Together for Christmas (21 page)

The next morning, she found the doctor sitting quietly in his room. ‘I’ve received news of Wilfred,’ he told her. ‘His remains have been found near Ypres.’

Flora sat down heavily on the chair. What could she say to comfort him?

It was some time before he spoke again. Clearing his throat, he continued. ‘They say he is buried close to the firing line. His personal effects will be returned to me.’ The doctor
stood up, his shoulders bent forward. ‘I shall write to my sister in Bath, Wilfred’s aunt. They were close and no doubt she will help me to arrange a memorial service.’

Flora wanted to put her arms around him. But she knew he wouldn’t want her pity. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Nothing, my dear. You had better see to the patients.’

Flora wondered how it was possible for the doctor to continue as normal. He looked very tired; the grief in his face had made him seem a much older man.

‘Perhaps I should send them away?’ she ventured.

‘It’s quite all right,’ he assured her, patting his pockets gently. ‘I had prepared myself for the worst. Now, let us carry on.’ He walked slowly to the door. Flora
followed. It didn’t help when she went into the waiting room to see, amongst the other patients, a young man leaning heavily on his crutch and another sitting on one of the chairs, shaking
fiercely. The signs of shell shock were easy to recognize now. These men were suffering the after-effects of a prolonged violent experience, but at least had returned alive. Wilfred, even in death,
was exiled. He lay, where so many hundreds of thousands of British men now lay, on foreign soil.

On Sunday, Flora went to see Mrs Bell to share the unhappy news with her. By the time she arrived at Hailing House, the rain was driving down, sweeping across the road in gusts
and forming large puddles in the gutters.

‘You’ll catch your death coming out in all this,’ said Mrs Bell as Flora shook the rain from her umbrella. ‘I’ll put your coat by the range. You’d better give
me your boots too. And don’t try to hide the newspaper you’ve put inside them.’

‘I’ve been meaning to buy some new ones.’

‘About time too. There’s more holes than soles in these.’ She held the wet newspaper up and wrinkled her nose. ‘If I was your mother I’d scold you thoroughly for
not taking proper care of yourself. But then as I’m not, and am only a bossy old lady, you’ll no doubt think of me as just a wretched nuisance, like our Hilda did.’

‘I’ll never think that.’ Flora smiled.

‘Can’t you afford a new pair of boots for yourself?’

‘I’m saving up to visit Hilda.’

‘In that case I’ll see what I can find in the charity box.’ Mrs Bell disappeared, but was back very soon, minus the newspaper and holding a pair of brown leather boots.
‘Lady Hailing gave me plenty of cast-offs for the poor and needy in the soup kitchen. There’s any amount to choose from so you won’t be leaving anyone short. These look about your
size.’

Flora took the boots. They weren’t much to look at, but were of the strong brown leather variety with hard-wearing thick soles. ‘Are you sure you can spare them?’

‘They’ll see you all right for now. Slip them on and I’ll pour us a cup of Rosie. Then I can show you the letter I had from Hilda.’

‘She wrote to you?’ Flora asked as she sat down at the table and leaned over to lace up the comfortable boots.

‘Yes, I’m relieved to say she did.’

Flora watched Mrs Bell pour the rich brown tea, followed by creamy milk and a teaspoon of sugar, and serve a generous slice of Bakewell tart. Then Mrs Bell sat down beside her and took the
letter from her pocket. Placing her half-spectacles on her nose, she began to read:

‘So what do you make of that?’ asked Mrs Bell, a frown on her forehead.

‘She’s told you a lot about what’s going on,’ said Flora, who was impressed at the length of the letter. ‘And she hasn’t forgotten your pound.’

‘She could have bought material for ten dresses with that.’

‘Hilda likes quality.’

‘I would have thought she had plenty of quality in the clothes she took with her.’

‘It could be a working dress.’

Mrs Bell tapped the paper. ‘Someone special, eh? Could he be one of the footmen?’ She screwed up her small eyes and studied the letter again. ‘If so, the girl is sure to be
dallied with! Footmen are usually too handsome for their own good.’

‘Hilda might have impressed Lady Bertha,’ suggested Flora, ‘which would explain why she needed the pound for a dress.’

