Tall Poppies (4 page)

Tears filled her eyes again. ‘It was a right shock seeing her like that  . . . and I wished I'd gone up earlier, that I do.'

‘Hush, Connie. It wasn't your fault, and even if you had gone up it wouldn't have made much difference.'

‘I reckon she tried to get off the commode, because it was tipped over and the contents were everywhere. I think she might have slipped in it. I knew she wouldn't want to be seen by anyone like that, so I fetched the mop and bucket and cleaned up the mess as best as I could. She looked right poorly. Her eyes were rolled up in her head. She was trembling and had blood on her face and in her hair. I wrapped a blanket around her and rang for the doctor to come out. Only her usual doctor wasn't there so I called his partner.'

‘You did the right thing.'

‘You wouldn't have thought so when I told Mrs Mortimer. She was furious I did that without her permission, even though she told me to deal with it myself. She said she'd not long been up there and made Mrs Sangster comfortable, and she must have got out of bed by herself and fallen on to the commode and pushed it over. That was a lie, since she'd been in the bath with the radio on loud for nearly an hour. When I pointed that out she got real nasty and told me to keep my mouth shut, else I'd find myself looking for another job.'

Standing in front of the warm stove, Livia's clothes had begun to steam.

‘Go and change into something dry, love,' Connie said. ‘I've kept you some dinner, and you might as well get it into yourself because I think it's going to be a long night. Bring what you're wearing back down and we'll sponge the mud off and hang it somewhere to dry. We might as well be doing something useful, as not.'

Dressed in her uniform, her damp hair pulled into her cap, Livia was grateful for the dinner, despite her worry over Mrs Sangster. The lump of pudding studded with minute brown chunks of sticky date was a small, tasty island in a sea of thin yellow custard. Connie knew how to economize with the rations and still dish up a delicious meal.

Livia wondered what her sister and brother were eating  . . . very little by the look of them, but at least they had the chocolate for tonight. She reminded herself that she must try and get them out of the orphanage  . . . but how? She could barely manage to look after herself.

She and Connie sat in the kitchen, talking, and after a while they heard footsteps on the stairs. They went into the hall, gazing expectantly upwards as the doctor came down escorted by Mrs Mortimer.

‘Ah, there you are, Carr. I suppose Mrs Starling has informed you of what's happened. Next time you decide to gallivant off to London, check with me first.'

‘But Mrs Mortimer—'

‘I'd never have allowed you to go if I'd known the nurse was absent. It was too bad of her to leave without giving notice.' She turned to the distinguished man standing next to her, giving him a simpering smile. ‘Perhaps you'd like to be the one to put their minds at rest, Doctor Elliot.'

Livia remembered Denton Elliot saying his father was a doctor, and wondered if this was him. Yes  . . . he had the same greenish eyes, the same height and build.

‘Is Mrs Sangster going to be all right?' Livia asked him.

‘She's concussed, but is now conscious, and although she's quite bruised, the cut on her head doesn't need any sutures.' He also had the same type of voice, soft and clear, but with a growly undertone. ‘Mrs Sangster will need someone to stay awake with her all night, in case her condition deteriorates.'

Mrs Mortimer nodded. ‘That will be you, Carr, since you've had the day off while the rest of us have been doing the work of six.'

Connie Starling found the courage to give an unbelieving snort, though she quickly turned it into a cough.

‘I'd be pleased to look after her.'

‘I'll see if I can find someone older to nurse her tomorrow, though the person I have in mind won't be qualified, she's strong. I'll call in to see Mrs Sangster in the morning.' The doctor took Livia aside. ‘Now, young lady, I must tell you what to look out for. Nausea and, or, vomiting, slurred speech, confusion  . . .' He ticked off the symptoms on his fingers and made her repeat them back before he handed her his card. ‘Good girl. Telephone me if you need to, or if there's anything you're worried about.'

‘Doctor  . . . I should like to look after Mrs Sangster, if I may? I know I haven't had any experience, but we get on well together.'

‘Won't that leave you with a housekeeper short?'

Livia nodded. ‘I suppose it will.'

