Free Somewhere in France: A Novel of the Great War by Jennifer Robson Page B

manage? I don’t mean to be crass, but I can’t imagine that clippies are paid very well.”
    “I’m quite comfortable, Robbie. Don’t worry about that. And working is good for me. When I think of how I lived, how I used to spend my allowance on books and clothes and whatever else took my fancy, when there were so many who hadn’t enough even to eat, I feel so ashamed of myself.”
    “You were never like that, Lilly.”
    “You’re too kind. Did Edward ever tell you what happened to the Pringles?”
    “In one of his letters he said your parents sacked Mr. Pringle, then evicted him and his family, but that you sold your jewelry to provide for them. He was very proud of you.”
    “I helped them because it was my fault they lost their home. My carelessness was responsible. They said it wasn’t my fault—Edward, too—but I know it was.”
    “I think you’ve been too hard on yourself. Life is short, you know. I see the truth of that every day.”
    “Of course it is, which is why—”
    “Let it go, Lilly. You’ve atoned for what you believe you did wrong. Let it go, and stop punishing yourself. Promise me?”
    “I promise. But if you ever think I’m behaving like a spoiled child—”
    “I’ll be the first to let you know.”
    “That’s enough of me. I want to hear about your trip home. Auchinloch, was it? Did I pronounce it correctly?
    “You did. It’s a small village not far from Glasgow.”
    “Your mother has a house there?”
    “A cottage. Known as a ‘but and ben’ in my part of Scotland. Two wee rooms, with the privy at the bottom of the garden.”
    “That’s where she lives? Even now . . . ?”
    “That I’m a professional man, and presumably can afford to move her to something grander? I’ve asked, believe me. But she won’t move, won’t even consider it.” He searched her face carefully for signs of disgust, but saw nothing but sincere, unprejudiced interest.
    “Your father died when you were little, didn’t he?”
    “Yes, when I was six. Run down in the street by a wagon.”
    “Do you remember him at all?”
    Robbie poured his tea, checked to see it was dark enough, and drank deeply from his mug. “A little. None of it good. I remember his being drunk. He was a mean drunk. Would lash out if we so much as looked at him. Did terrible things to my mam. He never hit my sister, though.”
    “You have a sister?”
    “Had. Her name was Mary. She died when I was seven. Diphtheria. We were both sick from it.”
    “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice warm with sympathy.
    “It was a long time ago. Why don’t you ask me about my visit home?” he asked, hoping to paper over the awkwardness that had arisen again.
    “Yes, of course. Well, ah . . . your mother must have been delighted to have you home.”
    “I suppose she was. She certainly made a fuss over me. But then, she hadn’t seen me in a long time.”
    “How long?”
    “Not since just before I left for France . . . two years? I’ve had leave since then, but never enough to manage the journey back to Lanarkshire.”
    “She must miss you.”
    “I haven’t lived with her in donkey’s years; not since I was eight, when I won that scholarship and went off to school in Edinburgh. But I know she worries. I doubt she’s had a moment of peace while I’ve been in France.”
    The expression on Lilly’s face told him she understood exactly what his mother endured.
    “I haven’t been much of a son to her,” he continued, drawing strength from her empathy. “Before the war, I hardly ever visited, hardly ever wrote. But I’m all she has.”
    “How did she react when you asked for the transfer from Versailles?” Lilly asked.
    “If you’re thinking I was playing the hero, I wasn’t. I was bored, that’s all. My talents, such as they are, lie in trauma surgery. All those years spent in the receiving room at the London. I felt I could do more good in a frontline unit.”
    “There was an article in The Times . Last