.Part Two.

Christmas

The third Christmas of the war is cheerful, regardless of the howling blizzard that the sky sends down on them three days before the festivities began. In their ward, the Sister in charge has permitted the men to make decorations, and for days trucks and carts have battled through the treacherous conditions to bring comforts from England for all the wounded.

Kitty ducks into the chapel, brushing snow off the shoulders of her coat. "Sorry I'm late," she says to the others who are clustered around the piano. Rosalie sits on the stool, absently playing a complicated sounding piece without even looking at her hands, and Gladys is talking, as usual.

"So, now Kitty's here," Flora interrupts Gladys' monologue, "What are we going to do? We could do a reprise of There's A Long, Long Trail, but I thought it would be nicer if we did something new."

"There's 'If You Were the Only Girl in the World,'" Gladys suggests. "It's from that wonderful revue on the West End that premiered in April."

Kitty looks around at the others. "If you can get the music between now and Christmas Eve," Rosalie says doubtfully.

"Oh, I can. It's in the tent. I mentioned to Mother that we were doing a theatrical, and she sent it over for me. I'll go and get it now."

Before the others can protest, she's ducked out into the raging wind and they're left staring at each other. "Well, I think we're doing that one, then," Flora says.

The blizzard gives way to a pure, icy calm on the morning of Christmas Eve, and Matron - wrapped up in a coat like everyone else – marches around the wards, keeping the air of festive spirit at a low a key as she can manage, although the Sister in charge of Kitty's ward has allowed them to have a Christmas Tree – found by one of the orderlies – and the holly decorations made by the patients to hang from the tent poles in wreaths of dark leaves with the red berries shining out of them like rubies. She drew the line at mistletoe, however, with a comment about Christmas, whilst being fun, should not be improperly so.

The comforts arrive from the quartermaster's office, borne into the area at the end of the ward where Kitty and Elizabeth spend the best part of two hours sorting them, wrapped up in their coats and gloves, since the nurses' area is well out of the range of the small heater in the ward.

"What happens here at Christmas?" Elizabeth asks as they pile sweets and nuts into boxes.

"Well, there's a service on Christmas morning, for anyone who wants to attend. Flora's do is later. In the evening, all those who aren't on night shift have a little party in the mess tent – some joker usually puts up mistletoe somewhere, and there's a nice dinner once we've served all the men."

"It sounds good," Elizabeth says. "Quite similar to how we used to do things at home."

"How so?" Kitty slants a sideways glance at her. Elizabeth is very closed off about her home life, and remembering her own experiences of not wanting anyone to know her own history, Kitty has not pried. But there is something odd in the way Elizabeth always stands incredibly straight like a poker rod, and the way she sometimes moves her arms when she thinks no-one's looking, as though she's remembering a dance.

Elizabeth keeps adding a small packet of cigarettes to each box. "I was in the corps de ballet, at Covent Garden, before the war."

"You…" Kitty is so stunned that she can hardly form the words. "You were a ballet dancer?"

"Yes."

It makes sense, after a moment of thinking.

Elizabeth continues. "It was turned into a furniture repository, when they realised that the war wouldn't be over by that first Christmas. Most of the girls went into ammunition factories, but I didn't want to do that. I've heard awful stories and well, I thought being a nurse would be better."

"I suppose it is," Kitty says. "It's hard work, but at least you're not in a factory."

"It's actually rather similar. Our ballet mistress was French, and she ruled us just as harshly as Matron Carter rules the nurses here. It was work from dawn until dusk, and then usually we had a show in the evening – either a whole ballet, or supporting the Opera, though it feels strange not be dancing day in, day out now."

"That's incredible," Kitty shakes her head slowly. "All those times in the mess, when you were gazing into empty air and moving your hands…"

"Remembering," Elizabeth nods, simply. "Well, I think this is all of these done. Shall I ask Sister what she needs next?"

