Ardnish Was Home Episode 6

Without the distractions of sight, I seem to possess an extraordinary ability to recollect the smallest things

Louise speaks again. “You’re not coarse like many of the other soldiers, DP. You know things, too. You’re an educated man.”

“No, no. I’m not, I’m not,” I insist. “But we did have a strict upbringing – no swearing in the house. My father treated my mother well, they respect each other, and there has always been a feeling that God is somewhere nearby.

“Grace before every meal and family prayers on our knees before bed. My parents were always teaching us things.”

“Mmm,” murmurs Louise. “It wasn’t like that in our house. Rest now, and I’ll be back to see you later.”

As she heads off, the patients come to life with groans and coughs. I can hear a man peeing into a glass jar. There are raised voices as a soldier is brought down from the lines, probably with dysentery. Gulls screech; plenty of pickings for them.

I had heard that losing one of the senses made the others more alert, and I am aware of straining to hear and identify everything much more than I did before.

Outside, I hear female Turkish voices. There are a couple of women who come along the shore and sell cigarettes, coffee, bread and other things to the soldiers. They do a roaring trade, with troops queuing to buy everything.

Concerned

The women take anything as currency: army boots, pound notes and even the contents of our ration packs. The officers did their best at first to stop it, but the women would just appear somewhere else, and there was always a willing buyer.

The officers are concerned that our secrets will get back to the Turks, as no doubt they do, but it seems to us that our shortage of water and the position of the casualty station are the only two things they have learned, which they were certain to know, anyway.

The men revel in having Turkish cigarettes, which are much stronger than those issued to us and rather more exotic.

Louise has a close friend, and when I had been in the clearing station for a few days she brought her over.

“DP, this is Prissie, my best friend. She’s working with the doctors in the operating tent.”

Now and again, Prissie comes by and we have a wee chat; she is very amusing and I am delighted to listen to her. One day, she appeared with some dried green beans, which she’d bought from the Turkish women and had cooked.

She passed them around the tent. “Eat these,” she encouraged the men, “they’re good for you.”

Not many vegetables come our way so we were happy to comply.

WAR

Louise is coming. I can hear her footsteps. It must be late; there is only the snuffling from the man beside me. Beyond I hear the rhythmic crash of the waves on the rocky beach and the accompanying rumble of the stones as they shift with the water.

An occasional rifle shot can be heard on the hills above – maybe some poor woman is a widow now.

Louise kneels beside the bed and takes my hand. “The sergeant’s just died.”

We don’t talk for a while. I think about him. He’d been shot in the thigh and had lost a lot of blood. His strong Lancashire accent was but a whisper, and although he must have been in terrible pain, he suffered it silently.

More than half of those who make it as far as the field hospital end up dying – a limb blown off or a bullet hole, often in the head as that’s what the Turkish snipers can see sticking above the trench.

When a big push happens, huge numbers of men spill in here. There are separate tents for those with dysentery, the most common ailment.

Louise clearly enjoys my stories and I look forward to our conversations.

As the days pass, I lie there and remind myself of things to tell her. Without the distractions of sight, I seem to possess an extraordinary ability to recollect the smallest things.

I remember an incident from almost 10 years ago. Sheena and I were walking along Loch Eilt on the way home from spending a few days in Glenfinnan with friends of the family.

Along came Mr Cameron-Head in his new car. It was the first car I’d seen and we stepped out of the way to let him pass.

My mouth was wide with wonder, apparently, and I was stuck for words when he stopped and offered us a lift.

He talked all the way home. “Real leather seats. It’s American,” he said, “a Cadillac. They’re the best.”

Sheena wasn’t struck dumb like me and blethered away to him quite happily.

He offered her a cigarette – her first, she said unnecessarily, as she coughed and spluttered.

There isn’t a detail too small for me to remember of that day: how small the rough track was for that big car, how I had to get out and push stones out of the way, and how grown-up my sister was after all.

Tension

Louise hates Doctor Sheridan, and therefore so do I. Every time he comes to the tent there is tension; she lets nothing slip and he knows it.

She challenges him constantly. “And where did you train? Did you know Matron Murray at St Bart’s? Who was there? What do you think about this man’s fever?”

He gets his revenge, I suspect, by prodding and poking me a lot more harshly than he needs to.

Being treated by him is like being wounded all over again, rather than the silky healing caress of Louise.

I can tell he wants to get away from us as quickly as possible, so thankfully his visits are short. Lots of other tents to visit, he exclaims as he departs.

Louise is from Wales, and over time I learn about her family: her father’s hell in the coal mines and how it is her dream to be a farmer’s wife.

I determine there and then that I will be that farmer if I am to survive – although making a living in the village is barely possible.

So I tell her I will go home to be a fisherman and have my own boat, or else be a ghillie for the Astley-Nicholsons at Arisaig House. We don’t discuss the likelihood of my making it back alive at all.

More tomorrow.

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