The Repercussions Read online

  I told him that I was terribly sorry, but that I didn’t understand what he had said, since nursing was, after all, what we have been trained to do. He looked at me from under his great white eyebrows and said that it would be improper. When I asked why, he harrumphed a bit, and then said that I must understand that India is one of our colonies and therefore its subjects are under our command.

  I said I didn’t know how that changed things, at which point he harrumphed again and said that in India, Englishwomen never nursed the native population, because it wouldn’t do to be so “intimately involved”, and so the Queen’s Nurses would act in a supervisory capacity only, working with the orderlies to “maintain the highest standards”.

  He then said very firmly that if I was not happy with this state of affairs he would rather I told him now before the patients arrived.

  “I… no, I am happy,” I said.

  It wasn’t true of course. I left quickly, feeling rather cross. It really is a bit of a blow. I cannot see what would be so improper about it: as Papa always says, we are all the same on an operating table. If it weren’t for Robert, I would be tempted to go off to one of the other hospitals, where I could be properly useful, but I do so want to learn about his world, and so I have decided to bite my lip and make the best of it.

  This morning, I went up to the station to collect our patients from the hospital train. It was a dreary day, with rain streaming down since dawn, the streets all churned up with mud, and I felt sorry that this would be their first impression of the place, although I suppose for those poor men anything would be better than where they have just come from.

  A crowd of well-wishers huddled under umbrellas outside the station entrance. When the first stretcher-bearers emerged there was a moment of silence, unplanned but observed by everyone, a mark of respect for the soldiers’ bravery and for what they have suffered. Then came cheers and applause, which I was pleased about, because they are such a long way from home, and it is so terribly important to make them feel welcome.

  The men were in an awful state. More than half of them had to be carried on stretchers, the others limping along on crutches, or staggering with their arms around their comrades. They looked exhausted, as if they were at the end of a very long journey, which of course was the case: an interminable voyage across the Indian Ocean, then up to fight in the trenches in northern France; out again, once wounded, to the field hospitals, and then put on a train and then a boat to cross the Channel, then another train to Brighton, right at the end of the line.

  It was an odd sight; they looked so very – well – foreign. Before today, the only Indian I had ever seen was Mowgli in the picture book I had as a girl, but here were a good two dozen of them, slowly making their way along the windswept platform. The first thing I noticed were lots of rather grand moustaches, and beards, long and black, and dark eyes under neatly wound turbans. Some of the men were very tall, and elegant in the way that they held themselves, despite their injuries; others were small, without moustaches or beards, and looked awfully young.

  We took them back in motor ambulances to the Pavilion, where the grandeur of their surroundings made them seem all the more ragged. I can now say in all truthfulness that I have seen the famous mud of the Western Front: pale, sticky clots that clung to their uniforms and boots, which were hanging off them in tatters. They smelt of old sweat and damp, their fingers filthy, nails encrusted and long. Seeing them scratch, I suspected lice. The sweepers had been heating water since dawn for their baths, and I can only imagine the relief they must have felt when they got into them. Their uniforms were taken to the back of the building and burnt.

  After that there was a flurry of dressings and making them as comfortable as we could, then we got them into bed, at which point a hush fell over the Pavilion, as if all of us, patients and staff, were taking a moment to rest.

  I stood in the music room, staring up at its extraordinary chandeliers that look like enormous, upturned flowers, with painted Chinese figures in each pane of glass. They glitter and sparkle quite magically, hanging from a ceiling made of thousands of leaves of gold. I should think it will be rather wonderful for the patients to lie in bed and look up at them.

  One of the Indian doctors had seen me looking. “They’re lotuses,” he said.

  “Really?” I said.

  “Yes, they’re very important to us.”

  “Us?”

  He gave a little cough. “Indians.”

  “Ah.”

  “They represent purity and honour.”

  “Lovely,” I said. “Do you—”

  Just then, one of the men let out a terrible moan, and I ran to him. When I looked up again, the doctor had gone.

