Amy was delighted to see Mother and Father again. She asked Cook to bring tea and cake. It was so difficult to carry anything herself with her ankle in plaster. They settled outside on the veranda, where it was not too hot, on one side of the house, facing west. From the southern end you could see the view down towards Larchbury.
They were concerned about her ankle. ‘But at least now you can relax till your baby arrives,’ Mother had said. ‘I’m going to make you something suitable to wear.’
‘Thanks, Mother. The dressmaker is coming to see me tomorrow, but I’ll need two or three garments.’
‘How’s Edmond?’ Her father was anxious for the latest news. ‘Will he be recovered enough to be sent back to England soon?’
‘I think so. He tells me he’s making good progress, and James says so too when he writes. He’s still weak, though.’ How she longed to see him!
Mrs Derwent appeared briefly to greet her parents.
‘Mother tells me there’s a working party on Monday, to provide comforts for the troops,’ Amy told her.
‘It’s held in the village hall. Beatrice and I usually go.’
‘Does Mr Derwent drive you there?’ There had never been the kind of intimacy that would allow her to call her in-laws Mother or Father.
‘Yes.’
‘Then I should like to join you,’ she said eagerly. ‘I feel so useless, just sitting here.’
Not long afterwards, her parents set off home and Janet cleared away the tea things. Then almost immediately Florence arrived, wearing a large straw hat to keep the sun at bay. Amy asked for some more tea and cake.
‘It was lovely getting your letters,’ Amy said, glad to see her friend again. Florence looked well, her light brown hair arranged in large glossy coils on either side of her head, but she still seemed subdued. Will she ever get over losing Bertie, Amy wondered, remembering her liveliness in the past.
‘It sounds as though you’re busy at the school,’ Amy said. ‘Father told me you’re one of the most competent among the junior teachers.’
‘I do my best. Sometimes I feel restless and wish I was doing war work, like you and Lavinia.’ She looked at Amy’s injured leg. ‘How much longer will you need to wear the plaster cast?’
‘About another three weeks. I’ll be so relieved when I can get around properly.’ When she wriggled her foot she was still not certain the surgeon had set it well.
‘Now at least you’re away from the war,’ Florence said.
‘Yes,’ she said half-heartedly, wondering how her patients in France were progressing.
‘I was hoping that cake would last us a couple more days,’ Mrs Derwent told Amy sternly from her armchair when Florence had left. ‘There’s a shortage of flour and sugar, you know.’
‘I’m happy to go without, to make up for it,’ she said. ‘I need meat and vegetables, because of the baby, but cake isn’t so important.’
How she wished she could spend most of each day with her mother or Florence. She appealed to Mrs Derwent. ‘I can’t walk far, so I’d like my family to feel welcome here,’ she tried to explain.
There was a glimmer of understanding in the older woman’s eyes. ‘I’ll do my best to be hospitable.’
‘As the wife of a serving officer I receive an allowance. I should be giving you most of it towards my keep.’
‘Nonsense! That would be completely inappropriate!’ Mrs Derwent told her. It seemed no course of action was acceptable.
There was still plenty of food on the table at dinner, but the servings were not as lavish as they had once been.
‘Why aren’t there ever any summer vegetables except peas?’ complained Beatrice.
Later, in her room, Amy could not resist glancing at James’ diary. She justified it to herself on the grounds that she was entitled to look since she had taken the risk to smuggle it home! His accounts of the terrible injuries he had witnessed did not much surprise her, but he also recorded some comments from the wounded men. Some were keen to unburden themselves of their conviction that bad decisions had been made by their superior officers, who had sometimes sent them into battle with insufficient support. Amy had heard a few remarks like that herself and admired James for recording the men’s views. He had written passages intermittently over a few months. She read several pages, disturbed by some entries. She was tired, so she returned the book to its hiding place under her mattress. She must pass it on to Uncle Arthur as soon as she could.
The next day Mrs Johnson was due to help at The Beeches. Her round face took on a cheerful grin as she welcomed Amy back.
‘Could you do something for me?’ Amy asked her. ‘Can you help me out into the vegetable garden? I want to see what’s growing.’ She remembered that the previous year there had been a good harvest.
