be friends, each helping the other, not mistress and servant. Don’t you think?”

Molly looked extremely doubtful. “Oh, Miss Sarah, I don’t know. What will your auntie think of such a thing?”

Sarah laughed. “I’m sure she’ll approve. After all there are no servants and mistresses in a convent. All the nuns have their own jobs to do, but they are all equal under the Reverend Mother.”

“That’s another thing, Miss Sarah…”

“Sarah.”

Molly flushed, “Sarah. I don’t know nothing about convents and nuns and the like. What do I call them? Do I have to cross myself and that? I don’t do that in church.”

“Molly, you don’t have to do anything like that. All the nuns you call ‘Sister’, except the Reverend Mother and you call her ‘Mother’. If it turns out to be any different they’ll tell us when we get there.” She smiled reassuringly, and then exclaimed, “Oh, look I can see the coast of France.” Both girls ran to the rail and peered into the distance where, eerily floating on the horizon the low hills of the French coast drifted into view.

They made the journey to St Croix by train. Crammed into a compartment in a small civilian train, with their luggage at their feet, Sarah and Molly spent several hours in uncomfortable confinement. Their travelling companions were a succession of local French country people, who climbed in and out of the train at the small stations along the way. Most of them chatted volubly in French to each other, ignoring the two English girls once they had subjected them to short but intense scrutiny. The train was cold, but the crush of bodies produced enough heat to warm them although the rank odour was almost overpowering. Sarah listened to their talk, and was dismayed to find that, while she had thought she spoke reasonable French, she found their harsh accents and their speed of speech made them almost impossible to understand. She could only pick out occasional words and phrases, but had no hope of following the conversations.

Oh dear, she sighed inwardly, at least I thought I would be able get along in French.

At the station in Dieppe she had successfully bought them two tickets for Albert, the nearest large town to the village of St Croix, where the convent of the order of Our Lady of Mercy was situated. She had discovered which platform they should find and at what time the train was supposed to leave. There were no porters to be had, but the two of them had managed to manhandle their cases on to the train themselves, and Sarah was quite proud of the way she had made herself understood and of the way they had coped without the assistance to which she, at least, was used. However, now as they were pressed about with local French peasantry carrying everything with them from a basket of apples to a small crate containing a vociferous cockerel, she knew a gnawing anxiety. Were they on the right train? This train seemed to stop everywhere and perhaps it was just a local train and not going to Albert at all.

As they drew into yet another tiny station she said to Molly, “I’m just going to get out and check we are on the right train.”

Molly grabbed her by the hand. “Oh, no, Miss Sarah, don’t get off. The train might go without you and then what should I do?”

“You’d stay on it and go to Albert,” Sarah replied briskly, not correcting her for using ‘miss’ again. This was a time to be in charge, even if she was apprehensive herself. “You have the name and address of the convent written down, just in case we get split up, and I gave you some money, so you’d be perfectly all right.” However, Molly had added to her anxiety. Sarah didn’t want them to get separated either, so she contented herself with leaning out of the window, and calling out to some sort of official, he was wearing a uniform anyway, on the platform. “Monsieur, Monsieur. C’est le train pour Albert?” The man glanced up. “Quoi?”

Sarah tried again: “C’est le train pour Albert? Ce train vient a Albert?”

He still seemed puzzled, but on recognising the word Albert he nodded vigorously and answered in a torrent of words, none of which Sarah understood. However, her mind eased a little by the nod she smiled at him and said, “Merci, monsieur,” Drawing her head back inside, she regained her seat, about to be invaded by a huge countrywoman with a large wicker basket containing something live.

“We’re all right, Molly,” she said. “It is the right train. I suppose most of the express trains are used for the troops.” Even as she spoke another train chugged passed them as they waited in the station, its carriages packed with men in khaki and two covered wagons on the end carrying horses.

Time and again their little train stopped, sometimes for an hour or more, without apparent reason, but often shunted into a siding as another train rumbled its way back from the front. These were often hospital trains with huge red crosses painted on their sides and roofs. From what the two women could see as these trains trundled slowly by was that they were crammed to capacity with men.