  I couldn’t bear it if Robert ended up like those men. On my way home, I went to the seafront and stood at the railings, looking out over the Channel towards France, towards him, less than a hundred miles away. A strong wind was blowing straight off the sea, and I leant into it, breathing in the salty damp. Suddenly it hit me, carried on the wind: a far-off rumble, followed by an explosion, and I realized that I was hearing the guns of the battleground. I listened again to the terrible, crunching sound and shuddered, because I knew that any of those explosions could be the one that put an end to his life.

  Five

  I’m feeling slightly ridiculous, Suze. Seems like I spoke too soon about being all right. This morning was glorious, so clear I could almost see France from my window. People were smiling as they walked along the seafront; kids played on the miniature-golf course, dogs chased sticks on the beach, a shoal of canoeists bobbed about on the waves. Even the birds were having a good time, circling high in the sky, cawing loudly as if they were joining in. I knew I had to go out – there was nothing left of the food I grabbed from the shop at the airport and I was hungry, properly hungry for the first time in weeks. All I had to do was put on my coat and walk out of the door, but I couldn’t.

  And you know why not? Because I was scared.

  I know it doesn’t make sense – Josephine Sinclair, award-winning war photographer, unable to leave the house? I’ve spent the last fifteen years going to the worst places on earth, places where to be afraid is to stay alive, where fear is the only reaction that makes sense. When I’m there, I can take it. I’ve run past snipers, bent double, trying not to get hit. I’ve slept in trenches next to soldiers not knowing if we’ll make it through the night. I’ve walked along roads stuffed with mines, step after cautious step, praying to God or whatever higher power might be out there that I don’t disturb one. Each time I deal with the fear, manage it so I can function. But today – a perfectly lovely day in Brighton – I couldn’t do it.

  I tried to be logical, to weigh up the risks, go through scenarios, reassure myself that they weren’t going to happen, to remember what I’d learnt on all those courses the bureau sent me on – Security Training, Reporting in Hostile Areas, Captive Situations. The problem was that they were all about reacting to real life, when there was truly something to be scared of. No one ever told me what to do when it’s all in your head.

  It took me an hour to talk myself down, to get myself out, and when I closed the door behind me, I was still on hyper-alert, my senses pricked. I stayed close to the houses, moving slowly, looking as far ahead as I could, staying prepared, assessing the risks. There weren’t any, of course. Brighton was going about its business, seagulls shrieking, cars revving, people walking along the pavements. Dogs pulled on their leads, sniffing round lamp-posts, straining to get into well-kept gardens in the middle of squares. It’s nice, this part of Brighton, Kemptown, away from the city centre, towards the marina. Within five minutes I’d passed a little bookshop, a couple of pubs, a fancy bakery and a posh-looking deli.

  St James’s Street was shabbier, lined with cut-price off-licences, charity shops, a bookmaker’s, a place to cash pay-day cheques. The narrow streets that led down to the seafront were lined with old-fashioned B&Bs – signs saying “Rooms Available” proppe
d up in windows lined with net curtains. It was eleven in the morning, check-out time, and guests were stumbling out, blinking in the sunshine.

  The supermarket was at the end of St James’s. I’d made a mental note of its location when I first arrived in the taxi. Force of habit, Suze, mapping new terrain.

  In a war zone, food’s fuel, a functional thing. When you’re on the front line, it’s usually cold and portable, something you can stash in a pocket to bring out when you need it. Muesli bars, Ready-to-Eat Meals, bits of processed cheese. It matters a lot and not at all – when there are food shortages you’ll take what you can get, but a nugget of something good is prized beyond anything else: a tiny piece of chocolate found in the corner of a rucksack pocket, the bag of nuts you’d forgotten you bought at Heathrow.