She limped out with Mrs Johnson. The morning was cloudy but sultry as they found young Joe struggling with some weeding. He was a slim, healthy-looking lad of fourteen or so.
‘Look at all these runner beans!’ she told him, admiring the fine young green vegetables growing beside the last of the red flowers. ‘They’re ready to eat. Can you pick us some to cook for dinner?’
‘Yes, Mrs Derwent.’
Her father had always grown vegetables down the end of his garden, for they were a thrifty way for the family to eat well. She was used to enjoying fresh produce from the garden, each crop picked at the season it was at its best. Since the war had started, Father and his neighbours had redoubled their efforts to grow food. She doubted whether Joe had had much experience of gardening when his brother had been called up and he had suddenly been asked to fill the vacancy. She seemed to remember that the boys’ family lived in a poky terraced house with very little garden of their own.
‘Go on picking some beans each day, please,’ she told him. ‘They’re nicest before they get too large.’ She looked round the rest of the garden. ‘Make sure you pick some more apples before they fall off and spoil.’
That evening Beatrice remarked on the delicious beans, and Amy was gratified when Cook remarked on her success with the gardener.
At last it was Sunday and she could see Uncle Arthur. She went with the others in the motor car to church. Several friends and neighbours greeted her and enquired about her leg. She tried to concentrate on the hymns and prayers and forget the notebook concealed beneath handkerchiefs in her bag. After the service, the Derwents lingered briefly to exchange gossip.
‘Please excuse me for a moment,’ Amy said. ‘I need to speak to Uncle as I have a message from James.’
Her uncle broke off his conversation with a parishioner to greet her. ‘Might I speak to you in private?’ she asked. ‘It’s important.’
There were a few curious looks as he led her into the vestry. She explained about James’ notebook and handed it over, rather relieved to be rid of it. ‘He says he’s revealing some of the details you don’t find in newspapers,’ she warned him.
‘How like James,’ he said with a wry grin. ‘Of course I’ll keep it for him.’ He stuffed it into a pocket. ‘I’ll conceal it in a drawer with some old sermons. His comments might attract a stormy reception. Now isn’t the time to question the actions of the superior officers but after the war they should be held to account. I’m proud of James for making a stand.’
‘Me too.’
Next day, she joined Mrs Derwent and Beatrice as they set out for the village hall in smart summer dresses and flowery hats. She herself was wearing her old straw hat with a partly buttoned skirt and the loose blouse she was obliged to wear now.
Everyone looked up when she came in. She was glad to see Florence there, and Aunt Sophie, who was struggling to adjust the curtains so that enough light came in to illuminate their work without dazzling them. The women were taking seats round trestle tables laden with balls of wool, knitting needles and half-completed garments. Soon her mother arrived.
‘How are things now in France?’ asked Margaret Leadbetter, the schoolmaster’s wife.
Amy had received a brief letter from Emily and gathered that casualties were still pouring into the hospitals. Occasionally she wished she was still able to play her part there. What was she to say to Margaret? She knew little about progress in France or Belgium that was not in the papers, and what she did know related mainly to suffering in hospitals.
‘The men love getting parcels from home,’ she told them. ‘In a couple of months it’ll be getting cold again, so they’ll need more gloves and socks and balaclavas.’
Incongruously Mrs Derwent seemed to be leading the group, handing out tasks for the volunteers. Amy supposed her status had allowed her to assume the role of leader.
At times, Aunt Sophie had to intervene politely. ‘Might I just point out, Mrs Derwent, that there isn’t enough wool in that shade to complete a pair of socks? There’ll be enough for gloves, though.’
Beatrice had picked up a sock she had started knitting the week before, and looked at it uncertainly. ‘I’ll never get used to handling four needles,’ she complained. She continued it laboriously while chatting. ‘Did I tell you Peter’s coming on leave next week?’ she told an elegant friend, who Amy thought was the daughter of Mr Brownlee, the auctioneer at the market.
Amy cast on stitches for some gloves. She had sat down next to Florence, whose dainty hands were manipulating her needles at top speed.
