In Love and War

Alice was weary. The transatlantic crossing had been peaceful enough but since docking in Southampton she’d been staying with her friend Julia, daughter of the American ambassador to London. Delighted to be together again, they’d gossiped late into the night, every night.

Despite the arrival of peace, London appeared so dejected and down at heel that Alice had found her own mood darkening. Even in the height of summer the weather here was more like winter in her native Washington: grey, cold and often rainy.

Her travel wardrobe of bright colours seemed out of place; most of the women they saw in the streets were still wearing drab, pre-war fashions, usually in brown or black. She was shocked to see war veterans reduced to selling matches on the street, and gaggles of haggard men with placards demanding the ‘homes for heroes’ they’d apparently been promised by the British prime minister. Her stay had been even more wearisome since she and Julia had curtailed planned sightseeing jaunts, terrified of catching the Spanish influenza that had already claimed thousands of lives.

Although at the American embassy there were no such shortages, she was horrified to learn about the strict food rationing ordinary people had to endure. Even now, eight months after the armistice, just a few ounces of meat and butter were allowed each week along with horrible white bread that tasted of dust and barely any fruit or fresh vegetables. We have no idea, back home, how much this little country has suffered and continues to do so, she wrote her parents.

She loved Julia’s company, but Alice was impatient to be on her way to Belgium, to the place where her kid brother, Sam, was last seen. There had been no reports of his death, nor even where he had been fighting; he had simply failed to return. She felt quite sure that, had he been killed, someone would have found a way to let them know. Somehow, somewhere, she reasoned, he must be alive. Perhaps he was too ashamed to return home, having joined up against their parents’ wishes. Or his mind had been so shaken by the experience of war that he felt he could not face ‘normal’ life ever again; she’d read about people like that.

Her father had battled to trace his son, almost obsessively, for two years, using his considerable political clout as a congressman to pull every string he could with the Canadian authorities. But they claimed to have no record of a Sam Palmer. Was there any possibility that he might have signed up under another name, they asked? It wasn’t unheard of for Americans to ‘cover their tracks’, they said, and Alice knew they were probably right.

‘Surely when he registered they’d have asked him for some kind of identity documents? They’re just being slack,’ her father had railed. But after every avenue seemed to hit a brick wall he’d buried himself in politics once more. Her mother, usually so sociable and cheerful, had fallen into a well of hopelessness, refusing to accompany her husband to official events, even declining invitations from friends. She ate like a bird, becoming alarmingly thin, and barely left the house these days.

But Alice found that she couldn’t let it go. The terrible truth was that, the night before he left for Canada, Sam had confided his plan to her. Shocked and disbelieving, she’d pleaded with him not to go. ‘For goodness’ sake, Sam, are you crazy? Don’t you know what it’s like over there? You could get killed.’

‘I have to do it. For Amelia,’ he’d replied, his jaw set in determination. ‘I’ll keep safe, honest. The Canadians aren’t in the thick of it anyway. It’s just that if I don’t go, I won’t forgive myself. We can’t let those bloody Krauts get away with it.’

They’d argued long into the night about the rights and wrongs of the war, and whether the US had a moral duty to join it. In the end he just clammed up and she had to accept that there was no hope of dissuading him. Before they retired to bed, he made her vow, using their old childhood oath – ‘keep the lie or hope to die’ – that she would never tell their folks. ‘They can’t stop me anyway ’cos I’m over eighteen, but just let me get a head start, won’t you?’ he pleaded. ‘I’ll write when I get there.’

She’d kept the promise, but had been hugely relieved when his letter arrived, forwarded from an address in Ottowa, releasing her from the burden of his secret. It was the only one they ever received. She had it with her even now, safely hidden in a side pocket of her handbag.

Dearest people, it read. I write to let you know that I am safe and well, happy at last to be here with the Canadians in Flanders, doing my small bit to fight the Hun.

Forgive me for the pain I have caused you all. I could not share my plans because I knew you would try to stop me, and I am determined to do this for my dearest Amelia.

I simply could not go on living with myself while that idiot Wilson prevaricated. The Brits and the French and the Belgians are fighting valiantly, but we really do need US supplies and soon. Please do what you can, Pa, to make them see sense.

