January 9th, 1918
Imperial Order Daughters of the Empire Canadian Red Cross Hospital for Officers, London, England

Come weal or woe

"Hello, you," I greet Ken as I enter the room.

He's sitting next to the window, a book in his lap. A quick glance around the room tells me that the patient he shares it with is, once again, out. It's a lieutenant with a round face and ruddy cheeks and an injured arm, who spends most of his time down in the communal rooms. The few times I have met him he was very polite, but I know that Ken thinks he talks too much.

"Since when is 'you' and adequate form of address for the man of your heart?" Ken quips with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Do you really want me to start thinking up terms of endearment for you?" I counter, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

Ken laughs, shaking his head. "Probably not," he admits.

I lean down to give him a quick kiss, then pull up a chair and sit down next to him. Ken closes his book and puts it down on the window sill, right next to an expensive-looking box of chocolates. Probably from Persis.

"What about you? Did you have a nice time with Jem yesterday?" he asks.

"It was nice," I assure. "Jem has lost none of his talent for infuriating me, but all things considered, he behaved rather amiably. We did some shopping, had a nice dinner and then went to see an operetta in the evening. 'Arlette', down at Shaftesbury Theatre."

"Jem voluntarily set foot into a theatre?" There's skepticism written all over Ken's face, making me smile.

"Surprising, isn't it? But rest assured that he spent the entire time pointing out every single irrational thing the characters did on stage. In a loud whisper. The experience of attending the theatre did not necessarily become the richer for it," I explain and grimace slightly to emphasize my point.

Ken laughs. "And where is Jem now?" he wants to know. "Is he busy or has he actually become tactful in his old days?"

I scoff, decidedly unladylike. "Jem and tactful? Ha! As if! Jem won't ever become tactful, not in this life and probably not in the next either," I reply. "No, he really had something else to do. We ate breakfast together earlier and then he took off to visit an old colleague of his who's stationed in a hospital somewhere close to London."

"Good," nods Ken, considering me openly. "Then I have you all to myself."

Two weeks ago, such a remark would have been enough to make me blush, but now I hold his gaze, tilt my chin forward a little bit. When he notices, he chuckles lightly.

I bite back a smile. "Is Persis already on her way back to Newcastle?" I enquire, a study in casualness.

"She had to catch the train at noon to be back in time for curfew. As you very well know, seeing as you've only turned up now," Ken points out drily.

The glare I direct at him doesn't appear to faze him much. Instead, he takes my hands, weaves our fingers together carefully, then looks at me searchingly. "Be honest – you didn't just choose to stay away all of yesterday and this morning to give us some time alone, did you?"

I raise my shoulders, hold them for a moment before letting them fall again. "Oh, I don't know," I sigh. "I guess it's just… Persis and I have never been close and Selina is her best friend and I just thought… that it might be awkward."

"You needn't have worried on that account. There was no one more furious at Selina for calling off our engagement than Persis," Ken replies.

I look at him, surprised. I didn't know that.

"After Selina told our families, Persis refused to speak to her for weeks. I had to write countless of letters to her, imploring her to finally give in even a little bit," Ken continues. "They were back on speaking terms at least when Persis left for England, but when you consider that they used to be inseparable for years, that's not so very much."

I nod slowly. "Persis can be very… headstrong," I remark cautiously.

Ken grins. "She's as stubborn as a mule and holds grudges like no one else," he admits easily.

"You said that!" I am quick to point out. I know with some certainty that Ken allows no one but himself to speak thusly about his sister. There were six of us at home, but Persis and Ken only ever had each other. I know how close they are. Maybe that's another reason for why I didn't feel up for meeting Persis yet.

"So I did," Ken acknowledges cheerfully. "Oh, and besides, Persis is actually looking forward to meeting you. That letter you sent her in October made quite the impression on her. She left the very same night after having received it. Just packed her bags and ran off."

I open my mouth, realize that I have nothing to say, and close it again.

"Wasn't quite what you intended, was it?" Ken asks, but he sounds calm, even a little teasing.

"No. I'm sorry," I answer sheepishly. That really wasn't my intention.

Thankfully though, Ken just shrugs. "As I said, she's as stubborn as a mule. She would have come either way," he observes.

It is, alas, not enough to dispel my guilty conscience. Ken doesn't miss that. He squeezes my hand comfortingly and remarks, "Hey, don't look at me like that! If this is anyone's fault, it's mine. Without that scene I caused back in autumn, you would never have written to her at all, right?"

He waits for me to nod.

"There we go," he continues. "Besides… sure, I would have preferred for Persis to stay in Canada, but when you consider that she's already done six weeks of hospital work by now, she was remarkably composed yesterday. And she's in Newcastle! The worst that could happen to her there is that she gets soot into her hair!"

Despite myself, I can't help smiling and Ken nods, satisfied. "Better," he declares, then leans forward to steal a kiss.

Which leads me to the question…

"Speaking of which, did you tell Persis about… well, about our engagement?" I ask, not without caution, once Ken has leaned back again.

