The days merged into each other. Gradually both girls were given a little more to do than simply scrubbing the wards clean, taking trolleys round and emptying bedpans. Sister Eloise had long since spotted Molly’s natural ability to nurse. An able and dedicated nurse herself, she recognised the same concern for her patients in Molly, the simple efficiency with which she treated them; the easy way she talked to the men and the response she drew from them. She was always calm in a crisis, and there were enough of those, both when more wounded arrived and in the routine caring. Though Molly had not even had the basic Red Cross training that Sarah had, she seemed instinctively to know what to do or say. Because Sister Eloise had very little English, when Sister Marie-Paul was not there she had to rely on Molly to talk to the English patients for her. Molly’s French had been non-existent, but she was picking up the words and phrases she needed with increasing rapidity, and though she could not hold a conversation in French, nor even follow one between the nuns, she could now make herself understood about matters in the ward.
Gradually, and under careful supervision at first, Sister Eloise taught her to change some of the dressings on the minor wounds, letting her gain experience in how it should be done, the careful cleansing and packing of wounds, the neat, firm bandaging afterwards. Molly was quick to learn and deft in her movements, and all the time she was able to keep up a cheerful flow of chatter with her patient, trying to keep his attention off the painful task she was performing. This was something that the other nursing sisters, most of them French, were not able to do with the English patients, and Molly worked more and more with them, leaving the few French wounded who arrived to their compatriots.
It was while helping with a new influx of men that Molly saw Harry. At first she thought she must be seeing things. She was helping Sister Eloise, who was swathed as always in a huge white apron over her habit, clean the wound of a man newly arrived from the front. Molly was holding the bowl of warm water, when her eyes slipped down to a new stretcher case that lay just inside the door of the ward. On it, lying motionless, she saw her cousin, Harry Cook, from Charlton Ambrose. She stared down at him, peering in the gloom of the late afternoon to be sure that it was indeed Harry who lay there, his familiar face gaunt under several days’ growth of beard overlaid with dust and dirt. Sister Eloise had to call her attention sharply back to the job in hand as the bowl she held began to tip.
“I’m sorry, Sister,” Molly stammered in her halting French, “but this man is—” she hesitated not knowing the word for cousin and finished, “—from my home.”
Sister Eloise understood enough of her fractured French and said, nodding at the patient whom they had been washing, “We have nearly finished with this man. Ask Pierre to lift your friend on to the table, next.”
Their patient, now cleaner than he had been for weeks, was moved gently by Pierre, the ward orderly, to an empty bed. Pierre then knelt by the unmoving figure on the stretcher and lifted him up on to the table where each man was cleaned up as far as possible before he was put to bed to await the doctor. Another man, also still dressed in dirty service tunic with the sleeve cut away and with a grubby bandage around his arm that had been sitting on the floor by the door, got to his feet at once.
“That’s my mate, Harry,” he said. “Harry Cook. He got it in the leg, and now it’s going rotten.” His own face was grey with pain or exhaustion, his eyes red-rimmed hollows above his gaunt cheeks. He half put out a hand as if to help Pierre, but dropped it again as the big orderly swung Harry easily up on to the table.
“What is he saying?” asked Sister Eloise.
“He says it is his friend, son ami,” replied Molly. She turned to the second man. “Don’t worry,” she told him gently. “Harry is in good hands now. The doctor will be in here in a minute, and before that we’ll do all we can to make him comfortable.” She smiled at him and added “What about you? Is your arm bad?”
The soldier shook his head wearily, “No, I’ll live. Harry’s the one who needs you now. I’ll just wait here.” He slumped down on the floor again, and Molly saw him close his eyes as he leaned back against the wall, instantly asleep.
Harry Cook was in a bad way. Whatever had hit him in the leg had ripped away much of the thigh muscle and smashed the bone to splinters. As they removed the remains of his trousers and makeshift bandage some overworked doctor had put on it at a casualty clearing station, a sickening stench of rotting flesh exploded among them, make both Molly and Pierre take an involuntary step backwards. Sister Eloise seemed not to notice the rank smell, but continued slowly and steadily cutting away the dirty clothing until the man’s shattered body lay exposed for them to wash and warm and put into bed to await the doctor.
