What's the use of worrying?It never was worthwhile, soPack all your troubles in your old kit-bag,And smile, smile, smile.
The marching songs rang out, and as their train passed by, Iris and Maisie leaned out of the slow-moving carriages, waved to the soldiers, and joined in their songs.It's a long way to Tipperary, it's a long way to go;It's a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know;Good-bye Piccadilly, farewell Leicester Square,It's a long, long way to Tipperary, but my heart's right there.
With a final wave, Iris and Maisie pulled up the window, and tried to make themselves comfortable again on the prickly wool train seating.
"Funny that your young man's not that many miles from us, isn't it, Dobbs?" Iris looked inquiringly at Maisie when they were settled.
"Oh, for goodness sake, he's not my young man. He's just an old friend of a very good friend of mine. It really is a coincidence that I saw him at all."
"That's as may be, Dobbsie, but I saw the way you two were looking at each other, and I'd say that you were a-courting. Right pair of turtle doves, if you ask me."
"Nonsense. And don't you go repeating this silliness either, Iris. Please. I hardly know him--and I could get into trouble!"
"Blue silk dress eh?"
Iris continued to tease Maisie.
Iris, Dottie, and Bess had taken a table next to Maisie and Simon at dinner, lest it be thought that she was dining completely without a chaperone. But surprising even herself, Maisie hardly noticed other people in the hotel dining room. From the time he had greeted her in the lobby, at six o'clock as arranged, and held out his arm to her, Maisie and Simon Lynch had eyes only for each other.
Now Maisie lowered her eyelids and feigned sleep, which effectively silenced Iris. Left in peace, she was able to envision the dining room again, the waiters running to and fro, and the busyness of people enjoying last farewells or a few days respite from the business of war. And there, at the table with her, was Simon.
Simon who made her laugh with his jokes, putting her at ease. Simon who asked her why she had become a nurse, and when she told the story of Enid, leaned across and took her hand. "She must have meant a lot to you, your friend."
"Yes, yes, she did . . . she made me think about all sorts of things. While I was busy with my head in a book, she would bring me down to earth with a thud. Yes . . . she made me reconsider my opinions on more than one occasion."
Simon did not release Maisie's hand, and for a moment their eyes met again and they were silent. Abashed, Maisie pulled her hand away and took up her fork. She poked at her food.
"I hope I didn't embarrass you. I, I didn't think--"
"Oh no. That's all right."Maisie blushed.
"It's a strange thing, war. Maisie, you must prepare yourself for what you are going to see. This past year . . . the Somme . . . I cannot tell you what injuries the men suffer. As a doctor I was trained to deal with one surgical case at a time: I operated on a leg, or a chest, or an arm. But these men are brought in with multiple gaping wounds, I--"
Simon stopped speaking and reached for his glass of claret, which he gripped but did not pick up. He stared into the wine, at the deep red liquid, and then closed his eyes. As he did so, Maisie saw again the lines that crept from the edges of his eyelids to his temples, the creases on his forehead, and the dark circles above his cheekbones.
"I came here thinking I could save every one of them, but half the time--" Simon hesitated, swallowed deeply, and looked directly at Maisie.
"It's so very good to see you, Maisie. It reminds me of how it was before I left England. How I felt about being a doctor. And how very much I hoped that I would see you again."
Maisie blushed again but smiled at Simon.
"Yes, Simon. I am glad too."
Without thinking she reached for his hand, which he took and gripped tightly. Suddenly aware of the proximity of other diners, Maisie released her hold, and they took up their knives and forks.
"Now then, tell me all about Lady Rowan. I've heard of her, of course. She has quite a reputation as a staunch supporter of the suffragettes. And I've heard that Lord Julian is an absolute saint-- although I doubt he has much time to worry about what she's up to, now that he's at the War Office."
Conversation slipped into the exchanging of stories, of opinions and observations, and by the time dinner was over, Maisie noticed that they had spoken of their dreams, of what they would do "when the war's over."
In that moment she remembered Maurice, walking with her in the orchard one day while at Chelstone, as she broke the news that she had requested a deferment of her place at Cambridge, that she had enlisted at the London Hospital.
She remembered him looking into the distance and speaking, very quietly, almost to himself."Such is the legacy of war . . . the discarded dreams of children . . . the waste. The tragedy."
Simon looked at his watch."Well, sadly, Maisie, I must go. I have meetings while I'm here, I'm afraid. So much for leave, eh?"
"Yes, I have to go, too. We set off early tomorrow morning."
As Maisie placed her white linen table napkin alongside her plate, Simon watched her intently."Would you mind very much if I wrote to you? It may take a while, but letters can be sent up the line. I'll work out something."
"Yes, that would be lovely. Please write."
Simon rose to pull out Maisie's chair, and as he did so Maisie noticed her three friends at an adjoining table, all holding coffee cups to their lips and looking at her over the rims of the cups. She had forgotten they were there.
In the lobby Simon once again made a sweeping bow. "You may be clad in that wonderfully practical nursing attire, Miss Dobbs, but in my eyes you will forever be wearing a stunning blue silk dress."
Maisie shook hands with Simon, and bade him good-bye before joining the three nurses standing directly behind her, and doubtless waiting to begin teasing her once again.
Maisie and Iris saw the tents in the distance, a musty afternoon cordite-laden fog lingered overhead, and a heavy ground mist was moving up and around them.
"I'm freezing just looking at that lot, and it's nowhere near winter yet," said Iris.
"I know what you mean. Looks bleak, doesn't it?"
Maisie pulled her cape around her body, though the day was not that cold.
The main tents had giant red crosses painted on top, and beyond were bell tents that were home to the nursing contingent of the casualty clearing station. The ambulance moved slowly along the rutted road, and as they came closer to the encampment, it was clear that they were in the midst of receiving wounded.
The ambulance pulled alongside the officers' tent, where records were kept and orders given. All around them people moved quickly, some shouting, others carrying fresh supplies. Iris and Maisie stepped down and had barely taken up their bags when a sister rushed up to them.
"No time to dawdle. We need you now--time for the paperwork and receiving line later! Get your capes off, your aprons on, and report immediately to the main tent. It's the deep end for you two."
Two hours later, as Maisie stood over a young man, cutting heavy uniform cloth away from an arm partially severed by shellfire, Maisie remembered Simon's words:"You must prepare yourself for what you are going to see."
Quickly pushing the still-fresh words to the back of her mind, and brushing the sweat from her forehead with the back of her bloodied hand, Maisie felt as if she were in the eye of the storm. The young soldier lying in front of her was conscious, watching her face all the time, searching for the glimmer of expression that would give away her assessment of his wounds. But the sisters of the London Hospital had taught their nurses welclass="underline" Never, never ever change your expression at the sight of a wound--they'll be looking into your eyes to see their future. Look straight back at them.