I’m on R&R at the moment behind the lines in a place they call Hops. You guessed it, they’re brewers around here! There are kind-hearted people helping us, and we’ve got good beer and enough food. It’s a little haven in a hellish war. So you mustn’t worry about me. I promise to stay safe and be home with you all soon.

Best love to you all, Sam.

When the war ended and as the months passed he failed to return, she could not shake the thought that she should, somehow, have stopped him. If only I’d told Pa, that very day, he’d have done something, anything. But what could they have done, when Sam was so determined that he had covered his tracks completely, and had almost certainly signed up under a false name?

Even so, in her darkest moments Alice felt herself entirely responsible for the death of her little brother, her beloved only sibling. It haunted her, filled her dreams. The only way of assuaging her conscience would be to find out what had happened to him, and that meant going to Flanders.

‘Over my dead body,’ her father had fulminated. ‘I suppose you imagine that you’ll just bump into him on a street corner? It’s not Washington, Alice. The whole of northern France and Belgium are one great muddy mess. You’ve seen it for yourself in the papers. Towns are destroyed, the people are still starving, crime is rife, transport simply isn’t working. I will not let my daughter put herself through such danger and hardship. And that’s final.’

She took her plea to her mother. ‘If your father says no, it’s a no,’ she said. ‘And anyway, what’s Lloyd got to say about this plan of yours?’

Her engagement to Lloyd had been the talk of the town. The dashing young pilot with one of the pioneering US Air Force units was due to inherit millions as the only son of a well-established banking family. He was the most eligible bachelor of her generation.

She’d set her sights on him long ago, as a teenager, watching with awe as he vanquished the reigning tennis champion with a display of athleticism and power that left the spectators sighing with admiration. For Alice, it wasn’t so much his skill on the court that caught her attention, rather the way his long tanned legs seemed to glisten in the sunshine.

They began dating just after she’d returned from France nursing a broken heart. Three years later, when she’d begun to fear the day would never come, he proposed. Photographs of the happy couple featured widely in society magazines, a lavish wedding was planned, and she genuinely believed herself the luckiest girl in the whole United States.

The accident changed everything, of course. Lloyd lost a leg after his plane flipped over twice on landing, and after that he’d become bitter and pessimistic, claiming that his life was over; he would never play tennis again or sail his yacht, and his career as an airman was finished. He would rather die than spend his life in a wheelchair at a desk in the bank.

Alice watched on helplessly as he wallowed in self-pity, wondering where their love had gone. Although she considered it more than once, breaking off their engagement was simply not an option. How could she, when he was already so maimed, so broken? How could she cause such heartache to her parents even as they grieved for their only son? It would cause such a society scandal; she would be forever tarred as the hard-hearted bitch who had deserted her brave hero in his darkest hour. Her father would never forgive her for bringing shame to the family and casting a smear on his political career.

So she’d gritted her teeth and set herself the task of bringing Lloyd back to life. It worked: over the following months he became more cheerful, more outgoing and optimistic, more like the man she had fallen for in the first place. All was well, she persuaded herself, she loved him and they would marry and live happily ever after. He was determined to walk her back down the aisle unaided by crutches, so they had postponed the wedding until he could be fitted with an artificial limb.

When she mooted the idea of going to Flanders to look for Sam, Lloyd had reacted with disbelief. ‘On your own, to Europe?’ he gasped, grey eyes startled in that handsome, strong-jawed face. ‘When the war’s been over barely six months?’

She stroked his hair and rubbed the back of his neck, which always seemed to calm him. ‘I love my brother almost as much as I love you, my darling. Pa’s done all he can to find him, but he’s got nowhere. It’s my only chance – and the longer we leave it, the colder the trail will get. At least that’s how I see it.’

‘Pa doesn’t see any point, thinks he’s done all he can. Besides, there’s a little thing called an election next year.’ The Republicans had been running around like headless chickens since Roosevelt had died and, what with the riots and economic problems, her father had been working all hours in the Capitol.

Lloyd brushed away her ministering hand. ‘I’m not happy, Alice. It’s a crazy idea. Wait till I’m out of this damn thing’ – he thumped the arm of the wheelchair – ‘and I’ll come with you. I can’t let you go abroad on your own. Who knows what kind of dangers you might have to deal with.’

