Together for Christmas (30 page)

‘Look ’ere, ’Ilda,’ Gracie continued in her irritating sing-song voice, ‘you’d best get that window cleaned. We’re for it if Lord William or Turner
decides to appear. They could be round this way any minute, so quiet you’d never ’ear ’em.’ Gracie’s eyes went wide and fearful. ‘This floor gives me the
collywobbles, it truly does.’

Hilda managed to hide her amusement and dabbed her cloth disinterestedly at the glass. Gracie was a fool if she believed the stories that had been passed down to the lowers. Fairytales they
were, so Hilda believed. The first day she’d worked here she had searched every dark corner and listened for footsteps behind her. But there had only been silence on the upper floor, which
smelled musty and forgotten. Sometimes it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. If Lord William or his silver-haired valet walked these corridors, then Hilda certainly hadn’t seen them.

‘Five minutes,’ Gracie snapped. ‘By the time I come back, I want that window finished.’

Hilda seethed in silence as she watched Gracie walk away. Gracie was just a dim-witted skivvy whose newly found air of importance made Hilda’s fingers itch to go round Gracie’s
scrawny neck and squeeze tight. How dare a servant tell her what to do! But as much as Hilda would like to put the scullery maid in her rightful place, a tongue-lashing would serve no purpose.
Gracie was the only channel of information that Hilda had. Despite Gracie’s uppity ways, there was little that happened in the household, both upstairs and down, that Gracie didn’t know
about. Hilda knew she must bite her tongue and suffer Gracie’s annoying attitude if she wanted to know what was going on in the outside world. Hilda’s most immediate concern was finding
out when Lord Guy would return to Adelphi Hall.

Hilda closed her eyes and thought longingly of the last time they were together. After the horse had reared and knocked her down, Lord Guy had lifted her into his arms and kissed her bloody eye.
Then he had made a sling for her arm from his shirt. She thought of the feel of his naked, sweat-covered shoulders as she clung to them. Of the slender trail of jet-black hair that snaked down his
chest and disappeared beneath the buckle at his waist. Tears filled Hilda’s eyes. She missed him so much. And hated, with every ounce of her strength, the spoiled and ugly Lady Gabriella
Beresford.

The weeks had passed quickly since the night of the Zeppelin attack and Flora counted herself lucky to be alive. She had read in the newspapers that the airship had claimed
nine lives and injured many more during its flight over London. Had Michael not come to her rescue, she might well have died under the collapsed buildings of Westferry Road.

As Lady Hailing had given Mrs Bell another maid to help in the kitchen, Flora was now free to see Michael each Sunday. The crisp autumn days were turning to winter and Michael often drove them
into the country. Flora liked best their strolls along the Embankment, pausing to eat roasted chestnuts or drink hot coffee. She always felt proud to be on the arm of the handsome young man who
strode beside her with barely a limp. But she never failed to keep in mind that as soon as he passed the army medical, they would have to part.

One late November evening after they had enjoyed tea at Lyons, Michael suggested they make their way to the river. The lights of the city twinkled as they walked arm in arm while all around them
was an air of excitement. The stores were showing signs of Christmas, despite the shadow of war. Barrow boys and coffee stalls were not to be outdone and strung sprigs of holly on their stands.
Michael gave a shilling to a beggar who was singing ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ and offered to sing another carol of their choice. Flora knew that people were trying to look on the
bright side even though most families were suffering the loss of a loved one, or life-changing injuries. But still, the season of goodwill was upon London and the Embankment, when they reached it,
was layered in a fine river mist, sending people’s breaths curling up into the cold winter’s air.

‘Christmas is almost upon us,’ Michael said, as they stood at the river wall. ‘But I fear the holiday might come too late for us to be together. I shall soon be deemed fit to
return to service.’

Flora had hoped and prayed that he would still be at home for the 25th of December. But each day now, men were being called up; many to replace the thousands of troops lost at the Somme and
Verdun and all along both the Eastern and Western Fronts.

