Harvest of War (8 page)

After that her comprehension of what was happening around her was cloudy. All her attention was turned inwards, to the extraordinary activity of her own muscles, which were following their own predetermined programme independent of her will. She was dimly aware of being half-led, half-carried into the house; of being laid on a bed while Patty pulled off her boots and stockings; of hands touching and pressing in ways she had never experienced before and of being examined with an intimacy that would have horrified her a day earlier. None of it mattered. Only the pain was real – and the pain went on and grew to a climax and then faded and then returned again, stronger than ever.

Time grew meaningless. Oil lamps and candles were lit around her. Then she must have slept, or lost consciousness for a while, because she opened her eyes to the pale light of a winter dawn. Patty was leaning over her, sponging her face and murmuring words of encouragement, and from time to time Leseaux appeared and examined her. The pain grew to a climax again and voices urged her to ‘Push! Push hard now!' She bore down as hard as she could but nothing happened. She could hear voices, too far away to distinguish what they said but she recognized the tone. It was the tone doctors and nurses used when a patient was in a critical condition. She made out the words ‘weak' and ‘exhausted'.

Then Leseaux appeared again in her line of vision. ‘Leo, you are having a difficult labour and the child may be in distress. We have to help you, but first I am going to give you chloroform. Soon the pain will be over.'

The pad was laid over her nose and mouth and she briefly smelt the familiar scent of chloroform. Then came the merciful descent into oblivion.

She was being moved. There was still pain, but of a different sort. She could feel the sway and jolting of the ox-cart. Two thoughts surfaced in her brain. Sasha was dead – and she had given birth to his child. Or had she?

‘My baby?' she croaked through parched lips. ‘Where is my baby?'

Patty lifted her head and held a cup to her lips. ‘Don't worry. Your baby's fine. Just fine.'

Leo sank back. The drink must have contained a sedative, for she lost consciousness again.

The next time she opened her eyes it was evening and she was in bed in a room she recognized as a side ward in the hospital at Bitola. Nausea welled up in her throat, and she rolled on to her side and was sick. When the spasm had passed she heard voices outside and called out, her voice hoarse and feeble. Patty came in.

‘I'm sorry. I've been . . .'

‘Don't worry about it. I'll soon have that cleared up.' Patty sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. ‘Welcome back. You had us worried for a while, back there.'

‘My baby?' Leo whispered. ‘I want to see my baby.'

‘Don't worry about her. She's being looked after.'

‘Her?'

‘You had a little girl. Not so little, either. That's why you had so much trouble producing her. Now, I bet you're thirsty. Here . . .' She held Leo's head while she drank, then went on: ‘Now, I'll go get a mop to clear this mess up. You just lie back and rest.'

Shortly afterwards Leseaux came in. He took Leo's pulse and felt her forehead. ‘You have a slight fever, but that's not surprising. You need to rest.'

‘When can I see my baby?' Leo begged.

He sat beside her. ‘Leo, when your child was born you were in no condition to look after her. And we had no means of feeding her. But by chance a woman in the village had just given birth to a stillborn child. It was by the grace of
le Bon Dieu, ma chère.
She agreed to take the child.'

‘You gave my baby away!'

‘No, no! We explained that you would return as soon as you were strong enough, to collect her. And I left something with her, something that will prove in the future who she is, in case there should ever be a question.'

‘What? What did you leave?'

‘I left the locket you have always worn round your neck. You told me once that it was given to you by Sasha. I looked inside and saw that it is inscribed with his family motto. I hope you will forgive me. I know it meant a lot to you, but I thought, under the circumstances . . . She is a good woman, Leo. She has three children of her own already; all strong and healthy. She will take good care of your little Alexandra until you come for her.'

‘Alexandra?'

‘You told me once that you wanted your child to be named after its father.'

The mention of Sasha sent a stab like a physical wound through Leo. She turned her face into the pillow. ‘He's dead! Sasha's dead and you have given his child away to strangers!'

