Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [51]
“I thought you might be offended,” he had said with a sense of relief.
They had stood together side by side on the road—he tidy, dry-footed, actually quite smart, she with her boots caked in mud, the bottom of her skirt sodden wet and blood on her sleeves. Her hair had been pinned up hastily and untidily, but her face was designed for tenderness and there was a kind of beauty in her nothing could hide.
“Then you don’t know me, Mr. Mason,” she had replied. “I am not interested in proving to you that I can change a wheel. I care only about getting these men to a hospital as quickly as possible, and two of us will do that more quickly than I can alone. Thank you.” And with another smile, cooler this time, she had climbed up into the driver’s seat. She directed him to crank the engine for her and pass her the handle, which he had done obediently.
Their second encounter had been less accidental. He had wanted to talk to injured men in one of the field dressing stations and had deliberately chosen one where he knew she would be. He had watched her working quickly, grim-faced, cleaning the inside of her ambulance from a particularly bloody trip. He could smell the vinegar and carbolic in the water she had used. Her hands were raw with it.
He had brought her a cup of tea, pretty disgusting stuff made in a Dixie can and redolent of petrol and grease, but at least fairly hot. She had thanked him and drunk it without comment. It was a telling observation that she was so accustomed to the foul tea that she did not seem to notice. He still found it revolting.
They had talked a little, even laughed at a couple of current jokes. The occasion stood out in his memory because they had not quarreled. For a while he had deluded himself it was agreement. Later, he had thought it was more likely she simply cared too much about her men, and too little about him, to expend additional energy.
That was partly why he had wanted so urgently to go back to Ypres this time. He needed to know how she would respond to him now.
Ahead of him the mist was thickening as darkness approached. He could hear the guns in the distance and the smell of the trenches was in his nose and throat. As long as he lived he would never forget or become immune to the nausea of the taste of death in the air.
He should report to the commanding officer, as a matter of courtesy. The commander would be busy. Bombardment usually increased at this time of the day and would go on all night. There would be raiding parties, possibly a serious assault, even a whole battalion going over the top. Casualties could be heavy.
Mason thought again of Judith and in his mind’s eye she was smiling. She was a moment’s grace in a world drowned in ugliness. Drowned was too appropriate a word. It was raining again, not hard, just a steady gray pall over everything, blurring the road, smearing headlights, shining back off the pools of muddy water everywhere around them. With the coming of darkness it was getting colder.
Star shells went up, briefly lighting the sky. The guns were louder now. They were not more than a mile from the trenches. There was a slight wind carrying the smell of the latrines.
It took him another hour to reach the brigade headquarters and report his presence. He was received with courtesy, but no one had time to do more than be civil. He had bread and hot tea tasting of oil, and tinned Machonachie stew. No one told him where he could or could not go; his reputation was his passport to anything he wished.
It was a hard night. The Germans mounted a raid and were fought off with heavy casualties. No prisoners were taken, but there were half a dozen dead, and at least three times that many wounded.
When dawn came gray and bitterly cold, the east wind slicing