‘You forget I’ve been to Europe before, Lloyd. My year at the Sorbonne – we went to Bruges and Brussels and Ostend. I speak French, remember? Anyway, I’ll be staying at the embassy in London each side, and the trip to Belgium is an organised tour with a very respectable company. They’ll look after me.’

She showed him the Thomas Cook brochure Julia had sent her, opened at the page with the description that she now knew almost by heart: Superior tour to the battlefields of Flanders: A Week at Ostend with excursions to Ypres, and the Belgian Battlefields. Fare provides for first class travel, seven days full board accommodation at a superior private Hotel, consisting of café complet, lunch, dinner and bed; electric trams to Zeebrugge and Nieuwpoort. All excursions accompanied by a fully qualified Guide-Lecturer.’

He read it and harrumphed some more, and she decided to drop it for the moment. Let him think about it, he’ll come round. In the meantime she telegraphed Julia.

A week later, at a candlelit table in his favourite restaurant – its wide doorways and no steps made it one of the few they could visit with his wheelchair – she showed him Julia’s reply: PA SAYS THOS COOK VERY REPUTABLE COMPANY AND TOURS POPULAR STOP SEE YOU SOON JULIA STOP

She nodded. ‘Julia’s father’s a diplomat, remember? He’d be the first to warn us if he felt it wasn’t perfectly safe.’ She pinned on her most winning smile, the one she’d practised in the mirror, the one that seemed to work every time. ‘I really want to go, sweetie. I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t do everything possible to find Sam, and this seems like the last chance.’

‘Lloyd’s fine with me going to Flanders,’ Alice told her parents now. ‘I’ll only be gone a couple of weeks, after all. He’d have come with me but for the physio.’

‘I don’t see why you can’t wait till after you’re married,’ her father grumbled. ‘Then you could travel together.’

‘I have to go now, don’t you see? The longer we leave it . . .’ She hesitated. Best not to harp on about Sam, in front of her mother. ‘Anyway, we’ve decided to have a proper honeymoon, perhaps in the Caribbean, or Florida, somewhere nice and sunny where he can relax and get really well.’

She handed her father the Thomas Cook brochure. ‘Look, you can see for yourself. These tours are all above board and very respectable, Julia’s father says. And he should know.’

‘Seventeen guineas! That’s nearly ninety bucks just for that week, let alone the cost of the transatlantic steamer, which is not going to give you much change from a hundred. And with your wedding next year? How in heaven’s name can you expect us to afford that?’

‘I am not expecting you to afford it,’ Alice replied. ‘I have my own savings, and Lloyd’s promised to help. I will stay with Julia in London so there won’t be any hotel costs.’

Her mother shrugged. Her daughter was never one to accept compromise, even as a small child. ‘If she thinks it’s our only chance of finding out what happened, then at least we’ll know we’ve done everything we can.’

‘Well, I disagree,’ he said. ‘In my view it would be a scandalous waste of time and money. In the chaos of that country you’ll never find anything. Far better to concentrate on tracking him through diplomatic routes.’

‘Don’t answer back, young woman. You’re over twenty-one now and I can’t stop you. But when you return without a dime to your name don’t come whining to me about paying for your wedding.’

Alice didn’t really care. She was going to Europe, no matter what. He’d come round in a few days. It wasn’t only her desire to find out what had happened to Sam and assuage her conscience – if possible, to bring him home.

There was something else. Another thing, a crazy notion that made her heart race just thinking about it. She’d shared it with no one except Julia.

Hey, it’ll be great to see you, her friend had written. I need cheering up. London is sooo gloomy these days. I can understand why you think that going to Flanders is your only chance of finding Sam. They say it’s still quite a mess over there, and people turn up every day. You never know. At least you will have done all you can.

Boy, what a cheeky notion to get in touch with D. I ought to tell you off, but secretly I’m a bit envious. I’m sure he should be able to help you with local leads to find Sam. But don’t for heaven’s sake fall in love with him all over again. Promise?

