The invincible miss cust, p.31
The Invincible Miss Cust, page 31
I could barely haul myself out of bed to go to the laboratory the next morning, even though I had risen with purpose and energy every morning since arriving in Abbeville. It seemed so pointless. Whatever I did or suggested was dismissed as inconsequential by Captain Watson, and I felt worthless. The day dragged by, and for the most part, I gazed into the distance. In my mind’s eye, I was riding Nasser across the fields of Roscommon or galloping on the beaches of Northumberland.
That night, I resolved to ask Major General Moore if I could be released from the laboratory. I made a list of all the things I had done under the auspices of the YMCA previously to buoy my argument. I would convince him I was of more use among the horses than in the laboratory. When the list ran onto a fourth page, I set down my pencil, convinced that he would agree, and went to bed.
The next day, I was too ill to go anywhere or visit anyone.
Chapter 33
1919
Northumberland, England
It was months later, while I convalesced at Newton Hall, that Lady Widdrington explained how I was shipped from France the very day before the Allies and Germany signed the armistice and hostilities on the Western Front ceased. I had no recollection of even being aware that the war might be ending. Neither did I recall the weeks I spent in hospital in London before having recovered enough to be put on a train bound for Northumberland.
“Of course, you do not remember,” Lady Widdrington said, opening the curtains to flood the room with light. I was in the very room in which I had told Bertie I would not marry him. “When you were not delirious, you were medicated to the eyeballs and asleep. Edward believes the influenza pandemic will kill more people than the war did, but it will not take you.”
She smiled at me, her bright eyes and smooth skin belying her age and the heartache of recent years. I had not forgotten the major’s death or Bertie’s disappearance. I asked if there was news.
“Bertie is not dead,” she said. “I am certain of that. I knew of Dorothy’s death before we even heard about her accident. I saw a dove on the windowsill that morning. There was something about it being there and how it moved that told me by the end of the day my daughter would no longer be of this world.”
I stared at her, silent. She had always been forthright and extraordinary. It was unlike Lady Widdrington to be fanciful.
“The morning Fitz died, I watched a pair of doves strut about on the drive. They did not flee when I approached, flying off only when the dogs pursued them. I have not seen a dove since. Bertie is alive.”
“I hope so,” I said, averting my eyes from the window to avoid spotting any doves.
“Every day, one reads another story about a missing soldier returning home,” she said. “Keeping track of everyone during the war and establishing where they are now is impossible. People made mistakes. Records got mixed up. Perhaps Bertie is recuperating from the influenza, suffering amnesia, or recovering from another injury somewhere. I do not know why he is unaccounted for, but I know he is alive.”
It was possible that Bertie was alive. I wanted to believe it, but my spirits were low, and I kept my hopes tightly harnessed. Where once I would have unreservedly joined his mother and held on to the idea of Bertie’s sudden reappearance, I now kept myself in check. I had witnessed too much to believe in miracles. Too worn and tired to fantasize and too weak to withstand having my hopes dashed, I silently grieved Willie, Dorothy, Major Fitz, and his son.
There was no news of Bertie by the time I had recovered enough to begin planning my return to Ireland. I was eager to get back to the work and the place that had brought me such joy. Doing the work I loved would distract me from the pain of the recent past and give me purpose and pleasure once more.
I wrote to Mrs. Doyle, telling her of my imminent return. She replied:
The war notwithstanding, things have not been the same here since 1916, and I am not sure you will feel at home in Athleague again, Miss Cust. Indeed, Fiona and Ronan might have stayed on at Fort Lyster, but while I have no doubt that they will be pleased to see you, I worry that they will not be able to guarantee your safety there. That said, many will no doubt be glad of your services again.
