.Part Three.

New Year

There's an air of faded hopefulness hanging around the hospital like a mother's embrace as nineteen-seventeen draws to a close. Snow falls, winds howl and people pray that nineteen-eighteen will be the charm, that nineteen-eighteen will stop the war in its tracks and send it scurrying away like a frightened mouse.

America joined the war in the springtime, and already the Germans are retreating, huddling down in the shelter of the Hindenburg line and plotting their next move as though everyone are just players in one huge game of chess, as if the next move doesn't involve blood and screams and more lives lost for a pointless cause.

They've already have men through from the Third Battle of Ypres, talking breathlessly about the mud that caught them and held them as bullets rattled across No-Man's Land in their thousands, finding their marks so easily because no one could move.

Kitty and Elizabeth sort through the pharmacy, tidying and checking things off on a list given to them by one of the orderlies for surgery this afternoon. More VADs have arrived, three other girls who have their own tent, and they do the long, gruelling work that both Elizabeth and Kitty used to do when they first arrived, the endless washing and inventories and chores.

"Who do you think Rosalie's been receiving all those letters from lately?" asks Elizabeth as they move on from antiseptic to anaesthetic, piling up the bottles of ether onto the trolley to take to surgery.

Kitty laughs. "I don't know and I'm not going to pry. It's her business – but you know that Matron reads all our post, so I'm sure it can't be too salacious."

"But her face goes bright red whenever she gets one…do you think Rosalie's got a beau?"

"I don't know – she's certainly thawed towards men in her years here. Did you know she used to be the most prissy, stuck-up prude that ever walked the earth?"

"No, really?"

"Yes. But a few months here was enough to cure her of it. It's enough to cure anyone, really – all our sufferings of the heart seem so petty compared to this."

Elizabeth shrugs. "Yes, it does seem like that."

"Are you going let a certain someone have their New Year's kiss this year?" Kitty teases, and Elizabeth swats her as she reaches for another bottle of ether, the liquid sloshing about like the sea in a storm.

"Perhaps," she says, biting her lip. "I don't know. Are you going to let anyone near enough to kiss you?"

Kitty slants her a glance, deliberating. So far, only Rosalie, Miles and Matron (through the reading of the post) know of her and Thomas' relationship, though Flora is very close to guessing. As long as Gladys or one of the new VADs doesn't find out… "I have a beau, actually," she says quietly. "He used to work here, though you won't know him as he left for a Casualty Clearing Station before you arrived. I'm hoping he'll have leave for New Year."

Elizabeth nods, as though a puzzle piece is clicking into place in her brain. "So that's why you're always in a much better mood when the post is due."

Kitty shrugs. "I suppose I am – I worry about him, being so near the front. But you know you mustn't let slip to Gladys. If you do, the whole hospital will know before the week's out."

"I promise."

New Year descends on them with alarming speed, and Rosalie is besieged by requests to play Auld Lang Syne on the piano as the new year dawns, and spends every spare hour she has muttering over the sheet music in the chapel.

Thomas arrives on New Year's Eve, deep circles of tiredness traced in grey lines under his eyes, but his smile when he sees Kitty is as bright as a lighthouse beacon, warning off ships from becoming stranded on perilous rocks. When she takes his hand surreptitiously as they walk together to the canteen, her whole being fizzles with warmth at the fact that he's safe, he's here and that shell he talked about on the day of his leaving a year and a half ago has never materialised.

It's a quiet celebration, just the staff who aren't on night duty in the mess tent sipping at the golden bubbles of champagne from tall glasses that are usually only brought out for mess dinners. Kitty and Thomas sit in a corner of the tent, pretending they are just having a casual conversation about nothing in particular whilst Rosalie plays a soft love-song on the piano, and Miles watches Elizabeth laugh with Flora across the room.

It's good to see Flora laugh, now. Her beau was badly wounded at Passchendaele, and she's been so dispirited as the waxy autumn light dropped into the freezing mud of winter, running to the post-man whenever he came round to see if there was a letter from Charlie, or Charlie's mother who would be more informed over the state of her son's wellbeing.

But he's in England, now, being looked after and she's happier, pushing aside the ghost-like mantle that hung over her shoulders for weeks on end, and beginning to smile again.

The clock hands edge ever closer to midnight, and more champagne is poured out. Sister Quayle has a beady eye fixed on Kitty's back, but Kitty couldn't care less. Thomas is only here until the morning of the second and she's not letting any of their precious moments slip through her fingers without very good reason.

Bong, bong, bong. There is silence as the clock strikes twelve, and then he kisses her, gently, softly in view of absolutely everyone, but she doesn't care because it's a new year and please let this year bring the end of the shadows and the monsters stalking the battlefields ready to harvest more victims for the cruel embrace of death.

"Happy New Year," he says.

"Happy New Year," she whispers back, glancing for a second over his shoulder to where nurses and surgeons are exchanging pecks on the cheek, and hands are being shaken, and glasses raised. She watches as Elizabeth and Miles slip out of the tent, hand in hand, pleased that Elizabeth has given in, that her friends have found happiness among the bitter days of war.

"Here's to 1918!" Colonel Brett calls, and people clink glasses. Thomas kisses her again, tenderly, adoringly, and then the notes of the piano are falling through the air.

"For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll take a cup of kindness yet for auld lang syne."

With the spring comes a fear rushing through the open doors of the Allied army. Russia, torn apart by revolutions, has signed an armistice with Germany, and there are more men ready to push the Allies back to the sea. Matron gathers the nurses together to announce the news, quelling panic with her steely gaze, and insisting that should anything happen, they are nurses under the protection of the Red Cross.