"No, I didn't tell her anything about us. She would only have asked questions and it's not like I have the necessary answers for those. For the moment, it was easier just to keep quiet about it," Ken replies, shrugging.

I frown. "What kind of questions?"

"About when we will marry, where it will take place, who will attend… those things," he answers with another shrug.

And we've arrived at the elephant in the room. I take a deep breath, collect my thoughts, before declaring, "I've been meaning to talk to you anyway. I have given this some more thought."

Ken becomes alert immediately. "Thought," he repeats slowly. "Should I be worried?" He keeps his tone light, but there's well-hidden concern just about evident in his eyes.

I shake my head, very decidedly. "On the contrary, I think," I tell him. I feel a bit more unsure about this than I would like.

"Good. Right," Ken nods. "Do you want to share those thoughts with me?" He gives my hand another squeeze. Immediately, I feel myself growing calmer.

Nevertheless, it takes a moment until I have gathered all the words I need. I don't quite dare look at him, so I direct my gaze downwards at our linked hands.

"I know that we haven't really spoken about our – well, our wedding so far," I finally begin. "But I also think I am right in saying that you… that you would prefer not to wait very much longer?" I give him a quick glance.

"True. But you don't want to give up your nursing work yet, do you?" Ken retorts calmly.

Hesitantly, I nod. I want to say something, but Ken beats me to it.

"Yes, I would prefer us to marry rather sooner than later," he remarks. "But I have first-hand experience of how seriously you take your work and I respect that. If you want to wait a while longer, I'm not going to rejoice over it, but I can and I will wait for you. Even until the war is over."

"If you are still –" I break off, can't speak the words. My throat feels tight.

Ken, however, nods. "If I am still alive then," he says calmly. "That's the prerequisite."

I don't like to hear him talk about his own death so matter-of-factly.

My gaze moves over to the window, through which the wintry Hyde Park can be seen. Silence sets between us, several moments long.

"It's curious," I finally remark slowly, "I've never really thought about it before, but when Jem mentioned yesterday that he expects you to be back at the front in autumn at the latest… it was the first time I realized that this is partly my fault as well."

"How is it your fault?" Ken asks carefully. His thumb strokes the back of my hand.

I hesitate for several seconds, search for the right words. If there even is such a thing as 'the right words'. "See… when we had to decide whether to amputate in November, I only thought about what kind of life you would have lived after an amputation," I admit. "What I didn't consider was… if they had taken the leg, you would have been allowed to go home." Almost reluctantly, I move my gaze away from the window, look at him.

Ken appears very composed. "But at what cost?" he retorts calmly.

I sigh, frustrated now. "There are people out there who would think a leg an adequate price for a life," I point out. My tone, I realize, is a little bit challenging.

When Ken answers, there's suddenly a slight strain in his voice as well. "The way you say that, one would think my death is a done deal. But in truth, no one knows what's going to happen. It will be months yet before I'm even partly restored. Maybe the war will be over by then anyway – won, lost, who knows?" He raises both eyebrows.

I shrug, lean back slightly in my chair. I don't want to fight, but the sudden change of mood has come so quickly that I don't know how to resolve it.

When I try to draw back my hand, Ken holds it tight.

One, two, three seconds of silence.

Then Ken sigh, pushes his free hand through his hair. When he speaks, it sounds more conciliatory. "Do you remember that day when I visited you in your CCS back in the spring and told you that sometimes, I think Death was simply too busy to pick me up?"

Cautiously, even warily, I nod.

Now it's Ken moving his gaze over to the window, as he stares out of it pensively, almost absentmindedly. "When I was wounded, I lay there in the mud for hours, my leg hurting like fire, grenades and bullets all around, the world twisted into a totally bizarre place. And I remember thinking that it was all over now. That he had come to take me. And for a moment I lay there and thought, so that's alright then. It's the last thing I remember. I was so sure that was the end – and when I woke up, it was you sitting next to me. Of all people." He laughs softly, incredulously.

I am very quiet.

"For the first minutes, and in a way for the first couple of days even, I was quite certain that none of this was real. Least of all you. Whether I was in Heaven or Hell I didn't know, but whatever it was, I was not going to question it," Ken continues. "If this was afterlife, I was fine with it. I remember thinking that the pain could have been less, but I had you or a projection of you and, all things considered, it was alright with me." His eyes are still fixed on the windowpane, as if he can see those days being replayed on the glass.

"At some point I realized that this wasn't afterlife, that Death, for whatever reason, had decided to leave me in this world. It would have been so easy for him to take me, but he left me lying there in no man's land. And… this is going to sound superstitious, but why should he come and get me in the future when he already had the opportunity and didn't want me?" he asks. At last, he looks back at me. His gaze is open, questioning, as if he's really waiting for an answer.

I swallow, stare down at my hands for a second or two. "He only took Jerry at the second opportunity as well," I remind him. My voice is hoarse.

"I think Death didn't want to take Jerry at all. He just didn't have any choice in the matter," Ken replies quietly.

Abruptly, I look up. "You mean…?" I leave the question hanging. I know it requires no ending to be understood.