While the muted tone of her reply surprised me, I remained eager to return to Fort Lyster and get my practice back up and running. Despite memories of my early days in Athleague when I was seen as little more than a bothersome attachment to Willie, it was hard to imagine that I would not be welcomed back. I might be an English Protestant, but it was where I had settled and worked. I had built my career there. Roscommon was my home, and its people, my people. Surely, I reasoned, the Irish loved their animals too much to allow their anti-English sentiments to get in the way of the health of their beasts.
“If things do not work out as you hope, you will always have a place here,” said Lady Widdrington as I bade her farewell. I hugged her, grateful again for her love and support, which bore no trace of the misgivings I’d believed she had experienced when Bertie and I were engaged.
As I drove through the gates of Fort Lyster, I saw that Fiona and Ronan had done well to maintain the land in my absence. However, the buildings—familiar and welcoming as they were against an unusually blue sky and framed by trees that were taller than I recalled—needed repair. I would, I assured myself, work hard and make the necessary improvements as soon as I could afford them.
Bridget, I discovered, had married a farmer and was expecting her second child. The whereabouts of Kevin were uncertain. Fiona said his mother was sure he had married a beautiful French girl but could not afford to return to Ireland with her.
“She is convinced there are grandchildren too,” Fiona said. “I have no doubt she’ll ask you if you bumped into him while you were in France.”
I walked to the rose garden where Spencer was buried. Although, for a while after I left, the Setter had run between Castlestrange and Fort Lyster searching for me, Ronan told me he’d eventually settled and lived happily to the end. He’d been almost fifteen years old when he died. Gunner and Lacey wagged their tails when I greeted them, but I realized as they followed Ronan to the stables, the Spaniels had fully transferred their loyalty to the groundsman.
To my surprise, Nasser and Molly had been spared the army even after I left for France. The horses had led a quiet life at Fort Lyster and wore their years well. The Arabian was eager and responsive when I asked Ronan to saddle him the next day so I could ride to Castlestrange.
It was odd, even after all the time that had passed, to follow the cross-country route from Fort Lyster to Castlestrange without Spencer galloping ahead, and as Nasser settled into a gentle canter on the sandy path near the river, I imagined I saw the Setter turn the corner ahead of us. Would I, I wondered, see Willie at the window of the surgery at Castlestrange?
The ornate metal gates, rusty and stained with age and neglect, were chained and locked. Ronan had told me that Thomas had sold Castlestrange during the war. Clearly, although the new owners were yet to disclose their identity and take occupation, they were intent on keeping interlopers at bay. Before, I would have urged Nasser over the hedge, onto the property. Now, though, I was not sure whether either of us was up to such athletic endeavors. Instead, I held him at the gate, peering through it and picturing Willie and me there as we had been a decade previously. How dedicated we had been to our work. We had allowed our passion for what we did, our life together, and our love to consume us. We had taken it all for granted with no inkling of how short our time together would be.
That night, once Fiona and Ronan had retired with Gunner and Lacey following them to their cottage, and I prepared for bed, there was a loud knock at the door. I smiled to myself, thinking that the people of Athleague must have heard of my return and were calling on me for an emergency.
Expecting to find a farmer or one of his family members on my doorstep, I pulled on my coat and opened the door. Instead, an angry-looking young man with arms as thick as a prize boar’s hock shoved me backward into the hallway and stomped inside. He was followed by three similarly aggrieved-looking men, two of whom were brandishing pistols. They were, the front man declared in a booming voice, members of the Irish Republican Army and demanded the keys to my motorcar. I glared at them, furious at their cheek and uncertain how to respond. With Ronan and Fiona in the cottage some distance away and the wind blowing hard, no one would hear me call for help.
“You wish to confiscate my motorcar in the name of the Republican Army?” I asked. “That is preposterous! I am a veterinary surgeon. You cannot have it. It is crucial to my business.”
The men looked at one another. Was it possible they had not anticipated that I might refuse their demand?
“Off you go then,” I said, pointing to the door. “Let us consider the matter closed.”
Hock Arms emitted what sounded like a growl, leaped forward, and grabbed my arm, twisting it behind my back.
