The Maharani's Pearls (4 page)

Chapter 2

I
T
WAS
S
IMON
who came into London to fetch me. He had a bruise along his jaw line, still a dark
shade of purple and blue. I glanced at it but said nothing. It wouldn’t be the first
time an overeager recruit had put more enthusiasm than ability into showing his mettle.
Or some assignment in France had resulted in unexpected action.

He’d been a part of my life as long as I could remember. First as a young recruit
who made his own life and my father’s miserable for reasons I’d never been told. My
father had, in his usual fashion of keeping his enemies close, promoted the rebellious
youngster to the position of batman—­an officer’s personal servant. Out of that simple
solution had grown a friendship that had endured much over the years, and resulted
in Simon becoming one of the youngest Sergeant-­Majors in the British Army. An honorary
position usually won after years of ser­vice, I might add.

He now lived in the cottage just through the wood at the bottom of our garden. That
is, when he was not off somewhere at the behest of the War Office.

As he set my kit in the rear seat, then opened the door for me, Simon commented, “Your
mother has already seen to a fresh uniform. I was to tell you that before you asked
to be taken round the shops today.”

“Of course she has. I should have guessed. Will they be coming to London as well?
My mother and the Colonel Sahib?”

“The Colonel is away. Your mother was making noises that sounded to me very much like
decisions on what hat would look best.”

I laughed. Rested, eager to see my parents, I was glad to be in Simon’s motorcar,
the bonnet pointed toward Somerset.

Simon glanced at me. “You look much better than the last time I saw you.”

“Amazing what a little sleep will do.”

He laughed in his turn, that deep chuckle that meant he was truly amused.

It was a long but easy journey to Somerset, and my mother was there on the steps to
greet me as the motorcar pulled up. It was only for two nights—­but I was at home.

I
LEFT
S
OMERSET
very early on Monday morning, my new uniform packed in tissue paper in the rear seat
of Simon’s motorcar, to prevent crushing it. My mother, much to her disappointment,
couldn’t come. There was a new widow to call on, the wife of a young lieutenant in
the regiment that had once been my father’s. The present Colonel’s lady was at the
bedside of her very ill sister, and Mother had volunteered to take her place.

According to the letter I’d received, I would have an opportunity to meet my patient,
Sergeant Wilkins, in the early evening when he arrived in London, and then tomorrow
I would escort him to his engagement at the palace. His bandages would be seen to
before he came down from the hospital in Shrewsbury, and my role was a ceremonial
one, unless of course he had an unexpected setback.

King George was popular—­a family man himself, he had guided us through the trying
years of war, a quiet strength that had given all of us courage.

Simon escorted me to the hotel to call on Sergeant Wilkins. He knocked on the door,
and we heard the patient call, “Come!”

We walked in to find him lying propped up in bed, his well-­padded left leg a long
hump under the coverlet, his right arm in a sling. A third bandage encircled his head.
I couldn’t see the color of his hair, but I thought it might be fair, judging from
his eyebrows. His blue eyes were—­for lack of a better word—­troubled. I thought perhaps
he was in more pain than he cared to admit, or perhaps the journey down from Shrewsbury
had been harder than he’d expected.

“Hullo,” he said, surveying us. “It’s good to see you again, Sister Crawford.”

“Sergeant Wilkins,” I said in acknowledgment, trying to place what I could see of
his face. “How are you this evening?”

“I’m well enough, thank you. The orderly who brought me down from Shrewsbury has gone
to fetch our dinners. He left me as comfortable as possible.”

We sat down in the only two chairs in the room, and I presented Simon.

“Sergeant-­Major,” my patient said, nodding. “A lot of fuss over nothing,” he went
on. “But it’s good for morale, they tell me.”

“Machine-­gun nest, was it?” Simon asked.

“Yes. I tossed in a grenade, but they were still firing, and that was unexpected.
I discovered later that the grenade was a dud. There was nothing left but to finish
the task myself.”