Alice had imagined that travelling alone would give her a sense of freedom; she had romantic visions of chatting to strangers or reading in deckchairs, undisturbed by social or family expectations. Her life in Washington was so packed with commitments: her mother supported at least a dozen charities and because her husband was usually too busy with his politicking she expected her only daughter to accompany her to endless cocktail parties, dinners and launch events. Recently, her mother’s frequent ‘headaches’ meant that she’d been increasingly required to attend these functions alone.

At first it was fun – Alice developed a taste for exotic cocktails and sophisticated dishes – but after a few years the novelty wore off and she began to crave something more demanding than tennis tournaments and bridge matches to fill her days. Some of her girlfriends, after leaving school, had taken jobs as teachers or personal assistants to chief executive officers, and their excited chatter filled Alice with envy. Of course, once they were married they would have to give it all up, but that didn’t stop her longing to share their few years of fun: to meet people with interesting ideas about the world, to earn her own money, to have a life of her own.

‘Absolutely no,’ her father had said. ‘I won’t have a daughter of mine going out to work. People will think we’re short of money.’ That was absurd, of course. Her mother’s handsome inherited fortune ensured that they lived in some luxury in a beautiful brownstone in the historic village of Georgetown. Pa was so old-fashioned, clinging to the belief that women should stay at home and devote themselves to good works.

But the reality of the transatlantic crossing was disappointing; in fact, it was rather lonely. The ship turned out to be half empty, her fellow passengers mostly dull couples and even drearier businessmen. It was nothing like her first trip to Europe, six years ago. She’d been eighteen, just out of high school, and Julia – whose diplomat father had recently been transferred from Washington to London – was about to spend three months at the Sorbonne to learn French.

The ball had started the very first evening on board ship as several handsome young men vied for their company on the dance floor, and on the quoits deck the following day. It continued in London which, after a whirl of cocktail parties, they declared to be the most glamorous city in the world – until they discovered Paris.

At the Sorbonne, both she and Julia became infatuated with one of their teachers, whom they thought the sexiest man they’d ever encountered. Floppy-haired, casually dressed, moody and usually late, he smoked untipped French cigarettes incessantly. His habit of slowly, sensually removing small strands of tobacco from a pouting lower lip would send them into paroxysms of delight.

Fortunately their attentions were soon drawn instead to a group closer to their own age – a multilingual band of English, American, French and German students. They gossiped, argued and flirted late into the night in street cafes, nursing expensive chocolats chauds or half-litres of pale fizzy beer. The girls swooned over a dark-eyed Belgian architecture student called Daniel, who seemed more articulate and well-read than the rest. Romances flared and faded. At the end of the course they all wept in each other’s arms and swore to keep in touch.

Alice returned to America and shortly afterwards, in August, Britain declared war against Germany, which put a stop to their letters. The promised reunion had never happened.

Now, as she watched the white cliffs of Dover slowly disappearing into the horizon, Alice found herself smiling at the memories. What a different world that was, all now lost.

The cross-Channel ship, so much smaller than the transatlantic liner, was starting to pitch in the open sea. A stiff breeze whistled around the deck, threatening to unseat her hat despite the three pins she’d skewered into it.

Nearly everyone else had sought shelter below and Alice was about to do the same when she spied a drab-looking figure at the rear of the deck. It must be the plain-faced girl from the train from London whom she’d imagined to be the daughter of the couple she’d sat with in second class. Either way, she was most definitely a Brit: you could tell by the long skirt, the sallow complexion and that mousy hair dragged back beneath a black felt cloche like something her old nanny would have worn.

She was alone, clasping the railings with a white-knuckled hand while trying to hold down her hat with the other. Alice made a passing remark about the view and the girl turned, wide-eyed with surprise.

At first she seemed flustered, but then gathered herself. ‘Hello. I’m Ruby. Ruby Barton.’ As she went to return the handshake her hat lifted and blew away, bowling down the deck like a leaf in an autumn storm.

‘Holy cow!’ Alice shouted, running after it. A flock of seagulls wheeled overhead, mocking her. The hat flew on, rising on the wind. Any minute now, she thought, it will fly off into the sea, I’ll have to apologise to the poor kid and she’ll be bare-headed for the rest of her journey. Then, just as she’d feared all was lost, the hat snagged against the canvas of a life raft and, with a final sprint, she managed to reach out and grab it.

