Chapter 1
“Women’s Work at the Royal Academy: Women artists have contributed their quota to the hospital and the industrial side of warfare as fully and freely as the men have given to the fighting line, and the public owes them all a debt of thankfulness that the sweet and gracious things of life have not been neglected.”
— The Gentlewoman
March 1915
University College London
Meg Bradshaw rushed up Gower Street, skirting around the broken glass and debris left from a recent zeppelin attack. Ahead, the white dome of the university’s Octagon shone like a beacon, inviting her to rest on its portico steps. It would be wonderful to sit and sketch in peace, away from the rubble of war.
Church bells pealed the quarter-hour, snapping her from her daydream. She mustn’t be late for the admissions interview. She dashed across the quad and skidded to a halt at the entrance to the Slade School of Fine Art. The limestone columns had seemed welcoming when she’d come for the entrance examination weeks ago, but today they loomed like sentries intent on keeping her out.
Father would be apoplectic if he knew where she was, but this was what she wanted, no matter what happened when she returned home. She hated deceiving him, but he had left her with no other option. After she received the scholarship, she would make amends.
Outside the dean’s office, Meg wiped her damp palms on her navy woolen skirt and caught her reflection in the door’s glass. She looked a fright. Her hair had escaped from the tidy bun she’d so carefully pinned that morning, and her black toque had slipped to one side. She hurriedly straightened it and tucked an unruly lock of auburn hair behind her ear before she knocked.
The sandy-haired man who opened the door looked too young to be a professor. “Miss Bradshaw? Welcome. I’m Mr. Vaughn, the dean’s assistant.”
Glaring sunlight poured through the office’s mullioned windows, momentarily blinding her. She blinked, and her sight returned; her gaze rested on an oil painting of a ship thrashing in dark, turbulent waters. How strange to see an original Turner outside a museum.
An older man stood to one side, tall and austere, with hooded eyes and an eagle’s beak of a nose. He fixed his piercing gaze on her.
Mr. Vaughn motioned her to a chair. “I’m afraid Dean Brown was called away, so Professor Tonks agreed to conduct your interview.”
Meg smiled at the men. Vaughn smiled in return, but Tonks did not.
He sat across from her, not bothering with any pleasantries. Instead he opened a folder, studied its contents, and frowned. “You did well enough at St. Catherine’s, but your qualifying examination was not impressive.”
She would have done better if Father had paid for a crammer, as he had for Bertie. Still, why did it matter that she wasn’t good at maths? This was an art scholarship.
Mr. Vaughn opened her portfolio and slid her watercolors onto the table. Professor Tonks reached across and fanned them out. He barely glanced at them before handing them back. “Tell us, Miss Bradshaw, why have you applied to the Slade?”
“I’ve always wanted to study art. I’ve been painting and drawing for years, and I even won our school prize. If I may show you—” She reached for her portfolio, but Tonks stopped her.
“That’s not what I asked. Why the Slade?”
His sharp tone and icy stare unnerved her, and all her carefully rehearsed responses fled from her brain. A knot formed in her stomach. “I want to be an illustrator—like Kate Greenaway. She studied here before she drew all her wonderful children’s books, and everyone says the Slade is the best school if one is serious about art…” Oh, Lord, she was babbling.
Mr. Vaughn scrutinized one of her landscapes and passed it to Tonks. “Your eye for perspective is good. Where did you paint that?”
“Near Cambridge, when I visited my brother.”
Bertie had announced his intention to enlist that day. Such a waste. He had his future secure at university, only to throw it aside for the army. He didn’t appreciate the freedom he’d been given.
Tonks pushed the landscape aside. “Our scholarship funds are limited thanks to the war, so we’re only considering the most exceptional applicants. Have you applied to any other art schools?”
“No, sir.” Was he suggesting that she might not be accepted? She needed a certificate from the Slade to secure employment as an illustrator. Only then would Father take her seriously as an artist.
Tonks picked up the watercolor that had won first prize in her school’s art show, an illustration of rosy-cheeked children playing in a park. “Have you considered other divisions of the university?”
“I haven’t.”