One look at the leg had told Sister Eloise that it must come off, and immediately, if there were to be any chance of Harry Cook surviving. She looked sharply at Molly to see how she was coping with tending a man she actually knew, but after the one moment of involuntary recoil, Molly had straightened her shoulders and was standing ready with another bowl of hot water and dry warm towels. With an approving look, Sister Eloise gave Harry a shot of morphine and set to work to do what she could for this latest piece of flotsam from the front.
As they worked, washing away the grime and the mud, Molly looked down at Harry’s exposed body and the thought flew through her mind that the last time she had seen Harry Cook naked was when they were both about six years old and they had played in the river at home. She had had a beating from her mother, not for getting her clothes wet, but for taking them off to play in the water as naked as the village boys.
How long ago that was, she thought now, and how far away.
When Dr Gergaud appeared, Sister Eloise directed him to Harry Cook first, explaining the wound, now marginally cleaner and covered with a light sheet. Sister Eloise had seen no point in putting the poor man through the agony of re-bandaging a leg that must be removed within the hour.
“The poor man will have enough to go through if he survives,” she murmured to Molly. Gently she took Molly’s hand. “Your friend is very bad,” she said. “They will operate, but it may be too late. There is gangrene.”
Molly nodded, understanding what she was being told as she recognised the words “bad”, “operate” and “gangrene”.
Dr Gergaud had Harry taken to the operating theatre in the main convent building, and having watched him carried out of the ward on a stretcher, Molly forced her attention back to the other men who needed it. Harry’s friend was still slumped against the wall. As he was asleep, they had dealt with the others first. Now, at last it was his turn, and Molly shook him gently awake. At her touch he was immediately alert, looking round him to remember where he was.
“It’s your turn now,” Molly said, and held out her hand to help him to his feet. He ignored it, however, and pulled himself up alone. Understanding his need for independence, she lowered her hand and turned her head to look down the ward, so that she shouldn’t see him struggle, until he was standing beside her.
“What’s your name?” Molly asked, smiling as she faced him again.
“Tom Carter,” he replied. “Where’s Harry? Is he all right?”
“He’s in the operating theatre,” answered Molly. “I’m afraid they have to take off his leg. They have no choice if he’s to survive, you know.”
Tom nodded wearily. “Yes, I know.”
Molly smiled at him. “Now, what about you? Let’s get you cleaned up and have a look at that arm.” She helped him out of his tunic and as gently as possible cut away the bandage. It was soaked with blood, now dried, and peeling it away pulled at the scabs that had formed, allowing fresh red blood to ooze through the dirt that surrounded it. Tom Carter sucked in his breath as the bandage came away, but made no other sound, gritting his teeth against the pain. Sister Eloise was at once at their side, and sent Molly off from more hot water as she dealt with the wound herself. It looked much worse than it was and though it would take some time for Tom to regain the use of his arm, it did not appear to be life-threatening. She cleaned and dressed it and gave him a shot for the pain, before handing him over to Sister Marie-Paul to blanket bath and put to bed.
“Time and rest and he will be well,” she instructed the novice to tell him, as she moved to another bedside.
As soon as he saw her again, Tom called Molly over and asked again about Harry Cook.
“He’s not out of the theatre yet,” Molly told him, “and when he is I doubt if he will come to this ward. I am surprised he was sent here in the first place. Usually the men we have in here are not so badly wounded.” She smiled at him. “Try not to worry about Harry, he’s always been tough, he’ll pull through.”
Tom looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean, ‘always been tough’? You don’t know anything about him.”
“Oh, but I do,” laughed Molly. “I’ve known him all my life. He’s my cousin. We live in the same village, Charlton Ambrose. His mother is my auntie; they have the farm up the valley a ways from ours. I’ve known him and Tony always.” Then she added, “Do you know his brother Tony as well?”