The chapel is absolutely crowded with people wrapped up in as many layers as they can manage, and Kitty has to fight her way through the throng with a barrage of 'excuse me's' to reach where Rosalie and Elizabeth are standing near the front. Elizabeth is watching the proceedings incredibly calmly, but Rosalie fidgets with the edge of the sheet music she has in her hands.

Kitty puts a silent hand on her arm, and Rosalie give her a small smile. "It's just the waiting," she says quietly.

"I know," Kitty replies, looking to where Flora and Gladys are standing on the makeshift stage, discussing something with one of the other nurses. Miles is leaning against one of the tent poles near the back of the tent, talking absently to one of the other surgeons with his eyes fixed on Elizabeth. There is a pale blush blooming in her cheeks like a rose, and Kitty stifles a teasing remark. It really is rather sweet watching them together, as Elizabeth does everything she can to avoid him, but he knows the hospital much better and keeps 'accidentally' bumping into her as she comes and goes from the wards or the pharmacy.

There is the sound of someone clapping, then, and a quiet hush falls over the tent. Even the sound of the guns – slower, now that it's winter – is muffled by the snow lying like a thick, white blanket across the hospital.

"Hello everyone," Gladys announces. "Welcome to the concert."

And Flora, who was so scared last time, smiles widely and says, "And first, we have a poem recitation by Private Peterson."

The young man in question gets up, standing by the piano, and recites this odd little poem with various interjections that seem to make the tent shake with laughter. Then the acts flash by like pictures on a zoetrope that she used to have when she was little. The funniest turn, without a doubt, is a little man – one of the convalescing patients who really should have left for a convalescent home by now but has been told to stay over Christmas – who proceeds to sing Old King Cole in the voices of different ranks in the army. It causes absolute hilarity among the audience, and even Kitty is wiping away tears of unrestrained laughter as he finishes his act with a rendition in the voice of a very posh colonel.

Then, it is their turn, and they are gathered around the piano. In all honesty, there are more of them this year, and Kitty could have got out of singing. But she remembers that first concert, when Thomas has come in, his blue eyes shining in the light of the gas-lamps like sapphires and a part of her hopes that he has leave that he hasn't told her about, and that he'll appear again out of nowhere, ducking into the tent like he did last time as though her singing is a spell that will summon him back to her.

Rosalie begins to play the introduction, and Gladys starts, very gently, "Sometimes, when I feel bad and things look blue…"

His letter arrives with the Christmas post the next morning whilst Kitty and Elizabeth are handing around the little parcels to all the men in their ward with a smile and a Merry Christmas. She puts it in her apron, and continues handing things out – her hands are itching to tear it open right away, but Sister is standing at the opposite end of the ward with the doctor who is doing his rounds and she daren't risk the her wrath, even if it is Christmas Day.

When the bustle of the ward has calmed down, and most of the staff have gone to the Christmas service – she tells Sister she'll stay and watch the ward – she sits down in the chair at the end, pulling the letter out of its envelope. Several of the mobile patients are ambling about the ward in their dressing gowns, sitting by the more badly wounded and talking away, sometimes bursting into a snatch of a carol, which provokes laughs from the bed-bound.

The letter trembles in her hands.

22nd December 1916

Kitty,

I'm sorry, I've drawn the short straw this Christmas. As they gave me leave after the Battle of the Somme, I've got to stay here over the festive season, though they have said they could give me a day or two off at New Year. I hope you're not too disappointed.

How are the festivities this year? You wrote about the concert you were putting on again, like last year – did you sing the same song?

It's alright here – comforts have arrived from the Red Cross for the wounded, and one of the more enterprising orderlies found some holly to put up at the entrance to a couple of the tents. There are less wounded, and I hear there's some kind of ceasefire just for Christmas Day – nothing like the Truce in 1914 that I heard about when I had just come to France, but at least it's something. There are plans afoot to have a few carols on Christmas Eve, and the priest is organising a small service, but apart from that nothing much will happen, I don't think.

