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 been accepted for foreign service.
Flora dropped her bombshell at dinner that evening, a formal affair despite the lack of servants. Tante Constance gazed helplessly down the gleaming stretch of fine Georgian mahogany decked with the usual array of silver and porcelain, silently seeking her husband’s opinion in the aftermath of the announcement. Flora fidgeted under the table, about to break the silence, when Tante Constance finally spoke, her French intonation still noticeable after twenty years of living in Scotland.
“But why you, ma chérie? They have so many nurses already. The conditions…Angus writes that conditions are appalling.” She appealed once more to her husband, who continued eating the meager soup, unusually quiet. “Hamish,” she exclaimed, irritated, “did you hear what Flora is suggesting? It is absurd, ridiculous—out of the question. I don’t think she should go. You agree, of course, Hamish, yes? It is impossible to permit the child to go. She was only sixteen last week! Mon Dieu! What would your poor cousin Seaton have said if he and Jane were still alive? I’m sure they would have been opposed to their only daughter going to the war.”
“But Tante, how could they be opposed when they themselves were the first to seek danger?” Flora blurted out. “The missions in Africa were very dangerous. That’s why they were killed. For what they believed in,” she pleaded, caught between the determination to go at all cost, and the boundaries of an upbringing that placed family considerations before all else.
“That was not at all the same. There was no war at the time and they were missionaries,” Tante Constance replied with a dismissive wave of the hand.
Flora bit her tongue, knowing it was useless to point out that her father—a distant cousin of Uncle Hamish’s—and her mother had lost their lives in the midst of a tribal feud. So she remained silent, anxiously waiting for Uncle Hamish to answer. Although he ran the MacLeod coal empire like a benevolent nineteenth-century dictator, he often reacted unexpectedly. It was he, despite all Tante’s supplications, who had allowed the twins to lie about their age and enlist, saying that in their place he would have done the same. Now, seeing his gray hair and lined face, it was easy to deduce what it had cost him. There must have been days when he rued his decision, wishing only for their safe return, questioning his own sanity for having allowed them to go. But her uncle bore that, and Tante Constance’s endless reproaches, in stoic silence.
She waited with bated breath as he laid down the soupspoon and carefully dabbed his thick mustache with a white linen napkin.
“This is a sudden and serious decision, my dear Flora. Are you certain that you have reflected sufficiently upon the matter?”
“Oh, yes, Uncle Hamish, I have,” she responded, meeting his gaze full on. “I can’t bear being useless here. I have to go,” she said simply.
He looked at her hard, then nodded silently before turning to his wife. “I respect Flora’s decision, just as I respected that of our two sons,” he said, continuing before Tante Constance could protest. “There is a war on, my dear. The flower of our youth has suffered its consequences, but so it is. And although, like you, I deplore the fact of her going, I can only applaud our dear Flora for her courage. Patriotism will wear thin soon if nothing breaks,” he added, tight-lipped. “If it weren’t for the endurance of our troops on the western front, their amazing courage and sacrifice, God knows what would become of us all. The future of our nation depends on the effort and fortitude of those willing to sacrifice their personal lives for a bigger cause. Therefore, I believe that she should go if that is her wish.” He turned back to Flora and smiled, his eyes filled with melancholic admiration. “We shall miss you dearly, child, but you have my blessing.”
“But how shall we manage without her?” Tante Constance’s large form sagged before her husband’s decision.
“We shall manage, my love, just as everyone else does.”
“But it seems so unnecessary for her to join the Foreign Service. I’m sure they have enough girls out there already. The government should deal with it.”
“But Tante, if no nurses or V.A.D.s went to the front, what would happen to all the wounded? What if Gavin or Angus were hurt and there was no one to tend to them?” Flora appealed softly.
“I know, ma chérie. I…” Constance raised her hands in a Gallic gesture of defeat, lips quivering as she shook her graying head and sighed. “But you are so very young, ma petite. There is so much of life you don’t know yet, things you are not aware of, ought not be exposed to. Girls should not have to go to the front with the men. It is not at all seemly.” She gave another long sigh that expressed better than words all the pain and anxiety, the keeping-up of a brave front while praying fervently that the ominous telegram beginning with those fateful words—We sincerely regret to inform you…—would never arrive.
“It won’t be for long, Tante.” Flora reached across the table and gently touched her aunt’s trembling fingers. “I’m sure the war cannot last much longer.”
“How can we tell?” Tante Constance pressed a hankie to her eyes, trying to hold back the tears. “How do we know how much longer? They say in France that General Nivelle has all these wonderful plans, but all the while, the army is refusing to fight. My brother Eustace writes that were it not for the astute intervention of a young officer named Philippe Pétain things would be a disaster. And look at this country! Lloyd George argues with General Haig and that Robertson man, and everything remains exactly the same, more young men dead or wounded, more widows and weeping mothers. Have they no hearts?” she cried. “You are like