Tom nodded. “Yes, we’re in the same unit. The 1st Belshires. We all joined up together.”
“Did you? Do you come from Belcaster, then?”
“No, London born and bred. Harry and me worked in the docks at Belmouth, and as we signed up together we was put into the same platoon. We did our training and that, and we was really good mates, see. We’ve stuck together ever since.”
“Well, as soon as I can find out anything about him, I’ll let you know. How do you feel yourself?”
Tom Carter shrugged, “I’m all right. That nun, the one with the smaller headgear…” he nodded at Sister Marie-Paul, “she said I’ll be out of here in no time.”
Molly smiled at his description of Sister Marie-Paul. “Well, she’s probably right… once we’re sure there’s no infection and you’re starting to heal. You won’t have to stay in bed long anyway.”
“Will I be able to go and see Harry in whatever ward he is in, miss?” asked Tom. “I want to know he’s going to be all right.”
“I expect you can. I mean, I don’t see why not.” Molly said a little doubtfully. “But it’s not up to me. I’ll ask Sister Eloise, if you like… she’s the one in charge in here, but I doubt if it’ll be till tomorrow at the earliest.”
“If you would ask, please, miss.”
He looked so tired and worried, his face still grey with fatigue and the pain of his arm. Leaning back against the white pillow he looked much older than his twenty or so years, and yet vulnerable, like a little boy ill in bed. Impulsively Molly reached out her hand to him and said, “I will, I promise, if you promise me to try and get some sleep now. Next time I come on duty, I’ll tell you her answer. Will you be good and try and rest now?”
He managed a tired grin and said dutifully. “Yes, miss, I will.”
“My name is Molly,” Molly said gently. “I’m going off duty now… Tom, isn’t it?” He nodded. “So, Tom, I’ll come and see you as soon as I’m back in the ward, and I’ll bring you news of Harry.”
Tom nodded again and closed his eyes. Even as Molly watched, his face relaxed and he was instantly asleep.
At the end of her shift she went into Ward Three where she expected to find Harry Cook. He was there, recently returned from the operating theatre. Sister Jeanne-Marie was not best pleased to see her, but when she finally understood that Harry was a friend from home she grudgingly let her go to his bedside.
He lay still in the bed, his face the colour of putty, the sheet pulled up to his chin, his hands lying motionless on the outside of the covers. If it hadn’t been for the faintest rise and fall of the blankets with the sighs of his breathing, Molly would have thought that he was already dead. The small shape in the bed was lopsided, where the left leg had been removed, and Molly was as certain as she could be that death hovered over the fragile figure.
Softly she touched his right hand with her own. It was cold, and without thinking she tucked it gently in under the covers, and then did the same with his left. Watching her, Sister Marie-Jeanne made no comment, noticing only the gentleness with which Molly touched the young man.
“He is an old friend?” she asked.
Not quite sure of what she had been asked, Molly replied in her fractured French. “Family,” she said, “from children. He is my friend age four.”
Sister Jeanne-Marie nodded and reaching out her own hand to Molly said softly, “Unless he is very strong, and God gives him life, he will not live. Pray for him, my child.”
Molly nodded. “May I sit with him for a while?” she asked, and then repeated her request as best she could in French.
Sister Jeanne-Marie smiled wearily. “Pull a chair to his bedside,” she said, “but don’t stay too long. You need your rest as well.”
Molly found a wooden chair and placed it beside Harry, close enough to be able to touch him if he stirred, but his eyes remained closed and his breathing was swift and shallow, and she simply rested her hands on the smooth coverlet and watched him, willing him to hold on to his life, willing him to fight with all his strength.
When at last she stumbled wearily upstairs, she found Sarah was already in bed. Molly tried to move into the room quietly, but the lamp was still burning and Sarah heaved herself up on one elbow and said, “Molly, where on earth have you been? It’s very late.”
Molly flopped on to her bed and said quietly. “Harry Cook was brought into our ward this afternoon. He’s had to have his leg off.”
“Harry Cook?” For a moment Sarah was puzzled then she said, “Harry Cook. Not Harry Cook from High Meadow Farm?”
