This scene about St George’s Vestry VAD unit appeared in a draft of The Gift of Belonging (Book 3 in The Wise Women series, out May 2026), but in the interest of keeping focus and the action moving, it didn’t survive the cut.
During WW1, units of volunteers such as this sprang up in their thousands all over the UK, doing their bit for the soldiers at the Front. They were indefatigable, run and manned by middle and upper-class women who could afford to spent their time volunteering. In the draft where this appears, My protagonist, Rose is working as a shop assistant in Selfridges, guilty she is not putting to use the VAD (Voluntary Auxiliary Defence Forces) training she did in Bristol a few years earlier. It’s early in the war.
On her way to and from Selfridges, Rose’s eye is constantly drawn to posters urging women to volunteer at one or other of the various British Red Cross VAD units. Guilt seeps into her consciousness. After all, she has done her basic first aid and home care training with Bea in Bristol. She should be among those offering to help now, when the crisis is real. Time and tiredness are her enemy, with long days on her feet and too few hours off. She serves her customers, smiles, nods, tuts as appropriate, and lets the days go by, passively uneasy.
One evening towards the end of September, Rose leaves the store as daylight shrivels under the onset of evening. The street lamps are still dark, and stars blink awake in a clear sky. She tightens her coat against the autumnal chill and weaves among her fellow workers, aware of the clatter of horses’ hoofs on the congested road, the ringing of bells from buses, the shouts of waggoneers and automobile drivers alike.
At the corner where she will cross to Rathbone Place, the paper boy waves his wares and calls in a high, strong voice.
“More casualties reported! Lengthening lists!”
Rose stops, digs into her purse for a coin and pays the lad. On the far side of Oxford St she halts again, opens the newspaper and takes in the headline:
“Scenes of Suffering in French Field Hospitals”
The front page is filled with blurred photographs of men lying on makeshift beds in what appear to be large tents, or on stretchers outside, under trees or in the shade of wagons or ambulances. Their heads, arms or legs are bandaged, dark stains seeping through. Nurses and doctors hover over the prostrate forms.
Rose grimaces. She balances the anticipation of food and warmth of her boarding house in Charlotte Street against her guilt, sighs, folds the paper under her arm, and walks on.
Some ten minutes later, she pushes at the door of St George’s Vestry Hall. It opens, stiffly, as if it too is tired. Through another door, Rose hears quiet chatter, a woman’s laugh, smells the faint scent of furniture polish and wood smoke. When she follows the chatter into a hall, the group of a dozen or so volunteers cease talking, look up from a large table lit by an overhead electric light, and smile. Bundles of blankets and layers of white cotton and ivory gauze are stacked on the table among tightly wound balls of black, grey and brown wool, knitting needles, cups and saucers and plates of biscuits. A small fire burns in a grate, its heat not yet reaching as far as Rose.
A large woman of middle years sets aside the sock she is knitting and walks briskly over. Her black lace-up boots tap with firm efficiency on the floorboards. The Red Cross armband wrapped around the long sleeve of her simple ankle-length blue wool dress lends her an added authority.
Image Australian War Memorial
‘Have you come to volunteer, dear?’ The woman’s smile is large-toothed and warm.
‘Yes, yes, I have.’ Rose nods. ‘I did some training in Bristol two years ago.’ She smiles briefly. ‘I thought I should put it to good use.’
The woman lifts her shoulders and beams more widely. ‘Excellent, excellent,’ she says. ‘I’m Mrs Alcock and I have the privilege of leading these worthy volunteers.’ She gestures at the table. ‘Now, why don’t you pop your hat and coat off, come and meet everyone, and tell us all about yourself.’ With another glance towards the women, Mrs Alcock calls, ‘Mabel dear, would you be so kind as to make our new volunteer a cup of tea, and do cut that fruit cake Nell brought.’ She laughs, deeply rich. ‘The smell is far too tempting, and we now have the perfect excuse.’
Rose tucks her gloves into a pocket of her coat and hangs the coat and her hat among others on hooks beside the door. After introductions, she sits at the table cutting strips of cotton, rolling them into bandages and setting them in pyramids to be transferred to boxes. She listens to the women’s gossip, and is content that at least she is resting her legs and she has a fire to sit by. The fruitcake, too, has eased her hunger, and the tea is hot.