‘That was a close call,’ she hollered, waving it lasso-style around her head.

‘Here, borrow one of my hat pins,’ Alice said, pulling one from her own head.

‘If you insist. That’s very kind. I never thought. It’s my first time at sea.’

‘Sorry, I mean your parents.’ It was a constant mystery to Alice how English people frequently failed to understand the language they’d invented.

‘Gee, I’m with them, too. To Ostend and the battlefields? You travelling on your own, then?’

Another sharp gust threatened to dislodge their hats. ‘What do you say we go below and get a coffee or something?’

The girl was hardly likely to be the most scintillating company, Alice thought to herself as they made their way unsteadily to the stairs which, she knew, would bring them to the first-class lounge. But at least she was close to her own age, and travelling alone. It was better than having no one to talk to.

At the entrance to the lounge Ruby held back. ‘I can’t go in there,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t have a first-class ticket.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Alice said. ‘You’re with me, aren’t you? They never check. The other lounges are nothing like so nice. C’mon, I’m starving and it’ll be hours before we get to the hotel for supper. What do you fancy?’

Alice insisted on paying for their drinks (coffee for her, tea for Ruby) and a plate of buttered toasted tea cakes, and watched her companion swallow them down like a starving child. Even though she looked barely old enough to be out of school, Alice noted the wedding ring.

‘Do you want to tell me why you’re on this tour?’ she asked. ‘I’m guessing it’s not because you want to see the beauties of Bruges, or sun yourself on the beach at Ostend?’

Oops. Put my big feet in it again. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. My English pals are always telling me I’m just too forward.’

At last, a response. The girl looked up with the wisp of a smile which Alice took for a yes. She took out the photograph of her brother, taken on his eighteenth birthday, five years ago. How young he looked, how happy-go-lucky, with Amelia by his side and not a care in the world. It seemed like a different age.

‘He’s very handsome. Was he your . . . ?’ Ruby hesitated, flustered, her cheeks flushing. ‘I mean, is he . . . ?’

‘Oh no,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s my kid brother Sam, with his girlfriend. Soon after this photo was taken she travelled to Europe to visit friends and see the sights, you know, and then the war started and she had to get home. The Germans blew up her ship, the Lusitania – you heard about that?’

‘We all thought the US would join the war after that but our great president dithered and poor Sam was devastated; he just didn’t know what to do with himself. She was such a beautiful girl and he was dotty about her; we could none of us quite believe she’d gone. He quit his college and started talking about going to fight the Germans. He told me he felt there was nothing else to live for. Of course, Pa was right against it and my ma, well, she was having fits at the very idea. I guess they hoped Sam would get over it, and he did go quiet about it for a month or two. But then he just left home. Signed up with the Canadians, under a false name, we think.’

‘Only this.’ Alice pulled out the leather wallet in which the precious letter was safely stored.

‘The more people know about him, the more chance I have of finding him, that’s what I reckon.’

Ruby took the envelope and pulled out the single page of lightweight paper, reading quickly. ‘Golly. He sounds so brave,’ she said, carefully refolding and slipping it into the envelope. ‘But if he really did sign up under a false name, wherever would you start looking?’

The sympathetic gaze of the girl’s dark brown eyes – eyes which, now Alice looked at them properly, seemed to contain a world of sadness – brought a pang of self-doubt, a realisation of the ambitious, perhaps even hopeless task she’d set herself.

‘All we have is that mention of Hops. I’ve done some research: it’s what the soldiers used to call a little village close to Ypres called Hoppestadt. There must be people who . . .’ Unaccountably, a lump in her throat blocked the rest of the sentence.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Ruby jumped in. ‘There are all kinds of reports about men still turning up safe and sound. Men who got stuck there, or got a bit lost, for one reason or another.’

‘Even if I don’t find him alive, at least I’ll feel I have done everything I can,’ Alice managed to finish.

The girl was a good listener, sitting silent and attentive as Alice poured out her memories of Sam, of their childhood, the holidays by the lake, how she’d taught him to read, to ride his bicycle, the adventures they’d had together in their teens. Talking about him lifted her spirits. It made him feel real again. He must, surely, still be alive, somewhere in this land which they were, even now, fast approaching?