“That’s him. He’s my cousin. I’m an only child so I used to play with him when I was a nipper, him and his brother Tony.”
“Oh, Molly, I’m so sorry! How dreadful for you. I remember him. He had red hair.”
Molly slowly began to get undressed. “No, that’s Tony, his older brother. Harry’s a sort of mousy colour. He’s in ward three. I’ve been sitting with him.”
“Is he really bad?” asked Sarah softly.
For a moment Molly didn’t answer. From habit she folded her blouse and skirt over the chair and put her dirty apron to one side, laying out a clean one for the morning, then as she climbed into bed she said, “Sister Jeanne-Marie said to pray for him. You’d better do that, Sarah, I’m not very good at praying.”
“Of course I will,” Sarah said. “Do you think he’ll get better?”
Molly gave a watery sniff and said simply, “He’s in ward three, Sarah. What do you think? It’ll take a miracle.”
“Then I’ll pray for one,” Sarah replied, and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, Molly was still sitting up in bed, her knees bent up to serve as a desk, scribbling in her diary.
“You should try and get some sleep, Molly,” Sarah said gently. “Write your diary tomorrow.”
“I must write it now,” Molly answered without her pencil losing its flow across the page, “I must write it while I know what I think. I try to capture what I feel. By tomorrow the sharpness of it will be gone and I’ll only write of shadows.”
Next morning Molly spoke to Sister Eloise about Tom visiting his friend in ward three.
“It is his friend… l’ami de ce soldat,” she explained. “His wound is bad… très blessé, ma soeur. He wants to see him… dans la salle trois.”
Sister Eloise understood well enough, but she was not happy that one of her patients, who was weak enough himself, should wander off into another ward to visit a friend, even if that friend was probably dying. She told Molly to get on with her work and said she would discuss the matter with Sister Jeanne-Marie later in the morning.
As the ward came to life, Molly went round to each bed taking temperatures. Tom Carter was still lying flat when she reached him, his eyes closed, but something about him told her he wasn’t asleep and she spoke softly.
“Tom. Are you awake, Tom?”
At the sound of her voice his eyes flew open and he tried to sit up. Gently she pushed him down again. “I’ve come to take your temperature,” she said, putting the thermometer under his tongue. “I have been to see Harry. He’s had his leg off, I’m afraid, but we knew he was going to, didn’t we? He was very weak last night, and the sister in charge of his ward, Sister Jeanne-Marie, said that sleep was the best possible thing. I’ve asked Sister Eloise if you can go and visit him later today and she says she will discuss it with Sister Jeanne-Marie. I think it depends on how you are yourself. She doesn’t want you to tire yourself either. She is still afraid that your arm may become infected. It’s so difficult to guard against cross-infection in a place where there are so many putrid wounds.”
Tom watched her as she explained the situation to him, his eyes intent upon her face, unable to speak with the thermometer in his mouth.
Molly went on: “If you’ve got a temperature, and I’m afraid you have,” she laid a cool hand on his forehead and felt the heat of fever under her fingers, “I don’t think she’ll let you go, but I’ll keep asking for you.” She took the thermometer from his mouth and saw it read 102°. Too high, she thought, much too high. “Why don’t you ask her yourself when she comes round? She doesn’t really speak any English, but she will know what you are asking and will get Sister Marie-Paul, you know the one in the small headgear? She’ll translate for you if I’m not here.” She smiled down at him and, noting his temperature on his chart she moved away before he could ask her what it was.
In her breakfast break, before she went to the kitchen to join Sarah for their chocolate and bread, she slipped into ward three to have a look at Harry. Sister Jeanne-Marie was busy behind curtains around another bed at the end of the ward, and Molly was able to stand for a moment at Harry’s bedside. He looked very much as he had the night before, his face ashen, his breathing quick and ragged. His hands were again outside the covers, and Molly reached down and covered his right hand with hers. At the touch of her hand, his eyes flew open and he looked up at her. For a moment he simply gazed at the woman who stood beside him, then slowly recognition slid into his eyes, recognition followed by incredulity.