‘Any more news from Edmond?’ Florence asked.
‘He’s hoping to be sent home before long,’ she said, still agonising about the extent of his injuries.
‘Amy, could you help me?’ asked Beatrice. ‘I’ve finished the ribbing and the straight part, but I can never understand how to turn the heel.’ She stared at the pattern in bewilderment.
‘I’ll do it for you,’ Amy said, and took over the work while Beatrice went on chatting.
Florence was looking forward to term starting soon at the school. She worked with the youngest children, while Amy’s father was one of the teachers in charge of older ones.
Margaret Leadbetter finished her pair of gloves and gave it to Mrs Derwent to pack in a cardboard box, ready to send.
‘Do you ever visit the Belgian refugees?’ Amy asked Florence. They were both experienced enough at knitting to keep busy with their needles while they talked.
‘Occasionally. They held a party for their national day on the twenty-first of July and I joined them for the celebrations. But they’re more dispersed now. Some of the men have enlisted in units and gone back to fight.’
‘Give my best wishes to the ones who are still here.’
By the end of the afternoon, she had turned the heel for Beatrice and handed her back the sock, but had had little time to get far with her own gloves. ‘I’ll take my knitting home,’ she said. ‘I’ve plenty of time now to complete it.’
Her parents called again on the day Peter was due to arrive. She knew they changed into smarter clothes when they came to visit her at The Beeches.
Mrs Derwent bade them good afternoon again, offering them tea and cake. She had instructed Cook to prepare a larger but more economical one than her usual Dundee cake. They went to sit in the drawing room, as the weather was showery.
‘Mrs Derwent, I’ve brought you one of our garden marrows,’ Amy’s father said, handing her a basket. ‘We’ve got more than we can eat this year. I dare say you can make use of it?’
‘Oh – how very kind. As it happens, we’ve only a very young gardener now who’s barely making any impression on the kitchen garden.’
‘Perhaps I can help,’ Father said. His face was tanned from working outdoors. ‘We haven’t got much space but I’m growing what I can while the war is on. How would it be if I had a word with your gardener? It sounds as though he needs some guidance.’
‘Would you? We’d all be so grateful.’ Beneath the genuine appreciation and polite thanks, Amy detected her mother-in-law’s reluctance to be beholden to her parents. ‘I suppose I should become better informed about what Joe should be doing each month.’
‘I could give you some advice,’ he offered. ‘I start back at the school on Monday, but I can call here in the late afternoon to help in any way I can.’
An hour later they heard the motor car and saw it approaching up the drive. ‘Mr Derwent’s been fetching Peter from the station,’ Amy told her parents.
They heard excited noises from the hallway, and then Mr Derwent and Beatrice brought Peter through to greet them.
‘It’s so wonderful to have you back,’ Beatrice cried.
He greeted them warmly, especially Amy. ‘I saw Edmond two days ago,’ he told her. ‘He’s weak, but much better than when he was first wounded. I believe they’ll send him back to Blighty in a few weeks.’
‘Have you got any friends who are on leave?’ Beatrice asked Peter next morning at the breakfast table. ‘You could invite them to visit you here. It would be such fun to have some young men around again.’
‘Their families will want to spend as much time as possible with them while they’re over here.’
Chambers came in with the mail. Amy had a long letter from Edmond, who mentioned some of his comrades in the hospital. She was cheered by the thought that he must be much fitter if he was able to move around chatting to them. The family looked up eagerly from their bacon and eggs as she passed on some of his news.
She was sitting out on the veranda reading his letter again when Peter came out and sat down in the wicker chair next to hers. ‘Is everything well with your friends in India?’ she asked him. ‘I suppose your mail goes to France now.’
‘Yes, they won’t forward it here as I’ve only got a week’s leave.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve heard quite recently from the young lady I care about in India. I’m happy to say we correspond regularly, though of course the mail takes weeks to arrive.’
‘I’m glad for you.’ After the war he would go back there, she supposed.
His smile faded. ‘I expect you’re wondering what happened to your complaint about Wilfrid Fairlawn,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She was still anxious to hear that her attacker would be punished, and was glad they had a private moment to discuss it.