Sarah stared in horror as one of these trains stopped for a few moments alongside them. “My God,” she whispered. “Do you think all those men are wounded?”

Molly followed her gaze, taking in the sight of the crushed humanity heaped into the train before it jerked suddenly and then chuffed slowly away. Even as it did so, she caught the eye of a soldier with a bandaged head whose face was pressed against the dirty window. For a moment their eyes met and held. There was such patient sadness in his eyes, that Molly instinctively raised her hand, and as he slid away from view, she saw the flutter of his hand in a return salute.

“There were hundreds of them,” was all she said, before leaning back into her seat and closing her eyes to cut out the sight of the still passing hospital train.

There were trains going the other way as well; trains filled with men in khaki, far more important than the little local train which civilians might use. Their train would wait in its siding until the line was clear again and then jolt on once more, slowly crossing the dull flat countryside towards Albert. Both girls were very hungry and thirsty. They had had no idea that the journey would take so long and had not thought to buy more food at Dieppe. It hadn’t looked far on the map, and they had hoped to arrive in Albert in time to reach the convent that evening. The small packet of sandwiches they had brought with them did little to assuage their hunger, and the bar of chocolate that Sarah produced from her bag and shared with Molly, was fixed upon by eight other pairs of eyes. It made uncomfortable eating. Night came on and still the train rumbled slowly along, stopping, starting, stopping again, until at last they reached the outskirts of a town.

“I think we might be there,” breathed Sarah, peering out of the window. “It certainly looks more like a big town.” Molly too, pressed her nose to the window. There was not much to see, but occasional pinpricks of light suggested houses, and darker shapes, presumably large buildings, loomed in the darkness beside the track. Once again the train wheezed to a halt, and this time they realised with tremendous relief that they had arrived as they heard the strident cry of a porter, “Albert, Albert. Terminé. Albert.” It was indeed Albert at last. It was also, apparently, the end of the line, and the train disgorged its passengers on to the platform, where all was noise and confusion in the semi-darkness.

Sarah and Molly got their luggage out on to the platform, and Sarah said, “Stay here with the luggage. I will go and find out how we get to St Croix.” She had instructions from Aunt Anne in her pocket, but she hadn’t bargained for arriving in the middle of the night to a blacked out town. As she headed for the entrance she was hustled and bumped in the bustling crowd, but at last she found a ticket office and in her careful, schoolroom French made the man understand that she had to get to St Croix. He shrugged energetically and regretted that mademoiselle would not be able to continue her journey this evening. She must go to an hotel and wait until the morning when one might perhaps engage a horse and cart to take her to St Croix. He, himself, was unable to assist mademoiselle further as he could not leave his position, but he suggested that she went to the Hotel de la Reine which was just two hundred metres from the station, where she could be accommodated very moderately.

Sarah understood at least two-thirds of this, when he had said it all twice, and thanking him she went back to Molly, whom she found standing exactly where she had left her, but surrounded by a group of soldiers offering their assistance. Flushed and determined, Molly was guarding the cases and facing them down with short sharp answers. But at least they spoke English, and at least she could understand them. Naïve though Molly was, she had held her own against footmen and stable boys before, and these were, after all, only footmen and stable boys in uniform. However, she looked extremely relieved when she saw Sarah pushing her way back through the crowds.

“We can’t go any further tonight,” Sarah told her. “We have to go to an hotel.”

“Where you trying to get to, miss?” asked one of the soldiers.

Sarah turned, and in him she saw an answer to their immediate problems. “We are going to St Croix in the morning, but for tonight we have to get to the Hotel de la Reine. I believe it’s not far.”

“No, miss, just across the square. ’Ere, Charlie, grab them bags and we’ll show the ladies the way.”

“How kind of you,” Sarah beamed, at her most gracious. “Would you really? Thank you so much.”

To her delight, Charlie and his friend hefted the cases under their arms and forged a way through the undiminished crowds on the platform and out of the station into the night. Sarah and Molly followed and as they emerged they heard dull thuds and thumps in the distance.

