Together for Christmas (14 page)

Flora dropped the letter in her lap. She was sitting alone in the airey, beside the hearth. The fire that she had built that morning before work had kept the cold at bay. But inside her she felt
chilled to the bone. Will’s vivid description of his life in the trenches had brought tears to her eyes. A feeling of hopelessness overwhelmed her. Like all the men who had come to the
surgery, his account of the war was unbearable. What good could come of all this killing? Flora could find no answer.

That night, she went on her knees and threaded her rosary between her fingers. She begged the Blessed Virgin Mary for protection for Will and his comrades.

Once again, it was all she could do for the dear boy who meant so much to her and Hilda.

The first week of December brought heavy rain and, each day, Flora mopped the floors of the surgery as patients arrived, many whom had suffered from the cold in November and
now were laid low with bronchitis and flu. There were also more victims from the battlefront. They spoke of the Artois–Loos offensive that had failed in the autumn. Will was ever-present on
Flora’s mind. Each casualty gave an account of the mud-filled trenches and, as Will had written, the armies of rats spreading disease amongst the troops.

‘Machine-gun fire felled us in our hundreds,’ one soldier told Flora and the doctor. He was stick-thin and in distress with stomach pain. ‘The snipers shot our wounded who were
trying to get up and run but struggling to take off their equipment. I was grazed by a bullet, but managed to get back to our lines.’ His haggard face fell. ‘Though sometimes I wish I
hadn’t made it. I fell into the bog that contained the dead and dying. Bodies floated on the surface and piled up. I shall never forget them; those sightless eyes and bloated bodies.’
He paused, wiping the moisture from his eyes with shaking hands. ‘They . . . they fished me out and took me back to the field infirmary. I was sick and fevered. There’s no lavs in the
trenches, just pits that we dug and never filled in. They overflowed in the rain and the stench was unbearable. Nor did we have any clean water. We could only get supplies when we got back to the
reserve lines.’ The soldier groaned, putting his arms across his stomach and bending forward. ‘The doctors told me I had dysentery and sent me home.’

‘And not before time, young man,’ said the doctor, as he dispensed a little white medicine into a small cup. ‘This will help to ease the diarrhoea and subdue the pain. But you
must rest in bed. Drink as much clean water as you can. Take small quantities of barley water, milk or light soup. Have you someone at home to care for you?’

The soldier nodded. ‘Me mother.’

Flora knew that, as with the victims of poisoned gas, there was little more they could do for those who had dysentery. Men who survived the first stages were often troubled by frequent attacks
throughout their lives. Those who were too weak to fight for their health soon perished.

As the young man left, he was replaced by another: an older man in his thirties who had volunteered for Kitchener. ‘I can’t stop scratching,’ he complained. ‘And I got a
fever that’s left me as weak as a kitten.’

Flora helped the doctor to unravel the man’s thick clothing. Over his chest, arms and legs were the red sores caused by lice. ‘You have pyrexia or, as it’s more commonly known,
trench fever,’ the doctor explained as he examined the patient. ‘Your rashes and bites are caused by lice, though I see no evidence of the creatures on your body now.’

‘The orderlies shaved me,’ the man said, scratching his bald head. ‘Then put this stuff all over me that felt as if it was burning my skin. We were given these blue sterilized
suits to wear. I still can’t stop scratching even though the lice are gone. They burrow into you, into your clothes and pants and then it feels as if they enter your insides. Some of them are
as big as rice grains. We used to light candles and drop the wax on ’em. You heard ’em pop and the blood would spurt out of them. Yet you’d never be able to rid yourself of the
buggers. I wake up fevered in the nights, still tearing at my skin and drawing blood.’

‘My nurse will apply a suspension of zinc and iron oxide,’ the doctor consoled him, nodding to Flora to administer the pink-coloured lotion from the trolley. ‘This will reduce
the inflammation of your sores and help you to resist scratching. The fever will come and go until you’ve completely recovered.’

‘My wife is afraid I’ll spread the disease to her and the kids,’ the soldier said miserably.

‘To address her worries,’ the doctor advised, ‘suggest that she use Naptha disinfectant in and around the house. Keeping the body and home clean is a deterrent to the spread of
any disease.’

‘Do you think the army will call me back up to the lines?’ the man asked as he rose unsteadily.