She was dimly aware of his repeated assurances that she could fetch the child as soon as she was strong enough, but her sobs drowned out his voice. There was movement around her, then the sharp stab of a hypodermic needle and silence.

When she woke again it was dark and the fog of pain and exhaustion was beginning to lift. The same two thoughts crystallized in her brain: Sasha was dead and his child – their child – had been abandoned to the care of strangers. What was worse, to strangers who lived in a village that was at the centre of a battle. As she brooded on that, a new thought came to her. It was all her own fault! Sasha had been right to be angry with her. She had left Salonika in the full knowledge that she was pregnant. Leseaux had tried to persuade her to return but she had refused. Then she had insisted on going with him to find Sasha, although she had known her time was near. It was her own obstinacy, her own stupid determination to have things her own way, that had resulted in the loss of her baby. Arrogant – that was how her grandmother had described her, all those years ago. And she had been right!

Leo dragged herself into a sitting position, suppressing a cry as pain stabbed upwards from her vagina. The first faint light of dawn was visible through the window. She swung her legs carefully over the edge of the bed and dragged herself upright. For a moment she swayed, then regained her balance and staggered over to a cupboard in the corner. Relief surged through her as she discovered that her clothes were in it, as she had hoped. Even the thick woollen scarf she had wrapped round her throat before she left, and the evil-smelling sheepskin coat were there. She began to pull them on. Her baby had been left with strangers because of her stupidity. Well, it was up to her to put that right.

It took her some time to dress. From time to time she had to sit down on the edge of the bed to recover from spells of dizziness, but she managed it eventually. She opened the door of her room cautiously. In the ward the curtains were still closed and the only light came from an oil lamp on the desk of the duty nurse at the far end. The nurse herself was busy sewing, her head bent close to the work, and she did not look up as Leo crept out of the ward. The corridor was silent but Leo knew that within minutes it would be loud with the noise of rattling trolleys and cheery voices. She padded softly in her fur-lined boots to the door that led to the courtyard outside and unlocked it, holding her breath at the sound of the big key turning.

The icy air almost took her breath away, but the yard had been swept clear of snow. She had to feel her way along the wall to stop herself from falling, but she made it to the door of the stable where Leseaux's gelding and her own little mare were kept. Star greeted her with a soft whinny and Leo laid her arm across the horse's withers and clung there, soaking up her warmth, until her strength returned. It took her a long time, with numb, shaking fingers, to put the bridle on and the weight of the saddle almost defeated her, but Star was quiet and easy to manage and she succeeded in the end. She led the horse out into the yard and over to a mounting block. Previously she would have scorned such assistance but now, even with it, the effort of mounting seemed insuperable. As she hauled herself up her whole body screamed with pain and once in the saddle she slumped forward over the horse's neck. Her body was too bruised and torn to sit upright.

She clicked her tongue and the horse walked forward, out through the arched entrance to the courtyard and into the still sleeping street. Slowly they picked their way past the rubble of bombed buildings and Leo wondered how much time she had before the daily bombardment began again. She almost forgot that every street leading into the city was guarded until a sentry stepped out in front of her to demand a password.

With a supreme effort Leo forced herself to sit upright. ‘You know me! I've been called to attend a woman in childbirth. Let me pass.'

Fortunately, the first statement was true. The English lady nurse was a familiar sight in the city and the man let her go without further question. She was stopped three more times as she made her way through the outlying houses, but the same formula got her through.

Out on the open road the wind cut into her like a scythe. It had frozen hard overnight and the packed snow on the road had turned to ice, on which the horse's hooves slid and skittered. Leo clung to the mane, her head swimming. The sun rose, red, above the eastern mountains, and as if it were a signal the enemy guns opened up. Shells thundered and whistled over them and the mare threw up her head and tried to turn back. Leo battled with the reins, which were stiff with cold. Then a shell exploded only a few yards away, showering them both with shards of ice that cut like glass. The mare reared, Leo lost her grip and fell sideways into one of the deep drifts of snow that lined the road.