No need to mention that her father believed she had applied to the teachers’ college. He was a man of old-fashioned views and held a low opinion of women attending university. Hens trying to be roosters, he called them. He had agreed to her attempt only after she’d lied and said she wanted a teaching certificate. Teachers were respectable; they weren’t trying to be roosters.
“Your portfolio is rather thin. Did you bring any other work for us to consider?”
Thin? He didn’t think a dozen paintings were sufficient? She hesitated, then fumbled in her handbag for the small sketchpad she carried everywhere. These were private sketches, not polished like the paintings in her portfolio. “I have this.”
Tonks gave a slight harrumph as he thumbed through the tiny pencil drawings. He lingered over a sketch that Meg had drawn only that morning, a study of a small girl waiting at the railway station. Her hopes rose. Did he like it?
He frowned and turned to another drawing.
Vaughn asked, “What about this one? It shows promise.”
Tonks shook his head. “Uninspired. Not an original piece in the lot. She’d do better knitting socks for Lord Kitchener.” He handed the sketchbook back to her. “I don’t think you would do well here.”
Meg couldn’t hold her tongue another moment. “Knitting socks—really? Why does everyone think that’s what young women should do with their time?”
Vaughn’s eyebrows shot up, and Tonks scowled. Oh, God, what had she done?
Her cheeks blazed as she stammered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect. What can I do to improve my application?”
Vaughn said, “Perhaps if she submits other examples of her work? Dean Brown hasn’t seen her portfolio yet. I’m sure that with proper instruction—”
Tonks stood. “We’ll notify you of our decision.”
She scrambled to her feet, wondering if she should apologize again, but Tonks turned his back to her.
Vaughn walked her to the door and extended his hand. He said in a low voice, “Don’t worry. I think the dean will appreciate your work.”
He was merely being kind. It was obvious that he was too junior for his opinion to matter. The dean would listen to Professor Tonks.
The door shut behind her, and Meg leaned against the wall in the corridor, all energy drained from her. She shouldn’t have spoken so rudely to Tonks. Not that it mattered—he’d already made up his mind about her. Tears welled in her eyes, but she wiped them away and took a deep breath. There had to be another way to win that scholarship.
Chapter 2
“… amongst our wounded sailors and soldiers, few deserve public sympathy and compassion more than those who have suffered grievous injuries to the faces, in many cases of such a terrible nature as to render them unrecognisable to their nearest friends.”
— Westminster Gazette
Meg left the campus and turned toward the Underground station. Two girls about her age, dressed in the distinctive white and blue uniforms of the Voluntary Aid Detachment, strolled ahead of her. They disappeared inside the gates of a building emblazoned with a large red cross, one of many temporary hospitals that had appeared in the past year.
Union Jacks flapped in the breeze above a building plastered with enlistment posters. Uniformed sentries checked the papers of soldiers with leather messenger bags slung over their shoulders, no doubt stuffed with important dispatches. They might contain orders that would move Bertie closer to the German lines. He’d be safe at university right now if he hadn’t insisted on enlisting. Meg’s chest tightened.
Near the Tube station, a knot of people stared at a broadside posted on a newsagent’s stall. Meg stood on tiptoe, craning her neck to see what they were reading. It was the latest casualty lists from France. The stone in her stomach returned, and she pushed her way out of the crowd. She’d seen enough reminders of the war already without stopping to read more. Time to catch her train and leave the noise of London behind.
*
Victoria Station buzzed with the noise of hundreds of passengers scurrying to trains. The warm air reeked of damp wool and sweat. Soldiers and civilians shoved and pressed against Meg, sweeping her down the stairs to where two trains waited on the tracks, their engines thrumming as steam and smoke swirled around the crowd.
Threading her way through the waiting passengers, she peered into each carriage for a seat. At last she found a space and settled onto the thinly padded seat, relieved to escape the tumult of the platform.
Why had Tonks been so disagreeable? It wasn’t fair. Her portfolio was good, and her work always received high marks and praise from the teachers. Surely that should influence the admissions committee. She ought to have held her tongue, though. Her angry outburst wouldn’t help her chances. Still, Mr. Vaughn had implied that the dean would have the final say, so perhaps it didn’t matter what Professor Tonks thought. She mustn’t give up hope, not yet.