‘You could be right,’ agreed the cook doubtfully. ‘But you know Hilda, always with an eye for the men.’

‘But Hilda’s ambition is to be a lady’s maid,’ Flora reminded the cook. ‘That’s why she went to Adelphi.’

Mrs Bell’s face softened as she folded the letter away. ‘I knew you’d put me mind at rest, Flora, love. So I might send her a little something.’

‘Hilda’s very lucky to have you.’

‘Oh, what’s a pound to me? When it might make all the difference to how Hilda’s looked upon by the uppers.’ Mrs Bell looked pleased and she nodded in satisfaction.

‘I’m afraid I have some sad news,’ Flora said, reluctant to spoil the cook’s pleasant mood. ‘It’s been confirmed that Dr Tapper’s son, Wilfred, is
dead.’

‘Oh, my dear!’ Mrs Bell clapped her hands on her cheeks. ‘When are they bringing him home?’

‘Wilfred’s remains are buried near the front line.’

‘Oh, to think of it! The doctor’s one and only child, gone for ever without a proper resting place. What will the doctor do now?’

‘Lieutenant Appleby has driven him to Bath to see his sister.’ Flora couldn’t hide her blush at the mention of Michael.

Mrs Bell sat up. ‘Lieutenant Appleby? Who might he be?’

Flora told Mrs Bell about Michael’s injury and the treatment that had been prescribed by the doctor. ‘Dr Tapper even asked him to dinner on Christmas Day.’

‘My goodness, what for? Hasn’t he got family of his own?’

‘Mrs Appleby was wintering in Scotland and I think the doctor was thinking of Wilfred and saw in Michael something of his own son.’

Mrs Bell looked keenly at Flora. ‘So you spent your Christmas in the company of this young man? You didn’t say anything about it at the midnight service.’

‘I didn’t know if he would turn up.’

The cook replenished the teapot, crooking an eyebrow at Flora. ‘How old is he, may I ask?’

‘Twenty-four.’

‘And you, barely sixteen. I hope you’ll remember he’s a soldier.’

‘I can’t forget that.’

‘The government is very short of men,’ Mrs Bell was swift to remind her. ‘Haven’t you seen the lines of recruits marching down the street in their civilian clothes to the
recruiting depot at Bow? Should this young man recover, he’ll not be long in England.’

‘I know.’

‘Just you take care, my love.’ Mrs Bell lifted her hands and sighed. ‘The war is a long way from ending. On both the Eastern and Western Fronts, the conflict shows no sign of
stopping. You may be tempted to start a friendship that is very difficult – and painful – to stop.’

Flora thought about Mrs Bell’s warning as she made her way home. Michael had asked her to write to him if he rejoined his regiment. It was only fair to give him her answer. After all, the
time he was spending driving her out and about, and taking her to fashionable hotels for tea, he could be spending with someone else. A girl who would be happy to comply with his wishes.

At this thought, a violent emotion gripped her. Flora stopped still. Her legs had gone quite weak and her pulse raced. What was this she was feeling? At the thought of Michael with another girl,
she felt very miserable. How painful jealousy was!

On Monday, the surgery seemed very empty without the doctor. Flora had to tell the patients he was away in Bath and unlikely to return that week. Most of them understood when
they heard that Wilfred had perished and the doctor was making arrangements for a remembrance service.

‘I suppose we’ll have to walk all the way to Blackwall,’ one patient complained. ‘To see the miserable old goat who calls himself a doctor and charges a shillin’
just for stepping over his doorstep, never mind the cost of the medicine.’

Flora reminded the irritable lady that Dr Tapper never charged his patients unless they could afford to pay. Many of them couldn’t, but he continued to treat them anyway. She added that he
gave his time and attention to anyone who was sick and always without complaint.

‘Me rheumatics will have to wait I suppose,’ conceded the lady, which brought a smile to Flora’s face. She knew that there were very few men like Dr Tapper and most of their
patients appreciated that.

On Tuesday, a tall figure wrapped in a heavy driving coat arrived at the surgery door. ‘I delivered the doctor safely,’ Michael told her as he stepped in. ‘I’m to return
for him on Sunday.’