Small wonder he was being decorated for valor. Then I realized that Simon must have
looked up the sergeant’s record.

They talked about the war, and then an orderly, an older man by the name of Thompson,
came in with a covered tray, and we took our leave.

Walking down the hotel passage to the stairs, I said, “I’ve dealt with so many wounded.
It isn’t surprising I should forget some of their names. But not their wounds.”

“It’s more than likely he was misinformed about the Sister who sent him back to the
Field Hospital.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

Many men were grateful to us for saving life and—­sometimes more important to them—­limbs.
The only angry tirades I’d endured were when someone came out of surgery without a
limb and blamed me for letting it happen. The men knew, of course, that I’d had nothing
to do with the decision to amputate, but I was
there,
and their fear and shock were very real.

I’d taken a room of my own at The Monarch to be available if Sergeant Wilkins needed
care, even though Thompson was staying in his room. But when I looked in on them before
going to bed, he was quietly sleeping. And the orderly was sitting by the lamp, reading.
He nodded to me, and I left without speaking.

The next afternoon, at the time appointed, I went down the passage to collect my patient.

He was ready, the parts of his uniform that had had to be cut away to accommodate
his bandages skillfully pinned out of sight by the orderly.

I said after greeting Thompson, “I’m to bring him back here after the ceremony?”

“If you would, please, Sister. And he’ll be in your care until tomorrow morning when
the hospital sends someone to collect him. I’m to return to France tonight.”

“Fair enough. His treatment schedule and list of medicines are all in order?”

“Yes, Sister. I’ve set them on the table there at the window. There are powders to
help him sleep, as well. Shouldn’t be any trouble. The Sister in charge at Shrewsbury
asked me not to change the dressings, just to refresh the bandaging. But he’ll need
them replaced before he takes the train again. The orderly they’re sending to bring
him back will see to that as well.”

We settled Sergeant Wilkins in his invalid chair, covering his legs with a blanket.
Thompson helped me wheel him out to the lift and down to Reception.

A motorcar was waiting for us, and after we had stowed the sergeant safely in the
rear seat, I wished Thompson well in France, then joined my patient. In no time we
were arriving at the gates of Buckingham Palace, our papers carefully checked by the
policeman on duty.

Wilkins gave me a wry, nervous grin. “The machine-­gun nest wasn’t this bad. I wonder
if anyone has ever fainted from sheer anticipation.”

“Not in my charge,” I said briskly, with a smile.

We were through the gates and arriving at the portico where we were to alight.

There, red carpeted stairs loomed before us, and Wilkins said, “Oh dear.”

But footmen in uniform were there to help him out of the motorcar, into his chair
again, and to carry him up the short flight of stairs to the main reception hall.

Another, far more formidable, staircase met us there. Again, the Palace was well prepared.
Unhappily they had had four years of practice. I followed the two tall footmen bearing
the invalid chair and the sergeant, his face grim, to the landing and then to the
top of the steps. Above us was a glorious painted ceiling, and enormous paintings
surrounded us. But I didn’t think Sergeant Wilkins saw them.

He hadn’t expected this awkwardness, that was clear enough, but there was no way around
it. One of the footmen leaned over and said something I couldn’t catch as they set
down the invalid chair.

The sergeant’s face cleared, and he smiled.

Another man in dress uniform met us there, taking over from the footmen, giving us
the instructions we needed before proceeding to an antechamber where we were to wait
until all of the recipients had arrived. Around us were men on crutches, others using
canes, and quite a few in invalid chairs like Sergeant Wilkins’s. Most of them were
accompanied by family members, and I wondered if any of the sergeant’s family planned
to attend. So far no one had come up to us.

I also saw a number of men and women in sober black, standing apart, a mixture of
pride and grief in their drawn faces. They were to receive medals given posthumously
to husbands, brothers, and sons. I felt a wave of sadness.

Wilkins was less nervous now, in spite of the grandeur of this room, and I cast a
quick glance over his uniform and his bandages, making certain that everything was
as it should be after the short journey.