‘Perhaps Florence can do the maid's work instead. She's very practical. Let's leave it up to Mrs Sangster.' He stared at her for a moment. ‘Were you the person I puddled on the road?'

She nodded. ‘I was already wet, though  . . . I'd come off the train from London.'

His smile had also been passed on to his son. ‘They say that mud is good for the complexion, but your complexion already looks perfect. I'm sorry.'

‘Your apology is accepted.'

‘It's sweet of you to let me off lightly. I should have taken more care.'

He was just as nice as the younger Elliot on the train. ‘Doctor, do you have a son called Denton?'

He looked surprised. ‘Are you acquainted with him?'

‘We took the same train this morning, though he got off at Southampton. He only just managed to catch it because the whistle had gone and the train had begun to move. He practically bowled me over with his kit bag as he threw himself through the door.'

‘I hope he had the grace to apologize, too.'

‘Yes, he did, and very nicely.' If she were to overlook the stolen kiss  . . . or even if she didn't, she amended.

The man laughed. ‘That's Denton for you  . . . always in a hurry. He takes after his mother.'

‘The way you were driving, I rather think he takes after you, Doctor Elliot.'

He laughed, and pulled on a pair of brown leather gloves. ‘I'll take more care on the corners from now on, I promise. There are enough casualties caused by the war, without creating some of my own at home. Denton has been on leave. He's going back to one of the field hospitals. He was going to join the practice when this damned war is over, though the way things are going I've a feeling that he may become a surgeon.'

‘You must be very proud of him.'

‘I am.'

Mrs Mortimer coughed. ‘You're keeping the doctor from his duties, and it's about time you got on with yours, I think, Carr. Poor Mrs Sangster shouldn't be left alone for all this time.'

Doctor Elliot winked at her. ‘It was nice to talk to you, Miss Carr. Don't be afraid to call me if I'm needed.'

‘I will, Sir.'

He was gone, his head butting into the pouring rain as he made a dash for the car. So, Denton was a doctor as well, she thought, as she closed the door with a final wave.

‘Don't you ever do that again, Carr,' Mrs Mortimer snarled.

‘Do what?'

‘Show yourself up by flirting with a visitor to this house, especially a man invited here in a professional capacity.'

‘Show myself up? We had a normal conversation; in fact, he was a very friendly and pleasant man.'

‘Sometimes you forget that you're nothing but a servant.'

‘Hark who's talking,' Connie said, and sniffing as she walked back towards the kitchen, she threw over her shoulder as a last word, ‘You'll be expecting us to call you Madam one of these days.'

Three

Richard Sangster dreamed he was asleep and safely snuggled in his own bed at Foxglove House. Wind-driven rain lashed against the window, the firelight threw dancing shadows upon the walls, and the flames spit and crackled. Cozy and safe in his warm flannel pyjamas and nest of blankets, he toasted his feet on the stone hot-water bottle. He was reluctant to abandon the bed, and the boy he used to be, but he badly needed to take a piss.

Someone gently shook him. ‘Are you awake, Sir. I've brought you a mug of tea.'

‘Tea? My mother doesn't allow me to drink it.'

For a moment his dream seemed real, then he thought: How silly to be standing outside your own dream looking in on it. Still, he stole another moment of comfort until the damp and cold intruded.

‘Give me a few seconds, would you, Sergeant Beamish.' He turned his back, unbuttoned his trousers and urinated into the mud. A wisp of steam escaped from his body with the trickling stream. His kidneys ached. Everything damned well ached. He twitched and juddered as well. He should go to the field hospital and get something to help calm him. His shaking hands fumbled with the buttons, and he turned back when he was done.

‘Here you are, Sir. Don't let it get cold.'

‘Thank you, Sergeant.' His palms closed around the tin mug to warm them, but inside Richard's smile his teeth began to chatter, so he felt like a mechanical clown being jerked around. Funny how you could feel warm in a dream, but as soon as you woke from it and moved, you were cold to the core. No wonder people died from hypothermia, when sleeping was such a pleasant state of oblivion to indulge in.

‘Are you all right, Sir?'