Flora smiled, a little embarrassed as, after her talk with Mrs Bell, Michael had often been in her thoughts. ‘Will there be a service for Wilfred in Bath?’

‘Yes, it’s where he spent a lot of time as a child, I was told. He was very close to his aunt.’ Michael hesitated. ‘Would you mind if we postpone my treatment
today?’

‘Are you in pain?’ Flora asked anxiously.

‘No, in fact, quite the opposite.’

‘Perhaps an improvement is all the more reason to keep up your exercises,’ Flora scolded gently.

He laughed. ‘What a hard taskmaster you are!’

Flora felt guilty. She knew it was not up to her to tell Michael anything.

‘Oh, please don’t look so sad.’ Michael reached out and touched her arm. ‘I was only teasing. Let me reassure you that I shall come for my exercises later this week, but
there is something I would like to ask you, Flora.’

Flora waited as he transferred his cane to the other hand. What was he about to say?

‘Could we go somewhere a little more, well, homely,’ he asked after an awkward hesitation.

Flora knew he meant the airey. She had never asked him in before. It would seem improper to invite him into her home, unaccompanied.

‘I promise I won’t take up too much of your time. It’s just that here I’m reminded of this,’ he nodded at his leg, ‘and don’t really feel at ease to
talk.’

He had such a hang-dog expression on his face that she found herself unable to refuse. And few minutes later, after she had locked the surgery door, they were making their way down the steps to
the airey.

Michael looked around approvingly. ‘Your home is most charming.’ He began to peel off his coat and driving gloves, though she hadn’t offered to take them.

‘Would you like some tea?’ Flora felt obliged to ask. She was feeling very nervous. What could he want? Having given her the brooch, which must have been very expensive, did he
expect something in return?

‘That would be perfect. Thank you.’

Flora felt her hands trembling as she put out the china and warmed the teapot before stirring the freshly brewed leaves. Could he be about to ask more of her than she was prepared to give? The
thought made her feel as miserable as the other thought of someone else being with him. She tried to slow her movements. Was she reading too much into this? But he had never spoken this way
before.

‘So this must be Will,’ Michael said when she returned with the tray. He was standing at the mantel, studying the photograph of Will in uniform.

‘It was taken before he left the East End.’

‘A handsome young man.’ He sat down in the chair beside the fire. ‘How are things going for him?’

‘Very badly, I’m afraid.’

‘But he has survived so far.’

‘Yes, though in his last letter he admitted to wishing he could join his dead comrades.’

‘I’ve heard some men say this.’ Michael’s voice was a rough whisper. ‘Men who’ve lost all hope.’

‘War is so terrible,’ Flora said as she poured the rich brown tea into the cups and added the milk. ‘Why do we have to have them?’

He paused for a while before answering. ‘Some would say war is in the nature of man. Others would argue that their baser nature could be transformed, if worked on, to another state
altogether.’

She was amazed to hear him speak such words. ‘But you are a soldier. And not a volunteer. You must believe in the conflict.’

‘I believe it’s my duty to fight for king and country.’ His eyes slipped away to the fire. ‘Though war has come to mean something very different to me now.’ They
were silent for a moment until he asked curiously, ‘Does Hilda write to Will as conscientiously as you?’

Flora shook her head. ‘Hilda isn’t one for letter writing. Although she loves to receive letters, almost as much as Will does.’

He looked at her for a long while. ‘So you and Will have grown even closer? Forging a bond, I suspect, that is very strong.’

‘Yes, a bond that is unbreakable even by war,’ Flora agreed as she drank her tea, thinking of Will. Michael was right. She was the only one who Will could exchange such life and
death confidences with. The war had come to mean something very different to him too, just as Michael had experienced.

‘I want to ask you,’ Michael said after a while, ‘if you would like to come with me when I next visit Mama? She would be most pleased to meet you.’

Flora sat up in her chair. ‘But . . . but why?’

He laughed, his face surprised. ‘She would love to meet you. I’ve told her all about you.’

‘You have?’

‘Please say you’ll come.’

‘But . . . but what will I wear?’ Flora burst out. She didn’t have anything except her blue suit. And Michael had seen it on Christmas Day.