THE BRITISH ARMY LOST 60,000 men in 1916, 19,000 on the first day of the Battle of the Somme. Almost everyone had someone ‘out there’ or knew someone whose brother, uncle, father or sometimes, God forbid, all three were there. Davie Menmuir came back to Angus with lungs blackened by smoke and his mother told Catriona a little of the horrors he had experienced. Catriona listened with sympathy and patience, but tried to shoo Victoria away. She had the same argument with herself over Dr Currie’s vast learning and was in a quandary – on one hand approving of the pursuit of knowledge, but on the other disapproving of most of the knowledge that the lady doctor had.
‘It’s not fitting that Victoria should hear such things,’ she had explained diffidently at the dinner table, and now she certainly did not want her daughter to hear, almost at first hand, of the horrors of war.
But Victoria was fascinated, for Robert was out there, wasn’t he? She had told him of her new job. He had said in one of his letters that it was so wonderful to hear of everyday things. She had told him of her interview with Mr Smart, and of the much more frightening Miss Jessop.
But I got the job, probably because there was no one else, and there is so much work and I love every minute. Miss Jessop is really very sweet and thinks I should go to a business college to learn shorthand . . .
But Robert did not write back to say how pleased he was that she was out of the mill – he had hated, he had written in one letter, to think of her in a jute mill, but her being there had helped him, in a way, to be accepted by the rank and file. With his accent, his education and that honourable before his name (which a sergeant had discovered and used, not unkindly, but in fun) Robert should have been an officer and at first the men hadn’t accepted him. But his girl worked in a mill – everybody’s girl worked in a mill – so Robert became one of the boys. But he did not write, although Victoria refused to believe that anything was wrong. She wrote again, telling him that she had actually written a letter to Calcutta, India.
And then, in late April, when she had almost given up hope, there came a letter of beautiful parchment quality, so stiff that it crackled in her hands.
‘It’s from London,’ she breathed in awe, looking at the envelope and the postmark but making no attempt to open the letter. ‘Who do I know in London?’
‘Open it and find out, girl,’ said Dr Currie with her usual cool common sense, and Victoria did so. A small blood-stained piece of paper fell out as she withdrew the letter from its beautiful envelope. She bent to pick it up and then, recognizing the almost indecipherable spidery writing, held it against her breast as she read the other letter.
Dear Miss Cameron,
The enclosed letter was found in my son’s battle-dress at the military hospital in France some time ago, but I only now find myself able to deal with it. The news of course was so appalling that, if you can understand a mother’s love, I was quite unable to cope . . .
‘It’s from Robert’s mother,’ Victoria whispered, lifting a white, drained face to Dr Currie. Her mind leaped swiftly to the obvious conclusion. ‘He’s dead,’ she moaned, as the awful reality of the dried blood forced itself on her consciousness, ‘killed, in France.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ said Dr Currie, but Victoria had gone back to the letter. She read on.
‘I don’t understand. No, wait . . .’
The sight of my beautiful baby, his face swathed in bandages, his sensitive hands smashed . . . I can’t bear to see him and, for his sake as well as my own, I have left him with his father at the hospital at Craiglockhart in Edinburgh. I felt, although I am at a loss to understand how you can even have met one another, that a visit from you might cheer him up. I enclose, together with his letter to you, a banker’s draft to cover any expenses you might incur.
Julia, Lady Inchmarnock
Victoria sat in a crumpled heap in the chair by the fire, where Dr Currie had unceremoniously planted her with her head between her knees, and she handed Dr Currie the letter. The blood-stained paper she kept to herself to read later on, if she could decipher the words. Had he been writing to her when he was hit? Had he been carrying the letter when they had gone into action? It did not matter. Recently, when she had almost believed that he had forgotten her, Robert had been thinking of her and writing to her.
‘Well, you’ll go, Victoria?’
To Edinburgh? Going to Fife was an adventure. Victoria tried to remember what Robert looked like. How often had she met him? How often had they written? She still clutched the blood-stained piece of paper with the half-written letter. She took a deep breath. ‘Yes, of course I’ll go. But, oh, Dr Currie, I’ll be so scared.’
‘We’ll go together.’ Dr Currie also made instant decisions but, unlike Victoria, she had years of experience of doing so. ‘I’d quite like to see how they’re handling things at Craiglockhart – should be jolly interesting. It was a spa, you know, before the war, a fearfully expensive watering hole for the idle rich who ate or drank too much. We’ll stay the night, Victoria, and make a holiday of it. I have a cousin who’ll put us up. We’ll have an adventure. I wonder if your mother would come . . . a ladies’ day out? Afternoon tea at The George. We all deserve some fun. Work, work, work – ruins more than just your lily-white hands, Victoria.
