sap left in him. But not only would it have been inappropriately forward, looking down at his blood-spattered shirt and jacket, he could see he probably looked positively desiccated. She was right, nobody would imagine him capable of mischief.
Sister Spence’s uniform, he noted, was immaculate, as was the interior of the bell tent, with its wardrobe trunk for her clothes, an improvised dressing table holding an ebonized mirror-and-brush set, and a wrought-iron washstand with jug and bowl and, on a lower level, two oblong aluminium hot-water bottles. The only incongruous note was struck by a leather
Pickelhaube
, the infamous spiked German helmet, which hung down next to the Coleman lantern in the centre of the tent.
‘A battlefield souvenir,’ Sister Spence said, noticing his interest. ‘I don’t agree with them, robbing bodies is a ghastly business, but it was donated by a grateful Tommy. They can be raffled back home and raise a pretty penny for the medical services. Helmets, medals and those nasty saw-edged bayonets, they fetch the most. And these hideous spiked ones are becoming rare now. Sit there.’ She pointed to a folding chair next to her camp bed and he lowered himself into it. He longed for Brindle to appear and pull his Latimers off; his feet were throbbing. A Turkish bath would be the thing. Whenever he felt old and rheumatic, he sought out Nevill’s on Northumberland Avenue. He could almost conjure the smell of steam in his nostrils.
The sister appeared to be clairvoyant. ‘You know, the monks at the monastery left us one very useful item. A brewery. Oh, don’t get your hopes up, not for producing beer. The wooden vats make for very handy washtubs these days. A good soak works wonders, even here. The orderlies should have hot water ready when you get up there.’
He nearly groaned with pleasure at the thought of scrubbing his skin almost raw. That and a pipe of Schippers, an indulgence he had denied himself at the request of Emily – she had always loathed the smell on her clothes and in her hair – and which he was now of a mind to resume. However, having no ready supply of his tobacco of choice, he would have to make do with one of his Bradley’s before he turned in.
‘And there’ll be food. As I said, no milk, but we have plenty of eggs. And bread. Here you are, Major.’
She handed over the drink. As he went to take it, he noted his shaking hand with some surprise. It felt as if it belonged to another man. Yet there it was at the end of his arm, agitating the chocolate in the tin mug, as bad as any delirium tremens he had ever seen. There was something else, too, a pressure building in his chest, and the sensation that only by screaming at the top of his lungs could he release it.
‘And this,’ said Sister Spence firmly.
It was a hefty tot of rum in a blue crystal liqueur glass, which he took from her and threw back, coughing as it caught in his throat. He felt the pressure behind his breastbone ease as the fiery alcohol coursed down to his stomach.
‘Better?’
He nodded. ‘You know, it wasn’t until I saw the hospital tents from the ship, rows of them along the clifftops, that I began to appreciate the scale of what is happening out here.’ It had been a continuous line, running, so he was told, all the way from Calais to Boulogne. ‘Then, when I saw the trenches from the air—’
Sister Spence interrupted him. ‘Personally, I think it helps if you try and block out what our Major Torrance calls “the bigger picture”. Oh, it’s all very well getting that if you are a general. But I feel we should concentrate on the case before you at any given moment, as if it is just a singular event. If you try and take in what is happening across Europe . . . it could drive a man quite mad. A lack of imagination can sometimes be a blessing.’
Watson thought he didn’t lack for imagination, but even so, he had trouble contemplating the vastness of the medical operation, about how
Sister Spence’s uniform, he noted, was immaculate, as was the interior of the bell tent, with its wardrobe trunk for her clothes, an improvised dressing table holding an ebonized mirror-and-brush set, and a wrought-iron washstand with jug and bowl and, on a lower level, two oblong aluminium hot-water bottles. The only incongruous note was struck by a leather
Pickelhaube
, the infamous spiked German helmet, which hung down next to the Coleman lantern in the centre of the tent.
‘A battlefield souvenir,’ Sister Spence said, noticing his interest. ‘I don’t agree with them, robbing bodies is a ghastly business, but it was donated by a grateful Tommy. They can be raffled back home and raise a pretty penny for the medical services. Helmets, medals and those nasty saw-edged bayonets, they fetch the most. And these hideous spiked ones are becoming rare now. Sit there.’ She pointed to a folding chair next to her camp bed and he lowered himself into it. He longed for Brindle to appear and pull his Latimers off; his feet were throbbing. A Turkish bath would be the thing. Whenever he felt old and rheumatic, he sought out Nevill’s on Northumberland Avenue. He could almost conjure the smell of steam in his nostrils.
The sister appeared to be clairvoyant. ‘You know, the monks at the monastery left us one very useful item. A brewery. Oh, don’t get your hopes up, not for producing beer. The wooden vats make for very handy washtubs these days. A good soak works wonders, even here. The orderlies should have hot water ready when you get up there.’
He nearly groaned with pleasure at the thought of scrubbing his skin almost raw. That and a pipe of Schippers, an indulgence he had denied himself at the request of Emily – she had always loathed the smell on her clothes and in her hair – and which he was now of a mind to resume. However, having no ready supply of his tobacco of choice, he would have to make do with one of his Bradley’s before he turned in.
‘And there’ll be food. As I said, no milk, but we have plenty of eggs. And bread. Here you are, Major.’
She handed over the drink. As he went to take it, he noted his shaking hand with some surprise. It felt as if it belonged to another man. Yet there it was at the end of his arm, agitating the chocolate in the tin mug, as bad as any delirium tremens he had ever seen. There was something else, too, a pressure building in his chest, and the sensation that only by screaming at the top of his lungs could he release it.
‘And this,’ said Sister Spence firmly.
It was a hefty tot of rum in a blue crystal liqueur glass, which he took from her and threw back, coughing as it caught in his throat. He felt the pressure behind his breastbone ease as the fiery alcohol coursed down to his stomach.
‘Better?’
He nodded. ‘You know, it wasn’t until I saw the hospital tents from the ship, rows of them along the clifftops, that I began to appreciate the scale of what is happening out here.’ It had been a continuous line, running, so he was told, all the way from Calais to Boulogne. ‘Then, when I saw the trenches from the air—’
Sister Spence interrupted him. ‘Personally, I think it helps if you try and block out what our Major Torrance calls “the bigger picture”. Oh, it’s all very well getting that if you are a general. But I feel we should concentrate on the case before you at any given moment, as if it is just a singular event. If you try and take in what is happening across Europe . . . it could drive a man quite mad. A lack of imagination can sometimes be a blessing.’
Watson thought he didn’t lack for imagination, but even so, he had trouble contemplating the vastness of the medical operation, about how
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