"What I mean is that Jerry wasn't himself anymore," Ken answers evenly. "And that makes his death even more tragic."

"Then you think that Jerry got his… his afterlife? Even if he…" once more, I let the sentence hang, unspoken, in the air between us.

Ken nods slowly. "I don't know if there is a God somewhere," he answers thoughtfully, "But if He exists and if He has no mercy for someone like Jerry, who has lived through some of the most horrible realities a person can experience, then Heaven is no place I want to strive for."

"So you don't wholly rule out the existence of a God?" I ask, inclining my head slightly. Between 'God' and 'Jerry', God looks to be the easier subject.

"Something or someone took me from that battlefield and brought me to you. Whether God, Death, a guardian angel, fate or just plain coincidence – who knows? I'm prepared to feel universal gratitude towards whomever," Ken explains with a lopsided smile.

I, however, can't quite laugh at his joke. This entire conversation weighs too heavily on me. I am not as hardened as he is.

Instead, I turn back to our original subject. "Yes, something brought you back this time," I point out slowly. "Maybe it will do so another time. If not… well, if we resolve not to get married until after the war, there's the possibility that we won't get married at all. And as important as my work is to me, you are more important. And I would never forgive myself if – if something happened to you and we didn't even have these precious moments together."

Ken considers me carefully. His hand reaches up, touches my face. "So we will get married?" he asks. His voice is cautious, but in his eyes I can see a well-controlled flicker of hope.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a second, before explaining, "Here, this is what I've been thinking: As long as you're still in the hospital, I will continue my work. I will try and have them transfer me back to England. Most of our hospitals are down in the south, so I would be close to you. That way, we can see each other but I can continue to make myself useful for a while longer. Besides, Frances thinks I mollycoddle you, so maybe it would even be beneficial to your recovery if I back off a bit and confine myself to a visitor's role." I try for a smile that turns out a bit wonky.

"Is that possible? To have yourself transferred to England just like that?" Ken ask, clearly surprised.

"I think so. I will justify it by saying that I want to be somewhere where there are no air raids," I explain with a shrug.

Ken purses his lips and it takes me a moment to understand that it's because of the air raids I mentioned. It's probably quite a new experience for him, not to be the one in danger, but to be the one who's left behind.

"It's not that bad," I try to soothe him. "I mean, yes, in Flanders they could get quite close sometimes. But you've seen for yourself that there weren't so many air raid alarms in Arques at all. And it never once got really serious."

"What I have seen is that you have a pronounced dislike for shelters of any kind," Ken retorts drily.

I can't even deny that.

In a purely theoretical sense, I am perfectly aware that we are much safer in a dug-out in case of one of those planes not just flying over our heads one day. But practically… It makes me nervous, the narrowness of the dug-out, the dark, the noise, the people. There was more than one moment when the prospect of an airplane seemed much easier to bear than the reality of a dug-out. And more often than not, I take my chances.

"I'll take care of myself, alright?" I promise anyway, raise our interwoven hands and press a kiss to the back of Ken's hand.

He sighs. He doesn't appear convinced, but I can see how he forces himself not to say anything more. One or two seconds pass, then he shakes his head slightly, as if trying to get rid of an unwelcome thought.

"So you're asking for a transfer to England?" he reaches back for the earlier topic instead.

"That's the idea. I will work for as long as you are recovering. And then I will resign and we'll get married before they send you back to France," I round out my plan.

Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "And you can just resign?" he wants to know. There's doubt in his voice and I can't blame him. For him, same as for every other soldier, it is impossible to resign from the army. There's just no way to do it. Those who can fight have to do so until there's nothing left to fight anymore.

"It's different for us nurses," I explain. "A well-founded request for release from our duty is usually granted, and an impending marriage is the best reason there is. It's normally no problem at all, provided that the nurse in question has done one year of work in Europe. My friend Polly did it. We might not be allowed to continue working as army nurses after being married, but the army is still of the opinion that we should get married. We're women, after all – what higher calling can there be in our lives but marriage?" I grimace slightly to emphasize my words.

Ken smiles. "And yet you still want to be my wife," he says.

"Of course I do! I just don't want it to be the only thing I'm doing for the rest of my life," I reply. "And besides, we have to get married first anyway. So… what do think of my plan?" My heart is suddenly beating twice as fast.

For a moment, nothing happens, but then Ken nods slowly. "It sounds like an excellent solution," he answers. Both his voice and his face are serious, but there's a twinkle in his eyes.

I let go of a breath. The tension leaves my body.

"But," Ken continues and I tense back up immediately, "I would still like to know whether it is possible for me to get a kiss before Sister Thompson comes in to bring dinner." A grin spreads over his face, that audacious, triumphant grin that is so very him.

I laugh, relieved, but still raise my hand to give him a jab. He catches it easily, mid-air. "You are impossible and I really shouldn't be kissing you, you horrible man!" I announce with all the indignant righteousness I can manage.

But I kiss him anyway. Of course I do.

The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'When you're away' from 1914 (lyrics by Henry M. Blossom and music by Victor Herbert).