“Don’t be doing anything you’ll regret now, lady sassenach,” he said, his hot breath ruffling the hair around my ears. “You must know you’re hated here. No one will miss you if you’re gone tomorrow.”
“Oh, stop it!” I said, twisting around to face him. “Unhand me! There is no need for that threatening propaganda. What if tomorrow your horse comes down with something, and I am unable to get to you because you have stolen my car?”
The men stared at me, Hock Arms still holding my arm.
“That made you think, did it not?”
The leader shoved my arm further up my back. The pain was agonizing, and I feared he would break it.
“Let me go,” I said, pleading now. “I cannot think like this.”
He did not release me. Instead, he pushed me toward the door and, with his free hand, reached out and snatched up the hunting whip Willie had bought for me in London fourteen years earlier.
“Let’s see how long we’ll have to whip you before you stop being a silly woman,” he said.
There was nothing to do but to give them the key to the motorcar.
“Give me my whip!” I shouted as the brute shoved me backward into a chair and sauntered toward the door.
He turned, glanced at the rod in his hand, swished it through the air in my direction, and left, still holding it. The blood rushed to my head. I ran to my room, pulled the shotgun from the cupboard, and fired at the motorcar as it disappeared down the road.
Less than a month later, Fiona and Ronan were threatened as turncoats in the village by members of the same party, possibly the same men. The couple hung their heads when they told me they would be leaving. Mrs. Doyle, I realized, was right: Ireland was not the place it was before the war, and I was no longer welcomed there.
“You need to keep your curtains drawn, Miss Cust,” said Ronan as he and Fiona loaded the last of their belongings into their cart. “They fancy themselves snipers, and they’ll be watching you.”
I stood on the stairs and watched them go, Gunner and Lacey trotting beside the wheels of the cart. The idea of being at Fort Lyster without dogs was unimaginable, but as I looked over the empty yard toward Nasser’s and Molly’s stables, I knew if I was going to bring any new animals home, this was not the place to do it.
That night, I wrote to Lady Widdrington, telling her that I would sell Fort Lyster and return to England.
I would be grateful if I could stay with you at Newton Hall until I find somewhere to settle. I shall try not to disrupt your life and will come only with two aging horses and my own restless soul.
Her reply, inviting me to come as soon as I wanted to and assuring me that I could bring Nasser and Molly, was welcoming, kind, and anticipated. It was the letter from my old friend Frederick Hobday, which was delivered to Fort Lyster the same day, that surprised me.
After the war, where he had served as a major in Abbeville, Frederick had established a small animal practice in the West End of London where he tended the needs of a burgeoning population of beloved urban pets. He was also official veterinary surgeon to Her Majesty Queen Alexandra and arguably the best-informed vet in Britain. Frederick wrote:
You should, if you are not already, be aware that the circumstances of the RCVS are much changed in light of the Sex Disqualification Act of 1919. I have been following the case of a young woman, Miss Edith Knight, who recently made an application to the RCVS to train as a veterinary surgeon. In terms of the 1919 Act, Miss Knight’s application has been approved by the council, who has finally accepted that it can no longer prohibit women from entering the profession. Forgive me if you are aware of this and have already taken steps to make things right, but given that you are far removed from the news, I want to be sure you were advised of the developments. They do, I believe, open the way for you to apply to present yourself for the final RCVS exam and finally be officially named, Aleen I. Cust, MRCVS. I hope you will notify the council of your intent forthwith, and I look forward to, once and for all, officially welcoming you to the profession.
I sat in the drawing room, which seemed lifeless without my canine companions, and read Frederick’s letter three times before the significance of what he had written sank in. If it was to be and the RCVS would process my application in a timely fashion, I would finally be acknowledged as Great Britain’s and Ireland’s first woman veterinary surgeon. More than two decades after I had finished my training, I could finally brandish a diploma. I would be Aleen I. Cust, MRCVS.
