All I Have to Give Read online

  It had been Christian’s letter that had alerted Edith to the desperate need for doctors. He’d told her how much he admired a Scottish woman doctor, Elsie Inglis, who, at twenty-eight – the same age as Edith – had gone to the Somme and set up a hospital, despite opposition from the War Office.

  Edith’s own accomplishment in becoming a surgeon had been an easier path than the one Elsie had taken. Elsie had been driven to set up her own medical school in order to study, but Edith’s father being a top surgeon himself meant that doors had opened that wouldn’t normally have done so for a woman. It was strange, she thought, how she had been the one to take up the profession and not her two brothers, though of course Christian’s calling was in another very important medical field, so some of their father’s genes must be in him, too.

  But for all her qualifications, the same fate befell her as had happened to Elsie – the War Office refused Edith’s application for a post in the war zone, in the same condescending way that Elsie had encountered. Edith was indignant at the manner of the refusal. How dare they say her place was at home? They seemed to be ignoring the fact that hundreds of women were already in war zones, all over the world: nurses, voluntary aid workers and First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, given the ridiculous acronym of FANYs! And all of them were doing a sterling job.

  She’d had no joy with the British Red Cross, either. They’d said they would contact her if they found they needed more personnel, but at present they felt they had enough medical staff. With attempts to provide her services thwarted, Edith had taken a leaf out of Elsie Inglis’s book and had gone it alone. She’d arranged to come and stay with Marianne in the South of France, so that she could also apply to the French Red Cross, as Elsie had done in the first instance. Edith’s thinking had been that, being in France, her application would have a little more weight, besides which, Marianne had influence in some very useful quarters.

  Bringing her attention back to the view she had from her window seat, Edith gazed down on the people wandering along the Promenade des Anglais. She loved the story of how the promenade got its name, and imagined the poor beggars of the 1820s sweating away at their labour – put to work by the wealthy English to make a walkway for them along the beach. A humble beginning had expanded to become the beautiful promenade she now looked down on.

  None of the folk ambling along or popping in and out of the couture, art and jewellery shops, or those taking a leisurely coffee or glass of wine in the pavement cafes below the apartment block, looked as though they had a care in the world. But Marianne had told her of her many friends who had sons in the French Army, fighting in the raging battle of Verdun. Many of them had been injured or killed, and their families lived in fear of hearing sad news. So she imagined that some of the men and women she could see from her vantage point had worries that didn’t show in their demeanour. Yet war hadn’t touched Nice in any other way. Food was plentiful, and even the socializing continued.

  The scene altered as she gazed beyond the ever-changing kaleidoscope of the promenade to the turquoise sea, gently lapping onto the sands. On the horizon, boats – some with fishermen in, others with graceful sails – bobbed about, in and out of the line of jewels thrown onto the water by the glistening sun.

  Edith’s thoughts were startled by the door opening. Marianne entered the sitting room. The fixed, pretend smile on her face ran counter to the usual air of wealth and happiness that she emanated, and sparked a feeling of trepidation in Edith.

  ‘Edith, darling, it is here. The letter you have been waiting for. It has arrived. I hope it has the news you want to hear, but only because you want it so much. For me, ma chérie, I would prefer it to be a “no”.’ Marianne floated towards her, holding not one, but two letters. ‘And there is another letter, and a more welcome one, I hope. It is from your mother. I know her handwriting well. Maybe in it we will hear some good news.’

  Floating was the only way you could describe the way Marianne walked. She reminded Edith of the mechanical doll she’d had as a child, which, when wound up, moved on little wheels hidden under its long skirt. Marianne’s blue silk skirt hid her shoes and brushed along the thick carpet in much the same way. Held in at the waist with a cummerbund, where the skirt joined her cream, frilly blouse, her attire showed off her very slight figure. She wore her gleaming black hair piled high on her head and coiled in a chignon at the back, which saved her from looking as tiny as she was as the style gave her some perceived height. Tendrils of hair fell around her pretty face – a face with chiselled features set off by her huge eyes, the colour of which were difficult to describe, as sometimes they looked the deepest blue and at other times more of a misty grey.