Michael lifted his fingers to the wisps of silvery blonde hair that escaped over her ears, tucking them gently inside her small fur hat. Then gently touching the brooch pinned to the lapel of
her coat, he murmured, ‘Your butterfly brooch is a reminder of life for us after the war, Flora. That is what you want, my dearest?’

She nodded, a sharp pain close to her heart from the thought they might soon be separated. ‘When I wear it, I shall always think of you,’ she assured him. ‘If only the war were
to end now.’

‘Who knows when it will be over?’ Michael replied. ‘Or how long it will be before we see each other again?’ He took her in his arms, careless of the glances of the
passers-by. ‘There are no guarantees of a future, my darling, but I promise you that wherever I am in this world, I will always let you know I’m thinking of you.’

‘And I shall be thinking of you.’

‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ he asked her one last time. ‘Am I right to ask it of you? You already have Will—’

She reached up to lay her fingers on his lips. ‘I have both of you, safe in my heart and my prayers.’

Before he could reply, a small figure appeared beside them. Michael quickly let her go.

‘Matches for yer, sir?’ the match-girl asked, a tangle of brown ringlets falling over her dirty face. Flora saw she was shivering under her thin, grubby coat and she could hardly
hold still the battered tray in front of her.

‘Find me a nice bundle, will you?’ Michael said kindly as he pressed a large coin into her palm.

‘’Alf a crown! Oh, sir – m’lord – your majesty, fank you!’ The match-girl quickly pocketed her treasure. ‘I’d give yer heather as well, but I
ain’t got none. Still, keep the matches in yer wallet and I promise they’ll bring yer good luck.’

‘I’ll keep you to that, young lady.’ Michael chuckled as he accepted the roughly cut wooden sticks tied with frayed string.

They watched her scurry off into the mist, a small, bedraggled figure with wild brown ringlets bouncing on her shoulders. Flora thought of Hilda. Had it not been for the nuns of St Boniface, she
and Hilda could easily have been beggars too.

‘My lucky talisman,’ Michael said as he tucked the matches in his pocket. ‘Now I have something for you.’ He slipped his hand under his red silk cravat and took out a
small box. ‘I hope you like this, Flora.’

The box felt as soft as velvet between her fingers. She opened the lid carefully. A flash of light dazzled her before she realized what she was holding. ‘A ring?’ she gasped.
‘Michael, are you sure this is for me?’

‘Who else would it be for?’

‘It’s so very beautiful.’

‘Three small diamonds,’ he explained, indicating each nugget, ‘fashioned into a cluster to sit on your delicate finger.’

Flora had never held a diamond before. She had never even seen one! The gems on the jeweller’s stall at the market were mostly glass and paste. She couldn’t take her eyes from the
ring’s exquisite beauty.

‘I love you with all my heart, dearest.’

She gazed up at him, the words trembling on her lips. ‘And I love you.’

‘Then that’s all that matters.’ His lips touched hers in a kiss that was full of everything she loved: the mist on the river, the salt in its water and the scents of the winter
air. A kiss that was full of promise and of the life that one day, they might share.

He kissed her again, but this time she felt the passion of his longing. ‘If you accept this, then I know you are to be mine,’ he whispered, lifting her hand to slip on the ring. She
spread out her fingers. ‘But you are very young yet. And you may change your mind before I can return to marry you.’

‘No, I’ll never do that.’

The diamonds glimmered and above their heads Flora caught sight of the star. Their star. The star that would shine on her husband-to-be and bring him home safely to her arms.

It was Saturday, the day before Christmas Eve, and the surgery had been full of the walking wounded, the young and the elderly and the disabled veterans of war. Flora had
offered each adult a glass of port and mince pie and all had accepted, enjoying a little warmth on a grey winter’s day that held little other seasonal cheer. The complaints of the patients
rang in her ears; there were few who regarded the election of a new prime minister as compensation for the failure to return the men who had been too long at war.

‘All washouts!’ exclaimed one older be-whiskered patient, whose painful gout had been temporarily forgotten after downing a port. ‘Asquith was conspired against and ousted by
Lloyd George’s puppets. The king got involved too. All with promises to end the conflict and still there ain’t no sign of peace!’

