XXV. The Do (Dance to Your Tune)
Several nights later, Kitty is in the wards again, helping Nurse Jesmond with her dressings round. It is long work, cleaning and re-bandaging, cleaning and re-bandaging, and her arms ache from holding out the long strips of cloth and basins of iodine solution, though slowly, ever so slowly, they are beginning to use Carrel-Dakin solution for the cleaning of wounds as it is cheaper and much easier for the volunteers to mix up.
"So I hear that you're singing tomorrow night," Nurse Jesmond says as she ties off the last bandage and straightens up, rubbing her chapped hands together. It is getting colder, and constantly running between the wards, from warm to cold to warm again is taking its toll.
"Yes, we are," Kitty says, shaking her head; in all honesty she didn't know Flora, sweet, bright Flora, could be so manipulative when she wanted to.
"Well, it'll be a nice break. Bring us all together."
"Flora's words exactly," Kitty says, pouring fresh disinfectant into a basin and dunking her hands into it, scrubbing over and over again. That's the problem with the endless dressing rounds and chapped hands from the freezing wind that howls down from the north and the mud and rain. Infections get into any cuts and make them swell and weep pus, and if it spreads to the rest of the body, well, hospitals have no space for sick nurses. Only last week Matron was exhorting absolutely everyone to wash their hands in Carrel-Dakin solution after every round, every operation. "Are you doing anything, Nurse Jesmond?"
"Me, Heavens no. I can't hold a tune to save my life – though some of the others are doing that number from The Mikado – the Three Little Maids, I think it's called."
"That's nice," Kitty says. She hates the Mikado, just like she hates singing in front of an audience. It just reminds her of that outing at the end of her first Season, where she had to hold Elliott's arm and smile as though she was delighted to be engaged, and chatter to several of his female relatives in the party all about the wedding, cakes and dresses and flowers.
"Well, it will be, won't it?"
"Is there anything else that needs doing? I've got a rehearsal soon."
"You could take these to theatre, if you have time. Captain Gillan said to bring whatever we have left." Nurse Jesmond gestures to the crate of cleaned, unused bandages from the very bottom of the trolley.
Even the sound of his name makes Kitty's gut twist. What is happening to her?
"Yes, of course." She takes them from the trolley, the rough grains of the box grating against her fingers like sand, and begins to walk. There's only one door into each room in the theatre. If he's not doing an operation, then she might be able to corner him. To apologise or to make amends. She has no idea what she's going to say if she can get him alone, but…she left her old life to avoid complications, not to step into another tangle of problems winding around her like a snake. Why can't everything be normal?
He is cleaning up after his last operation of the day, arranging supplies into neat rows and cleaning equipment, a mindless task to try and take the thoughts out of his head. Today, he almost began amputating before he had tied the tourniquet, all because he was thinking about dark eyes and hair curling from the corners of her headdress and the coldness of rejection rather than the figure lying prone beneath the operating sheet before him.
The curtain rustles, and almost as if she has sprung from his mind into reality, she is there, carrying the box of bandages and putting it on the table at the other end of the tent. There is a slow pause, pregnant with tension. Then she turns to him, stepping so close that he can feel her warmth radiating across the space between them. "Tom, are we really going to keep ignoring each other?"
He stops cleaning the scalpel in his hands. Why is she doing this, when she so clearly rejected him before? Why is she suddenly trying to run back to him, when it is obvious that she doesn't want him? "I'd prefer it, Miss Trevelyan."
She doesn't move, and he turns to reach the next dirty instrument. She is still there, blocking his path like a rock. "You're in my way."
Slowly, deliberately, she takes a step backwards and he snatches the instrument, pours disinfectant so quickly that it splashes up at him.
"Can't we at least be civil?" she asks, and there is a tremor in her voice, like his little sisters always used to have whenever they were hurt.
The question makes him angry, an anger that he hasn't felt in a long time. She hurts him, cuts him to the quick with a rejection when she's been leading him on for weeks on end with shy glances and smiles ever since he let on how he felt about her and now, now she wants to be civil? "I avoid you for a reason," he bites out, for once letting his emotions get the better of his control. "That's got to be clear. And now, you are in my way, expecting me to do what, exactly? Come running when you click your fingers? I'm sorry to ruin your fun."
"You think I'm having fun?" A furious, incredulous blush is rising up her cheeks.
"I don't know," he says, bitterly. "Maybe this is entertaining for you. Maybe you collect men and tie us up in knots for your amusement; well, find another man to dance to your tune because it's not going to be me."
Before he even knows it, she's slapped him, harder than he ever thought a woman could, and anger and something else rises in him along with the stinging in his cheek. He pulls her close, so close that he can feel her breath on his face, and then beneath the cloud of his anger, he realises that there isn't fury in her eyes but fear, fear twisting like knotted ropes and why is she scared?
Then he releases her, guilt rising like the tide in his throat. Forcing it under control, he turns and marches out of the tent, into the gathering darkness.