Peter took out his cigarette case, offered her a cigarette, which she declined, lit his own and started smoking it. ‘Robert Lambert did his best for you,’ he said. ‘He tried to find out if anyone saw what happened that night. He traced the army vehicle which drove down the street but no-one remembered seeing anything.’
She wondered if some of the men were unwilling to report someone as prominent as Captain Fairlawn.
‘Robert took the case forward,’ Peter said grimly, ‘but they didn’t want to pursue it without better evidence.’
For a moment she was dizzy with dismay. The man was still free to molest nurses – why were they incapable of bringing him to justice? ‘Do you think they heard about me being in jail?’ she asked miserably.
‘I don’t know – possibly. Anyway, just before I came on leave I urged them to consider your complaint again.’ He spread his hands, impotently. ‘They’ll go through the allegation afresh, but I’m not optimistic.’
‘I was afraid they wouldn’t do anything,’ she said, ‘but I had to make a stand.’ A tear rolled down her face at their refusal to believe her.
‘Fairlawn has a good record of leading his men,’ Peter said. ‘They’re anxious not to disrupt his military career.’ He fixed his candid blue eyes on hers. ‘I’m trying to persuade them that appalling conduct off the battlefield shouldn’t be overlooked.’
‘Thank you for supporting me.’ She shrugged as she made an effort to accept the situation. She would hate Peter to jeopardise his own career by making himself unpopular.
‘Whatever the outcome, I’m determined the allegation must be left on his record,’ he said.
‘What’s it like out there now?’ she asked. ‘When I look in the newspapers it sounds as though there’s no let-up in the fighting.’
He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the glass-topped wicker table. His expression grew still bleaker. ‘No, I’m afraid they’re still pouring more troops into the salient.’
‘I don’t know why they’ve given me a hospital appointment in London,’ Amy said as the date approached to have her plaster cast removed. ‘Why can’t they deal with it at a local hospital?’
‘It might be as well, dear,’ her mother said. ‘They’ve got the leading hospitals in London.’
The appointment was for St Luke’s, the hospital in west London where she had once worked. She had occasionally exchanged letters with Katherine, her friend there, and now she wrote to her in the hope that they might have the chance to meet.
Peter had returned to France now. ‘If only I didn’t have to ask Mr Derwent to drive me to London,’ Amy said. ‘He’s kind to me but I don’t want to keep inconveniencing him.’
Recently, he had driven her to Sebastopol Terrace to be with her parents and uncle and aunt as they remembered Bertie on the anniversary of his death. Florence had been there to mourn him too.
‘Suppose we went with you to London on the train?’ Mother suggested now. ‘We could take you from there to the hospital in a cab. It’s a while since we’ve been on a trip, and we could call on Louisa while you keep your appointment at the hospital. She lives not far away.’ Her aunt had moved house after becoming widowed and now lived in west London.
‘Do you think Father would be able to get the day off?’
‘I think Mr Leadbetter will cover for him if it’s just for one day.’
‘Then that would be lovely.’
On the morning of her appointment, Mr Derwent drove her to the station for an early train, before the one on which most businessmen travelled. Her parents, smartly dressed for their outing, were waiting at the station and helped her into a carriage.
‘I shouldn’t need any help when we come back!’ she told them as the train steamed off.
When they reached Wealdham, the carriage door opened and a familiar figure in a dark blue dress got inside.
‘Mrs Rousseau! How are you?’ Amy said, pleased to see the Belgian lady again. Father raised his hat as she introduced her parents. He offered to put Mrs Rousseau’s basket in the luggage rack but she explained she was getting out at the next station.
‘Florence has been telling me most of the refugees have dispersed now,’ Amy said.
‘We’ll always be grateful for the way we were welcomed here, of course.’ Her accent was less obvious now. ‘We make ourselves busy here but most of us are longing for war to end so we can go home – please God, the fighting can’t go on much longer. Florence tells me you have visited Belgium.’
‘I only went there once, to Ypres, when my husband was in hospital there.’ She was unwilling to talk of that time.