Winter had the fields and cities of Northern France in its grip, too. On the exposed hilltop where the Calais Convoy was encamped temperatures dropped to below zero every night and in the morning all the cars were frozen up and impossible to start. Lilian Franklin came to the conclusion that there was only one solution: every car must be started once every hour, right through the night. A rota was set up and for the FANYs who were on duty each night there was very little sleep.

Victoria stumbled off to bed at dawn after a night of cranking recalcitrant motors, hoping that there would not be an emergency that would require all the available ambulances. It seemed that she had scarcely closed her eyes before there was a knock on her door and Wilks looked in.

‘Sorry, old thing. Something's come up and Boss wants you, on the double.'

Victoria dragged on her boots and her overcoat and plodded across the compound to Franklin's office, her drowsy brain registering two facts: one, that all the ambulances except her own were absent, so presumably a barge or a hospital train had come in, and two, it was beginning to snow.

Franklin greeted her briskly. ‘Sorry to drag you out of bed but we've had a call from army HQ. A car carrying two high-ranking officers has crashed on the road from Saint Omer, just the far side of Ardres, and the driver has been injured. They want us to send an ambulance to pick them up. You and Wilks are the only ones left in camp and you are the better driver, so I'm sending you. Take care. The roads are very treacherous.'

Victoria cranked her converted Napier's engine into life and climbed into the driving seat. The snow was coming down harder than ever and the road down the hill was as slippery as an ice rink. The car had no windscreen, and the snowflakes stung her face and caked on her eyelashes until it was almost impossible to keep her eyes open. She tried putting on her goggles, but the snow settled on them and rapidly obscured her vision. She found that the only solution was to drive with one eye open while she rubbed at the other to clear it. Soon both her hands were frozen, in spite of her fur-lined leather gloves, and her feet were so cold that she could hardly feel the pedals.

The main road towards St Omer was hardly any better. The constant passing of heavy lorries, and more recently tanks, had broken up the pavé and churned the surface into ruts, which had now frozen hard as concrete and the ambulance skidded and bounced over them. In addition, there were frequent craters from bombs or shells to be negotiated. On either side, the road was lined with the snow-shrouded shapes of burnt-out vehicles and dead horses. Once through Ardres and closer to the front line conditions were even worse. Victoria's eyes were streaming with the effort of seeing ahead through the driving snow and her shoulders ached with the struggle to keep the car on the road.

Suddenly, above the noise of the engine she heard another sound, a rushing, rattling noise coming closer; then there was a loud explosion a few yards ahead of her. Snow and debris shot up in the air and a second later the blast wave hit the car, wrenching the steering wheel out of her hands. The car skidded, bounced, and toppled over into the ditch. The impact broke the ice, immersing Victoria in the freezing water beneath. She struggled to get her head clear, gasping for air, and realized that she was trapped inside. With numb fingers she grabbed the metal struts that supported the hood and tried to haul herself out, only to be brought up short by a tearing pain in her lower leg. Looking down, she saw that the muddy water was being further darkened by a spreading stain. Her leg was trapped under some part of the chassis and although she gritted her teeth and heaved with all her might she could not free it.

The cold was penetrating through her clothes and into the core of her body. It numbed the pain in her leg but she knew that unless she was rescued soon she would die, either from exposure or from loss of blood. She drew a deep breath and shouted for help, but the road, often crowded with traffic, was uncannily silent. It struck her that she had not passed another vehicle, going in either direction, for several miles.

How long she hung there she did not know, but when she was almost at the end of her strength and beginning to slip in and out of consciousness she became aware of a regular crunching sound getting closer and closer. It took a moment for her to realize that it was the sound of army boots marching through snow. She summoned her last strength and shouted for help. The boots came closer and she could hear whistling. She shouted again, but the boots kept marching without a break in the rhythm. In desperation she thrashed at the water with arms that were almost too numb to move and screamed again.