  Do you remember how I’d always go to the supermarket when I got back? I’d wake early, too wired to sleep, so we’d get up and have breakfast, then you’d go to your studio and I’d take myself off to look at the reassuring stacks of fruit and vegetables. Bright packets, all within their sell-by dates, tempting snacks. The best thing of all would be that I could get my hands on it without any sort of human contact, just push my trolley around and put in the food, with no haggling, no conversation apart from saying hi to the person at the till. I know it’s cool these days to go to small shops, farmer’s markets, to know your shopkeeper by name, but when I’m back from a trip all I want is anonymity, no connections.

  I went in and got a basket, and started to walk around, picking up apples, some pears, a punnet of grapes, a cucumber, watercress. I wanted fresh things, salad that I could eat without wondering if I’d get ill from it. As I lingered near the cheese counter, trying to decide between some Brie and a nice-looking Wensleydale, I began to feel better. I’d get myself a lovely dinner, I thought, something healthy washed down with water instead of whisky.

  Pasta, tomatoes, mozzarella; a little basil plant to put in the gulkhana. I hummed to myself as I put them in the basket, sniffed at the smell of baking bread. I added a chocolate tart, took a bottle of orange juice from the shelf.

  It was all going well until I caught sight of the meat counter, with its slabs of flesh lying bloody and cold, marbled beef, ribs sticking out of a rack of lamb. Slick liver, bulging kidneys, eviscerated organs. I stopped humming, my breath coming out instead in little pants.

  Suddenly there were too many people in the shop, too much colour on the shelves, too much light, too much of everything. An announcement came over the tannoy, something about a spillage in Aisle 4, and I dropped my basket, putting my hands over my ears, remembering men shouting into loudspeakers, giving orders, making threats.

  Leaving my basket, I ran out of the door, looking for somewhere to hide. The street was busy with people coming out of their offices for lunch. I leant against the wall next to the shop, my heart hammering, trying to hold myself up, knowing I was about to be sick.

  I told myself to calm down, that nothing bad was going to happen, that I was on a normal street in a normal English town. I tried to breathe slowly, counting up to ten as I exhaled.

  A gang of girls came out of a side street, wearing headbands with horns, gauzy fairy wings, tight T-shirts with Caz’s Last Fling printed on the back. Caz was all in pink with an L-plate on her chest. They looked like a flock of drunken butterflies, their wings flapping in the breeze, and I turned away, panicked, not wanting to attract their attention.

  One of them noticed me anyway. “Are you OK?” she asked, and I nodded, just wanting her to move away.

  “Well, if you’re sure,” she said.

  As they passed, I began to retch. I’m not usually sick in public, not any more. I’ve trained myself not to give in to it, no matter what I see. I’ve learnt how to hold my camera up in front of me and just take the photograph, how to hold it all in until I’m by myself, in my hotel room, or a bathroom, anywhere with a lock on the door. Humiliated, I made my way back along St James’s, slowly, my belly empty and aching. The panic had gone now, replaced with a dull ache in my head. I went back to the posh deli near the flat and bought bread and soup, a pint of milk, some coffee. Back inside, when I’d closed the door, I stood for a moment listening to the silence, glad to be alone.

  Six

  ELIZABETH WILLOUGHBY’S DIARY

  15th December 1914

  Goodness, I’m exhausted. I find myself almost falling asleep as I write this in bed, propped up against my pillows, balancing my diary on my knees.

  The next batch (what a horrid word to describe human beings, as if they were a postal delivery, but I am too tired to think of another one) of patients has arrived, more than three hundred of them, even more battered than the ones before. Some of them were wearing tropical uniforms: to think it, in December! Others did not even have boots, their feet so badly swollen that they wore sandals fashioned out of a simple sole and strips of linen. We wrapped them immediately in blankets and got them to the Pavilion as fast as we could.

  Another crowd turned out to meet them at the station, on yet another drab afternoon. The Indians really do seem to have captured people’s imaginations. The Brighton ladies in particular find them captivating. Every day they wait in crowds at the openings to the Pavilion grounds, trying to catch a glimpse of the “Dusky Warriors”, as the Gazette has named them. I say ladies, but I don’t think that’s how Colonel MacLeod thinks of them. Today he gave orders that all openings should be boarded up and wooden screens put around the railings so that no one could see in. Some of them climbed up anyway and perched on top of the fence, peering in, as if the patients were exotic creatures at the zoo.

