The sand felt coarse and hot under her bare feet, the rock upon which she was sat was hard and uncomfortable, digging into the backs of her legs and the fresh, cool breeze whipped the smell of salt and seaweed towards her, carrying away the smell of blood and death and hospitals that had been with her for far too long now. Before her, the beach stretched away into the distance, the sun reflecting off the huge expanse of wet sand as the tide went out, making the scene shine and glitter, almost blindingly bright. There were no rocks or large pieces of driftwood to mar the perfect glistening smoothness of the sand, only the occasional clump of seaweed or translucent jellyfish left behind by the retreating waves, starting to smell as they dried out. High overhead gulls wheeled and called to each other, their cries snatched away by the wind, which hissed through the long grass behind her, and in the distance the sea murmured and whispered as it slowly withdrew. Everything was so calm and peaceful and clean, she could almost forget about the war.
It wasn't what she had imagined when she had volunteered. But then again what had she expected? Without having experienced it, she reflected as she sat gazing out at the distant waves, there really was no way of understanding the full grim horror of what was happening, the reality of what it would be like, sound like, smell like. Of course they had been told what kind of injuries they might encounter, they had spent endless hours practising dressings and giving blanket baths, tidying medicine cupboards and doing inventories of everything a hospital could possibly need, but nothing had even come close to preparing them for the reality of the situation. In training everything was abstract. There would be injuries and blood, they would be living in uncomfortable conditions, they would have to work very hard. What no one told them was that people would be injured. Men, some still boys really, with families, wives, mothers, fathers, children, friends. Men who had everything to live for. Every amputated limb, every life-changing injury, every death was endless possibilities wasted, endless opportunities lost for ever. It struck her every time she looked at the patients, the ones with brain damage or missing limbs. There were so many things they could have done, would have done, that would now be impossible for them, so many things...
How did she feel about it? Resting her chin on her hand, she looked up at the gulls circling overhead and wondered. She was glad to be here, of that she was certain. The faces of all the men she had helped came back to her as she thought about them. So many people, so different and yet all so alike in some ways. It wasn't much but she had been able to help them, to make them more comfortable, to comfort them, to spend time with them or just smile at them as she went past. Tiny little things really, in the scale of things, but if they made even the slightest difference it was worth being here. It made her feel a warm glow inside. She had made a difference, she had made all this more bearable for them, she had helped them. But on the other hand the whole situation made her feel unutterably sad and angry. The rules and regulations in the hospital annoyed her and all the things she had seen upset her. The thought of people and families who had lost so much because of the war, families who would never get their loved ones back, soldiers who were only shells of the men they had once been, made her feel small, insignificant and utterly helpless. What difference did it make smiling at one injured man if thousands more were dying in a field somewhere, choking on their own blood? Her thoughts were constantly turning in this vicious, inescapable circle and there was no way to make sense of it, to make sense of anything.
And the worst thought was that for every casualty they treated there was a German hospital somewhere, miles away, treating a casualty of their own. It wasn't just the British men fighting and dying, it was the German men, too. Miles' words came back to her as she sat, perched on her rock: "There's got to be clear lines, them and us, or there won't be a war at all." Before that she had never really thought about it that way, but ever since, the thought had been stuck in her mind. "Them and us."
She thought of Joan, sat in a prison cell somewhere, or doing hard labour, for loving the wrong man at the wrong time. Poor caring, spirited, loving, modern Joan with her short hair, motorbike and her fresh, new views. She had done so much good at the hospital, helped so many people and all that had been eclipsed in a moment when people had found out about her German fiancé. Rosalie wouldn't talk about her, Flora turned her back, Thomas didn't even care what happened to her. Something inside her rebelled against the notion, the injustice. There were men still alive today because of Joan, men who could go back to their families and live their lives in happiness thanks to her. And all that counted for nothing.
The war didn't just destroy the lives of the soldiers. It tore families apart. Not just the families of injured or killed soldiers. Families like Joan's. She had been separated from the man she loved and forced to think of him as the enemy. Was she suddenly supposed to stop caring about him because someone somewhere decided there was going to be a war? What was really the difference between "them and us"? What had these unknown men, these German soldiers, ever done that made her have to think of them as enemies? And who gave someone the right to separate people from their loved ones just because of the country they were born in?
The thought of this forced separation naturally brought her own to the forefront of her mind and she sighed, looking down at her feet and began to trace patterns in the sand. The image of Sylvie's face filled her mind. She thought about her sixth birthday. She had taken her to the park and they had played together for hours, Sylvie climbing every tree she could find, even the ones where the branches were almost too high for her to reach. When they had got home they had eaten cake and opened presents. It had been a truly wonderful day. The last wonderful day they had had together.
Tears filled her eyes and she looked up, staring unseeing at the horizon. What was Sylvie doing at that moment? What was she feeling? Was she happy? Did she miss her mother as much as she, herself, missed her little monkey? A thousand questions vied for space in her mind, each one as painful as the last, each one unable to be answered. Her head was spinning with the sheer number of unanswerable questions and the suffering they caused her, for a short while she was completely unaware of her surroundings. The only constant thought was the most important and the most painful, running like a ribbon through the confusion of her thoughts: Would she ever see Sylvie again?
Even having to ask the question was almost unbearable. She tried to remember every minute detail of every second she had spent with her precious daughter, bringing a lump to her throat and fresh tears to her eyes, tears that spilled over and rolled down her cheeks to land unheeded in her lap. What if that was all she had left of her little Sylvie – memories? The thought of living the rest of her life without her daughter, never even knowing what she was doing or if she was healthy and happy was so terrible it left her gasping for breath, an almost physical pain clutching at her chest.
It took several minuted but when she managed to open her eyes again the scene before her was unchanged apart from the sun that was starting to sink slowly towards the horizon and the tide that must have been on it's was back in. The wet sand still glittered, the wind still blew, the gulls still wheeled overhead and the grass behind her still whispered softly. It was truly beautiful, but the big, dark eyes that looked at it didn't see it. She was too far away. She was back at home in England, some time in the future after the war.
What was left for her there? Head slightly to one side she considered, eyes following the path of a gull she was taking no notice of. Her husband had divorced her and taken their daughter away from her, her mother had abandoned her and would never forgive her, all her former friends had been quick to turn their backs. All the people she loved and cared about back home were lost to her. She was alone. Her home was gone, the house belonged to her husband, and everyone remembered what she had done and judged her for it. She had come to France to escape, but there was no going back. Even if she wanted to it would be impossible to return to her former home.
As she sat head bowed in despair, she heard the sound of footsteps behind her, coming over the dunes. Quickly getting to her feet, she smoothed her hair and dress, dried her eyes and turned around to meet whoever it was.
The bright light of a dazzling sunset caught the figure and illuminated him with warm, golden rays. It was Tom. He was smiling as he walked towards her and for the first time she realised that however bleak things seemed, she wasn't entirely alone. He was there for her.
Grabbing her shoes in one hand, Kitty set off running up the dunes to meet him.