‘Aye,’ agreed a young veteran, his hairless scalp displaying the scars of hurriedly performed stitching, ‘they’re all useless. The politicians blow ’ot and cold
just to win themselves votes. I’d like to see all these stuffed suits at Whitehall kitted out with a private’s tunic. Stand where a soldier stands, made to jump over the top and run
like stink towards certain death. Oh, yes, I’d like that—’ The man began to cough heavily, waving aside the help offered as he stumbled towards the door, never finishing his
sentence.

There was silence amongst the last few patients who sat in their seats, nodding their agreement, and despite Flora’s attempts to lighten the air, there wasn’t a smile to be seen.
Flora found herself grateful that the week had come to an end. With the last of the port drunk and the mince pies eaten, she knew that for the people of the East End, this Christmas would be the
hardest and leanest of the war so far.

As she washed and dried her hands in her small room, she looked at the empty space on her left finger. Her ring was too precious to wear to work. She kept it safely with her shawl and the
butterfly brooch in the drawer downstairs.

She had wanted to say so many things to Michael, but there was no time. Now all she had was memories of their last, brief goodbye.

‘Time to close the doors,’ Dr Tapper said, startling her. She hadn’t heard the last patient leave, so deep was she in thoughts of Michael. Now as she regarded her employer, she
could see the relief in his face too. ‘I fear that Christmas 1916 will leave us all a little underwhelmed,’ he said, echoing her thoughts. ‘Too many grieving and too many hungry.
What interest has the ordinary man in Lloyd George’s new-style cabinet? Or a reshuffled coalition that plays on tactics involving the king? The people need reassurance, not division.’
He shook his head, then looked at her wearily. ‘Forgive me, my dear, you have your own loss to contend with this year, without my grumbling.’

Flora smiled. ‘Would you like to eat with me on Christmas Day, Dr Tapper?’

‘I would like that very much.’ A twinkle returned to his eyes.

That night, Flora sat by the fire and considered her plans for Christmas. She had been to the market and bought a small chicken, some fresh vegetables and a little fruit. She counted herself
lucky to have purchased a scrawny bird, the last hanging on a hook, from the butcher’s stall. She’d paid twice the price, and had to haggle at the fruit and vegetable stall. The
cabbages and apples were the smallest she had ever seen.

‘You should have come early,’ the stall-holder admonished her. ‘What we had weren’t much, thanks to our ships being sunk and merchant men going down like swatted flies.
We’re at war and have to tighten our belts but I’ll bet you the buggers up at Whitehall will still ’old out their palms for our taxes to keep their fat arses on parliament’s
seats.’

Flora understood these complaints and listened patiently. She knew everyone was letting off steam, frustrated by the interminable war.

The warmth from the fire glowed on her cheeks. A fire that would be welcomed by many in homes that were suffering from the bitter cold and a scarcity of food and fuel. Once again, Flora thought
how fortunate she was to be earning a wage and enjoying a roof over her head. She gazed up at the photographs of Will and Michael. They stood side by side, decorated with a sprig of holly. Next to
these was a card from Hilda that had come last week. It showed a winter’s scene in the countryside. Inside, a short message read:

Flora was surprised by this turn of events. How would her friend fare in the changing circumstances that had befallen Adelphi Hall? Would Hilda be expected to help the wounded soldiers? Flora
couldn’t hide her smile as she thought of Hilda’s weak stomach.

Her gaze travelled up to the photograph of Michael. She thought of their last brief embrace on the day they had told Lillian they were engaged.

Lillian had held her close. ‘I couldn’t be happier, my dear Flora,’ she had whispered. They had all sat in the conservatory and spoken of the time when peace would reign. But
as Michael had kissed her goodbye, they had needed no words.

The truth was, no one could predict the events that would take place in the cold months ahead.

The New Year began with freezing temperatures and a spread of bronchitis that kept Flora busy at the surgery. During the day, she made sure the air smelled sweetly of ginger
and eucalyptus and the peppery balsams that helped to ease the many chest complaints. At night, when she scrubbed the place clean, these were replaced by the eye-watering odours of Naptha and Jeyes
disinfectant.