  Taking the letters, Edith stared at the brown one for a moment. It was what she had been waiting for: the insignia of the French Red Cross was unmistakable. Her heart thudded. Please don’t let the answer be ‘no’.

  Translating the French and simplifying it, Edith read just the opposite. The Red Cross would be very pleased to have her. At last!

  ‘Good news?’

  ‘I think so. I am to be in Boulogne at the beginning of June, and will be taken to the front from there.’

  ‘Oh no, ma chérie – the fighting there is so intense! With the battle in Ypres failing, the Germans are advancing on France, and the news is that the hold at Verdun is failing, too!’

  ‘But where else would I be needed than where the fighting is? Please don’t worry, dear Marianne. Medical staff are safe; they are covered by a treaty that allows Red Cross workers to carry out their duty without being attacked.’

  Reading on, Edith realized that changes were afoot. ‘It says I am initially to go to Verdun, but that the hospital may be on the move. There must be a new offensive. Perhaps I will eventually go somewhere near Christian and Douglas. Oh, I’m so excited to be going at last!’

  Opening the second letter, she read that her mother was missing her and hoped that Edith had changed her mind. But, if she hadn’t, then would she contact the British Red Cross, as they now needed her urgently!

  ‘Good gracious! First of all nobody wants me, and now everyone does!’ Reading Marianne the contents of the letter, she had no doubt which offer she would take up. ‘I will contact both, and let them know that I will attach myself to the British Red Cross. I want to help my fellow countrymen more than anything.’

  ‘I admire you so much, Edith, but I . . .’ Marianne paused for a moment. ‘Promise me you will visit me as often as you can?’

  ‘I promise. And thank you. To have your admiration means a lot to me. Now, I must write to Mama. She won’t like it that I am carrying on with my plans, and I cannot blame her, but before I left she gave me her blessing and told me she was proud of me. And in her letter she says her love goes with me, so I think she has resigned herself to it.’

  ‘Poor Muriel, it must be very difficult for her: first the boys, and now you.’ Before Edith could answer this, Marianne changed her tone, and the subject. ‘But we all have to deal with the situation as it is, and there are things to arrange. Your train ticket for one, and clothes . . .’

  ‘Now you are being frivolous, Marianne! I do not need any more clothes. I will be in uniform most of the time, and I have some practical pieces with me that will do, when I’m not working.’

  Being frivolous was so unlike Marianne. She was a political animal who spoke up for the rights of women. Even in her calling as an author, her books – though categorized as ‘romance novels’ – held a message. It was very subtle, but still there, in the hope of rallying women to the cause, as her heroines often did.

  It was funny that she should write romances, thought Edith, when she’d never known Marianne to be courted by a man. She had many male friends, but that is all they were: friends. When she hosted dinner parties, she would debate with her friends for hours on the war, politics and women’s rights, but no one ever flirted with her. Her closest friend was a woman – a handsome woman, in a manly way – who used the male form of her
name, shortening Georgette to George. Edith wondered about the implications of this, especially as Marianne often stayed over at George’s apartment, but it didn’t worry her. Marianne was her own woman, a passionate person who cared deeply about everything. The way in which her sexuality lay was her own business.

  The weeks of waiting for her deployment dragged by for Edith. Occasional communications came through by letter briefing her of the plans for the tent hospital that was to be erected in Abbeville, a town on the mouth of the Somme, in northern France. This would be her base. And though nothing was said as to why, she was informed that she would need to be there by mid-June, to organize the hospital.

  This seemed a daunting task for her, especially as there was no indication of whether there would be other doctors there or not. Nurses were mentioned. A contingent of very experienced nurses pulled back from Belgium were being sent to Abbeville, as well as many Voluntary Ad Detachment personnel with various skills that she would find useful.