“What’s that?” Molly whispered to Sarah. “Are those guns?”

“Artillery further up the line,” the soldier said. “Not too close tonight, miss.”

He led them to the hotel where the manager offered them a small room on the top floor, and with their thanks in his ears the soldier smiled and said it was quite all right, before he and Charlie, his mate, disappeared into the darkness.

The hotel was able to supply them with soup and bread and cheese and this they devoured greedily before repairing to their garret on the top floor. The guns continued to boom intermittently in the background, and the night sky flickered with light, like distant sheet lightning, but after a moment of staring out over the strange town below them, resolutely they closed the wooden shutters on these reminders that the war was suddenly closer and went to bed. Exhausted from their hours of travelling and despite the uncomfortably narrow bed that they had to share, both of them slept like the dead.

Next morning, much refreshed from their sleep and a breakfast of hot chocolate and bread with ham and cheese, they held a council of war to decide what to do next.

“We must find some sort of transport to St Croix,” Sarah said. “I will ask at the desk. Perhaps they can find someone to take us, or at least set us on the right road. If we have to walk, we’ll leave our luggage here and send for it later.”

“There must be somewhere we can hire a wagon, or a dog cart,” Molly said and then added hopefully, “or may be there is a train.”

“No train.” Sarah said consulting her instructions from Aunt Anne. “Anyway, I’ve had quite enough of trains for the time being, haven’t you?”

Molly agreed that she had, and then Sarah looked again at the directions she’d received.

“My aunt says, there are usually people coming and going between the village and Albert, and if we send her a message when we get here, she’ll try and send someone for us. That seems a waste of time to me. If we can find someone to take a message, we can travel with that someone. I’ll go and see what I can find out.”

The manager of the hotel was desolated that he had no transport of his own in which he could send mademoiselle to St Croix, but his horses had been taken by the military, and even his donkey would have been if it had not been too old for active service. However, he said he would make some enquiries if mademoiselle would care to wait in the salon.

Mademoiselle treated him to her most dazzling smile and said she would be enchanted to wait, and that she had the utmost trust in him.

This trust turned out not to have been misplaced, for within the hour, Sarah and Molly found themselves ensconced with their luggage on the back of a wagon that had brought vegetables into the town at dawn that morning and was now returning to St Croix.

A steady drizzle fell from the leaden sky above them, but it did little to dampen their spirits. They were nearly there, the worst was over, and what was a little rain compared with what the men in the trenches must be suffering? As they looked back towards the town, they saw the towering steeple of the church in its centre, the golden Madonna which topped it leaning perilously at an angle of ninety degrees, testament to the closeness of the front line and the artillery fire which had been poured, from time to time, into the town.

An hour in the creaking cart brought them at last to the village of St Croix. The wagoner drove through the village square or place and along a twisting lane leading to the tall grey convent building that dominated the whole village. Its stone walls towered to four stories, and there was a stubby turret on one corner. The wagon trundled up to the main entrance, a huge oak door bound with iron hinges, above which was a large statue of the Virgin Mary, reaching with outstretched arms to the world at her feet. Molly and Sarah clambered stiffly off the back of the cart and dragged their luggage to the ground. Sarah handed the wagoner the agreed money and with a wave of his hand he drove off, leaving the two women standing outside the great door. They stared round.

“It’s a pretty grim-looking place,” said Sarah, looking up at the grey walls towering above them. “Still, I expect it’s better inside than it looks from out.”

Molly could only hope she was right. She was horrified by the formidable building, and the thought that they were going to live there for the foreseeable future made her shiver.

Sarah was at once concerned. “Poor Molly, you’re cold. We’ll go in at once.” But even as she turned towards the door her eye stayed on the view spread out before them. Below, between the convent and the village, was a field covered with what looked like huge marquees.

“Do you think that is part of the hospital too,” Sarah asked Molly, “or perhaps a camp of some sort?”