“Molly? Molly Day?” His voice came as a croak, and she had to lean down to make out his words. “Molly, is it really you or am I dreaming? Where am I, Molly? Am I at home? Am I back in Blighty?” The ghost of a smile curved his lips as he said, “I’m back in Blighty! Thank God, I’m back in Blighty!”
Molly perched on the edge of the bed and squeezed his hand gently. “Yes, it’s me, Harry. I’m here.” She smiled, taking his hand in both of hers, “But I’m afraid you haven’t reached Blighty yet. You’re in a hospital in France, but as soon as you’re a little bit stronger you’ll be off home.”
Harry looked confused. “But why are you here? Did Ma send you?”
Molly laughed. “No, Harry, I’m here with Miss Sarah from the Manor. We’re helping in this hospital, you know, to nurse the wounded, like you.”
“Miss Sarah is?” He seemed about to say more when a spasm of pain shot through him, making his body arch and sweat break out on his brow. An involuntary cry escaped his lips and immediately Sister Jeanne-Marie appeared from behind the curtained bed. When she saw Molly her face darkened.
“What are you doing here, upsetting one of my patients?” she demanded. Molly understood the look and the tone, if not the words. She stood at once and said carefully, “Ce soldat est Harry Cook. Il est mon coos-san.” She had asked Sarah the word for cousin last night and produced it now with a flourish, adding with sudden inspiration, “Nous… prier. Vous me dire… prier.”
The idea that they had been in prayer together rather took the wind out of Sister Jeanne-Marie’s sails. She had, after all, told Molly only the night before that she must pray for her friend. She retreated into her position as sister in charge of ward three and said briskly, “Well, please ask before you come into my ward again, Molly. This man needs complete rest, so please leave at once.” She waved Molly towards the door and her meaning was clear to both Harry and Molly.
Molly said demurely, “Oui, ma soeur,” adding softly in English as she turned away, “I’ll come back and see you again, Harry,” and had the enormous satisfaction of seeing Harry’s left eye droop in a wink.
Back in her own ward later that morning Molly saw that Tom was sitting up propped with pillows, his bandaged arm resting on two more. He had been washed and shaved, and though he still looked pale and ill, his eyes were alert. As she moved around the ward, making beds, sponging faces and helping the more experienced nurses with dressing changes, Molly was aware of those eyes following her, but she had no real chance to go and talk to him until it was lunchtime and she was sent to help him with his food.
“Have you seen Harry?” were his opening words. “Is he all right?”
Molly smiled at him. “Yes, I’ve been to see him. He’s awake. He recognised me, which is a very good sign.”
“Will I be able to go and see him?”
“I don’t know. I’ve asked Sister Eloise, we’ll have to wait and see what she decides. You’ve still got a temperature, you know, and I’m pretty sure she won’t let you go until that’s down. The best thing you can do is to eat up,” she offered him a forkful of food which he dutifully ate, “and get all the rest you can. You were exhausted when you came in. Sleep is a great healer, you know, so the more you rest the quicker you’ll be better.”
Tom grinned and said, “Yes, miss,” just as he had used to say to the teacher at school, except the teacher hadn’t been anything like as pretty as this Molly who, amazingly, was Harry’s cousin. After several more mouthfuls Tom said, “I asked that nun, that Sister Louise…”
“Sister Eloise?”
“That’s her. I asked her, when she came round, if I could go and see Harry.”
“What did she say?”
“She said ‘Tonday’. What’s that mean?”
“Tonday?” Molly wrinkled her nose, as she considered. “Did she say ‘attendez’, do you think?”
Tom shrugged, and winced at the movement. “Maybe. Sounded like Tonday Der Man.”
“Demain means tomorrow,” Molly said. “So I expect she said you could go and see him tomorrow.” She finished helping him with his meal and then pausing by the bed said, “Is there anyone you want to write to? I sometimes write letters for the men who can’t write because of their wounds.”
Tom shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said. “I ain’t got no one to write to.”
