Thomas Keneally - The Daughters of Mars

In this dim light and under the breath of what everyone said was the worst winter in this modern century, nothing had color and everything was demanding. And in the midst of such an undistinguished day, as Naomi supervised debridement and irrigation and the massage and anointing of lamed men, an orderly came to tell her there was a telephone call for her downstairs.

Access to the telephone seemed less strictly regulated under Lady Tarlton’s regimen than it would have been in general hospitals. Here it was taken as a given that boyfriends on leave could briskly inform this or that frost-nipped, red-cheeked young woman of the Red Cross or this or that Australian nurse that they were in the locality. But when Naomi descended to the august telephone in the hallway, she feared for Sally. She had got a note about the casualty clearing station business from her sister and it sounded safe only by a margin.

Hello, Kiernan here, said the voice she heard. You might remember me? I am a most accomplished ship’s newspaper editor.

Sergeant Kiernan?

His voice had that old color in it and the spaciousness of a translucent ocean.

Are you well? he asked.

Yes. A little cold.

Of course. Are you overworked?

Everyone here is. But you?

Things have changed a little with me, he told her. And your sister does not approve. I met her in Horseferry Road, and she and her friends were very judgemental. You see, I have accepted the King’s commission. But I’m totally unconvincing in the role, so maybe that excuses it.

He told her that he was on his way to be supply officer at a casualty clearing station. Sadly, a different one than Sally would be attached to.

But, he continued, of course nothing is distant from anywhere else here. Did you know the entire British line is barely more than a hundred and twenty miles? Melbourne to Beechworth?

A great deal of slaughter in a little space, she agreed.

Just the same, the roads up there are impossible. So in effect that makes distances greater. I’m in Boulogne right now with most of the officers and men of my unit. What we’re waiting for, I don’t know. But I wondered if I could come there and take you for a picnic? It may need, however, to be indoors.

There was no clearly viable picnic place inside or outside the château. It was agreed they would meet in Boulogne. Somehow she switched shifts with the most senior of the Red Cross women. When Lady Tarlton was asked to ratify the matter, she insisted on providing the big black-and-white car Mitchie and Naomi had once been so overwhelmed by. And—of course—the middle-aged Private Carling to drive it.

Naomi dressed in every item of her gray-skirted, gray-jacketed and overcoated uniform she could put on. Her gloves were ungainly but necessary. She regretted her button-up shoes would leave her feet a little cold. But to such a meeting—to which she looked forward so much—she could not wear gumboots or borrow cavalry ones.

Kiernan was waiting at the British Officers’ Club in Boulogne. Carling had a hard time getting there since fog had blotted out the country roads that led to it. The occasional wagon with its hunched farmer atop would appear out of the mist to test Carling’s braking and heart. But once in town the aged private knew precisely where the club was. He said he would be waiting for her from three o’clock, but she was not to hurry. For, he said, she’d worked too hard and was entitled to a little time to herself.

Kiernan was sitting in a chair in the lobby of the club and reading a small, leather-bound book from the club’s library. He put it in one of his jacket pockets—they were baggy enough to serve as a traveling library. As he had promised, he had all the looks of a man who’d been promoted from the ranks, including an awkward uniform. And his greatcoat—when the elderly Frenchman behind the desk fetched it—was the normal, graceless Australian army greatcoat.

Would you like a moules and fish place? Or would you prefer beef?

In this weather, said Naomi—of course remembering her meal with Airdrie—I suggest beef.

My exact instinct, he said. I’ve asked the concierge about a good place. Can you stand a walk?

Out in the dim day they spent their time further informing each other of their careers since they had last met. The phenomenon of Lady Tarlton figured large in Naomi’s account.

I have nothing to tell you in return, said Kiernan, that isn’t banal. But are you engaged yet to that pleasant fellow—Shaw, was it?

Of course not, she said.

That “Of course not” emerged from her barely without thought. She knew at once she didn’t want any idea of engagement to Robbie Shaw to make Kiernan too respectful or distant. So now it was apparent. How criminal that she hadn’t told Shaw himself definitely yet! How criminal if she didn’t do it as soon as she was back at the Voluntary.

He said, I’m sorry if the question was an intrusion.

The restaurant recommended by the porter at the club proved a long walk past bleak parkland. He apologized maybe once too often. But she emphasized she was happy. And she was. They saw the sea and the wet beach stretching out to a barely visible tide. A Blighty boat making its slow way out there was rendered black in outline by the uncooperative light of the day. This was all no better climatically than the day Dr. Airdrie had taken her to town. But it was different in every other aspect.

They reached a hotel she knew from her French experience could be called “Third Empire” and climbed the stairs to the warmth of its restaurant. The windows were opaque with mist but a fire raged in the inglenook and the light was warm. There was a surprising crowd of people here. Many but not all were soldiers. She and Kiernan were taken to their table by a plump, confident, full-bosomed woman who seemed part of the room’s grace. Naomi felt a sudden enthusiasm for conversation that the day outside had not encouraged.

So you’ve gone from the ranks to first lieutenant, she remarked as they were seated.

Oh, yes, your sister noted that too. But it was thought that a supply officer must of necessity have a certain authority.

Do you like it? Military rank in itself? Be honest now.

Do you like being a matron? Sally says you do.

I am only a matron by default. My rank is still that of staff nurse.

He thought a while. Actually, I do like a little rank, he decided.

For its own sake?

Almost certainly. Vanity of vanities… Quite a confession that is, isn’t it? But the eye of God doesn’t penetrate this mist.

Has your rank changed the way you talk to people though?

I always thought we talked well. But it’s true that rank changes things a lot. That’s why some men reject it. Better men than me have done so.

They may know they won’t have power over shrapnel and the rest, whether they’re commissioned or not, she argued.

Yes, but they have power before the bullet hits.

Look, she said, relenting, Don’t let me tease you. I know why you took your commission. So you have more power to do sensible things. But what interests me is whether you’d have asked me to lunch without those two pips on your shoulder?

Well, I wouldn’t have had the easy means to call your château. I would have had to get a lift out there. Or walked. But I would certainly have come.

This skirted the edge of a particular kind of intention. It was—she was surprised to find—a not unwelcome one.

But now, he said, I must splash around my lieutenant’s pay while I have it. It is an honor to flash it around on such a lunch as we are— Deo gratias —about to receive. And—this is not only understood but normal—my shout!

Naomi nodded. I’ll accept, she told him, because we don’t often get paid out there at Baincthun. They want us to come to Boulogne to sign for it.