Shivering again, this time truly from cold, Molly spoke. “Sarah,” Molly used the unadorned Christian name for the first time unprompted, “it’s pouring with rain. Let’s get inside.”

The stab of surprise at being addressed in such firm tones by her maid, passed immediately, and Sarah grinned at her. “You’re right. We’ve made it. Ready?”

Molly nodded, and together they approached the front door and Sarah pulled hard on the iron bell pull. At once a grill in the door opened and a small face looked out at them.

“Can I help you?” asked the face in French.

“Our names are Sarah Hurst and Molly Day,” Sarah announced clearly, in her best French. “Reverend Mother is expecting us.”

There was the sound of bolts being drawn and the door swung open to reveal a diminutive nun standing inside, her hands folded tidily into the long sleeves of her grey habit, her head encased in a starched, white fly-away headdress.

“Welcome to the convent of Our Lady of Mercy,” she said. “My name is Sister Marie-Bernard. Please come in.”

She led them into a small room furnished with a table, two upright chairs and a prie-dieu in the corner. The floor was stone and the walls were without adornment except for a large crucifix over the prie-dieu. She asked them to wait and then disappeared, closing the door softly behind her. Molly looked round apprehensively. The inside of the building seemed to be living up to its grim exterior.

It was almost ten minutes before the door opened again and a tall, handsome nun, dressed as the other had been, came in.

“Sarah?” she looked uncertainly from one to the other and Sarah stepped forward, her hands held out and said, “Aunt Anne!”

They embraced awkwardly and then Sarah introduced Molly. Aunt Anne shook her hand and said, “I am delighted to meet you, Molly. I am Sister St Bruno, Miss Sarah’s aunt. You are most welcome here.”

“We’ve dispensed with the ‘miss’, Aunt Anne,” Sarah said quickly. “We are here as friends, both ready to work in whatever way you need us.”

“That’s splendid,” cried her aunt. “Now first I will show you where you will be, and then I’ll leave you to unpack and get yourselves sorted out. Later, when you’ve changed, I will come and find you and introduce you to Reverend Mother. I’m afraid the midday meal was at twelve, but we’ll find something in the kitchen for you, don’t worry.”

She led them out into the main part of the convent and then up a winding staircase to a stone corridor that seemed to stretch the length of the building. Stopping at the first door, she opened it and ushered them into a cell-like room. Two single beds had been crammed in side by side, in a space meant only for one. A chest of drawers, topped with a large water jug and bowl, took up almost the rest of the space, but the inevitable prie-dieu was tucked in a corner behind the door, its crucifix on the wall above it. Aunt Anne pointed to some hooks on the door and said, “You can hang your coats there. I’m afraid it’s a bit cramped, but I doubt you’ll be in here much except to go to bed.”

Sarah looked at the tiny room and smiled at her aunt. “Don’t worry, Aunt, we shall be fine in here.”

Aunt Anne looked relieved and said, “Well, you get unpacked and settled and I’ll come back for you in half an hour. I expect you’ll want to wash and change. There’s water in the jug today, but from now on you’ll have to fetch your own from the tap at the end of the passage.”

Left alone the two girls looked at each other and began to laugh. “It’s a good thing neither of us is very big,” Sarah said, dumping her case on one of the beds. These beds are so close together I can’t get between them!” She edged round to the other side, squeezing past the chest of drawers.

Molly looked round the room doubtfully. “Are you sure you don’t mind me being in here with you, Miss Sarah?”

“Sarah,” Sarah corrected her. “No, of course not, Molly. We’re in this together.” She looked round and said, “Nowhere much to put our things, just these drawers. I’ll take the top two, you have the bottom two.” She pulled off her coat and put it on the bed ready to hang on the door as she went out. Molly picked it up and put it on one of the hooks, and then hung her own beside it. She opened her case and took out the dark grey skirt and the white blouse Sarah had bought her in England and laid them on the bed. Sarah was looking out of the tiny window on her side of the bed.

“Come and look here, Molly,” she said craning her neck to peer down at the ground below. “There are some huts out here below us. Do you think they’re part of the hospital, or some other camp?”