By the time Dr Currie had finished talking, Victoria no longer looked as if she was going to be violently ill. ‘He’s alive, Dr Currie. Robert’s alive.’
‘Yes, dear,’ was all the doctor said.
Catriona could not possibly go to Edinburgh. With two of them out of the house, it would be a good chance for a thorough spring-clean. The house pleased her now: she no longer felt as if she did not belong and, although everything was in pristine condition, she would enjoy re-establishing her old tradition. The Priory had been spring-cleaned every year. It would be the same with Blackness Road. Catriona smiled quietly to herself at the thought of the pleasures in store.
She tried not to show her hurt that Victoria had been corresponding with a young man and had never even told her own mother. ‘It is the twentieth century,’ she reminded herself. ‘Things are different from how they were in my young day.’
Instead of scolding Victoria for deceit, she did everything in her power to make sure that her daughter enjoyed this first exciting train journey as much as possible. Even though Catriona was quite sure that sandwiches made with her own bread would be infinitely superior to anything the railway company could manage, she gave in to Dr Currie’s plea that Victoria should be allowed to be her guest for the day. The banker’s draft had been sent back to London, with a short note signifying that it might better be used for one of the many war charities – Catriona was embarrassed and angry that anyone should think her daughter could not afford to travel.
Victoria slept not a wink the night before the impending journey. She took out her few letters from Robert and read them, desperately trying to remember him. They had been children, and it had all been so long ago. When she did conjure up a picture of him, he appeared dressed in silver armour like an illustration by Alma-Tadema, and with a halo of light around his beautiful head.
It was a groggy Victoria who boarded the Edinburgh train the next morning. Even the lovely new Border tweed costume that Catriona had bought for her from D. M. Brown’s in Dundee, at the unforgivable price of five whole carefully saved guineas, failed to cheer her. She had never been in a hospital; she had never seen anyone hurt or injured; and the lovely old spa was said to be full of terribly injured young men. What would she do if she started to cry, or ran screaming from the place at her first sight of horror or pain? More terrifying still was the nightmare thought: what if she did not recognize Robert? She had met him only twice, and his mother had said that his head was bandaged.
‘You merely ask the nurse, dear,’ said Dr Currie calmly, and then she smiled an absolutely devastating smile, which included more than a hint of wickedness. ‘Besides . . . I know his father.’
Victoria could not eat, but drank three cups of hot, sweet tea between Dundee and Edinburgh, which meant an embarrassed muttering to Dr Currie before they got a taxicab. She saw the solid bulk of the castle and tried to fix it in her mind to describe to Catriona, for she knew that later her mother would be thrilled that she had seen it. In spite of her tension, she marvelled at the city’s skyline as they bumped and jolted their way up Lothian Road, around Tollcross and out to Craiglockhart.
They got out of the taxi and looked up at the massive stone building, with its welcoming open doors. Several young men, some with slings or crutches, were draped picturesquely on park benches, on the lawn itself and on the wide stone steps that led down to the grass tennis courts. Victoria cheered up. They didn’t look too awful. One even shouted, ‘Looking for me, darling?’ She laughed and waved.
And then they were inside, and the atmosphere changed. It was cool and quiet, and everything in sight was clinically scrubbed and polished. A nurse in a starched blue dress, and with starched white wings flying from her head, directed them up the wide marble staircase to the second floor. Robert was in a little room that held nothing but an iron bed, a chair and a small wardrobe. There was a lovely watercolour on the wall, of an old-fashioned boy with softly waving, long blond hair, a brown smock and blue stockings, standing in a wood full of bluebells. It imprinted itself on Victoria’s mind and never left her. A tall, slender, distinguished-looking man was sitting by the bed reading a book, and he got up when they entered. His face went quite white as Dr Currie held out her hands, which he gripped painfully.
‘By Jove, Flora, what a sight for sore eyes,’ he said and hugged her to him.
Victoria took all this in and then her attention focused on the bed. There was a long, painfully thin body lying under the white sheet and rough grey blanket, but whether it was that of a man or a woman . . .
‘Robert?’ she whispered and reached for the bandaged hands. The thing lying on the bed winced and drew them painfully away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, aware that somewhere behind her Dr Currie (Flora – strange to realize that Dr Currie had a first name) and Robert’s father were talking softly, happily, like old friends.
There were slits in the bandages and she could see his eyes staring at her, alight as if with fever.
