Charles Todd - An Unmarked Grave

I could already imagine Private Wilson saying in his gruff, kind way, Sister, you fell ill just after Lieutenant Benson died. You were that upset-small wonder you imagined-

“Oh!” I said, my hand flying to my mouth in bewilderment. “Simon-it was just after one of my patients had died that I fell ill. And when the body was removed, Private Wilson wanted me to see what he’d discovered in the shed. That part must be true. He wasn’t certain what should be done about it. It still doesn’t explain why I should have thought it was Major Carson.”

“A dead man amongst dead men,” he said after a moment. “Have you thought, Bess, that if there was someone in the shed who didn’t belong there, Private Wilson has already dealt with the problem? While you were ill. And if he didn’t, without your confirmation, whoever it was has long since been buried, murdered or not. If there was no identification with the body, finding it now will be nearly impossible in an unmarked grave. Sadly, there isn’t much that could be done.”

“You’re right, of course,” I said, wishing I could keep the doubt out of my voice.

“Julia told me Carson had died instantly. Was that a kind lie? Was he brought in dying of his wounds? Do you remember seeing him in the ward?”

I shook my head. “He was never one of my patients. It’s just an uncomfortable coincidence that Major Carson died about this same time. As if I’d foreseen his death.”

He stared at me in the sunny warmth of the morning. “I wish you’d come to me sooner. Or I’d pursued this when you first mentioned your dream. I didn’t think-there has to be a way to resolve this for you.”

“I can’t do as I did at eight, I can’t open the closet door and see for myself that no monsters live inside.” I smiled, making light of my feelings.

“There’s no need to wait until you’re back in France. I’ll look into this. What was the orderly’s name? Private Wilson? He should be easy enough to find.”

“Thank you,” I replied, feeling a wash of relief.

“Shall I ask your father’s help?”

“No, please. At least-not yet.” I had other issues to face with my parents.

“Consider it done. Meanwhile, it’s too fine a day to waste. We’ll take a drive in the afternoon, shall we? And I’ll ask the hotel to put up a lunch for us.”

At a little past eleven o’clock, Simon knocked at my door as promised, and I went down with him to his motorcar.

The drive out of Eastbourne was lovely, climbing through narrow twisting lanes where trees overhung the road and cast cool shadows.

We came into the little village of Jevington, where pretty cottages lined the road and wildflowers bloomed along the low walls. I saw an elderly man, stooped and gnarled by rheumatism, hoeing between his roses.

Unexpectedly I was reminded of Melinda Crawford, who like me had lived in India as a child, but much, much earlier, at the time of the 1857 Indian Mutiny. Melinda’s mother had survived the unspeakable horrors of the siege and subsequent battle for Lucknow, struggling to keep her small daughter safe. And when it was over and she had come back to her house on the outskirts of the town, she found it burned to the ground and her English garden in ruins. She had knelt in the torn earth and wept for her lost roses. It was the only time Melinda had seen her mother cry until the death of her father.

A small link with home, that garden, and its destruction seemed to epitomize all she had suffered in a foreign country. I wondered who the old man was keeping those roses alive for through these awful years of war. A son-a grandson?

Simon took a turning to the left, up a twisting road that led to a knoll. And there before us was the church of St. Mary’s, set above its sloping churchyard overlooking the back gardens of houses below it. Nearer the lane a stretch of clipped grass offered a view of the Weald, crystal clear in the noon air.

The church was partly Saxon, and we went inside to look at their stonework in the tower, and then moved down the aisle. There had been a service here only this morning, the flowers at the altar not yet wilted, the air of sorrow still lingering in the dim silence.

Outside Simon spread our rugs on the grass by the view and brought out the large wicker basket provided by the hotel. Inside were sandwiches, bread and cheese, even Banbury buns. We ate in companionable silence, and there was a Thermos of tea for me, a bottle of wine for Simon, although I noticed that he didn’t open it.

We had just finished the last crumbs of the Banbury buns when he shattered the tranquil spell.

“Bess. Your parents have asked me to speak to you. They were already late starting for Somerset, but they wanted you to know that they fully understand your eagerness to return to nursing. After all, it’s what you’ve trained for, what you do so well.”

My heart leapt with joy. But he was still speaking.

“And so it’s been arranged for you to be posted to a clinic in Somerset, beginning at the end of next week. It shouldn’t try your strength too far. And you’ll be close enough to come home occasionally-”

I stared at him, then interrupted him, not wanting to hear any more. “But-I told Mother that I’m needed in France-” Not to belittle the demands of working in a clinic devoted to convalescents, but it wasn’t why I had trained to be a nurse. As long as the war lasted, I wanted to serve the men fighting and dying in the trenches.

Simon was examining the view, as if trying to memorize it, unwilling to meet my gaze. “You must understand, Bess. They came close to losing you twice. Once on Britannic, when she went down at sea, and again when you nearly died of the Spanish Influenza. And you came close, my dear girl, too close for our comfort.” His voice changed as he said the words, and it was a measure of how I’d frightened those I loved.

“Yes, I understand, of course I do. But if I were a soldier in my father’s regiment-as I could have been if I were his son and not his daughter-he would want me to return to my duty.”

“Third time’s unlucky, Bess. That’s how they see it.”

I bit my lip, then asked quietly, “Because I’m their daughter?”

“Essentially, yes. You’re all they have.”

“Vincent Carson was all that Julia had. He was her husband. No one made any effort to keep him in England.”

“That’s different, Bess, and you know it. I’m sure Julia would have tried, if she could.”

“Is it different, Simon?”

I got up and walked across the lane to stare up at the stonework of the Saxon church tower. Simon followed me after a moment, standing just behind me.

For the first time I could remember, I was furious with my father. And then with my mother for not taking my part in this argument. They had supported me from the beginning when I chose to go into nursing. Reluctantly, yes, but they had understood the call of duty. Why not now?

I knew why, of course. Simon was right, twice I’d had close calls. Nurses did die at the Front. Of illness, of gunshot wounds from aircraft that made it behind the lines-I’d had experience of that myself-of shells gone astray. Nurse Edith Cavell had died before a German firing squad. There were no guarantees. But I could have just as easily died of the influenza in Somerset, never having set foot in France.

Yes, I was their only child. But how many mothers had lost their only sons? How many wives had grieved for their husbands? How many children had lost their fathers? I needed to go back. I needed to do what I could for the torn bodies that came to the forward aid stations or to the hospitals just behind the lines. I couldn’t sit out the rest of the war in what amounted to the comfort of a Somerset clinic. It was unimaginable.