Watching me, the sergeant said, “Do I pass muster?”

“Indeed you do. Quite handsomely.”

The doors at the far end of the antechamber opened, and we were led into the Audience
Chamber, where the ceremony would take place. It was a regal crimson and gold, intended
to impress those who were to be honored, to show how they were valued by their King
and Country. At a little distance from the throne, rows of chairs had been set out
for the men who would be decorated, and a second section was set aside for family
members. I found there was a space waiting for the sergeant’s invalid chair, with
a seat next to it for me. All the rows were soon filled.

We were given final instructions. I saw that I was the only Sister present, and I
sat there quietly, waiting to stand behind my charge when the King entered. Sergeant
Wilkins was trying to look around him without appearing to stare, and I hoped he was
savoring the moment. Or was he looking for someone?

“Is your family here?” I quietly asked him. If they were coming, they were very nearly
going to be late.

“Alas, no,” he said briefly.

And then behind us the great doors we’d come through were closed, and in a few moments,
the King walked into the room from another door.

He was in full uniform, his beard carefully trimmed, but nothing could disguise the
circles beneath his eyes or the lines in his face. Instead of ascending his throne,
as I’d expected him to, he stood before us with only his equerries and a handful of
officers in attendance.

The ceremony moved forward with dignity, the announcements of names and award and
a brief summary of the act of heroism were made clearly, the men stepping forward
one at a time, spending a brief moment in private conversation with their grateful
sovereign, and then moving back to the rows of seats.

When our turn came, I gently pushed the chair forward so that the sergeant was directly
in front of the King. An equerry removed the decoration from its polished wooden box
and passed it to the King.

He stepped forward, bent down without in any way embarrassing a man who could not
rise and bow, and pinned the medal to the pocket of his blouse. Straightening again,
the King spoke to Sergeant Wilkins.

“We hope your wounds are healing well? Are you in any pain?”

“They are healing, Your Majesty, and the pain is bearable. I look forward to rejoining
my regiment as soon as possible.”

The King nodded. “Your country is grateful for your courage and your fortitude. The
Queen and I have visited so many hospitals, and we know the cost of this war. We wish
you well, Sergeant. And a speedy recovery.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

The King turned to me. I wasn’t expecting to be noticed.

“Sister Crawford. Remember me to your father. I have known the Colonel for some time,
and he has served his country well in this war.”

“Thank you, Sir. I shall be happy to tell him.”

The King nodded, and I moved the wheeled chair back to its original place as the next
recipient was summoned to be decorated.

Sergeant Wilkins cast me an interested glance then turned back to the ceremony. Some
twenty minutes later, the audience was over. The King was escorted from the room,
and then the men turned to meet their families and be congratulated, touched tearfully
by wives and mothers, hands heartily shaken by their proud fathers.

There was no family to congratulate Sergeant Wilkins, and so I said the words for
them.

He seemed surprised, then thanked me. I thought he was tiring, sitting for so long
in his chair, cushions notwithstanding, and as I began to push him toward the tall
double doors, they opened as if at a signal, and someone was there to see to it that
we were guided to the portico and our motorcar summoned from the queue.

It was not until he was settled in the rear seat and we were moving sedately toward
the opening Palace gates that Sergeant Wilkins said, “I didn’t know your father was
a Colonel.”

“He’s retired from active ser­vice,” I said evasively.

“But he’s in uniform, he still serves his country. According to the King.” He turned
to look at me as we passed through the gates.

Everyone was in uniform. Even the wounded had special ones to wear while recuperating
to show the world they had done their duty.

Still, even though my father—­and Simon—­had left the regiment, because of their vast
experience both of them had been recalled to duty in 1914, ostensibly to help in the
training of badly needed new recruits with no military experience. Of course it went
far beyond that, although not even my mother knew precisely what either of them did.
More than once I’d encountered Simon in France, when he was on some mission or other.