‘But you haven’t told me anything about yourself,’ she said finally. ‘Why are you going to Flanders?’

As the ship drew closer to land the excited chatter of the passengers faded and then ceased altogether. As it came into view the once-grand seaside resort of Ostend, playground of the fashionable, wealthy and aristocratic, appeared almost abandoned. The beach was still broad and sandy, but littered with so much barbed wire, blocks of concrete and piles of rusting machinery that it was almost unrecognisable.

Alice had visited once before, that summer six years ago, when the sands were busy with families picnicking, children sitting under umbrellas, old men reading newspapers in deckchairs, young men and women playing beach tennis and, at the water’s edge, curious wheeled huts called bathing machines from which people emerged down short ladders into the cold grey sea. The seafront was lined with grand hotels and cafes, their terraces shaded by brightly striped awnings, where you could while away a few hours taking coffee, cream gateaux and delicious glaces à la vanilles, watching the world go by.

From a distance, the promenade along the beachside had appeared relatively undamaged, but now they could see that many of the buildings were derelict, ripped by shell holes. The old royal casino, once such a feature of the seafront with its curving facade and high arched windows, was almost crumbled away.

Their hotel, a grey, gloomy building in a side street set back from the seafront, appeared mercifully undamaged but the lobby, brown-carpeted and full of heavy, overbearing furniture, did little to reassure.

Upstairs in her suite, Alice paid off the bellboy and looked around. The two rooms were large enough and overlooked a street lined with plane trees, but that was about the best that could be said. The place smelled fusty and unaired, the upholstery and curtains were faded and threadbare, the bedroom dark and dominated by an enormous carved wooden wardrobe. In the corner a tap dripped, leaving a brown stain trailing down the side of a chipped white basin. ‘I thought this was supposed to be a superior hotel,’ she muttered to herself.

After supper they were summoned to the lobby by Major Wilson for what he called a ‘briefing’. It was the first time she’d had the opportunity to take a good look at the rest of the group. Everyone seemed weary and anxious. Apart from her and Ruby, most were middle-aged except for a man in his early twenties with an eye patch and a vicious scar across his cheek whom they’d seen seated on his own at dinner.

As they waited for a few stragglers to arrive, she caught his eye and gave what she hoped was a friendly smile. She felt sorry for him: he appeared so downcast. How tragic that a young man who’d obviously once been rather handsome should be so dreadfully maimed. He looked up, distracted by something behind her: a young woman who arrived, flustered, apologising for being so late. She took a seat next to the eye-patch man and he whispered to her, solicitously. Must be his wife. Thank goodness he has someone to love him, with that disfigurement. She was petite and pretty, with shoulder-length curly hair the colour of ginger ale (Alice remembered her ma once referring to it as ‘strawberry-haired’) and freckles dotting her nose and cheeks, but her skin so transparently pale it was hard to believe any blood lay beneath.

Major Wilson stood before them stiff-backed and sharp-eyed, as though he were about carry out a kit inspection.

‘Welcome, all,’ he started. ‘I trust that you enjoyed your supper, and that your rooms are comfortable enough?’ There was a mild murmur of approval to which Alice did not contribute. ‘As you probably noticed when we arrived,’ he went on, ‘Ostend was badly damaged by the fighting and I hope you will understand that hotel accommodation is a little thin on the ground at the moment, so please forgive any minor shortcomings in the provision.’

‘I’m sure you are tired from your journey so I will not detain you this evening with too much detail about our itinerary for the next few days. Tomorrow we leave for Ypres and the battlefields. Nine o’clock sharp, please. The weather is set to be fair, but bring rain garments and stout shoes just in case. We will stop for breaks and lunch, returning to the hotel late afternoon, in time for you to change for dinner.’

‘You are all aware, of course, that this is not a tourist trip and you are not tourists. Some of the places we visit and the sights we see may be distressing but please be assured that I shall be on hand at all times to help and support you, and answer your questions. It may be more useful to think of yourselves as pilgrims, here to honour the sacrifice made by our soldiers and by the unfortunate citizens of these devastated lands. It is our duty to pay witness, and I know that you will be respectful at all times.’