  The men seem not to mind terribly much. They leave the Pavilion only to pray. The Sikhs go to their temple, which is a tent in the grounds, and the Mohammedans go to theirs, outside the Dome, next door. Five times a day, those of them who are capable go to the tent and repeat their special rituals. It must be terribly cold, but out they go, and never complain a bit.

  I like to listen to the Mohammedan chants, which I find rather beautiful. This morning, the doctor from the other day, the one who told me about the lotuses, approached as I was standing outside the entrance to their tent.

  “What are they saying?” I asked.

  “Allahu-akbar. It means God is Great.”

  “Aren’t you going to join in?”

  “I’m Hindu.”

  Feeling rather embarrassed, I apologized. I always seem to get these things wrong. It is so difficult to know who is who, and I am aware that it is so terribly important. Everything here is divided, from the wards for patients from different tribes or castes, to the kitchens – all nine of them – the lavatories, the bathrooms, even the cutlery and the plumbing system and the water taps! It really is awfully complicated and difficult to remember, no matter how many times one is told.

  A flicker of a smile passed over his lips, and I wondered if he thought me ignorant.

  “Everyone’s gone to an enormous effort,” I said, feeling rather defensive. “To get it right, I mean. Not to offend anyone.”

  “Indeed.”

  “My name is Nurse Willoughby, by the way,” I said in a rush. “Elizabeth Willoughby.”

  “And I am Hari Mitra. Almost a doctor, but not quite.”

  The patients’ afflictions are many and varied, some caused by gunshots and shells, others simply by being stuck for so long in winter trenches. There is a horrible condition called “trench foot”, brought on by standing in cold water and mud, which begins as chilblains, then the feet pucker like after a long bath, the skin starts to rot and feeling is lost in the toes. Eventually the entire foot goes numb and it is impossible to walk. Many of our patients had amputations before they came to us, losing a foot or even the lower leg, right up to the knee.

  There are still plenty of operations to be done. This afternoon it was the turn of a man called Mohan Ram, who had terrible wounds to his abdomen and chest. The same piece of shell passed through them both, perforating his intestines. The French
surgeons had managed to save his life, but now the wound was infected. A terrible smell seeped through his bandages, the stink of dead and rotting flesh.

  Major Williams, our officer in charge, stood by his bed, speaking to him in Hindustani. Both of them seemed to be getting rather cross. Mr Mitra was standing by, and told me that Major Williams was trying to persuade Mohan Ram to let us explore the wound under anaesthetic so it could be properly drained and dressed, but that Mohan Ram had a different way of seeing things: he believed we should let fate take its course, and if it was time for him to die, then so be it. After a moment he added that Mohan Ram was probably also frightened of being cut open, as he came from a tiny village in the Himalayas and did not understand how modern medicine worked.

  The argument went on for some time. Eventually, Major Williams turned to Mr Mitra and asked him if there was anything he could do to change Mohan Ram’s mind.

  Mr Mitra thought for a moment, then moved close to Mohan Ram. Bending down, he spoke to him, his voice low. Mohan Ram frowned and then replied. Mr Mitra said something else. There was a pause, and then Mohan Ram gave a little sideways shake of his head.

  After that there was a flurry of activity as the orderlies came to wheel him into theatre. I turned to Mr Mitra, impressed.

  “How did you manage to persuade him?”

  “Izzat.”

  “Izzat?”

  It was hard to explain, he said. The best translation he could think of was “honour”, but it meant much more than that: reputation, saving face, prestige. It was one of the main reasons that the men had agreed to fight for Britain, just as important as the money they were paid for it, because it was glorious to die in battle. If one fought in a way that increased one’s izzat, he said, one would be spoken of and remembered after one’s death.