‘Are any of us all right? I'll be glad when this damnable war is over.' When it was over he was going to stay snuggled in his bed, until he grew cobwebs and died. ‘Do you ever dream that you're back home sleeping in your own bed, Sergeant?'

‘I wouldn't mind having my woman here to snuggle up to sometimes.'

‘What's your wife like?'

‘Doreen? She's not what you'd call a beauty, but she's a good cook and is comfortable where she should be, so she gives a man a good ride. Don't tell her I said that, though. Not that it matters here. The same urges don't seem to trouble me, thank goodness.'

There were rumours about bromide, and Richard wondered now if they were true. It was so long ago that he couldn't remember the last woman he'd been with  . . . or even experienced the last urge. The sergeant was correct. They had other bodily irritants to contend with, most of which had no easy relief: body lice, crabs, lack of sleep, and fungal infections that drove a man mad with itching.

Richard was hardly likely to meet the sergeant's wife, anyway. ‘Do you have children?'

‘None  . . . and we've been married for fifteen years, so I don't suppose we'll have any now. A pity, since we'd have liked some. You, Sir?'

‘I'm not married.' Richard couldn't imagine being married, though he supposed he'd have to take a suitable wife to bed sooner or later, if the Sinclair legacy was to stay in the family. He'd been displayed with pride by his father and spoiled by his mother, so he'd probably make some unfortunate woman a lousy husband, since he'd expect her to be at his beck and call.

‘What's the time?'

‘We have five minutes before dawn, when we go over the top. We'll have the sun behind us so they'll be looking into it.'

‘Break out the rum, then, Sergeant.' Richard took in a deep breath and checked his equipment. The Mills bombs were ripe lethal plums tucked into his webbing. He was a walking ammunition dump, and if a bullet hit him in the right place he'd explode, and they'd never find the scattered fragments of his body in all this mud.

He stared into the shit brown horizon. It reminded him that he'd been in a bit of a funk these past few months. Not that he was scared of dying. He'd lost that fear in the first gung-ho weeks of the war, when his body had been fully nourished and he'd been pumped up with the bullshit of propaganda, convinced that if he died for his country it would be a hero's death.

Now he felt like an old man with the ague, and the courage and conviction, along with the youthful venom, seemed to have been sucked out of him by the everlasting mud. Men died all around him. They didn't look like heroes, but victims of some lethal game of cricket, as they lobbed chunks of hot metal back and forth, trying to score points with the number of people killed.

Those who didn't catch a bullet often died of the flu. It was unstoppable. It felled the healthy, striking them down. It was said it could kill you in three days, and that if the lips turned blue the patient wouldn't survive. It had only just begun to make real inroads into the ranks, and soldiers were dropping like flies. Others got over it.

Richard had heard that the opposing forces were just as ill, just as hungry, just as dispirited – and just as low on ammunition. There were rumours that peace was being negotiated. Now he was scared because he could see an end to this war, and although he'd survived the disease he had an irrational fear that he might survive the conflict, but emerge from the war without honour in the process. When all was said and done, most people would prefer a dead hero than a live coward in the family. It was less embarrassing.

The golden-haired youth who'd marched bravely off to war, carrying the pride of his friends and parents on his shoulders, would return to Foxglove House changed. He had killed – he'd smelled death. It had sickened him even while he did what was expected of him. And those left behind would expect him to be the same as he'd been before, if he survived – the remainder of his life would have to be an act.

He didn't want to kill any more of the enemy  . . . in fact, he no longer thought of them as the enemy, but as men like himself, with families waiting for them to come home. He wanted to turn and run, not fight  . . . and that made him feel like a coward.

‘It's almost time, Sir,' the sergeant said.

Richard nodded, trying to look nonchalant to give courage to his men. His army-issue Lee Enfield had been cleaned the best he could, and his ammunition and bayonet were at the ready. He hoped they didn't run into any machine guns. If they did, he hoped none of his men would suffer. He fingered the cross he wore around his neck, a gift from his mother. ‘God be on my side today,' he whispered, tossing back his ration of rum, which would give his legs the courage and fuel to keep moving onwards instead of backwards.