‘You’re far from fit,’ Dr Tapper replied. ‘I shall vouch for your convalescence.’

When they were alone that evening, Flora told the doctor about Will’s letter. And about how, when Will had volunteered, he had believed that the war would be over by Christmas last
year.

‘I’m very sorry, my dear,’ he replied. ‘But it seems the stories are one and the same. Your young friend, together with thousands of others, must have had had a very rude
awakening.’

Flora knew the doctor was thinking of Wilfred. She wanted to ask him if he had any news of his son. Wilfred had been missing for six months. And now, after all she and the doctor had witnessed,
Flora knew that with each passing day, as conditions in the trenches worsened, Wilfred’s chances of survival were slim.

The following weekend, Flora went to see Mrs Bell.

‘You’re soaked through.’ Mrs Bell tutted. ‘Come into the warm.’

Mrs Bell took Flora’s wet coat. The heat of the black-leaded range soon made the gabardine mac smell.

‘Read this.’ The cook slipped an envelope from her pocket.

Flora recognized Hilda’s small, tight handwriting. But all that was written on the paper was a request for Mrs Bell to lend her a pound, if possible, well before Christmas.

‘Not a thing about her new post, or any little details that might tickle me fancy,’ Mrs Bell said crossly, as she poured tea and turned a sponge from a baking tin onto a plate.

‘Why didn’t Hilda ask me for the money?’ Flora wondered.

‘Don’t know.’ Mrs Bell sat down and cut the sponge in half. ‘Well, perhaps I do. I’m afraid I got into the habit of helping Hilda out.’

‘That was very kind of you.’

‘I didn’t think sending her a few shillings would do no harm.’ The cook spread jam and cream thickly on both sides of the sponge then placed it in the middle of the table.
‘Did you know she’s paid less than she was here?’

Flora had been worried when Hilda had told her this, though Hilda hadn’t seemed to mind at the time.

‘Hilda’s not one to save,’ Mrs Bell continued, slicing the cake. ‘She might go out to the village and throw money away on all sorts of distractions. Perhaps even at the
local inn.’

‘But Hilda don’t drink.’

‘I hope it stays that way.’

‘She’s only sixteen.’

‘But looks older.’ Mrs Bell frowned. ‘Maybe she’s not been paid yet.’

Flora was beginning to feel concerned. A pound was a good deal of money.

‘I really don’t know what to do for the best. The money don’t trouble me. I always have a pound or two put by. It’s what our Hilda wants it for that’s worrying me.
The lowers often take to tippling, my dear. A nasty habit to get into. But there’s plentiful temptation for those who see it as their right to polish off the fine wines the family might
leave, or sample the strong brew that can be bought in the villages on a day off.’

‘I really don’t think Hilda would do that.’

‘You’d be shocked at the change in character that overcomes a girl when the work piled on her is never-ending. In the big houses, even the cook might reach for the sherry bottle at
the end of her busy day.’ Mrs Bell looked anxious, her hands tightly clenched together. ‘And what of these village wenches that Hilda has to mix with? They wouldn’t think twice
about leading a young girl astray. The drinking that goes on in taverns amongst country folk – well, I’ve seen it all in my time, Flora. And money washes down the drain as fast as
water.’

Flora could see that Mrs Bell was very upset. She didn’t know how to advise her.

‘Though I wouldn’t rest if I didn’t send her something.’ Mrs Bell looked at Flora.

‘Perhaps ten shillings,’ Flora suggested. ‘Half a pound should go a very long way.’

‘Yes, you might be right.’

They ate their cake and drank their tea in silence. Flora wondered why Hilda hadn’t written to her; it was almost two months since she’d left the East End.

By the time Flora left Hailing House, she had managed to bring a smile back to the cook’s face. Mrs Bell thought a great deal of Hilda. It would be hard for her to refuse Hilda’s
request, even though there was no explanation to say why Hilda needed the money. More importantly, Hilda hadn’t taken the trouble to write about her new life at Adelphi Hall. A few lines,
thought Flora, a little put out, would have easily satisfied Mrs Bell.

It was Tuesday and Flora was clearing up. The morning had been very busy and now, at last, the waiting room was empty.