‘Victoria?’ It came from the grotesque slit that allowed his father to spoon soup into him and the nurses to administer oral medication. ‘Victoria,’ he said again, and this time the voice was more human, less tortured. ‘I prayed you’d come. They thought I was going to die, but I knew, Victoria, if I could get back to you, to the woods . . . I’ll get well in our woods, Victoria, won’t I?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered while the tears ran unchecked down her face. She could say no more.
Dr Currie was at her side, lifting her up. ‘Victoria, I think that’s enough for now: speaking tires him.’ She turned back to Lord Inchmarnock, who had moved to the other side of the bed and had one hand resting gently on Robert’s shoulder. ‘I’ll take her to Charlie’s flat, Sandy, to freshen up. Then we’ll come back after tea.’
Victoria must have shaken hands with Robert’s father, for ever afterwards she had the memory of a very kind face, but she felt nothing and cried helplessly all the way to Dr Currie’s cousin’s flat in Heriot Row. Even the fact that Charlie was an unmarried man who lived alone did not occur to her until they were on their way back to Dundee, and Catriona’s questions. She did recover though, after a bath and a lovely meal in the most beautiful room she had ever seen in her entire life. Charlie had been introduced – a gentle, stooping, scholarly man – but Victoria could not remember his name and afterwards she could not even remember his face. He had been solicitous during the meal, a charming and generous host, and then he had left them.
‘Not leaving to smoke, my dear,’ he had said to Victoria. ‘Cousin Flora has all the bad habits in our family. She smokes, as no doubt you know, but I like neither cigarettes nor coffee, both of which you will be offered now.’
He excused himself and Victoria sat back in the beautiful chair and relaxed. ‘This is class, isn’t it, Dr Currie,’ she said, looking at the light furniture, the Chinese rugs, the etchings, the exquisite lamps.
‘Well, it’s good taste, dear, which isn’t always the same thing. Old Tam Menmuir has class – a real gentleman. Sandy has it and so does Charlie, who also has good taste. I think that Grampa of yours probably had it too.’
Victoria smiled. ‘You mean class is more what a person’s like inside?’
‘Exactly. Never pay attention to labels, Victoria. Examine the merchandise for yourself.’
‘Is Robert going to get well?’ Victoria asked abruptly.
‘It’s too early to tell. We’ll go back for another visit.’
Victoria rested by the fire and drew strength from the atmosphere of peace and beauty in the lovely room. Then, when Dr Currie felt that Victoria was ready, they returned to Craiglockhart.
Robert was alone. His eyes were closed and his body was very still. Victoria looked down at him and in her heart she heard his laugh, as he had picked the primroses. The knight had gone to the Crusades and had come home battered, while the battles still raged. An overwhelming anger filled her and, as if he felt her passion, his eyes opened and slowly focused on her. They crinkled as if, under those bandages, he was trying to smile.
‘I thought you were a dream,’ he whispered. ‘I kept seeing you among the trees, and sometimes there were primroses and sometimes autumn colours. But when I tried to touch you, you dissolved, like a will-o’-the-wisp.’
‘No, I’m very real.’
‘Never leave me, Victoria. Promise you’ll never leave me.’
Again she heard an echo from the past – a little girl’s voice saying, I will never leave you, Mamma, never.
‘Promise.’
‘I promise, Robert. I’ll never leave you.’
She sat beside the bed, his bandaged hand resting in hers, until Dr Currie told her that he was asleep.
‘Write him a letter, Victoria, to say that we’ll come back just as soon as we can. Sandy will read it to him.’
‘I promised him. I said I’d stay.’
‘No, you said you wouldn’t leave him, dear. That’s not the same thing. His father will stay by his side. We have responsibilities in Dundee. Our work. Your mother.’
*
In Dundee, Catriona had finished her labours and had made herself a nice pot of tea. Wickedly she spread real butter on the heel of a loaf. She had worked so hard cleaning the rooms. Even John had been out all day. Where he got to she did not know, nor what he did with his time, and, she told herself, she did not care to know what he did. But today he hadn’t even come in for tea, so the fish pie could be heated up tomorrow. It was hard to get a nice bit of fish and she’d managed to fill this one out with some dried eggs.
Oh, the taste of real butter. Imagine, some children born in the past few years had never eaten anything but margarine. Well, Maypole wasn’t bad, and only elevenpence a pound, but butter . . .
