Tears pricked Ellen’s eyes as she saw incredulous joy and hope on the soldiers’ faces

By the beginning of July the stream of wounded into Royaumont had begun to lessen, although the air raids continued. Miss Ivens relayed the orders that the hospital was to be emptied to make ready for the next wave of wounded when the French launched their counter-attack. Ellen said goodbye to Jed one hot morning; he was returning to England to convalesce, and then travel back to Canada. “Shall I see you again?” he asked as he embraced her lightly with his one good arm. His empty sleeve was pinned neatly back.

“Of course!” Ellen cried. In that moment she could not imagine not seeing Jed or Lucas or Aunt Rose or the island again. “I shall come back,” she promised. “When the war is over.”

Jed just smiled. “Until then,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek.

Ellen stayed outside the abbey doors, watching the dust settle on the road long after the lorry that was taking him to Creil had gone.

Misery

In August the staff began to feel the strain. Several doctors were sent home due to nervous collapse, and Miss Ivens wrote frantic letters for more staff. Then in September, both staff and patients began to come down with influenza.

Ellen was soon nursing her own compatriots along with the wounded. Marjorie and Norah both succumbed, but were back at their posts by October, while Ellen remained immune.

The days and nights blurred together and she often fell asleep standing up, a cup of tea in her hand. She had learned to sleep through the screaming of the airraid siren or the booms of the bombs, through the shuddering of the whole abbey, as if the ancient cloisters might collapse on top of them, and the groaning of the poor soldiers.

She’d jolt awake after a few minutes or perhaps an hour and hurry back to her duties. And so the months both slid by and stretched on, as everyone waited for word that there would be an end to all the misery.

Then it happened, and Ellen could hardly believe it was true. General Descoings came to the hospital at eight o’clock one November morning, his face solemn. “La guerre est finie.”

A stunned silence followed his announcement and then cheers went up as the nurses and orderlies hurried through the wards, announcing the news. Tears pricked Ellen’s eyes as she saw incredulous joy and hope on the soldiers’ faces, and then cries went up from every ward. “Vive la France! Vive l’angleterre! Vive les Alliés!”

She found Marjorie and Letitia, tears of relief streaming down their faces. It was over.

A spirit of jollity swept through the hospital. Someone found the old bell rope and pulled and pulled so the bell high above the abbey rang for at least five minutes.

Letitia and Ellen were in the Canada ward with Norah, listening to a troupe of singers, when a man suddenly burst through the doors, hobbling with the help of a single crutch, his expression rather fierce. Letitia turned, her face filled with apprehension. “Lucien –” Lucien did not answer as he hobbled up to Letitia, took her in his arms and kissed her. The cheers from all the patients who watched were deafening. Laughing, Ellen and Norah put their hands over their ears, grinning.

Letitia pulled back from Lucien. “Does this mean you’ll marry me?” she asked, and the soldiers in their beds roared in approval. “Non,” Lucien declared. “You will marry me!”

Celebrations

Later that night, as Ellen sat in a corner of a ward and let the celebrations wash over her, Norah came to find her. The last few months at Royaumont had been so busy that Ellen had barely exchanged a word with her old mentor and landlady.

Four years on, they sat in peaceful quiet as colleagues and watched as soldiers who were well enough to leave their beds did the can-can, accompanied by cheers, jests and lively music.

“I wasn’t sure we could experience such happiness again,” Norah said quietly. “Nor I,” Ellen agreed. “I hope it lasts.”

“I hope you haven’t become cynical.” “Haven’t we all?”

“Perhaps,” Norah allowed. “Will you return to Glasgow, Ellen? Your position will still be there for you, I am sure.”

“I don’t know.” Ellen leaned her head against a stone pillar. “I don’t know what I shall do, Norah. I want to go back to Canada, but I’m afraid there’s nothing to go back to.”

“Perhaps you need to see if that is true,” Norah responded. “But I hope you will return to Glasgow one day.” Ellen nodded, still unsure as to what she would do, or where her home truly was.

Ellen did not return to Glasgow until March of 1919. She’d stayed behind with a handful of other doctors, nurses and orderlies to care for the hundred or so patients who could not yet be moved.

By March there was nothing left to do and yet Ellen was still reluctant to leave what had been her home for four years. Miss Ivens seemed to understand her feelings, for she gave her a surprising hug and told her to “find your way, wherever it leads you.”

Ellen travelled to Boulogne on a raw March day and then across the Channel, before taking the train up to Glasgow. She stepped off the train with a sense of unreality. She had not been back since August 1914. She still wore her nursing uniform and several passers-by gave her warm smiles of approval.

Weakened

She walked from the station to the house she’d shared with Ruby and Doug. She knew from their letters that they had kept safe during the war, though Doug had been further weakened by a bout of influenza.

Now she stood in front of the house and shook her head, amazed that she was actually there. She realised she didn’t have a key, and so she stepped up to the door and knocked.

Ruby answered the door, looking as cheerful and pretty as ever, if a little more careworn. Her mouth dropped open as she saw Ellen and then she threw her arms around her. “Oh, Ellen! You never said you were coming back!”

“I’m sorry,” Ellen said as her arms closed around Ruby. “I should have sent a telegram.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Ruby exclaimed. “Come in, come in. You look ready to drop.”

“I’m all right,” Ellen said, and she followed Ruby into the kitchen where they’d shared so much. Ruby made a pot of tea and she and Douglas regaled Ellen with the news they’d stored up over the last four years. Ellen knew some of it from their letters, but she was glad to hear it all again.

More tomorrow.

On Renfrew Street was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. For more great fiction, get The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.

Artwork: Dave Young.