Daughters of War Read online

  Daughters of War

  A gripping historical novel of love and loss

  Lizzie Page

  Also by Lizzie Page

  The War Nurses

  Daughters of War

  Contents

  Things to consider

  Chapter 1

  Things to do

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  How to contribute to the war effort

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Things to do!!!

  Chapter 8

  Things to pack

  Chapter 9

  How to get to Field Hospital 19 in Bray-sur-Somme in six easy steps

  Chapter 10

  Cases at Field Hospital 19, Bray-sur-Somme

  Chapter 11

  Soldiers’ favourite songs

  Chapter 12

  Tasks of a nurse/volunteer

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Books for Kitty

  Chapter 15

  Where to visit in Paris!!

  Chapter 16

  Best ways to begin a love letter for boys to send to their sweethearts back home

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Things Grandma Leonora left me

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Things to do

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Things I miss in England (apart from the girls)

  Chapter 30

  Soldiers’ superstitions

  Chapter 31

  One day in July: Field Hospital 19, Bray-sur-Somme

  Chapter 32

  Places where mud gets

  Chapter 33

  Things in Private Simon Lancaster’s bag

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Favourite memories of my girls

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Five great things about Christmas with my girls

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Things I adore about Louis

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  List of things I love by Leona (age ten years and two months)

  Chapter 44

  List of things I hate by Joy Turner (age thirteen)

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Favourite Christmas hymns

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Things I am today

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Christmas dinner

  Chapter 57

  Games I used to play at Christmas with my Grandma Leonora

  Chapter 58

  The War Nurses

  Hear more from Lizzie Page

  Also by Lizzie Page

  A Letter From Lizzie

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Inspired by Mary Borden

  To my lovely mum, Patricia Lya Lierens

  I am a woman. My life is a long, strong, twisted rope, made up of a number of human relationships, nothing more.

  Mary Borden

  Things to consider

  Try not to have too many naps. Every other day is perfectly adequate.

  Is it time for new apples? Ribston Pippin or Blenheim Orange? Ask Mrs Crawford what she thinks.

  Go to Morleys for more writing paper, consider lined as well. Lines are NOT a sign of failure.

  1

  That term, when the girls were away at school, I was scared I would lose my mind. I had always been prone to melancholy, but by spring of 1914, it was worse than ever. I dreamt of escaping. If I could have run away to do high kicks at the Moulin Rouge or even become a lady librarian, I would have, but both required an energy that had completely deserted me. I wanted only to lie in bed all day long. Was that so wrong? After all – as my mother frequently liked to write in her poisonous letters – I had made my bed and now I had to lie in it.

  My life was so far from how I had imagined ‘London life’ that the slightest unexpected thing – a bee in the bathroom, a seam in my stocking – could reduce me to fat tears. As for bigger, expected things – my marriage, for example – I felt trapped and utterly useless.

  It was Mrs Crawford, the housekeeper, who called Doctor Grange, and it was Doctor Grange who said I must avoid reading the newspapers. It was true that the news did sometimes send me into a downward spiral: the sinking of the Titanic had. So many people had died, yet here I was: the unfairness of that was enormous. I wished I could have swapped places with any of them. At least then my existence might have had a purpose. It wasn’t just the people I mourned either, it was the ship itself. Unsinkable, they had said. And then it had sunk, just like that.

  It just showed you.

  And yet, I felt bad to be so distressed by it. ‘Were you affected personally?’ Doctor Grange asked kindly. When I explained, ‘Not personally, no, but…’ he gave me a severe look. ‘Stop reading. You have too many books,’ he advised, looking around my room, ‘and you don’t take enough activity.’ He snapped his case shut.

  George wasn’t interested in helping me. To be fair, I wasn’t interested in being helped by George. His attentions were firmly elsewhere. How did I know this? Not just because of the petticoat I discovered in the outhouse – who did it belong to? – or the sudden fascination he had for oiling his moustache (and the strange scents it gave off); it was his jaunty demeanour. George did not usually do jaunty. He was up to something and there was nothing I could do about that either.

  * * *

  Mrs Crawford refused to bring up the newspapers. Just five minutes in attendance with Doctor Grange and her loyalties had been transferred. This wasn’t a great problem though. As soon as George had done with them (he merely glanced at the horse-racing), I slipped to the dining room and stole them back to my room, where I could peruse in peace. I had always been a reader and I wouldn’t stop. There was a whole world out there, a world I was never going to see or experience, but I would be a witness. It was my duty. It might make me damn miserable, but in another way, it kept me going.

