On Renfrew Street, Day27

Letitia didn’t answer; her face looked frozen and then, to Ellen’s shock, she burst into tears

It seemed like an impossible luxury for Ellen and Letitia to be having a picnic on a rare break from hospital duties, while all around them a terrible war cut its way through France and Belgium. “Do you remember at the beginning they said they’d be home by Christmas? ”Letitia mused. “Miss Ivens never thought that,” Ellen countered. “She set up the hospital in December.”

“I think women can see sense more than men can,” Letitia answered with asperity and Ellen smiled. “I suppose you are thinking of Lucien Allard.”

Letitia pressed her lips together. “I don’t ever think of him.” “Oh, Letitia!” Ellen shook her head. “He is handsome, is he not?”

“Handsome enough, I suppose,” Letitia answered with a shrug. “But honestly, Ellen, you are worse than some of the orderlies! I am not here to have a grand romance.” “Of course not. But if one happened ...” “With Lieutenant Allard? I grant he is charming, but what Frenchman isn’t? And he lives in Algeria, of all places. What future could we possibly have?”

“You have thought of all that?” Ellen countered. “Then you must like him more than you’ve let on.” Romance

“I don’t,” Letitia answered automatically, but she blushed and Ellen laughed, daring to tease her friend a little more. “You do! Oh, Letitia, I am glad for you. I think you could use a little romance in your life.”

Letitia didn’t answer; her face looked frozen and then, to Ellen’s shock, it crumpled and she burst into tears. “Oh, I’m sorry!” Ellen exclaimed. “I didn’t realise. I’ve been thoughtless. Letitia, I am sorry.”

“No.” Letitia shook her head and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m being so foolish. Hope is such a dangerous thing, isn’t it? I see that now more than ever. We bandage these poor boys up and push them out the door, most likely to their deaths. And so much of the suffering is needless.” She shook her head, her tears drying on her cheeks. “We are perhaps a few feet ahead of where we were last summer after the Somme rushes. A whole year of fighting, and who knows how many thousands dead, and for what? A few paltry feet of ground?” She sank back on to the blanket, her expression turning grim. “I hate this war,” she said flatly.

Ellen remained silent, for what could she say? She hated the war, too; they all did by now, though few spoke of it. Miss Ivens was adamant that her staff keep their spirits up and yet, as the months had slid into years and so little had changed, as each battle had become bloodier and the casualties had mounted up and the soldiers who had once been cheerful became gaunt and hollow-eyed, who could keep from questioning the point of it all?

“I can’t care,” Letitia said quietly. “I can’t care about any of them, Ellen, and certainly not Lieutenant Allard. It’s simply too dangerous.”

Ellen continued to reflect on her friend’s words as they packed up their picnic and headed back to the abbey. She understood Letitia’s sentiment, of course. She’d felt it herself. Losing Jed to Louisa and then, far worse, losing Henry when the Titanic had sunk, had certainly made her wary of caring about anyone.

But to keep your heart safe, she thought, as she brought their picnic basket to the kitchen with thanks to Michelet, was a lonely way of living. She hoped Letitia would dare one day. Perhaps she would, too. Permission

The fighting continued at Ypres through the summer, although the trains of wounded soldiers tapered off, for a decision had been taken that Royaumont was now too far from the Front to take the wounded to.

Miss Ivens wrote letter after letter to the British authorities, asking for permission to staff a field hospital closer to the Front, suggesting that Royaumont itself could move as a body, if not the abbey stones. She received no reply and so the hospital entered a strange interlude of quiet and peace despite the massive casualties they heard about to the north, at the third battle of Ypres.

“We are worse than helpless,” Letitia said, shaking her head, as she walked among the wards of convalescing soldiers. The worst of the injured, the cases of gas gangrene and flying shrapnel and bullet wounds, no longer came to the abbey’s operating theatres and surgical wards. All that remained were soldiers who had minor wounds or were sent there to convalesce.

Lieutenant Lucien Allard was one of the remaining soldiers, although his private, Henri Sahnoun, had returned to the Front, along with most of his regiment.

Ellen had observed Letitia’s gently unfolding friendship with the lieutenant. She’d seen her friend’s tight-lipped expression softening into a smile on more than one occasion as Lucien teased her out of her seriousness. Ellen did not mention Lucien to Letitia again and even the orderlies who had teased her before were silent.

But she watched as Letitia spared a moment for the charming lieutenant, and she smiled when she saw him touch her hand as she perched on the edge of his bed. In times like these, she thought, you had to grab what happiness you could.

In late July, as the battle at Ypres raged on, an infection developed in Lucien’s wound and he began to run a high fever. Ellen didn’t dare say anything of it to Letitia, who remained grim-faced as she checked his dressings before calling Miss Ivens for a consultation. Infection

“I’m afraid it doesn’t look at all well, Miss Portman,” Miss Ivens said while Ellen stood by the door. “Look at the angry redness all along his leg,” she continued. “I do fear the infection has entered his blood. If his fever does not come down by the end of the night and those red streaks do not reduce, then we are looking at an amputation.”

Letitia’s face went pale, but she nodded grimly, her mouth set. “Better an amputation than a death,” Miss Ivens said gently.

Dawn broke and Lucien’s fever did not. With a sad shake of her head, Miss Ivens indicated that the operating theatre should be prepared. Miss Ivens nodded towards Ellen.

“You may assist, nurse,” she said, and with her heart seeming to beat its way up her throat, Ellen followed them into the theatre.

Just a few minutes later it was done, and Lucien’s leg was amputated above the knee, the blood staunched, the wound bandaged.

Letitia said nothing as she saw to Lucien’s dressings and then two orderlies wheeled him on a stretcher into a separate room for recovery. 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