I've had a card from my mother, and my youngest sister, Catriona has tried to knit me something – I'm not entirely sure what it was supposed to be, as it has turned out as some kind of lump of coloured wool, but it's very bright and cheers up my tent.

Merry Christmas, Kitty.

All my love

Thomas.

Kitty blinks back the tears that are pricking at her eyes. It makes sense, that if he had leave in November it will be someone else's turn, but she can't help but wish he were here to enjoy Christmas with her, like last year when he managed to catch her under the mistletoe at the staff dinner.

Her mind drifts to Sylvie, for a second, and she wonders if her daughter will have received her dragon for Christmas like she so dearly wanted two years ago, or whether she's moved on from stories of dragons, princesses and knights in shining armour. The thought does nothing to help the knot of sadness in her throat. Her daughter might have changed beyond recognition, by now, grown up without Kitty being there to see it.

It's at moments like this where she most misses Thomas' arms around her, his fierce conviction that she will see her daughter again.

"Nurse, are you alright?" One of the carol singers has hobbled over to her – it's one of the men with trench foot and a bullet to the arm that luckily they managed to get before it began to fester.

Kitty blinks again, looking up at him. "Yes, I'm fine thank you."

"Thinking about your family? I miss mine too, especially at Christmas. Wish I'd had enough of a Blighty to get me home to see them, but well, life's life." He sits down on the end of an empty bed near her.

"Yes, I do miss my family," she says quietly. "But I have letters, and that will do."

He nods. "Just didn't want the prettiest nurse on the ward to look sad on Christmas Day."

That makes her laugh. "Thank you. Go and sing some more carols – they'll cheer me up."

He gives her a look, and limps off, leaning on his crutch. "Nurse wants us to sing some more carols!" he announces to the ward at large. "What's your favourite one?"

"Do 'O Little Town of Bethlehem,'" Kitty says.

There is a second's pause, and then almost all of the men who are strong enough begin to sing the first verse – several completely out of tune – and even those who are too weak to sit up mouth the words.

Kitty swears she's never heard anything more beautiful in her whole life.

25th December 1916

Dear Tom,

I'm writing this to you very late, when I should be asleep, but I have to write it all down before I forget. Merry Christmas to you too. I'm pleased that your Casualty Clearing Station is doing something to mark the occasion and that you've heard from your family.

For the 'do' yesterday, we sang the song that Gladys says is very popular in London at the moment – 'If You Were the Only Girl in the World.' There were some very funny acts; I look forward to sharing them with you when I next see you.

I have managed to have a good day, though it would have been much better had you been here with me. Elizabeth and I gave out the little presents from 'Father Christmas' this morning, and then when everyone went to the service, I elected to stay and watch the ward. At this point, all of the men decided it would be a wonderful idea to serenade me – I was thinking about Sylvie, so I suppose I looked sad - but Tom, it was a lovely, and so incredible to think that a few weeks ago, all these men were lying wounded in the mud and it's because of people like us that they're still able to laugh and sing.

This evening, we had the staff dinner, and yes, someone had put up mistletoe everywhere. Luckily, I managed to evade anyone with the intention of kissing me, though Rosalie was caught by one of the surgeons, and Miles managed to corner Elizabeth, who didn't look upset in the slightest. Even Matron got a kiss (on the cheek, I might add) from Colonel Brett, which provoked cheers from several of the surgeons who seemed to have been past the point of drunk by then.

I hope that I'll see you soon.

Merry Christmas.

Kitty.

A/N Well, here's the second chapter. Elizabeth being a ballet dancer is my own private little headcanon - indulge me! Thank you so much for the reviews, especially my guest reviewers, Lisa and Guest and anon! The 'act' in the theatrical, of the little man singing Old King Cole was taken from the wonderful book 'The Roses of No Man's Land' by Lyn Macdonald, as was the being serenaded, and I thoroughly recommend reading it, as it gives such a good insight into the lives of the nurses! I'd love to hear from you all again! N xxx