If the thieving thugs had not taken my whip along with my car, I would have held it and run my fingers over the engraving. Willie might not have pictured the circumstances when he gave it to me, but he never doubted that I would one day officially be a veterinary surgeon. I would, I resolved, follow up on Frederick’s letter as soon as I arrived in Northumberland.
Chapter 34
1922
Athleague, Ireland
As I prepared to leave Fort Lyster for the last time, I recalled the depth of my misery when, forty-four years earlier, I’d said goodbye to Taffy and Ned at Cordangan. Life could have been repeating itself. Although this time my horses would accompany me to England, the anguish was just as keen. I was now even more tethered to Ireland than I had been as a girl. It had been on Irish soil that I had finally fulfilled my dream of working as a veterinary surgeon. The country, its animals, and its people had confirmed to me that I had chosen the best profession in the world. If I lost anything in the process, the things I had gained had made it all worthwhile. I had lived and worked among the Irish, whose love for their animals was as profound as mine. I had once again lost my heart—no, I had given it freely—to the hills, vales, rivers, forests, and fields I had come to know in Ireland as I’d ridden Nasser or steered Molly from farm to farm and village to village. It was in Ireland that I had loved and been loved in return. Indeed, it was another sad goodbye.
By the time I arrived at Newton Hall, my spirits had lifted somewhat. I had spent the journey setting out my plans to approach the Royal College to sit my final examination and receive my diploma. After decades of pushing the thought to the back of my mind and getting on with the business of being a veterinary surgeon, it was time for the RCVS to finally recognize and certify me as a professional.
It gave me a new sense of purpose and took my mind off what I had left behind in Roscommon. In fact, so distracted was I that it took me several moments to notice the tall figure standing next to Lady Widdrington on the stairs of Newton Hall when I pulled up at the house and climbed out the motorcar I had bought to replace the stolen one.
Freshly shaven and much thinner but rosy-cheeked as ever, it was Bertie. I looked from him to Lady Widdrington. She nodded and smiled.
“You doubted me,” she called, smiling widely.
“My God, Bertie!” I said finally.
He laughed, shaking his head. “I am sorry I was late from the war, but I am glad I am here to welcome you home,” he said, bounding down the stairs and taking me in his arms.
Days later, the RCVS council agreed that given my years of work and war record, I should undertake a single oral examination, which proved no trouble at all. My results were published in the Veterinary Record on December 23, 1922, along with those of seven other candidates—all men. At last, at a small ceremony at the college in London, I received my long-coveted diploma. Twenty-two years had passed since I had watched Fred Taylor, Andrew Spreull, and my other classmates receive their certificates, and now, among strange, very young men, I finally got mine.
When I returned to my hotel room and unrolled and inspected the certificate, I emitted an unladylike snort. The pre-printed Mr. on the form had been struck out in ink and replaced by an inelegantly scrawled Miss; the RCVS had not even bothered to get a new certificate printed. Even that did not diminish my satisfaction.
Later that evening, I attended a celebration hosted at the home of Frederick and his wife, Mary, for a small group of friends and colleagues from London.
“At last,” said Frederick as I walked into the room. “A long-delayed and greatly deserved celebration.”
“Thank you,” I said, aware once more of the important role that absent others had played in helping me to realize my dream. I would raise a glass tonight to Orlando, Major Fitz, Dorothy, Professor Williams, and Willie, I thought.
I glanced around the room and saw that, although I had given my host my siblings’ addresses, none of them were present.
Frederick was perceptive. “I am afraid I received no reply from either of your brothers or your sister. There are, however, others here you will be pleased to see.”
He took my arm and propelled me into the dining room, where I was surprised to see that Lady Widdrington and Bertie had traveled from Northumberland to be there. They beamed as if my success was theirs, and indeed, in part, it was. The Widdringtons had been more of a family to me than my own. Lady Widdrington had consistently encouraged me not to let my skirts stand in the way of my ambitions.