  When at last the day came for her to leave, Edith felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation. The day of her departure had been delayed from the original plan as it was already the 25th of June and she was to set off the next day. A confusing number of communications had arrived in the last few days, but the last one by courier spoke of the urgency of her getting to Abbeville and asked whether she could set off immediately for Boulogne.

  Marianne accompanied her to the station to begin her journey. They found it was crammed with soldiers. Some Edith wanted to comfort and tend to as their bandaged wounds showed signs of seeping blood and weren’t too clean. Others were freshly uniformed and excited, saying their goodbyes to weeping wives and girlfriends. There was a strange mix of emotions, which gave a sense that something big was going to happen. She supposed the wounded had returned from Verdun and that the new young soldiers were to replace them.

  When her train pulled in amidst a screeching of steel and clouds of smoke, Edith found it difficult to say her goodbyes to Marianne. The atmosphere had frightened her, but pulling her shoulders back she tried not to look as vulnerable as she felt.

  Arriving in Boulogne enforced the feeling that the South of France had given Edith. Nothing about it spoke of a war going on, making her situation feel impossibly unreal and had her questioning how it could be that so many were losing their lives just a few hundred miles from here.

  A flustered man of around fifty met her. His armband identified him as a Red Cross official. Not stopping to introduce himself, but only confirming who she was, he gave her hurried instructions. ‘The ambulances are ready to take you on to Abbeville, but prepare yourself, as an offensive on a massive scale is starting. We are hardly ready, but we will get you there as quickly as we can.’

  As she turned a corner to follow the route he’d given her to the beach front, with its grassed area and hotels and shops, seagulls swooped above her and people taking a leisurely stroll walked past her. Was she really going to the front, where she had been warned in her briefing that casualties could be very high? It didn’t seem possible, when here, as in Nice, life carried on as normal all around her.

  This feeling of disbelief left her as, two hours later, her body bumped and jolted against the sides of the ambulance. The journey of fifty or so miles seemed to be mostly over rough terrain: farmers’ lanes, for the most part, and make-do roads that had sprung up in preparation of the need to transport supplies and ammunition. Feeling that her bones would rattle out of her skin, it was a relief when one of her fellow travellers spoke to her. ‘Cheer up, love. It ain’t ’alf as bad as yer think.’ A hand came out to her. ‘Me name’s Connie. I’m a trained nurse. Been working in Belgium. Not that I’m saying it’s a picnic working in a war ’ospital – it certainly ain’t that – but there’s plenty of fun to be ’ad, besides all the work and sadness. You’ll get used to it.’

  Connie’s words gave a small amount of hope to Edith. She took the outstretched hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Doctor Edith Mellor. And, yes, I am nervous. This is my first time, and I don’t know quite what to expect.’

  ‘Blood and gore by the bucketload – and more buckets of tears, love. But there’s also another side. The blokes we save, the pranks some of them get up to, the courage, and . . . Oh, it’s all ’ard to explain, but it’s something you come to love – the way of life, that is, not the suffering. So you’re a doctor? I had you down as a voluntary aid worker.’

  Edith didn’t miss Connie’s tone of admiration when she found out that she was a doctor, or the note of disdain given to the words ‘voluntary aid worker’. But she just smiled, not sure that she wanted to engage in conversation and feeling totally out of control of her movements, sensing that she would throw up any minute. But then the sounds coming to her now told her they were nearing the front, as blast after blast of distant explosions assaulted her ears, setting up a fear in her that she wanted to block out. Holding her hands in tight fists, she answered Connie. ‘Yes, a doctor – a qualified surgeon, like my father. They say the hospital tents are up, and all the equipment we’ll need is there. We’ll just have to put it together and fit it where we want it. Jolly glad about the tents being up, though. Gosh, I have no idea how to pitch a tent!’