Molly joined her at the window and Sarah moved aside so that the other girl could see. Molly stared down at the scene below. There were several wooden huts crammed into a sort of courtyard. They looked ramshackle affairs, each with a tin roof and a bent chimney threading smoke into the cold autumn air. The windows, symmetrically set into the wooden walls, seemed to be closed, but the door at the end of each hut stood open. Even as she looked a nun hurried out through one of these and disappeared from view, presumably into the main convent building.

A high, stone wall, apparently the boundary wall of the convent garden, encircled the huts, and set in this Molly could see an old wooden door. Beyond the wall, and some way off, the tops of the big tents they’d seen earlier were visible.

“There’s that camp we saw, set up beyond the wall,” she said to Sarah, and in her turn moved aside so that Sarah could look out again.

“So there is. Well, I suppose it is all part of the hospital,” Sarah said. “It must be too big to fit into the convent grounds. We’ll ask Aunt Anne.” She turned back to the case on her bed and flinging it open, pulled everything out on to the bed.

“Oh Lord,” she said ruefully, looking at her belongings. “I’m never going to get all that into two drawers!”

Molly, who was carefully folding her own few clothes ready to put into her own two drawers, laughed. “Most of them will fit if you fold them properly,” she said. “The rest will have to stay in your case and go under the bed.”

The beds were metal framed on high legs, and apart from one chamber pot tucked underneath, there was nothing using the space.

“Oh, Molly, of course,” Sarah said, and began to fold her clothes. She made a poor fist of it and with another laugh Molly reached over and took a blouse from her.

“Here, like this.” She laid the blouse on the bed and showed Sarah how to tuck its sleeves in neatly before folding it on itself and tweaking the collar into position. Sarah had another go, and though her folding was nothing like as quick and as careful as Molly’s, she managed to fold her clothes tidily enough to fit most of them into the drawers.

“You see,” she remarked as she struggled with a particularly recalcitrant jacket, “I told you you’d be far better at this sort of thing than I am. You’ve been trained up to be useful, whereas I have no training for anything!” She stowed the last few bits and pieces, her bible, a book of poetry into the case and pushed it under her bed. A framed picture of Freddie and her father, taken when Freddie came home on leave, she stood on the top of the chest.

Molly, her own unpacking finished quickly and efficiently was pouring water from the jug into the bowl. She sponged her face and hands, and ran the cooling flannel round the back of her neck. Then she looked in horror at Sarah.

“Oh, Miss Sarah, I’m sorry. There’s nowhere to tip this dirty water so you can have clean.” Colour had flooded her face, and she stared down at the cold soapy water in the single bowl. “You should have gone first, and then I could have used the same water.”

“Oh.” Sarah looked at the uninviting water for a moment too, and then giggled. “We could put it in the chamber,” she suggested, nodding at that receptacle, still showing from beneath the bed.

“But we don’t know where to empty that either,” pointed out Molly, still flushed with embarrassment.

“We’ll ask my aunt when she comes back,” Sarah said airily. “Now, just pour that into this,” she proffered the chamber pot from under the bed, “and we can get on.”

By the time Sister St Bruno came back to fetch them, both women were neatly attired in their dark grey skirts and white blouses. Each had a large white apron tied over her clothes, and her hair confined under a white cap.

Sister St Bruno looked at them critically. “You’ll do for now,” she said, “if you make sure those last wisps of hair are tucked securely under your cap, Sarah.” Her eyes took in their black boots and she said, “I hope those are comfortable. You’ll be on your feet for sixteen hours a day.”

“We’ll be fine, Aunt Anne,” Sarah assured her, and then added, “Do I still call you Aunt Anne, or would Sister be better?”

“Sister, I think, when you’re working, anyway,” replied her aunt. “Ready?”

“Just one thing, Aunt… I mean, Sister,” Sarah said in response to urgent hand signals from Molly, “could you tell us, I mean…?” Molly’s embarrassment resurrected itself in Sarah and she too turned red.

“Well?” Sister St Bruno said encouragingly.