  I also wrote poems – oh, nothing serious, just whimsical snippets about my London life. The silver birch by the front door. The lines in the lawn after Mrs Crawford’s son, James, had mowed. Misery wasn’t good for much but it was good for poetry.

  I did take on board one of Doctor Grange’s recommendations: I started taking a daily constitutional around Tooting Common. When I first came to England I hadn’t known what a common was. Now I understood it was shared parkland, owned by no one, loved by everyone. Well, not everyone, obviously.

  Within two days I had discovered a short-cut that involved covering only half the distance but allowed me to cross ‘walk’ off my list of things I ought to do. One morning, slyly taking my short-cut, I noticed several women of mixed ages moving en masse towards some bramble-covered iron gates. The women didn’t have the shiny look of churchgoers, nor the focussed demeanour of suffragettes: what could they be up to? Curiosity piqued, I followed only to discover a sign for a bathing lake. Interesting. I used to like a swim: for my height (small), I have large feet. George used to say I was an L-shaped woman and while these flippers were not much use on dry land, they were a bonus in water.

  Women were allowed to swim on Thursday mornings from March
to October. It was Thursday and it was March. This was a small window of opportunity but nevertheless it was a window I could realistically fit through. So, the next Thursday, I went. Even though I liked swimming, it remained a challenge to get myself up and my bag packed, but I did it. I didn’t want to be sad all the time. That’s what people didn’t understand. Mrs Crawford waved me away overexcitedly, prematurely imagining I was cured, no doubt.

  I arrived before the gates had opened, and we all waited outside. The queuing women were enjoying themselves and it was infectious. There was a great deal of laughing anticipation about how shrivelled up we were all going to get.

  ‘First time?’ someone asked me. I nodded wordlessly – I never like to look the novice – but she patted my arm. ‘Don’t be nervous, duckie, we’re not going to eat you.’

  I had been anxious about many things, but this was one fate that had not occurred to me.

  Once the gates were swung open, everyone did elbows out and fast (but not to the point of rudeness) walking to the chocolate-box-sized cubicles on the edge of the pool. I changed, came out gingerly, afraid I was wearing the wrong kind of suit, then was relieved to find I was perfectly in keeping.

  It was a long shimmering rectangle of blue.

  I got in.

  Feet to knees, knees to thighs, thighs to belly, belly to rib… then the hardest bit of all, the shoulders. Aieee! Within a moment, I could tell it was doing me the world of good. It was cold, yes, but invigorating. My body felt free and unencumbered. The sun made dapples in the surface and on my face. I became light-headed with delight at my surroundings and myself. I found myself saying ‘hello’, ‘good morning’ and ‘isn’t it marvellous?’ to the other floating women.

  I had been bobbing around for a good ten minutes or so when I saw feet – ghostly white feet, pointing skywards, feet where they shouldn’t be. Others may have been avoiding them, but I didn’t hesitate at the sight of those feet. I swam over with my fiercest strokes: ten, twelve, fourteen, until I was there, and I yanked at the heels, hard. The feet kicked, a body manoeuvred itself around. Whatever it was, it was still living. Helpfully, I hauled up the body, finding it belonged to a woman. Her hair was covered by a bizarre flowery swim-hat and her face scrunched up. She spluttered. I was about to slap her in a kindly manner when she hissed:

  ‘What is the matter with you?’

  I realised, belatedly, she wasn’t pleased.

  ‘I’m…’ I swallowed. I was still breathless myself. It had been years since I had swum with such commitment. ‘Aren’t you drowning?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ It seemed I had given her quite the fright. ‘I’m trying to do a handstand. Obviously!’

  I stared at her. ‘Why?’

  She scowled. ‘Kindly give me some space, please.’

  I did back off then, apologising. We trod water, both of us, panting at each other, droplets streaming down our faces. A handstand hadn’t occurred to me. What an appalling person I was.

  I met her eyes and she suddenly laughed. The sound was loud and playful and rippled across the pool.

  ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

  ‘London,’ I said, deliberately misunderstanding her.

  ‘Before that?’

  I told her, reluctantly, but fortunately, she didn’t ask all the usual boring questions but instead gave me a wide smile. This time we both laughed. What a relief! Her teeth were tiny and neat. She was pale-skinned, not as brilliant white as her feet were, but not far off. ‘You must come back to mine for tea.’

  Although this level of social interaction was what I had been yearning for, oh, for at least the last twelve years, I found myself shaking my head. I couldn’t. I shouldn’t. I wouldn’t. Spontaneity was beyond me now. I was underprepared, underdressed, under-everything.

  ‘Oh no, it’s too much bother.’