‘Ah! Yes, I heard he was badly injured. Is he recovering now?’
Amy reassured her.
‘Yolande and I are from Liège, the other side of Brussels, so you will not have seen our home town. So much of our country is in the hands of the Boches… As for Ypres, I understand it has sustained a good deal of damage.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Amy said, with restraint.
Her father was interested. ‘Didn’t you have a battle at Liège at the start of the war?’ he asked Madame Rousseau.
‘We had big fortifications along the Meuse, where we fought back against the Boches. I often wonder about my relatives. My father was too old to fight, of course, but he lives in a house with a view of the railway. I sometimes imagine him watching movements of troops and supplies along the line and trying to find some way of sending a message to your army.’
The train was slowing down as it approached the next station.
‘I get out here,’ Madame Rousseau said, rising to her feet and picking up her basket. ‘I’ve started to give lessons in lacemaking, in Wealdham, and once a week here. Local women have shown quite a lot of interest.’
‘Lacemaking! How lovely,’ Amy said. ‘I saw some beautiful examples in the hotel we stayed at once in Béthune.’
The train pulled into the station and they said goodbye.
‘How I should like to take lessons in lacemaking,’ Amy said. ‘Perhaps I could go on the train to one of her lessons.’
‘You might, if your ankle is completely better,’ Mother said.
‘I didn’t want to tell Mrs Rousseau about Ypres,’ Amy said. ‘It’s suffered from repeated bombardments. I hope the rest of her country isn’t smashed up so badly.’
The London terminus was crowded as usual with troops. Her parents looked strained. The young men in uniform would always remind them of Bertie.
‘A cab to the hospital will be expensive,’ Amy said. ‘Let’s take an omnibus. You’ll only need to help me on and off.’ She hoped they need not go up the winding staircase to the top.
Once on the bright red bus, she found a seat easily. The cheerful woman clippie with light brown hair who sold them tickets somehow looked familiar to Amy. As they crawled along the streets, teeming with carts and motor vehicles, she wondered where she had seen the woman before.
‘Look at those damaged houses!’ Father was shocked at the gaping façades.
‘They must have been hit in a Zeppelin raid,’ Amy said. The destruction in Ypres had been much more widespread.
At last, they reached the nearest stop to her hospital.
She pulled herself to her feet and limped towards the platform, using her crutches. As she passed the clippie, they stared at each other.
‘Polly!’ she cried.
‘Blimey, it is you. What you done to your leg?’
Amy gave her a brief account while the bus was halted. It could not start again until Polly rang the bell.
‘Have you been doing this job for long?’ Amy asked.
‘Over a year now. They need women to do it. It’s a lot better than what I did before.’
‘Good luck,’ Amy said, pleased for her.
‘And you. And the kid.’
Father helped her off the bus.
‘Who was that?’ Mother asked.
She waited until there were few passers-by.
‘Someone I met in prison.’
Mother gave her one of the dubious glances she bestowed when she compared Amy’s recent life with her own sedate days in her early twenties.
At least she didn’t ask what her crime was, Amy thought, relieved.
They went into the main entrance of the busy hospital and down a tiled corridor towards the fracture clinic.
‘How soon do you think you’ll be ready to go home?’ Father asked her.
‘I don’t know. But Katherine’s asked for some hours off, so she’ll meet me here and take me to the dining room.’ That was what they called the small, unwelcoming room where nurses could get lunch. ‘I can wait there till you come back for me. Give Aunt Louisa my love.’
A woman at the desk told her where to wait for her appointment. Father left her a newspaper and she began to read a report about fighting round the village near Ypres called Passchendaele.
‘Mrs Derwent?’ She got up and walked with her crutches to the consulting room where they would remove her plaster.
At last it’s nearly over, she thought. Just let it have healed properly.
The medical staff soon cut her plaster off and she examined her leg and ankle. They had swollen within the plaster cast as expected, but she could tell the shape was not quite right. The orthopaedic surgeon looked a little concerned.
‘Put your foot to the ground,’ he told her, while a nurse held her arm.
She did as he said. It felt strange. Even allowing for it having been in plaster for weeks, the ankle seemed distorted.