“Where do we empty that?” She pointed to the chamber pot now back under the bed, but full of dirty water.

“I’ll show you on the way past,” said the nun with a faint smile. “There’s a lavatory at the end of the corridor.”

They followed Sister St Bruno along the stone passage. She pointed to a door at the end and said, “There is a lavatory and a basin in there, where you can collect water for yourselves and empty your chamber. In the daytime it can be used in the normal way, but at night no one leaves her cell except to go to chapel to say office, or to go on duty on the wards.” She waited patiently for a moment or two while the girls made use of the facilities and then continued on along the passage and down another set of stairs, not the ones they had mounted to reach their room, to a different hallway.

“I hope we can find our way back,” murmured Sarah to Molly, as they were led across this hall and along yet another corridor.

Sister St Bruno heard her and said over her shoulder, “Don’t worry, Sarah, you’ll soon find your way about.” She stopped outside a heavy wooden door and knocked. A bell jingled from inside the room and Sister St Bruno turned the heavy handle to swing the door open into Reverend Mother’s office.

Standing in the doorway, Aunt Anne spoke in French, “My niece, Sarah Hurst, Mother, and her friend, Molly Day.”

“Come in, Sister, come in.”

Sister St Bruno stepped inside and gestured to the two girls to follow her.

The room was comfortably furnished with a sofa and some chairs, a desk behind which the Reverend Mother sat, and a prie-dieu in a corner. There was a crucifix above this and a picture of Christ displaying His bleeding heart on the wall behind the desk. A small fire burned in the grate, but it did little to dispel the chill of the room, which had stone walls and a stone floor.

“Perhaps you would wait outside, Sister,” Reverend Mother said, rising to her feet as Sarah and Molly slipped into the room. Sister St Bruno inclined her head in acquiescence and stepped out of the room without another word, closing the door behind her.

“Come in and sit down,” Reverend Mother said. She spoke in fluent but heavily accented English. She stood and came out from behind her desk holding out her hand. “How do you do, Miss Hurst? Miss Day?” They shook hands and Sarah said, “How do you do, Mother?” while Molly, rather unnerved by the picture that hung behind the desk, murmured something unintelligible. Sarah moved to the sofa that Reverend Mother indicated, and seeing that Molly was at a loss, took her arm, pulling her gently behind her. Reverend Mother seated herself on an upright chair opposite them. She looked them up and down as she might a horse she was considering buying.

“Your aunt has convinced me that you will be able to help us in our work here, nursing the wounded.” Reverend Mother did not sound very convinced. Sarah looked back at her with steady gaze, but Molly, feeling entirely out of her depth, kept her eyes fixed on the flagstones of the floor.

“Your letter said you had Red Cross nursing experience.” Reverend Mother’s eyes bored into them. They were dark blue and deep set, penetrating, it seemed to Sarah, her very mind to read her thoughts. The nun was a tiny woman with small hands and feet; she would hardly have reached Sarah’s shoulder without her fly-away headdress, but she had a presence which made one forget her small stature and remember only her authority.

“I have, Mother,” replied Sarah, “though no real nursing training. I took the Red Cross certificate.” She faced the nun across the room and added, “My friend Molly has no Red Cross training, but in most ways I am sure she will be more use to you than I am. Her training has been in household duties, and as I am under no illusions that we shall be doing any real nursing for the foreseeable future, I imagine she will have the skills you need more than I have.”

Reverend Mother nodded at this and addressing herself to Molly said, “Miss Day, it will be up to you to instruct Miss Hurst in the most efficient,”—Mother drew out the word into four syllables—“way to do the tasks which you will be asked to do.” She fell silent for a moment, looking at them with unblinking eyes, then she went on, “You are now living in a convent. It is a sisterhood of God. All the sisters here have devoted themselves to Christ and his work. At present that work is looking after the wounded men who come to us from the front. All men—” She paused and then repeated, “All men, no matter which side of the battle. You understand?”

“Soldiers, whether they are French, Canadian or English,” Sarah reiterated.