“Not even your mother?” suggested Molly
“No mother,” he replied briefly. “I’m an orphanage kid. I’ve only got my mates in the platoon, and I ain’t going to write to them, am I? They know where I am!”
The next few days Molly watched Tom grow stronger and Harry grow weaker. When his temperature was finally down to normal, Sister Eloise and Sister Jeanne-Marie agreed to let Tom visit ward three. Molly did not go with him, but she saw Tom’s face when he came back and flopped on to his own bed. She left the washing-up she was doing in the ward kitchen and, braving Sister Eloise’s displeasure, went and perched on the edge of Tom’s bed.
“How was he?” she asked softly. She, herself, had not been into see Harry that day.
“He looks bloody awful, begging your pardon, miss. Looks like he’s dying. Didn’t know who I was. His eyes was open, but they didn’t seem to look at me, like. They was sort of staring, up at the ceiling, but not looking at nothing. When I spoke to him he didn’t even turn his head, like he didn’t hear me. I touched his hand, so’s he’d look at me, and it was burning hot. I said, ‘Harry, mate, it’s me, Tom. You’re going to be all right, mate,’ I said to him. And then he started mumbling, something about the wire and his bayonet, all jumbled like…” Tom’s voice trailed off and he looked up at Molly his eyes stricken. “He ain’t going to be all right, is he? He’s going to die.”
Impulsively Molly took his hand and said, “We don’t know that, Tom.”
“Yes we do,” he replied dully. “There’s no hope.”
“There’s always hope,” Molly told him firmly, “as long as he’s fighting and we’re fighting for him.”
Tom said wearily, “But he ain’t fighting, no more.” He closed his eyes and Molly thought she saw a tear squeeze from the corner of one. Her heart went out to him, but the men she knew never cried and she turned away so that she should not see his tears.
Before she went for her breakfast next morning, Molly crept into ward three to look at Harry. Sister Jeanne-Marie wasn’t there, and another sister, whose name Molly didn’t know, gestured her to Harry’s bedside and went back to her round with the medicine trolley.
Harry was lying still as death in his bed, his grey face shrivelled and drawn, his hands, claw-like resting as always on the outside of the covers. His eyes were shut and even when Molly took his hand he didn’t open them. She felt for the pulse in his wrist, and it was some time before she could find the feeble flutter that told her his heart was still beating. As she looked down at him she knew Tom was right. Harry wasn’t fighting any more. His exhausted body had given up the battle, his weary spirit no longer urged it on.
She felt someone beside her and turned to find Sister Jeanne-Marie at her elbow.
“He has not long, now,” she said softly. “Will you fetch the padre from the camp?”
Molly nodded dumbly, and hurried out across the courtyard, through the gate and over to the camp beyond.
“I must see the padre,” she told the sentry. “I must find Mr Kingston, it’s urgent.”
The padre often received summonses like these, and the sentry let her through, saying he thought that the padre would be in the mess just now.
Molly could not go into the mess, but a message sent in soon brought Robert Kingston out to her, and together they hurried back to ward three.
“He’s just slipping away, padre,” she told him despairingly as they went. “We can’t save him.”
The padre heard the choke in her voice and said, “Try not to be too upset, Molly, you’ve all done all you could. It’s up to the Lord now. All we can do is pray for him.”
“Well I don’t think the Lord is listening,” Molly said bitterly, “if he’s there at all. How could this war be going on at all if there was a God? If God was real he wouldn’t let Harry die.” Tears ran down her face now and she dashed them away with her hand. “He’s only my age, padre, he hasn’t had a life yet.”
Robert Kingston took her hand awkwardly. “Molly, if it’s the Lord’s will,” he began, but Molly interrupted him, pulling her hand free: “If it’s the Lord’s will, then I don’t think much of the Lord,” she said angrily, and striding ahead, she led the way back into the hopelessness of ward three.
Sister Jeanne-Marie had drawn the curtains around Harry’s bed, so that the padre could be private with the dying man. She held the curtain aside to let the priest in, allowing it to fall behind him.
