The Stolen Years. Fiona Hood-Stewart

down the ward she stopped to smooth the forehead of a sandy-haired private, relieved to find him calmer. But his limp pajama sleeve told its own tale, and she wondered for the thousandth time what it would be like if Gavin were to return like this. The thought was haunting. Again she chased away the images of his tall, handsome figure lying broken and maimed at the bottom of a trench, his bright blue eyes dulled by pain and his thick, black hair caked with blood and mud.

      Shuddering, she headed toward the screens raised ominously around Jimmy McPherson, a young private brought in yesterday for whom little could be done. She slipped behind the divide and gazed unhappily into a pair of delirious eyes that glittered, bright and frantic, above fiery emaciated cheeks.

      With nobody to alleviate his soft moans of agony, Flora lay the flashlight on the nightstand and realized that all she could do now was pray. Reaching out, she took the boy’s hot, dry hand in hers, begging not for his recovery, but for a quick release from this horrendous suffering.

      “Allow him to go in peace, dear Lord,” she pleaded, holding her other hand close to the young man’s feverish brow.

      All at once, her body became weightless, as though she were not a part of it, and a strong sensation of energy ran through her. It had occurred several times, always with those patients on the brink of death who seemed unable to let go of life. As on the other occasions, she suddenly felt an invisible presence. The heat from Jimmy’s brow abated, his eyes cleared and his chapped lips moved. Flora leaned closer, desperate to catch his last, whispered words.

      “Tell Mother I planted the daffodils for her. Tell her…” But the rest was lost as his eyes closed and life ebbed gently away, and Flora watched in motionless awe as two hazy shadows appeared above the bed. She saw him rise out of his body and walk away between them.

      Slowly, as the dawn crept stealthily through the Victorian windows, the image faded and she became aware that her fingers still clasped the stiffening hand of the figure in the bed. Gently, she folded his hands over his chest and, with a final look at his expressionless countenance, devoid now of suffering, she pulled the sheet up over him. A rush of exhaustion followed and she clutched the railing of the cot as everything went black.

      Gradually she recovered her balance. The ward and its gloomy monotony came back into focus, and she stared as though seeing it for the first time. All at once, the endless rain battering the rattling panes of the old windows, the groans, the sickening scent of death and despondency, swooped down on her like a terrifying specter, and to her horror she feared she could not go on. Shame followed her initial panic as she faced her own inadequacy. Suddenly she wanted to run, escape from this dismal drudgery.

      “Nurse?” A harsh call from the door made Flora snap to and hurry to face the starched, disapproving matron. It was bad enough being surrounded by suffering, but the matron’s constant censure made matters worse. She never missed a chance to slip in a snide remark about the privileged few, coupled with derogatory reflections on Flora’s small frame. Added to that were the woman’s disdainful looks. Often Flora wished she were plain and invisible, ashamed of her trim figure, her misty gray eyes, delicate, translucent complexion and chestnut hair that the matron regarded as nothing less than the wiles of a wicked temptress.

      “I was just doing the rounds, Matron,” she murmured hurriedly, afraid her expression might give her thoughts away. “I’m afraid poor Private McPherson passed away.”

      “I see. I hope you filled out the chart properly, Nurse. I won’t stand for any inefficiency.” She peered ominously through a pair of thick, horn-rimmed glasses perched on the beak of her bony nose. Behind them, her small, steely eyes glinted like two metal buttons. “You can finish cleaning the floors before you go. There’s to be no slacking. And mind your posture, Nurse. I won’t have slouches on my ward.”

      Mustering her dignity, Flora straightened her sore back and dragged herself to the laundry to get a mop and pail, feeling the matron’s piercing gaze boring into her back as she trundled down the corridor. She cleaned the floor with aching arms and sighed with relief when the clock finally struck seven, careful to make herself scarce before the woman found another last-minute task for her to perform.

      Flora grabbed her cloak and umbrella, left the drab building and made her way through the heavy rain to a shelter on the street corner. There she waited for the tram that would take her to the end of Prince’s Street, where Murray and the car would be waiting to take her home. She leaned against the damp wall, staring at the rising mist still clinging to the flagged pavement, and glanced shamefacedly at the peeling posters with their patriotic appeals. What right had she to complain, when everyone was suffering just as she was? Still, she knew she’d reached the end of her tether and could not stand the ward or the matron’s badgering any longer.

      At the sound of the tram’s approach, Flora went to the curb and waved it down. The aged conductor gave a tired smile. She sat down on the wooden bench, relieved to be off her feet, and considered her situation. As a solution presented itself, a slow smile and a tingle of excitement replaced the shame and fear. Why hadn’t she thought of it earlier? The Foreign Service! Perhaps it wasn’t here at home that she was needed but at the front. Perhaps there, in the midst of it all, she could be of true help, offering more than the menial tasks the matron assigned her. She steadied herself as the tram rumbled along, filled with newfound inner strength, elated despite the physical and emotional fatigue. All at once Jimmy McPherson’s passing and the strange, recurring experiences made sense.

      Then she remembered Tante Constance and Uncle Hamish and her heart sank. What would they say? They were sure to protest. Technically, they could even stop her from going. Like Gavin and Angus, their sons, she had lied about her age to become a V.A.D. Still, her mind was made up. Somewhere deep within, a dogged voice summoned, as though the young private’s death had opened a window to her soul, making the months of frustration and endurance—of patiently washing slops and cleaning bowls, rolling bandages and running endless errands—worthwhile.

      She gazed out of the clammy window at the drizzling morning, wishing she were a man. Men were simply called up, and neither family nor personal commitment mattered before service to king and country. But for women it was different. The older generation, having so willingly given up their sons, husbands and brothers, considered it the duty of a young woman to attend to them. An ailing parent was enough to call a V.A.D. back from the front, leaving her no choice but to return, wretchedly divided between duty to her family and her country.

      Flora leaned forward, pulling her cape closer, anxiously imagining all the arguments her aunt and uncle were sure to put forward. But the more she thought, the more prepared she became to do battle if necessary. No matter how exhausting she found the Foreign Service, it couldn’t possibly be worse than the tedious, unrewarding pattern of the present, where the only highlight lay in Angus’s sporadic letters, carrying brief news of Gavin.

      With her six-month trial period complete, Flora was eligible to apply overseas. The government was appealing daily for V.A.D.s willing to go to the front. As the tram swung round the corner into Prince’s Street, a large billboard came into view, exhorting the population to trust in their country and support those brave young men and women at the front. It had to be an omen, Flora averred.

      The moment she reached the car, Flora instructed the chauffeur, who was too old for the war or the coal pits, to drive straight to the inscription office. There she waited for nearly an hour in a stuffy waiting room, while an efficient middle-aged woman in uniform sat behind a large desk, writing diligently. Flora stared at the carpet’s fading gray pattern, which was probably once blue, and read the announcements pinned on the walls. She fiddled nervously with the buttons of her cloak, convincing herself she’d done right to come.

      Finally the woman beckoned and Flora followed her down a colorless corridor to a door that had an opaque glass panel with RECRUITING written on it in bold, black letters. She was invited to sit down by an unusually sympathetic young matron who did not question too closely when she blushingly stated her age as nineteen. She merely filled in the blanks on the form, apparently glad that after three long years of pain, tedium and despair, some gallant souls were still ready to go to the western front. The interview went well, and by the end of half an hour she had