FIFTY-ONE
The sentry at the gate of the East Anglian CCS watched the single headlamp heading down the rutted lane towards him with rising alarm. Was it an ambulance with one light out? If so it was travelling at a real lickspittle. Judging from the way the beam was bouncing, the lad behind the wheel wasn’t slowing for potholes, nor keeping to the duckboards that had been laid. Then he heard the thin note of the engine. It was a motor cycle. Which made the speed even more reckless. Could really damage something, haring along like that.
As the noise and the yellow orb grew, he unslung his rifle. He had to keep up the formalities. He placed it at hip height, assumed an aggressive, bayonet-thrust position and set his jaw. It remained set until the moment he realized the bike didn’t intend to stop.
He nimbly hopped aside and caught a glimpse of the rider, face set in a grimace, a mass of curls streaming from her head, and the lolling figure behind on the pillion. It was Mrs Gregson. Everyone knew her and that red hair, and her strange motorcycling clothes.
‘Stop! Who goes there?’ he shouted ineffectually at the taillight. From the pocket of his greatcoat he took out the official CCS whistle – designed to alert staff of an ambulance convoy and gave three long blasts. Then he hesitated. Should he run after the bike rider and remonstrate or stay at his post? He had never heard of anyone being shot for not running after a mad motor-cyclist. He had, however, heard tell of those who had been shot for deserting their sentry duty. He blew three more times on the whistle. That should cover his back.
Mrs Gregson drove straight to the transfusion tent, where she knew an oxygen cylinder was still set up from the treatment of de Griffon. She killed the bike engine and kicked down the stand.
‘Major, just stay still,’ she said, as she dismounted. She tried to prop him up, but he flopped, as if deboned. ‘Major, can you hear—’
‘Mrs Gregson . . . oh, for goodness’ sake. Is it you alone? Not a convoy?’
Sister Spence, judging by the dressing gown tied tightly around her and her brushed hair, had been preparing for bed. Mrs Gregson could see other figures moving towards them, some dressing as they came.
‘Just me, Sister. Major Watson has been gassed.’
‘Gassed? But how? Why? By whom?’
All very good questions. None of which she could answer. ‘Can you give me a hand?’
Watson was leaning against her, his full weight pressing on her chest. Sister Spence came around the bike and took one of his arms, but as she did so he twisted and almost fell. Then he began to retch.
‘Hold on, Sister.’
Mrs Gregson crouched down and came up beneath Watson as he pitched forward, her shoulder meeting his waist. He jackknifed across her, steadied by Sister Spence.
‘There’ll be a stretcher in a minute.’
‘We might not have a minute.’ She straightened up, staggered a little and felt Sister Spence’s support. She carried him into the transfusion tent, each step wobblier than the last and pitched him onto the nearest bed.
‘Heavier than he looks,’ she said, one arm on the bedspread.
‘What kind of gas?’
‘Chlorine. He’ll need oxygen. Over there.’
For a second Mrs Gregson thought Sister Spence was going to object to being ordered around, but she gave a curt nod and went to fetch the trolley.
‘Oh my goodness!’ Miss Pippery, unable to decide who looked more shocking, Watson or her friend. ‘George, are you all right?’ Her eyes went down to Watson. ‘Is—’
‘Alice,’ Mrs Gregson said calmly, ‘his eyes need irrigating. And his mouth. It’s poison gas.’
Mrs Gregson watched approvingly as she, too, snapped into action. Other medical staff arrived, including Major Torrance, and soon Watson was being attended to by half a dozen willing hands, including Nurse Jennings.
‘How can I help?’ she asked as she entered the tent.
‘What are you doing here?’ Mrs Gregson replied.
‘I work here.’
‘Not for the past few days.’
Jennings prickled. ‘Twenty-four hours, I think you’ll find.’
‘He’s been worried sick.’
‘Who has?’
The nurse’s eyes flicked towards the bed holding Major Watson.
You have to be cleverer than that, Georgina.
‘Dr Myles,’ she said. ‘Very concerned about you.’
Jennings looked puzzled. ‘I don’t see why. Is he here?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘No. What are you talking about, Mrs Gregson? Have you been at the ether?’
‘No. Have you been at Dr Myles?’
Jennings’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. She knew better than to cross swords with this woman. The Red She-Devil was capable of anything. ‘I haven’t seen anything of Dr Myles since I left the CCS.’
‘My apologies, I . . . a misunderstanding.’
Watson began to retch again. Jennings pulled off his oxygen mask. ‘We’ll need another oxygen cylinder. This one is nearly empty. Shall I organize one?’
‘If you would,’ said Mrs Gregson, unsure why everyone was suddenly doing her bidding.
After Jennings had departed to find an orderly, Mrs Gregson walked over to where they had slung Watson’s tunic, reached into the pocket and brought out his magnifying glass. In the dim light she read the inscription on the handle. It was so tiny, she almost needed a second glass to decipher it.
To my all-seeing eye, my steadfast companion and my infallible conscience, with my eternal gratitude, S.H.
She backed slowly out of the tent. For the moment those tending to Dr Watson didn’t notice. Only Alice looked up and a quick shake of the head warned her not to draw attention to the exit. If Mrs Gregson stayed, someone would start quizzing her about what had happened at the farm. She didn’t have enough answers yet. She had to go and fetch de Griffon, bring him back for a check-up. And, now Watson was incapacitated, she had to carry on his work. Mrs Gregson slipped the magnifying glass into her pocket, feeling as if a baton had been passed on.