Molly turned to the nun. “I am going to fetch his friend,” she said. “He should not be allowed to die without his friends round him.”
Sister Jeanne-Marie started to say something, but Molly had already walked out of the ward and was heading across the courtyard to her own ward. Sister Eloise saw her come back in, and read the determination in her face.
“Well, Molly, what is it?”
“I’ve come to fetch Tom Carter,” Molly said in English, indicating Tom who was sitting out in a chair. “His friend is dying, he must come at once. Son ami, mort. He must venez, ma soeur, venez à la salle trois.”
Sister Eloise disentangled the words and nodded, but Molly had already turned away and was approaching Tom, who sat at a table at the end of the ward smoking a cigarette.
A smile broke across his face as he saw her coming, only to fade as he saw the sadness and compassion in her eyes. She crouched down beside him and took his hand in hers.
“Harry’s dying,” she said gently. “Will you come to him?”
For a long moment Tom stared sat her unseeingly and then his eyes seemed to snap back into focus and leaning heavily on the table, he stood up. Without a word he followed her out of the ward and across to ward three. He walked in quietly and on reaching the bed pulled the curtain aside and looked in. The padre was sitting by the bed, speaking softly to Harry, but as soon as he saw Tom and Molly, he moved aside to let them approach the figure on the bed. They stood one each side and looked down at Harry, so small against his pillows, and Molly took his hand.
“Harry,” she said gently. “Harry, can you hear me, Harry?”
There was the slightest movement of his head and then his eyes opened and he looked up, first at Molly and then at Tom. They closed again for a moment and then opened, this time with concentration, as if trying to see clearly who was there.
“It’s me, Molly,” Molly said. “Me and Tom. Can you hear me Harry?”
This time she felt the slightest pressure on her fingers and she said to Tom, “Take his other hand, Tom. Let him feel you’re there.”
Tom did as she asked and he too felt the faintest pressure on his fingers.
“Harry, mate,” he said gruffly, and then fell silent, not knowing what to say.
“Tom.” The word came as scarcely a breath. For a moment the eyes shut, but they opened again and he said, so quietly that Molly had to lean close to his mouth to hear his words, “Molly, tell Ma I tried. I did my best. I’m too tired to go home.”
“I’ll tell her,” Molly promised. “You’re so brave, Harry, a hero. I’ll tell her you were a hero.”
“So tired,” Harry breathed, and then with a shuddering sigh his eyes closed, his face relaxed and his pain was over.
Molly found the tears were streaming silently down her cheeks as she looked down at the worn-out husk of a man, the cousin who had shared her childhood. Very gently, for the last time, she tucked his hand in under the bedclothes, as if to keep him warm.
Tom dropped the lifeless hand he was holding, and without a word to anyone, turned on his heel and strode out of the ward. The padre was murmuring prayers and Sister Jeanne-Marie crossed herself, fingering the rosary that hung on her girdle. Ignoring both of them, Molly blew her nose violently, took a deep breath to calm herself, and ran after Tom.
Tuesday 9th November
Harry died today. Poor dear Harry! He was in such pain, but he never complained. His face got greyer and more drawn, he just seemed to shrivel away. In the end I think he wanted to die, to be done with it all, but I didn’t want him to die. He had his whole life ahead of him. Now his children will never be born, and his line becomes extinct. What a dreadful and final word that is. Extinct. He was too young to have to leave the world before he had experienced it. Perhaps he had experienced too much already, but I ache for him that he won’t fish the Belle any more, that he won’t go into the Arthur for a pint of bitter. He has been snuffed out like a candle which can never be re-lit. His poor mam and dad! At least they still have Mary at home with them, but Tony’s still in the trenches. How much life does he have left? Maybe he’s dead too and we just don’t know yet. I hate this war!
Tom took it very bad. I’ve never seen a man cry before, it’s not what men do. He told me about his friendship with Harry, almost like brothers, he said, and with me and Harry close as nippers, it’s made me and Tom friends as well. Now I have to write to Auntie Vi and Uncle Charlie. It will be the most difficult letter I’ve ever had to write.