Reverend Mother’s eyes never left their faces, “French, English, Canadian… or German. They are all God’s children.” Neither Molly nor Sarah offered any comment after this statement, and the nun went on. “We work for Our Lord Jesus Christ and we live as a sisterhood. There are rules by which we live. The religious ones do not affect you; you are not part of our sisterhood, but our house rules are yours whilst you are with us. You may not leave the convent without permission. You take orders from any sister who is set in authority over you. You keep your heads covered at all times.” She paused again, her eyes intent. “Is this understood?”

Sarah nodded. “Understood, Reverend Mother.”

The tiny nun allowed herself to smile at them, then and said, “Then I welcome you here, into our home, and thank you for your offers of help in our task. I must remind you that your life here will not be an easy one. You will see sights that no woman should have to see, perform tasks that should need no performance, but if you succeed in seeing and doing these things, you will ease the pain and suffering of many a poor man, the death of many another, and you will ease our work here in Christ Jesus.”

Molly looked much more uncomfortable at these final words than at any time so far. She had been brought up low Church of England, and all this talk of “Our Lord” and “Christ Jesus”, unnerved and unsettled her. People she knew did not bring Jesus into their conversation, He stayed firmly in the church to be spoken of on Sunday, and then only by the vicar.

“Now, I will call Sister St Bruno and she will take you to the kitchen for some food. Then someone will show you the wards and introduce you to the sisters with whom you will be working. I have news that we are to receive some more wounded this afternoon, so your work will start at once.” She got to her feet to indicate that the interview was over, reaching for the little bell that would summon Sister St Bruno back into the room, but paused as Molly took her courage into her hands and spoke.

“Please, Mother—” Molly hesitated over this form of address, but Reverend Mother smiled encouragingly at her and she stumbled on. “I don’t know nothing about nursing, I’m better at cleaning and the like…” Her voice trailed away and the nun said, “We shall use whatever talents you have to the full, Miss Day, never fear. And as to the nursing, I have no doubt you will learn fast as we’ve all had to.”

“Yes, Mother, I will try.” Molly paused again and then emboldened by nun’s kind manner, added, “And please could I just be called Molly? Miss Day doesn’t feel like me.”

This brought a real smile to Reverend Mother’s face and she said, “Indeed you may, Molly,” and turning to Sarah she said, “And you shall be called Sarah, it is so much easier for all concerned.” She picked up the small brass bell from the desk and gave it a shake. Immediately Sister St Bruno came in and stood waiting by the door.

“Please take Sarah and Molly to the kitchen and make sure Sister Marie-Marc gives them something hot to eat.” She smiled across at the two girls. “I’m sure you’re hungry after your journey. Then one of the novices will show you round, help you get your bearings. If the convoy comes this afternoon, I am sure you will be needed at once, if not you’ll start work on the wards tomorrow at six. Go with God.”

Friday 8th October

After our long journey we have at last reached the convent at St Croix. It is all very strange to me and I am not sure I like it at all. Miss Sarah and I share a tiny room, like a cell with stone walls and floor. It is very cold in it. We have a bed each and there is a chair and a chest of drawers, but no other furniture. It will be very strange to share a room with Miss Sarah. She says she doesn’t mind, but getting undressed and such… using the chamber in the night, I’m sure she won’t like it. We have met the Reverend Mother, who is very small but has eyes like a bird of prey. She is in charge of the convent, and all the nuns, who I must call “sister”, do what she tells them. Sister Marie-Paul is a novice. Miss Sarah says that means she is learning to be a nun. Her headdress is different to Miss Sarah’s auntie Anne, Sister St Bruno. Sister M-P showed us the chapel. It is covered in gold and smells of incense, and I don’t like it.

We have to eat with the nuns in the refectory. The meal is taken in silence and one of the sisters reads while we eat. The reading is in French. I don’t understand, except that I know it is from the Bible. I would hate to be here on my own. I’m to call Miss Sarah “Sarah”. It will be most peculiar, though I tried it out a couple of times on the train. Even though she’d told me to, I think she was surprised when I did.