‘Now take off your shoe and walk towards me.’
She removed the shoe from her good right foot and began to walk, still relying on the nurse for support. She could not put her left foot flat on the floor and there was a slight sensation of one bone grinding against another.
‘I don’t think they’ve set it right,’ she said, unwilling to acknowledge the problem. She had seen cases like it before.
The doctor felt around where the fracture had been. ‘I think it’s less than perfect,’ he admitted. ‘I gather you had it done when you were serving in Flanders?’
‘Yes.’
‘See how you get on. If it’s still bad in a few months, when you’ve had your baby, you might consider having it reset.’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she said, sniffing hard in an attempt not to cry.
‘Can you walk with just the one crutch?’
She attempted to do so. It was not elegant but she could walk a little way.
She went behind a screen to put a stocking on her left leg. She put on her right shoe, then crammed her left foot into the other one, which she had brought in a bag. They were her loosest shoes and she needed the right one tightly laced. The left one would barely do up at all. She went awkwardly from the consulting room to the corridor where she saw the plump figure of Katherine waiting for her.
‘Well done!’ said the doctor, who had followed her out. The nurse handed her the second crutch. ‘That shoe’s very tight,’ the doctor said. ‘Take it off as soon as you reach home.’
Katherine embraced her and helped her to the nearest chair. ‘It’s wonderful to see you again! Are you keeping well in your pregnancy?’
‘Yes, everything’s fine.’ Doctor Stanhope back in Larchbury had checked her progress. He was elderly but had been brought out of retirement when younger doctors were sent to Flanders.
‘Your walking doesn’t look too good,’ Katherine said. ‘Did they mess up setting your ankle?’
‘I think so. It wasn’t done under ideal conditions.’
‘I’m so sorry. Would you like to go to the dining room for lunch? I can’t promise it’ll be especially tasty.’
Amy limped along the corridor, her erratic progress confirming her view that her operation had failed. Katherine gave her an arm.
Soon they were sitting eating a watery stew. ‘Anyway, how are you?’ Amy asked her friend.
‘Fine.’ Katherine told her a little of her life at the hospital. It sounded as though she had developed from an anxious novice into an efficient member of the nursing staff.
‘What about your young man?’
‘He’s suspended his university course and joined up,’ Katherine said, fiddling with her dark hair. ‘He’s finished his officer training and he’s in Flanders now, the Belgian part.’
‘I supposed he’s in the Ypres area,’ Amy said.
‘Yes. I worry about him so. I’ve put my name down for service abroad if I get the chance.’
Amy had mentioned Edmond’s injuries in one of her letters to Katherine, and she found herself making light of them and exaggerating his progress now Katherine had a sweetheart at the Front.
‘Do you think you’ll have your leg reset?’ Katherine asked presently. ‘You could wait till after you’ve had your baby.’
‘They’d need to operate again – I know that much,’ Amy said, shuddering.
‘Yes. You’d need to be brave. But they’ve got those modern X-ray machines now so they can get a picture of the bones in your leg before they operate.’
‘That’s true.’ She had not had her leg X-rayed in the Ypres hospital, or even in the mobile X-ray unit driven around by the scientist called Madame Curie. ‘If this war ever ends I might have my ankle reset then. I don’t want to be on the operating list again when wounded are streaming in and there’s a shortage of surgeons.’
While they were waiting for her parents to arrive, she practised walking up and down with one crutch. She began to adapt to the feel of her joint and to develop an ungainly but steady way of progressing.
‘You’re doing better,’ Katherine encouraged her.
She sat down to recover from her exertions. Her friend brought her up to date with the gossip from the hospital where she had once worked. Katherine mentioned that she might visit her aunt and uncle who lived some ten miles from Larchbury. ‘Perhaps you can come to see me at The Beeches,’ Amy said. ‘It’s not far. Do try to come.’
When her parents arrived she embraced Katherine again, passed Father one of her crutches and set off towards the door with the other.
‘Your leg doesn’t look much better than before,’ Mother cried.
‘It is. And I’ll get more used to it in a day or two,’ she said, trying to sound confident.