The Stolen Years. Fiona Hood-Stewart

mind haunted by her image.

      He slept, woke, slept again. When he regained consciousness, it was dark. He could feel his aching body, racked by fever. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wondered where the others were, wondered if he was back in the truck, returning to the hospital in Frieburg, but the effort to reason was too great and he drifted off once more.

      5

      Etaples, France, 1917

      The first few days after Angus’s arrival were grueling. Endless convoys of wounded packed the corridors, as soldiers and enemy prisoners continued to arrive, day and night. Flora functioned in a numb daze, grief and exhaustion mingling with the putrid stench of flesh that permeated the crude operating theater. Preparing the frightened patients for surgery she strove to quell the terror in the eyes of those aware of the risks they faced. Over and over again she waited for the moment when, even in her weakened state, she felt the change within that warned of the imminent delivery of a soul ready to be released.

      Flora saw little of Angus during those first chaotic days. The facility was inadequately staffed, and every hand was needed. There was little hierarchy at these times, V.A.D., nurses and the doctors pooling their energies in a superhuman effort to save as many lives as they could. Occasionally, she took a few precious minutes off, to walk outside and gaze at the far-off fields behind the lines, intrigued by a solitary cottage that stood alone. Like a dollhouse, it was surrounded by a well-tended garden of pansies and columbines. Against the hollow echoes of shell fire, it made her wonder if the rest was all a dream. The tiny cottage somehow made it impossible to comprehend that only a few miles away war raged, cruel and pitiless, and that the body of the man she loved lay buried in the blood-soaked earth.

      By two weeks after learning of Gavin’s death, Flora’s shock had quieted down. She was able to get some sleep at night, and visited Angus occasionally during the day. He continued to spend his days sitting, pale and silent. Distant. And she worried, knowing she must give him some affection, concerned that the shell shock was worse than she had at first believed. She’d been too caught up in her own sorrow, she realized guiltily, and with all the critical cases, there was little time allotted to those suffering from psychological wounds. There was simply no one to help them, except the chaplain in the few moments he could spare.

      Walking into his ward later that day, Flora saw the hope that gleamed, for these men knew they were going home. They joked with one another, denying the past, looking toward the future—or a reprieve, at least, from the hell they had left behind in the trenches. But Angus didn’t talk; instead, he sat alone and aloof, in a world of his own.

      “How are you, Angus?” she asked, touching his shoulder gently.

      He looked up with a start.

      “Flo.”

      “It’s my tea break.” She sat opposite him on a wooden stool, smiling bravely. “Are you better?”

      “Fine.” But his face was gray, eyes bleary, and he hadn’t shaved.

      She glanced at him uncertainly then decided to speak anyway. “You know we can’t pretend it hasn’t happened, Angus dear. He’s gone. I know that it seems so strange…unbelievable, in fact.” She clasped her hands, forcing back the tears that threatened to burst forth whenever she mentioned Gavin’s precious name. “Sometimes I think I’m going to turn round and see him standing behind me,” she whispered, swallowing. “The odd thing is, I haven’t felt him at all. You know what I mean,” she added quickly.

      “Do you think he’d come to you?” he asked, a glimmer of hope lighting his eyes.

      “I don’t know. I don’t know enough about it. Just what I feel when the men are dying. The same as I used to when the animals were hurt or something bad was going to happen when we were little. Remember?”

      He nodded, his eyes hollow.

      They sat, absorbed in their own thoughts as a gramophone droned in the smoky air.

      “I could have saved him,” Angus whispered suddenly. “I could have done something and I didn’t. Why couldn’t I move? Why was I paralyzed with fear? I’m a coward, Flo. And because of that he’s dead and I’m alive. Oh God.” He buried his head in his hands.

      “You must stop, Angus. It wasn’t your fault. You aren’t to blame. Shell shock is as bad as any other wound, it just doesn’t show.” She pried his fingers from his face. “Angus, please. You can’t go through life feeling guilty for something you didn’t do. The war is to blame, not you. You must think of poor Uncle Hamish and Tante Constance.”

      “It should have been me. It would have been so much better if it had.”

      “Stop it. We all need you, Uncle, Tante—and me,” she pleaded, hoping she could reach through the barrier he’d erected.

      Angus raised his head, and propped his chin on his hand. “You know, he asked me something just…before it happened.”

      “Asked you what?” She frowned, her pulse beating faster.

      “We were reading your letter, talking about you—” He stopped midsentence, far away once more.

      “And what did he say?” she prompted softly.

      He blinked, then continued. “As I said, we were talking about you, and…well…” He stopped, focusing on her. “He said that if anything happened to him, I should marry you,” he blurted out, closing his eyes.

      Flora sat up with a start. “Marry me? But why would he say that?”

      “I don’t know,” he shrugged and glanced toward the men playing cards in their worn, striped dressing gowns and carpet slippers, smoke and two flies swirling around the lightbulb above them. “I know he wanted to marry you himself. He loved you, you know.”

      “I’ll always love him.” She swallowed, clasping and un-clasping her hands, and realized she’d referred to him in the present tense. “It wouldn’t be fair if I married you or anybody else.”

      “Yes, it would. I don’t care. I know I’m more like a brother to you, Flo, but at least we’d have each other. We could share what’s left of him.” His eyes became suddenly brighter.

      “We’ll talk about it once you’re better. You’re in shock just now. We’ll see later. Try and rest.” She got up quickly, the gleam in his eyes making her uncomfortable. “I have to get back to the ward, but I’ll come by tomorrow.”

      “All right. You really will come, won’t you?”

      “Of course.” She hesitated before speaking. “Are you sure that was what he meant?” she asked, her voice cracking.

      “Yes. He didn’t want you to…belong to anyone else.” He glanced away, cheeks flushed, and Flora felt her own face burning. She had never talked about that, even with Gavin.

      “I—I have to run. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

      She turned and almost ran from the ward. The thought of giving herself to anyone but Gavin was unbearable.

      That afternoon and evening she worked herself into a stupor. It was only late that night when she lay in the dark, curled under her army blanket, that she allowed Angus’s words to surface once more. Tears for all that should have been and now would never be, for shattered dreams and cherished hopes buried, soaked her pillow.

      Still, as days passed, she thought more and more about what Angus had said about facing the future together. In some ways, it made sense. It wasn’t only Gavin who had died. There were so many others, friends and relations, of their generation. Perhaps the only way to survive in the new world that would emerge after the war was by sticking together through thick and thin. Before leaving her quarters, she combed back her chestnut hair into a neat bun and placed her cap on it. But now was not the time for decisions. First, they had to win the war, only then could they try to heal the scars.

      That