  I almost wanted to cry. I wanted nothing more than to make a friend, but my mouth was refusing.

  Fortunately, Miss Pale-foot wouldn’t take no for an answer. I saw she was the kind of person for whom no was simply a minor inconvenience, not to be taken seriously.

  ‘I insist.’ She winked at me, drawing attention to her barely-there eyelashes. ‘After all, you saved my life.’

  * * *

  Her name was Elizabeth and she drove a motorcar when very few women did. What’s more, she was utterly blasé about it. It did judder under her control and she did curse the other drivers (when I believe it may have been her that was in the wrong), but I was impressed. Her hair was bright red-gold and, now braided, it dripped onto the steering wheel. Mine, in an untidy bun, dampened my blouse. To be out in public with wet hair was a thing my mother abhorred: I felt quite cheered.

  Elizabeth looked so different without the arrangement of cap and bathing suit that I almost hadn’t recognised her at the gate, where we had arranged to meet. Her striped dress would have drowned me – pardon the pun – but it made her look like a very graceful deckchair.

  Elizabeth explained that although she lived with her mother, her mother wouldn’t be at home. Her mother was never at home in the mornings. She was an active committee member. Elizabeth was too. You wouldn’t believe the number of groups there were in London then: committees, leagues, reformers, branches, meetings about everything and nothing. From Elizabeth’s description, I gathered her mother was wealthy, but the liberal, open-minded type of wealthy, not like the churchgoing conservatives who populated mine and George’s families. Elizabeth added that her mother was a widow and she herself a spinster. There was no shame attached to the word ‘spinster’ the way there was when George said it. Elizabeth made it sound like a prize.

  Elizabeth clearly didn’t feel her motorcar needed to be on intimate terms with the sidewalk either, for she came to a sudden halt right in the middle of the road.

  ‘Here we are then!’

  We were outside a tall, handsome, white-brick townhouse. Elizabeth bounded out the car and I followed, a mix of nerves, curiosity and discomfort from the damp. Inside, there were cats, cats and more cats. At first I thought there must be ten, at least, but Elizabeth, laughing, explained there were only three – they just managed to get about a bit. She introduced me to each of them seriously, holding up their paws in turn: this was Tiggy and this was Winkle – like the rabbit in Beatrix Potter (Elizabeth’s mother was a big fan) and the third was Delia. (Elizabeth didn’t say how she acquired her name). Tiggy climbed onto my lap, purred and let me stroke her. Winkle leapt onto the back of my chair. Delia leapt to the windowsill, then sulkily left the room.

  ‘She doesn’t like guests.’ Elizabeth shrugged.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘No, she just doesn’t like anyone,’ Elizabeth explained, matter-of-factly.

  It was a man-free zone. A child-free zone. The room smelled of perfume, candles and something sweet. What a change it made from my dusty home, packed to the rafters with George’s gloomy family heirlooms, so cold to the touch. Everything here, including the cats, was elegant. I wondered what Elizabeth and her mother did with anything that wasn’t.

  * * *

  It was the most enjoyable morning I had passed for a long time. Drinking tea, then strong coffee and crunching macaroons in this graceful room with its pretty cats transported me from my ennui. The cookies outdid Mrs Crawford’s (and she was no slacker in that department). I imagined shopkeepers went out of their way to serve Elizabeth’s mother the best of everything.

  Elizabeth wasted no time in finding out about me.

  ‘How did you meet your husband, May? You are married, aren’t you? I can always tell.’

  ‘It’s a long story.’ I sighed, hoping to be enigmatic. Actually, it was a short story, short and brutal. George fell down the steps outside my church in Chicago. I can still remember the sound he made and the upturned-beetle look of him as he landed. Everyone else walked on – no doubt suspecting the part alcohol had played in his downfall – but I stopped. My Grandma Leonora was a nurse in the Civil War. She
knew Walt Whitman (just to say hello to) and I suppose I had fancies of being a nurse too. I was sixteen and in a rush to help everybody. I let George use my knees for a pillow, my cardigan for a blanket. I tended to that gash on his head. I told him, ‘It’s the shock, that’s all,’ which is what Grandma Leonora used to say to me. It always made me feel less of a baby.

  He called me ‘Angel’. ‘Thank you, Angel’ and ‘Sorry, Angel’. I had read the great English books – Shakespeare, Chaucer, Dickens – but I had never met a real-life Englishman before so I didn’t realise that ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’ is almost the national sport. He was handsome and, more importantly, he seemed captivated by me. By the time the ambulance crawled towards us, we were practically engaged.