Of course, even if the dean liked her work, a scholarship seemed unlikely, based on Tonks’ remarks. She had to win that scholarship—Father would never agree to pay for art school; he considered artists a disreputable lot. He didn’t approve of her going to university at all—it had taken days for her and Mama to persuade him to allow her to sit for the college entrance examination. Why must he be so old-fashioned? Things had changed for women since the old queen’s time.
The compartment door swung open, and a well-upholstered woman plopped onto the seat opposite. She set her parcels on the cushion with an exasperated sigh and then looked expectantly at Meg.
But Meg was in no mood to talk to a stranger; she turned to the window. Soldiers were boarding a troop transport on the other side of the platform, jostling one another as they maneuvered their over-sized packs into the compartments. Most of them were no older than Bertie, clean-shaven schoolboys who might have been going off on a summer holiday.
A man in an officer’s uniform stopped beside the carriage window, blocking her view of the troop train. He had a Roman nose and a strong profile she would have liked to sketch. A white silk scarf covered his mouth and jaw—odd on such a mild day. Then she saw that the right sleeve of his crisply pressed uniform was empty, pinned to his jacket. Why was a wounded man boarding a troop train? He couldn’t be returning to the front.
He turned toward the gate, apparently searching for someone in the crowd, and his scarf slipped down, revealing a black rubber mask. It didn’t quite cover the lower portion of his face, which was contorted and frozen in an ugly grimace.
Meg winced and covered her mouth, feeling queasy.
The woman reached over and lowered the shade, cutting off their view of the platform. “It’s dreadful to allow men like that here.”
What an awful thing to say. Did she mean wounded soldiers, or just this officer? “Why shouldn’t he be here?” Meg demanded. “I think he’s quite brave.”
“Didn’t you see his face? Gave me the shivers. I don’t know why he isn’t in hospital. I can’t imagine he enjoys being stared at.” The woman rearranged her parcels. “It’s beastly in the city now. I couldn’t find anything decent in the shops, and then I waited over an hour for this train.”
Such a rude woman. How could she complain about minor inconveniences after seeing that poor man?
The train chugged from the station, leaving the din of London behind. Meg raised the shade and stared at the passing landscape, a blur of solid brick houses and tidy green gardens separated by white wooden fences. The rhythmic sway was hypnotic, and she had nearly nodded off when the woman spoke again.
“Do you live in London?”
“No, Writtle.”
The woman frowned. “You came alone? When I was your age, I never traveled unchaperoned.”
Her tone set Meg’s teeth on edge. “Actually, my parents let me go up to London whenever I please.” Not true, but it would shock this smug woman. “I plan to move there soon. I’m a painter, you see.” Another fib, but she’d never see this woman again.
The woman’s nose wrinkled. “I can’t imagine what your family could be thinking. I suppose they’re bohemians.”
“Not at all. My father is vicar of All Saints Parish.”
This nugget of truth seemed to surprise the woman. She rummaged in her purse, pointedly not looking in Meg’s direction.
Meg leaned back, haunted by the sadness in the wounded officer’s eyes. She reached into her purse for her sketchbook and a pencil, then hesitated. Professor Tonks’ voice rattled in her brain: Why have you applied to the Slade?
If she was going to convince Tonks that she belonged at the Slade, she ought to focus on her paintings, not trifling pencil sketches. She wouldn’t give up.
Chapter 3
“There are many ways in which we can help our country; the moral forces of the nation are just as much needed as the fighting force, and on us the moral force largely depends. … Our King and Our Country need us to fight for all that is highest and best. Women have their big part to play…”
— Our Duty in War-Time: Appeal to Women and Girls
The omnibus from the Chelmsford railway station stopped opposite Writtle’s duck pond. Writtle was a dull village, a universe away from the excitement of London—although the war had changed village life. A parade ground for the Territorial forces had displaced the local cricket matches, and canvas tents dotted the village green. Nearby, new recruits drilled under the stern eye of a sergeant, one more reminder of all the village men fighting in Belgium and France.