Kitty feels as though she's in a dream all through that spring, praying for Thomas' safety in his Casualty Clearing Station as reports come through that the Germans are advancing, that they're taking everything in their path, be it soldier, gun or ambulance. Every letter from Thomas is an answered prayer, every word something holy. He's still alive, he's still behind the Allied lines.

Until it all changes.

In May – with the white flowers and talk of Whitsun traditions between the soldiers – comes a letter on rough paper, the address written in a spidery hand that is so unlike Thomas' careless scrawl or – God forbid – her family's elegantly practised calligraphy. She waits until that evening when she's off the wards and the sun is dying a fiery death over the horizon to rip it open, unfold it with shaking hands.

2nd May 1918

Dear Miss Trevelyan,

You have no clue who I am, and I know nothing about you save what my son has told me. My name is Moire Gillan, and as you may realise, I'm Tommy's mother. Now, I can't write, so my youngest son Rodric is doing it for me, but I'm afraid I have some news which I felt I must tell you. Tommy's been reported missing. We had the telegram a couple of days ago.

I'm praying for his safety, and I know you will be too. He loves you - that much I can see from his letters - and he'll be back to us as soon as the Germans are beaten by our boys. I'm praying for him, my dear, and that's all we can do now.

Kitty stumbles backwards, catching her heel on the boardwalk, a choked cry rising in her throat. No, no this can't be happening. Tom's not missing, he's not – he promised he'd keep safe, no…no…

"Kitty?" Rosalie appears behind her, a bucket of soiled bandages in her hand. "Kitty, are you quite alright?"

"Yes," Kitty says faintly. "No."

"You! Take this to the laundry!" she calls to one of the newer VADs who is loitering near one of the surgeons. The girl frowns, and marches over to take it from Rosalie, who puts her arm around Kitty.

"Come on, let's get you to the tent."

Kitty starts to cry half-way there as the shock hits her like a brick wall. He can't be missing, no, he promised, he…

Rosalie sits her down on her bed, kneeling in front of her. "What's the matter?"

Kitty woodenly holds out the letter. Rosalie reads it, slowly, her face turning white as she reaches the end. "Oh Kitty…"

"Don't. Don't give me pity. I won't be able to cope," Kitty says.

"Look, I know it's bad. But missing men often turn up in the strangest of places, you know that? And he'll be back to you before you know it – that man loves you Kitty, I've seen it in his eyes when you're not looking, and a man in love always keeps his word."

"Since when did you become such an expert in love?" Kitty asks dully.

"Since…well, it really doesn't matter." Rosalie takes Kitty's hand in her own for a second. "Don't give up on him. Never, ever give up."

"Alright," Kitty says. "Alright."

27th June 1918

Dear Kitty,

I'm not dead. Or missing. I'm in a prison camp at Heidelberg. We've been on the move, so I haven't been able to write until now, and I'm so sorry for all of this. I'm sorry for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I'm…just, I'm sorry.

Don't worry about me. The only thing I'm likely to die of between now and the end of the war is boredom. There's nothing to do – we here are exempt from the work the lower ranks are given, and all we do is sit around all day. There's a library here though, and I've managed to find a few medical books to pass the time, and I'm with two of the other surgeons from my Casualty Clearing Station. Sometimes, we're called in to help in the infirmary, but most of the time it's sitting and doing nothing.

I sometimes think about what happens after this is all finished – we've never given much thought to what we'll do after the war. I'd like you to meet my family in Glasgow, though we don't have to settle there if you don't want to. I suppose I'll find a job in a hospital somewhere – we could find a place in London, if you want, and you could try and get in contact with Sylvie, somehow.

I hope that you're well. Write to me soon.

Missing you.

Thomas.

13th July 1918

Tom,

Thank God, thank God, thank God. Never, ever put me through anything like that again! I was worried sick about you…oh thank God you're alive. I don't know what I would have done if you'd died, I just…oh God, look at me. I can't stop crying.

I've talked to Matron, and I wish I could send you a package to alleviate the boredom, but there's nothing that can be done apart from hope the Red Cross deliver to your camp. I can't do anything, and she can't do anything, but they're all relieved here that you're safe. Miles especially – I hope he writes to you too, and I think Colonel Brett is talking about pulling some strings to try and get something through. He's still got a fond spot for you, even after two years of you working elsewhere, and has more connections than either Matron or I.

I would very much like to meet your family, after the war. I received a letter from your mother, when the news first came through, and she said you'd been writing about me. I hope that you've been able to write to them too, and let them know that you are safe. And well, after that, I don't know. I would like to stay in London, at least for a while, for if there is a chance I can see Sylvie again I don't want to miss it. But what I'd like most of all is a little house somewhere, or a flat, nothing ostentatious or anything – I've grown up in large, beautiful houses and I'm sick of them – and just to live. We've both seen so many die that, I think, the best way to honour their sacrifice is just to live our lives as best we can, and be happy. I have a feeling that's what they would want, those men we couldn't save.

Try not to let the boredom get to you too much.

I love you.

Kitty.

A/N I know we've skipped on very quickly, but it's my intention only to have a couple more chapters before the war ends. Thank you to 'anon' for reviewing. For this chapter, it would be so lovely to hear from everyone who reads it, as a treat to me as I've almost, almost finished my exams! I would so love to hear everyone's feedback, so click that little button at the bottom of the page! N xxx