Together for Christmas (11 page)

The very next Sunday, Flora decided to visit Sister Patricia at the orphanage. Instead of going to St Edmund’s, she would go to Mass in the chapel. It had been three
years since she and Hilda had left St Boniface’s. Had there been many changes in that time? she wondered. She would ask Sister Patricia to offer prayers for Will and Hilda. The nun had taken
on a motherly role with all of them, even though Hilda, having strong memories of her own mother – unlike Flora and Will who knew nothing of their parentage – had always insisted that
no one could take Rose’s place. But it was also Sister Patricia who had given Rose the job in the laundry when she was destitute, and taken Hilda in when Rose had died.

When Flora set off, a cold October breeze blew in her face and whistled round her ears. She had wrapped up warmly in a coat and scarf, though she knew a brisk walk would soon make her cheeks
burn. The streets of the East End were deserted at such an early hour. If she’d made her journey during the week, she could have caught the number fifty-seven bus. But on Sundays, transport
was scarce. The convent was on the far side of Victoria Park.

The streets slowly came to life as she hurried along. She nodded to the early-morning churchgoers who made their way to worship, dodging the horse-drawn traffic as it began to fill the roads.
Flora preferred the weekday hustle and bustle of trade: the many port workers with regular jobs who arrived by bicycle or on foot at the dock gates; the less fortunate stevedores waiting at the
dock gates for casual work; and labourers, shore gangs, bargemen and lightermen making their way towards the river. But this morning the hooters from the boats on the river were silent. Only the
hungry gulls screamed, their cries interwoven with church bells. The small shops were all closed and shuttered. A few young children played hopscotch or cat-o’-nine-tails. The grimy, noisy
environment of the docks was at peace this morning and Flora hoped she would find help and inspiration from the place that, from her earliest memory, had been her only home.

When the docks were behind her and she eventually arrived at the park, she stopped still. She hadn’t come this way for three years. The tall trees had lost their green leaves. She
remembered the day of her and Hilda’s first communion when they were nine years old. After the long morning service and a modest breakfast in the refectory, the nuns had given her and Hilda
and Will permission to walk to the park. They had played under these very trees. Will had fallen over. She and Hilda had washed the grazes on his hands and knees with water from the pump. The
injuries had hurt, but Will had refused to cry. He hadn’t wanted to spoil their communion day. Flora saw his pale face in her mind, his curls bouncing across his forehead, his lips buttoned
tightly against the pain. She sighed at the precious memory.

Hurrying on, Flora took the next turn to her left. This was the road that led to St Boniface’s Convent and Orphanage. All the identical houses in the road were in good repair, unlike the
slums of the island. Their windows and doors were clean. The roofs all possessed slates and sturdy chimneys. The railings outside were painted a shiny black.

Flora looked for the tall bell tower of the convent. She walked on a little and the convent appeared. Soon she was standing in front of the red-brick building with its three storeys and
stained-glass chapel window. Her heart raced. The memories began to tumble back.

Flora pushed open the heavy iron gate. Slowly she crossed the yard that she and Hilda and Will had played in so many times. At the big double doors, one of which still bore the old brass
crucifix, she paused, her heart racing.

Flora hadn’t recognized the nun who let her in. She sat alone in the convent visitors’ room in front of a polished round table. There was a large painting on one
wall of St Boniface with his hand raised in a blessing. He wore a cloak of gold and his bare head was encircled with a ring of light. The small room smelled of polish and incense, a mixture that
was familiar to Flora even though she had never been in this room before. But then, she had never been a visitor before.

There was a large open book on the dresser, its gold-leafed pages open and a quill standing in a pot of ink beside it. The tall, thick, creamy white candles on either side were unlit. She
couldn’t help thinking of Hilda’s sensitive stomach as she gazed at the crucifix hanging on the white wall opposite. The blood dripping from Christ’s wounds would have made Hilda
feel faint.

As Flora sat on the hard chair, she thought of the times she had worshipped in the chapel. The older orphans had been allowed to attend Mass before school began. She remembered how hungry they
were after the night’s fast as they sat in the pews. Flora smiled as she recalled the sound of the empty tummies that rumbled during the service. The breakfast that followed in the dining
hall was only unbuttered bread and sugarless porridge. But none of them had ever left a crumb!