Meg stopped at the post office, hoping for a letter from Bertie.
Mrs. Mullen, the postmistress, broke off her conversation with a customer at the sound of the door bell. “Be right with you, Miss Margaret.”
While she waited, Meg studied the latest recruitment poster on the wall: a drawing of a woman comforting a mother and child—Belgian refugees—as they watched British soldiers march off to war. Women of Britain say “GO!” Lately, the newspapers had reported that the army needed more men. Where would all these new recruits come from? Every eligible man in the village had already enlisted.
The customer departed, and Mrs. Mullens turned to Meg. “Got some post for you. By the by, ’ow’s your mum?”
The postmistress resembled a fox, with a longish nose that she liked to poke into everyone’s affairs. Meg hated to give her any scrap of news, but politeness required her to say that her mother was well.
Mrs. Mullens held out an envelope stamped by the military censor. Meg snatched the letter and shoved it into her skirt pocket. She mumbled her thanks and hurried from the shop, letting the door slam behind her.
Nearby was the churchyard of All Saints, and Meg sat on a stone bench, savoring the warm afternoon sunshine after the grayness of London. The sweet scent of early spring hyacinths drifted on the breeze. Across the path, the elderly church sexton, Ben Cooper, bent over one of the flowerbeds, raking the mulch. He straightened and waved to her.
Meg examined the envelope, which was addressed to her parents in Bertie’s wild scrawl. She resisted the temptation to open it, instead slipping it back into her pocket.
The church bells rang four o’clock—time to be home for tea. She was strolling up the short path between the church and the vicarage, enjoying the crunch of gravel beneath her feet, when Father’s baritone voice called from behind her: “Meg, wait.”
She stopped and turned.
Reverend Bradshaw carried his black suit-jacket draped over his arm; his shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows. “I’m surprised to see you here—were you out for a walk?”
“I was just at the post office.”
Thank goodness he hadn’t asked about the interview. Perhaps it had slipped his mind.
“I know that sly look of yours—what have you been up to?”
“Well, this came in the post.” She handed him Bertie’s letter.
Father examined the envelope and smiled, his deep dimples reminding her of Bertie. “We’d best hurry. Your mother will want to read it first.”
They arrived at the snug brick vicarage, and he opened the rear door for her.
A delicious aroma of freshly baked sponge-cake filled the cheerful white kitchen. Mrs. Mason stood at the sideboard, slicing cold mutton and placing it on a platter beside a wedge of cheese. A plain woman with rounded hips and an ample bosom, she had been housekeeper to the Bradshaws since before Meg was born.
Father wandered into the hall in search of the evening paper, while Meg went through to the parlor. Mama sat at her dainty rosewood writing desk, catching up on her correspondence. The afternoon breeze rustled the parlor’s lace curtains—Mama liked to have the windows open whenever the weather permitted.
She looked up from her writing. “I worried that you’d missed the train. How was the interview?”
Meg had hoped Mama wouldn’t ask. “It was all right.” She avoided her mother’s gaze.
“Did you see the dean?”
“No, he was called away. Never mind all that—look what I have.”
She dropped Bertie’s letter into Mama’s lap. At once her mother picked it up and carried it into the dining room, studying the postmark with a wistful expression.
Mrs. Mason brought in the tea tray, followed by Father with the Essex County Chronicle tucked under his arm. Then Mother read Bertie’s letter aloud, pausing whenever the censors had crossed out his words. Sometimes his letters were barely readable after the censors had finished. What secrets had he let slip this time?
7 March 1915
Somewhere in Belgium
Dear Father and Mama,
I’m safe as houses here in the countryside. Your parcel arrived today—I was delighted by the jam and tin of biscuits. I’d be grateful if you sent peppermints next time. Thanks awfully for the socks, I’ve been desperate for another pair. It’s impossible to keep one’s feet dry in this slop.
Tell Meg her cartoon of the dancing sheep was brilliant, and would she please send more?
We’re in billets in a musty, damp old farmhouse. The roof is partly gone, thanks to a German shell months ago. Not to worry, we’re far from the artillery. The rumor is———————————. Must dash. I miss you all and I’ll write again soon.