"Nice handprint," Miles says as Thomas ducks into the tent. "What happened?"
"Leave me alone, Miles," Thomas scowls at his friend as he marches to his desk, rummaging through his papers without thinking. He's not in the mood to be teased – surely Miles can read the signs?
"You do know bottling up your anger never works," Miles continues. "You remember what happened when you did that with the Yelland issue."
"Damn it, Miles," Thomas glares at him for a second. This is not the time for Miles' inane questioning, not when he's wracked with guilt over the fear in her eyes. Why was she scared? "What do I have to say to make you leave me alone?"
"Nothing, if you don't want to. You've just been angry for too long, and it's probably about time you get it off your chest."
Miles' words are so similar to something Thomas' mother used to say when he was small that he drops the papers and slumps into his chair. "It was Miss Trevelyan."
"Pardon?"
"You wanted to know what happened. Miss Trevelyan slapped me."
"Why on earth would Miss Trevelyan slap you? You told me that you'd barely spoken to her!"
"That was months ago, Miles."
"Yes, but, how on earth did you get her angry enough to slap you?"
Well, it's too late to turn tail and run from telling Miles the truth. "I said some things I shouldn't have."
"Like what?"
"You are too nosy for your own good, you know?" Thomas says. "She and I were going to meet, the day I gave you the pass."
Miles raises an eyebrow. "I thought something fishy was going on – you turning down a pass – but honestly I was too grateful for the opportunity to go into town to question it."
"Yes, well…we started talking after, well, after a few weeks and when she didn't turn up, we met later that day when she got back from town and she was suddenly so cold…and now she wants to be civil again, and, God, Miles, what do I do?"
"Accept her apology," Miles says frankly. "Women are mysterious creatures, and it's best just to follow their lead."
"I don't understand why she was so distant that evening though…"
"Look, Tom, I've noticed that Miss Trevelyan is well, fragile, at times when it comes to matters of the heart. She doesn't like being trapped."
"How do you know?"
"I spent an entire car ride into and out-of town with her and she was on-edge the entire time. Well…" Miles pauses, deliberating something for a second – Tom can see the thoughts turning over and over in the back of his eyes. "Just take it from me. Some women are like that, and there's nothing you can do to change it."
"Alright." Tom sighs. It makes sense, if she doesn't like being trapped, that she seemed so scared that night in the quartermaster's store. The sudden fear in her eyes barely half-an-hour ago makes sense as well, because with his hands around her waist, she was like a butterfly caught in a collector's net. He isn't much better though, he's drawn to her like a moth to a flame and nothing is able to distract him, absolutely nothing at all.
"Are you going to come to this little 'do' Miss Marshall is putting on?" Miles changes the subject.
"I don't know. I suppose you are."
"Yes, it'll be a good evening off. They're all singing something – the VADs, I hear. It'll be nice if you'd put in an appearance."
"I'll see," Tom says. "I'll see."
It's late the next afternoon, and Kitty's in the wards, dressing some of the easier wounds when she hears the patter of small footsteps, a rustle of grass. She and Corporal Foley exchange a glance, and he ducks out. Seconds later, she hears "Anglais?"
Knowing that that is the extent of Foley's French, she puts down the bowl of antiseptic, and follows him out. There, standing and looking around is the mute little Belgian girl that Joan tended to a few weeks ago when she burned herself, Mathilde, Kitty thinks her name is. Her father is nowhere to be seen.
"What's she doing here?" she asks as Foley steps aside with a shrug.
"No idea, Nurse."
"Ou est ton papa, ma cherie?" Kitty drops to her knees in front of the girl, takes her small hands, trying desperately not to think of Sylvie. The water on the grass soaks through her skirt and layer of petticoats. "Ou est ton papa?"
The little girl stares at her, fear rising in her dark eyes that seem too big for the delicate frame of her face, and then she begins to pull at Kitty's hand insistently. "Oui, je viens," Kitty says, standing and allowing Mathilde to pull her along, down towards one of the gates to the hospital, Foley following them.
It takes only ten minutes to get to the village, and Mathilde stops abruptly, clutching Kitty's hand like it's her lifeline.
"I'll go and look for him," Foley says, beginning an ungainly jog into the squat little cluster of houses.
Then something catches Kitty's eye. The crumpled shape of a man, lying down a side road that leads off to the left, around the village. He is not moving.
"Reste là," she tells the little girl before beginning to run towards the figure.
It takes all of two seconds, and then she's kneeling beside him. His arms and legs are splayed like he's a toy tossed down by a tantrum-throwing child, and there is blood congealing on his face, bruises blossoming around his eyes. At her shadow falling over his face, his eyelids begin to flutter.
There is the sound of running feet, then, and Foley appears at the top of a rock outcrop above her. "Shit," he says, glancing at the man, then to Kitty. "Sit tight. I'll be back."
