The pool of St Branok

This was the year of peace and I was fourteen years of age and rather grown-up for my years. I think events of the last few years had bought me right out of my childhood—although perhaps I had emerged from that after my terrifying encounter at the pool.

Strangely enough because of all that had been happening that event now seemed remote; there were occasions when I did not think of it for weeks. So there was some good in everything.

It was September, a lovely time of the year, unexpectedly warm during the days with a tang of autumn in the early evenings and the leaves in the square and the parks turning golden brown.

Opposite the house in the square was a garden which was for the use of residents. There was a key which hung in the hall; I could at any time take this key and go over there and sit among the flowering shrubs and trees. Although there would have been an outcry if I had gone into the Park alone I was permitted to go into this garden.

I loved to be independent of everyone and it was a favorite spot for me during my stay in the house in the square. In fact they had begun to call it Angelet's garden.

I used to sit there and listen to the clop-clop of horses' hooves as the carriages passed through the square and occasionally scraps of conversation floated to me as people passed by, which I found intriguing. I would imagine how those conversations went on after they had passed out of earshot and what the lives of the people who were making it were like.

It was what my mother would call exercising that over-worked imagination of mine.

One day when I was seated near the bed of asters and chrysanthemums, I saw someone standing outside the railings which enclosed the square.

It was a woman. I could not see her face for she was in shadow. I did not look intently—people often gazed in at the gardens as they passed— and when I looked again she was gone. I wondered why I had noticed her. Perhaps it was because she seemed to linger. It was as though there was something purposeful about her.

The next day I saw her again. She came to the railings and looked in then. I was sure at that moment that she had some special interest in the place.

"Hello," I cried and went to the railings.

I stared in amazement. It was Grace.

"Grace!" I cried.

"Oh, Angelet, I've seen you once or twice in these gardens."

"Why didn't you speak? Why didn't you come to the house?"

"I ... I didn't know ... till I saw you ... that you would be in London."

"What are you doing here? When did you come home? Oh, Grace, you must have had some strange adventures."

"Yes, I have. I want to talk to you."

"Come to the house. Wait a minute. I'll come out."

"No ..." she said. "Can I come into this garden? I'd like to talk to you alone ... first."

"Of course. Wait a moment."

I unlocked the door and she came into the garden.

"Oh, Grace," I cried. "It's good to see you. We've talked about you so much. You've heard ... about Jonnie?"

"Yes," she said faintly. "I know."

"It was terrible. We are getting over it a little now ... but we don't forget. How could we forget Jonnie?"

"No ... we could never forget him."

"It is so awful to think we shall never see him again."

"Yes ... I feel that too. There is a lot I have to tell you, Angelet. I wanted to talk to you ... or your mother ... first ... before I did to anyone else. I am not sure what I should do. I want you to let me know what you think."

"I? What can I tell you?"

"You're there." She waved her hands towards the house. "You'd know how things are. You'd know how they feel about ..."

"About what?"

"I think I had better tell you from the beginning. You know we left London Bridge on that day ..."

"Yes, yes."

"We went to Boulogne and then to Paris. They made much of us in Paris. It was their war as well as ours. Then we went down to Marseilles where we stayed a while to collect stores. After that we set sail on the Vectis for Scutari. It was a fearful journey. I thought we were all going to be drowned."

She paused. I watched her face. I was wondering why she had to tell me all this before she told the rest of the family.

"What was Scutari like?" I prompted.

"Unbelievable. It was dusk when we arrived, and looked so romantic ... the hospital was like a Moorish palace. That was at dusk. In the light of day we saw it for what it was. The wards were very, very dirty. We had to clean up the place before we did anything else. Miss Nightingale insisted on that. The state of the patients ... the lack of materials ..."

I fancied she was holding something back which embarrassed her, and for that reason she found it difficult to talk of the matter which was uppermost in her mind.

"The hospital was very big; it had once been very grand. The mosaic tiles must have been beautiful at one time but they were cracked and many of them broken. The place was damp. Everything was dirty. Dirt ... dirt everywhere ... and there were so many sick men ... row after row of beds. I felt desperately inadequate."