Your devoted son,
Albert
Ever since he’d gone up to Cambridge, he’d been trying to persuade them to call him Albert, but he would always be Bertie to Meg.
He wasn’t much of a correspondent; this brief note had probably taken him all afternoon to write. He wasn’t much of a scholar either, barely getting by in his studies. He had been among the first of his classmates to join up when the war began. Now he was fighting the Germans, while Meg suffocated in dreary old Writtle.
Art school was her chance to escape to London and paint whenever she wanted—and that meant persuading the admissions committee to give her a scholarship. As soon as tea was done, she’d gather more drawings and write a letter to Dean Brown, listing all the reasons why she wanted to attend the Slade.
Mama folded Bertie’s letter and returned it to its envelope, but Meg knew she would re-read it at least a dozen times, hoping to glean some reassurance that Bertie was safe.
Father opened the Chronicle and read aloud items of interest: Sir John Barton, MP, said he believed Italy would soon join the Allies; the editors urged everyone to contribute to the local tobacco fund to provide cigarettes for soldiers. He avoided any mention of the fighting in Belgium and turned past the Essex Roll of Honor, a weekly listing of local men lost in battle.
Before Meg could ask to be excused from the table, Father lowered the paper. “Dr. Morris asked after you. He missed you yesterday.”
She hadn’t expected Father to find out that she had skipped class. The weekly nursing classes were pointless. She would never work in a hospital, but her parents still insisted that she take the Red Cross training course with the other girls in the village.
“I didn’t think anyone would mind if I missed once.”
Father fixed the full weight of his gaze on her. “You made a commitment. Dr. Morris relies on all the girls to complete the course.”
She turned to her mother, hoping she would intervene, but Mama nodded. “Your father’s right. You must set an example for the others.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll try to do better.”
Just once, she thought, it would be nice not to have to be exemplary. She was tired of rolling bandages and knitting socks, the only activities Father considered suitable for a young lady. At least, in London, she would have the freedom to do what she wanted.
—
Author’s Statement
I’ve long held a fascination with the First World War, inspired by my grandfather’s trench diary. A few years ago, I learned of the Tin Noses Shop, where artists and doctors collaborated to restore hope for disfigured soldiers by creating prosthetic metal masks to hide their scars. That research led to this novel.
Written from three alternating perspectives, FACES OF WAR follows the journeys of three people whose lives are irrevocably changed by the Great War. In 1915, Meg Bradshaw defies her father and applies to a prestigious art school in London, only to have her hopes dashed in a disastrous admissions interview. After her brother disappears in battle, she abandons her artistic dreams and joins the war effort by volunteering in a hospital for wounded soldiers. It soon becomes clear that she’s a failure as a nursing aide, but before she can be sent home in disgrace, a chance encounter leads her to the Tin Noses Shop. With her artistic skills, she convinces the sculptor in charge to take her on and discovers a passion for making lifelike masks for wounded soldiers.
Sam Miller’s heart defect has kept him from active duty. He volunteers as an orderly in a ward for facial wounds but secretly desires to become a medic. Protective of the scarred men hiding from the world, he is unimpressed by the young nursing aides. He befriends Jack Kelley, an American patient who struggles to cope with his scars—both physical and emotional.
These three lives intersect when Meg creates a mask for Jack. When a child screams in terror at his mask, Jack runs away, convinced he’ll never have a normal life. What follows threatens Meg’s future as an artist and forces Sam to choose whether or not to risk his own ambitions in order to save his friend.
FACES OF WAR is a story of friendship and duty in wartime, of a young woman’s quest for independence, and of two young men searching for identity and purpose.
Barbara Buckley Ristine lives in northern Nevada in the shadow of the Sierras. She is a two-time alum of the Community of Writers and a member of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association and the Historical Novel Society. Her short fiction has appeared in The Westchester Review, Bards and Sages Quarterly, and Flash Back Fiction, among others. She can be found on Twitter with the handle @renobarb.
Embark, Issue 19, October 2023
Embark 