And then he's off, and the child's father's eyelids are opening and he's staying blearily at her. "It's Joan," he says weakly. "Joan…go to the house…waiting for you…in the house…"
"Ssh," Kitty says, gently smoothing his hair back from his wounded forehead with apprehension fluttering like butterflies in her stomach. What is waiting for Joan in the house? "Ssh, stay still."
"In the house, Joan, go to the house…waiting for you there."
"Yes, I'll go," Kitty says, and he nods and his eyes shut again. He is too still.
When Foley arrives back with two stretcher-bearers fifteen minutes later, Mathilde has come to join Kitty, tears streaking down her cheeks. In a moment of instinct, Kitty takes the little girl in her arms, rocking her back and forth gently. "Hush, petite, hush," she says. "Ton papa ira bien."
She can't remember the last time she held a child like this – the way it felt to have Sylvie's small, warm body tucked against hers is fading too quickly, like a rag left to the mercy of the elements, and she's not ready to let it go.
"We've got him now, Nurse," Foley says, breaking her train of thought. "Do you want me to take the girl?"
"It's alright, Corporal," Kitty says, not wanting to detach Mathilde's arms from around her neck. "I've got her."
It's a long, slow walk back in a drizzle that begins about half-way down the road and when they once again reach the safety of the hospital, a waiting nurse ushers her and Mathilde into Matron's office, where Matron tells Kitty to sit down and stay with the child until her father has been treated. Mathilde has stopped crying, now, and just holds onto Kitty like a she is her mother, and for once, in between murmuring comforting nonsense, Kitty lets herself think of Sylvie.
She remembers the time when Sylvie was born, how she fitted perfectly into Kitty's arms, a warm, pink-faced bundle with wide, beautiful, dark eyes and a tuft of dark hair and how Kitty thought she was so worth the pain of bearing her. She remembers Sylvie's first word – Mama – and her first steps, tottering around holding tightly onto Kitty's fingers. She remembers the first time Sylvie fell out of a tree, and hurt her ankle, and the countless times she would sit with her daughter on her lap, telling her stories that her own nursemaid used to tell to her.
Eventually, Matron re-enters and tells them quietly that Mathilde's father is waking up, that Kitty should take the child to him. And so Kitty does, her fingers wound around Mathilde's until they are in the little private hut that houses injured civilians and Mathilde is running to her father, and crying again.
As she leaves, Joan enters and the words Mathilde's father said to her twist round and around in her mind.
She's got to talk to Joan.
It's evening, now, and Kitty is hurrying to the chapel where the concert is being held, reeling with the secret she has dug out of Joan like a treasure hunter digging for gold. Joan's fiancé is German. German. He's German, and there's a letter waiting for Joan in the village.
Kitty doesn't know quite what to think. It's only a letter Joan said, a letter to tell her whether the love of her life is dead in the mud of the battlefield, or still living. Only a letter. But if she is caught – the consequences are too horrible to even bear thinking about. Court martial. The death sentence.
She's tried to persuade Joan to leave it, tried and tried and tried, but there is nothing to be done. Joan is completely adamant – like a stubborn donkey – that she is going to go. That she has to. And, because Kitty knows what it feels like to be separated from loved ones by barriers that stretch as wide as oceans, she let her.
And now she has a promise to fulfil for Flora.
He only decides at the last minute to go to the concert, when the hand of God is already studding the blackened night with the twinkle of the stars. It'll probably be too late – the acts have most likely finished – but it's worth a look.
As he approaches the chapel, there is the sound of a piano, a rustling of the wind moving against the canvas. He ducks under the flap, unnoticed by the audience to see the three VADs at the piano, Kitty and Miss Marshall holding hands and singing and the third at the piano, their three voices rising and falling in a beautiful harmony.
But he only has eyes for her.
She's smiling and her dark hair defies her headdress, and slowly, her gaze moves across the audience to land on him. Instead of the anger that has been plaguing him for weeks, there is something else that swells in his chest.
"There's a long, long trail a-winding, into the land of my dreams, where the nightingales are singing and a white moon beams. There's a long, long night of waiting, until my dreams all come true, till the day when I'll be going down that, long, long trail with you."
It strikes him then, all of a sudden as her eyes hold his steadily, dark, dark eyes holding eyes the colour of the waves of the sea.
He's in love with her.
A/N Important! Hello, everyone! Thank you for the reviews, especially to anon. This chapter owes a huge thank you to TheCurlymop, who put up with my constant questions when I was feeling unsure about it - she deserves a big round of applause. And I can officially announce that there are two chapters left after this, and that the sequel is currently in the works. Also, in the next few chapters, I've had to bend history a little - I know that Edith Cavell was shot in October 1915, but it's already the middle of November, so I'm just going to leave it. N xxx.
P.S. French Translations...
Ou est ton papa, ma cherie? - Where is your papa, sweetheart?
Oui, je viens - Yes, I'm coming
Reste la - Stay here
Ton papa ira bien - Your father will be alright.
If anyone can correct me - I used Google Translate - then drop me a review to let me know!