‘What are your plans for Christmas?’ the doctor asked, peering over his half-spectacles as Flora swept the floor. The patients had brought mud and dirt in from the streets on their
damp shoes and clothes. Flora took particular care in the wet weather. It was in the damper conditions that diseases thrived. She knew the uncarpeted wooden floor would be just as dirty this
evening, but still she left no corner untouched. The smell of disinfectant was all around as the doctor sat at his desk.

‘I’m going to the midnight service with Mrs Bell. And Aggie too, if she’s free.’ Flora had tried not to think how much she would miss Hilda this year. Since they’d
left the orphanage, their tradition was that after Mass she and Hilda would come back to the airey and Hilda would sleep the night on the big sofa. Christmas Day was very special for them. They
made their own decorations and cooked a roast dinner. The chicken would be very small, but they always had plenty of vegetables. Will joined them, bringing freshly spiced buns and marshmallows from
the bakery. They would eat them by the fire, toasted on long forks. But last year had been very different. Will had enlisted and she and Hilda had celebrated alone.

‘Your friend won’t be visiting from Surrey?’ the doctor enquired.

‘Hilda hasn’t written,’ Flora said a little dejectedly.

‘Then perhaps you might think of joining me for lunch,’ said Dr Tapper. ‘Mrs Carver insists on leaving me much more than I can eat. And of course, without Wilfred . .
.’

Flora realized that Christmas for the doctor held only memories of times past and he would be very alone this year. ‘Thank you. That would be very nice,’ Flora accepted, replacing
the mop in her bucket.

She was still thinking about the doctor’s kind offer when he continued. ‘I’m sad to say that a death has been reported to me. Stephen Pollard, whose leg was amputated at
hospital.’

She looked sadly at the doctor. ‘What will become of his widow and children?’

‘Mrs Pollard has been admitted to a sanatorium.’ The doctor brushed back his thick grey hair with his hand. ‘And the children sent to temporary care.’ He stood up and
braced his shoulders. ‘Let us hope, she will recover soon.’

Flora knew the doctor was very upset. She was about to leave, when he said quickly, ‘There is, on the other hand, good news from my colleague, Gordon Whitham.’

Flora recognized the name at once. ‘The doctor you sent Sidney Cowper to?’

‘Yes. It seems, so far, Sidney is improving.’

Flora felt excited. ‘The new treatment has worked?’

‘Not entirely. Many months of painful exercise must be endured for complete rehabilitation. I shall look forward to hearing again. But even this is welcome news.’

Flora knew the doctor was trying to keep cheerful. It was, after all, the Christmas season.

‘Perhaps we will close the doors a little earlier today,’ he said, with a smile.

Flora knew how much he cared for his patients. But he couldn’t let the thought of the many unfortunates, like Mrs Pollard and her family, overwhelm him. The news of Sidney Cowper had been
especially welcome today.

Flora decided she would go to the market and buy Christmas cards. She wanted to end 1915 by reminding Will and Hilda about the happy times they had shared. And tell them her prayers were with
them, no matter how far away they were.

The traders of Cox Street market had made an effort at Christmas cheer despite the shadow of war, Flora noted happily. Wrapped up warmly in her coat, scarf and hat, she made
her way through the crowds. Bunches of holly and mistletoe were nailed to the beams of the stalls. Some of the handmade paper-chains strung across their interiors had turned limp and bedraggled,
but still looked seasonal. The fruit and vegetable stalls were doing a brisk business, despite the shortage of food supplies that Flora had heard everyone complaining about. She noticed how people
were still buying in large quantities – vegetables, oranges and apples were arranged enticingly on the costermongers’ stalls. The barrow boys selling hot chestnuts turned the crisp
fruit on their braziers. She loved the smell of the roasting nuts; after browning on the tin plates, the chestnuts disappeared into boat-shaped newspaper bags, still steaming in the misty air. In
the distance, she could hear a man singing, ‘Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kit Bag’. The song reminded her of Will.

Dotted about the market she saw street urchins: scrawny, red-nosed children holding their caps and begging for charity. One or two made an attempt to sing carols as she passed, holding out their
filthy hands for offerings. Others rushed to grab overripe fruit or vegetables thrown in the gutters as waste.

An aroma of coffee wafted pleasantly in the air. Flora remembered the time when she and Hilda had witnessed the attack on Old Fritz, just after the
Lusitania
had sunk. His bric-a-brac
stall had been turned over and his stock scattered far and wide. The old man had never returned to the market.