  Connie looked amused. ‘As long as yer can fix a wounded man – and it sounds as though yer can – then you’ll be fine. I’ll stay close to yer and ’elp yer settle. Where yer from? I’m from Stepney in the East End.’

  Chatting about ordinary things helped and, as the other girls joined in, the explosions took a back seat to their laughter, as Nancy, another experienced nurse, and Connie related stories of their time in Belgium, and here in France. It seemed that most of them had been together throughout the war, moving with the action to wherever they were needed.

  After telling a tale about a Voluntary Ad Detachment worker who had fainted at the sight of blood, Connie said, ‘You’ll fit in with the VADs, Doctor – posh lot they are, and mostly very willing, though some of them are as much use as a chocolate Yule log on a fire!’

  A girl who had sat quietly throughout the conversation, and who seemed just as new to this as Edith, looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. A blush spread up from her neck and beads of sweat trickled down her face. No doubt a VAD, thought Edith. But saying anything would only increase her discomfort.

  The differences between trained nurses and Voluntary Ad Detachment workers was something that Edith had heard of, but it seemed it wasn’t as bad as it had been painted. Connie and Nancy sounded quite accepting of them, if a little derisive. For herself, she didn’t think it mattered whether those around her were a posh lot or not, trained or not, as long as they all pitched in and did their best. And she’d be just as happy being friends with the Connies and Nancys of this world as with her own class. They were salt-of-the-earth types, and funny with it – just what she needed at the moment.

  Both were good-looking girls and sported the same hairstyle, scraped up into a bun on top of their heads. Although this was practical, and would fit under the veil-like hats that all nurses wore on duty, it also looked very pretty.

  Connie had a strong-looking figure and was tall and buxom, with features that were more handsome than pretty, but her lovely blue eyes softened her looks and made you feel relaxed with her – and safe that she would have your back and would know the answer to anything.

  Nancy, on the other hand, was about Edith’s own height, at around five-foot-two. She had a dainty figure and was fairer-looking than the olive-skinned Connie. Her blonde hair was given to curls, one or two of which had escaped the many pins that she had pushed into it to keep it neat, and now hung around her face. She, too, had blue eyes, but hers were more piercing.

  Although Edith had detected from Nancy’s accent that she came from Leicestershire, it was a surprise to learn that she actually lived quite near Lutterworth, Edith’s country home. It seemed they had even been at the same church functions, though in different capacities: Edith as local ‘royalty�
��, accompanying the dignitaries and cutting ribbons to open events, and Nancy running one of the stalls, or just enjoying the visiting fair or circus with her family.

  As the stories came to an end, Nancy asked, ‘Have you left a fellow behind then, Doctor?’

  ‘Good gracious, no. No time for such nonsense when you have had to study as hard as I have – but not for the want of my mother trying.’

  ‘Ha, I heard how it was for you high-born girls. Mother invites eligible men around, and daughter dutifully marries the pick of the bunch. Not like that for us, is it, Connie?’

  At that moment gunshots and blasts bombarded their ears, taking their focus back to the terrifying reality of where they were. Debris catapulted into the air, landing on the roof of the ambulance with a sound of a million hailstones – a storm holding a fear that stiffened Edith’s body.

  ‘We’re ’ere. Bloody Kaiser ’ad a gun salute ready to welcome us. Look, you can see the tents . . . Bleedin’ ’ell, look at that convoy coming the other way! I reckon we should ’urry and stake our claim on the best beds. But wait a minute . . .’

  Edith saw what had dawned on Connie. These were not more medical staff arriving, but casualties – the convoy of six comprised of ambulances. Dust puffed into the air as they came to a halt, just feet away from where Edith alighted.

  Doors flew open and stretchers emerged as if vomited from the truck. Shouts of ‘Have the medics arrived?’ and ‘We need a doctor over here!’ vied with the screams of pain and the hollers of death. God! How had it come about that casualties arrived before the hospital was even ready?