Catriona was almost content. She lay back on the settee and looked around her, her eye catching the Wally Dug that Tam and Bessie had brought on their last visit. She really didn’t care for china animals, but it made her think of the farm and it cheered Victoria. Thanks to Dr Currie, Victoria had that lovely office job at Smart’s, and Mr Smart was talking about sending her for secretarial classes one day a week. If she could just get rid of John . . . But, honestly, did she want to get rid of him? Yes. No. She didn’t know.
‘Goodness,’ Catriona laughed at her fancies and put another log on the fire. What strange roads eating a pat of precious butter sent one down. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror before sitting down again. She was quite a well-looking woman, considering, and although she had become scrawny and haggard after Jock’s death, she was beginning to relax and fill out again. And this scrape of butter will help that along, she thought and then she sighed. Where had she gone wrong? What had she not been able to give John that would have kept him beside her? By rights they should be out there at the Priory – solid Angus farmers, with a brood of children round the table of an evening. In the early days it had all been so wonderful.
Alone now, she allowed herself to indulge in happy memories. She had hardly been able to believe it when John first asked her to walk out with him. Her father was a farm labourer, but John’s father actually owned his land. John could have had any woman in the district, and the talk was that he had had many of them. But he had wooed her honourably, and their first days of marriage had been everything that any young bride could have dreamed about – sun-filled days of hard work, and nights . . . oh, the nights, of learning, seeking, loving. She arched her back slowly and stretched, yearning, remembering. ‘Oh, John, where did it all go wrong?’ Did she ask the question out loud?
She looked up out of memory-filled eyes and he was standing there on the rug in front of her. She had been so busy with her thoughts and, oh yes, her achingly sweet memories that she had not heard him come in. She had not lit the gas, and the firelight flickered, sending shadows over his handsome face. He knelt down beside her and she tensed, but he turned sideways so that he was looking at the fire and held his hands to the flames, as if for warmth. She relaxed again. For some time they were quiet, enjoying the peace and the warmth.
‘You’re still a fine-looking woman, Catriona,’ John said into the fire. ‘I came back to you, you know. I left her in Paris and came back to you and the lassie, to the blasted farm.’
So he had been with a woman. But how good, how noble of him to admit it, after all these years. She had known and had forgiven him long since.
When had he turned to imprison her work-worn hands? His head was on her knee: she could feel the warmth of his mouth against the thin stuff of her dress. She wanted to move, to break the spell, but she dared not, could not. His mouth, warm and soft, still against her thigh, his hands moving softly, gently, teasingly. Oh God, oh God, how sweet, how achingly sweet.
‘Do you remember yon Hallowe’en sociable, Catriona?’ His voice was as gentle and loving as his hands. ‘You had a yellow dress and a ribbon to match threaded through your curls.’ He could feel her relaxing and he smiled inwardly and let his hands continue to do their work. ‘You were as light as thistledown on your feet and I wanted to imprison you in my hands, in case someone else stole you away. I could hardly bear to wait for you until we were wed. You didn’t know your own power, did you, lass? You still have it, Catriona.’
He was up and beside her on the settee.
How good his arms felt. It had been so long. She allowed him to rest her head against him and to stroke her hair and cheek. The flames danced before her eyes and it was so warm and cosy. She sighed and his hands strayed lower, and she tensed again, but he knew the ways to make the old magic work and she gave herself up to him.
‘Catriona,’ he moaned softly and kissed her very gently on her lips. ‘Catriona,’ he said again, and he pushed her back against the cushions and his hands moved and his lips demanded. His hands were inside her blouse; they found her nipples, swollen and erect.
Dear God, what was she doing? With all her strength she pushed him away. Had she gone mad? This man had left her and her unborn child to spend his money on some floozie. For months now he had been playing with Victoria’s innocence, watching Catriona struggle out of the gutter that he had landed her in – and now this. No, no, no! She came back from the brink of insanity, or whatever this feeling was, and fought him with all the strength she possessed. And she begged.
‘No, John, please, I don’t want this. No.’
But if he heard, he paid no attention. Catriona struggled and cried out, but she was no match for him. Behind them the fire burned fiercely, like John’s passion, and then died low in the well-blackened grate.
Eventually John too was still. He lay heavy on top of her for a few moments, then he stood up and righted his clothing.
‘Christ, you never were any bloody good in bed. I must have been desperate for it. At least you were cheaper than the Dock Street whores, Catriona, but not nearly so much fun.’
She did not hear the words; she was barely aware that he had moved away from her. She did not hear the door close or the front door slam. She lay where he had discarded her and then, as the fire died and the room became cold, cold as her heart, she pulled herself up and sat rocking herself as she wept.