Ardnish Was Home Episode 27

T he next 24 hours were going to be crucial if DP was to live. Fortunately, there was a lull in new admissions and so I was able to concentrate on him. I sat beside him throughout that first night, to stop him rolling onto his injured side and to bathe his brow with cool water.

He was delirious, and kept calling out in Gaelic, words that were unintelligible to me. At times he would lie motionless with his eyes wide open.

They were in a dreadful condition, more like red welts filled with pus. Matron had decided that they should remain unbandaged to allow them to dry and heal better, and also allow us to monitor their condition for the first day or two. We used white salve on his burns to lessen the pain.

One time, when my face was only a few inches from his, I felt his hand come up and rest briefly on my neck, but I didn’t know if he was aware of what he had done.

Everyone was surprised that he survived the first night, but he was certainly still in danger. His commanding officer, Colonel Macdonald, came by to visit, and spoke to him in Gaelic for a long time before going. I don’t think DP heard a word of it, though.

Instructions

But the fever had definitely gone from him. He’d stopped shaking and would take a little of the porridge I spooned into his mouth.

After many hours, Prissie was told to relieve me, and Matron marched me to the nurses’ tent with firm instructions that I was not to reappear until the next morning.

My mind was in turmoil and it was ages before I drifted off into an exhausted sleep. Was he going to live? Had he recognised my voice, realised who I was? Had anyone said my name?

He couldn’t see, obviously, and he wouldn’t know I had also been posted to Gallipoli. I decided, with a twinge of sadness, that he was almost certain not to know and, though it broke my heart, I wasn’t going to tell him.

I couldn’t wait to tell Prissie everything, though. That night as we lay in our camp beds, I told her that DP was my Highland boy from the train, that we had a special connection. Did she remember when I went to my Dad’s funeral?

Prissie was astonished. She was so kind.

She wished me luck and held my hand tightly, but she did say that falling for a half-dead man wasn’t a good idea.

DP slowly improved over the next couple of days. His fever subsided, and he regained consciousness. I spent several hours a day at his bedside, talking about everything you can imagine.

He spoke little at first, reconciling himself to his injuries, and building up his strength. I fed him mashed food and gave him boiled water, and he often slept 12 fitful hours at a time.

His dreams were horrid and violent, and his body would twist to and fro, often damaging the tissue that was repairing during the day.

He would shout out Sandy’s name and the names of his family. He would plead for his captors to leave him alone, then he would cry silently. I shared his pain and wept along with him, though I was careful not to let anyone see me.

Attraction

I thought back to the train journey and wondered if it had just been a passing attraction. We had only spoken for a short time, really, on that train back to Wales.

But since then, I had often dreamed about him and wondered what had happened to him in the ensuing months. Now he was in my care, and I was as close to him as you could get.

My friends back home in Wales would have been practically measuring me up for my wedding dress, had they known how I felt.

A new Scottish General, Sir Hector Munro, arrived, and there were rumours that a retreat was being considered. Certainly there were no new troops arriving, so DP got more than his fair share of attention.

I was sure that he would soon be sent to the hospital ships, but, apart from one, they hadn’t yet returned from taking casualties to Malta. I was fairly sure I would be able to get on whatever ship he was on, anyway, I was well enough known by now.

About two weeks had passed since DP had come into the Clearing Station, and he was different from the broken, scarred and silent man I saw after his capture.

His face was still a mess, but it was scabbed rather than looking like livid raw meat.

His shoulder was healing well, and best of all it seemed that he might get some sight back in his right eye. He wasn’t strong by any means but I felt sure he was going to live. We had an easy rapport now, enjoying each other’s stories and company.

Thankfully, Dr Sheridan and I were working together less often. He was mainly in the operating tent and I was in the recovery tents.

Occasionally though, he would do a round. One morning, I noticed he was holding a tube of some thick yellow paste, which he seemed determined to force down DP’S throat.

Flustered

I asked him what it was, and he said that it was vitamins and minerals, to build DP’S strength. His own concoction, he volunteered. As usual, he wouldn’t catch my eye.

I told him in no uncertain terms that I was not happy about it, but he ignored me. I knew I could not let him continue, so I repeated what I’d said and told him I was going to get the senior doctor for a second opinion.

He became flustered and strode out of the tent. He had probably never been challenged like that before.

I was shaking and desperately needed to sit down. On the edge of DP’S bed, I covered my face with my hands, I was desperate to reach out for his hand, for his support, but didn’t. We had an audience.

Many of the other men in the ward had seen my act of defiance and were clearly on my side, but I prayed I wouldn’t be reported for insubordination and sent back to the ship. I was counting on the fact that he wouldn’t want too much attention on himself and his potions.

But even as I recovered myself, I knew I had become even more determined to expose him.

He became flustered and strode out of the tent. He had probably never been challenged like that before

Ardnish Was Home is published by Birlinn. The third novel in the series, Ardnish, was published in 2020. birlinn.co.uk