Though the chapel’s mitre-shaped wooden doors were closed as she and the nun had passed, Flora had been relieved to see that the alabaster holy water font outside was full. The nuns always
filled it before Mass.

Flora began to recite in her mind the words of the hymn all the orphans loved most: ‘Immaculate Mary! Our hearts are on fire.’ She could hear their sweet voices, and the power of the
words of the chorus: ‘Ave, ave, ave Maria!’

The door opened and Flora came back to the moment. Would Sister Patricia still look the same? Tall and thin, she had kind grey eyes and the part of her face that was exposed under her wimple was
also very thin. Hilda had joked about their teacher’s long nose, especially as sometimes in winter a drip would slide from it. But Flora always thought Sister Patricia looked like an angel.
Her age was hard to place. Her skin was so pale it looked transparent. Her movements were graceful. She didn’t smile much, but when she did, Flora thought her smile made her look
beautiful.

There was a time when Flora had wanted to be a nun too. But working in the infirmary with all the sick children had soon made her think she would prefer to be a nurse. Not that either one of
these options would have been open to an orphan like her. Most girls were sent at thirteen to factories or into service. It was only Sister Patricia’s letter of recommendation to Dr Tapper
that had given Flora the start in life that she was so grateful for.

‘Good morning,’ a nun said, entering the small room. ‘God’s blessing on you.’

Flora jumped to her feet. Mother Superior, unlike Sister Patricia, looked old and wrinkled; she was a tall, bent figure who only appeared when there was High Mass, a crisis or a celebration. As
far as Flora knew, a visit to the convent from an ex-orphanage girl was none of these.

‘Good morning, Mother.’ Flora knew that this reply was expected of her.

Mother Superior kept her hands folded under the black linen of her habit. She squinted through the thick lenses of her spectacles. ‘Flora Shine, is that you?’

‘Yes, Mother.’ Flora felt happy to be recognized, although at the same time she was a little alarmed. Hundreds of girls had passed through the orphanage doors. Unlike Hilda, she had
managed not to draw much attention.

‘How long has it been since you left us?’

‘Three years, Mother.’

‘So what has brought you here today, my child?’

Flora hesitated. ‘To ask for permission to attend Mass in the chapel. And to ask the Blessed Virgin for something . . . something special. And . . . and also, I hoped to see Sister
Patricia.’ Flora felt nervous as she watched the nun make her way silently to the table. Very slowly she folded her long skirts around her and sat down. ‘Please join me.’

Flora did so. Her heart was beating very fast.

‘There have been changes since you left,’ the nun told her. She stared at Flora through her thick lenses. ‘Sister Patricia has returned to our Motherhouse in France. She left
before the outbreak of war.’

‘France?’ Flora repeated in surprise.

‘It was deemed that a period of spiritual refreshment was needed.’

‘Will she come back?’ Flora asked.

The nun hesitated, seeming to choose her words carefully. ‘We must pray that Sister Patricia, and indeed the entire Motherhouse, is safe in God’s hands. As we all know, France is a
country participating in war.’

Flora knew the church frowned on war. As children they had been taught to pray for peace and forgiveness in the world.

‘What was it you wished to pray for at Mass?’ the nun asked.

‘I wanted to pray for my friends, Hilda and Will.’

The nun nodded slowly. ‘I remember them.’

Again Flora was surprised.

‘You may be interested to know that I supported your teacher’s decision to send you to Dr Tapper. You worked well in the infirmary and we felt you deserved the
opportunity.’

‘Thank you, Mother.’

The nun gave a slight smile. ‘Dr Tapper is very pleased with you.’

Flora looked up. ‘He is?’

‘We ask our benefactors to keep in touch and are always interested to hear of the souls who have left our care.’

Flora felt a warm glow at the thought that the doctor approved of her.

‘The baker that Will worked for has told us he volunteered to fight. Pray God he will keep safe.’ The nun made the sign of the cross over her chest. ‘But we have not been
informed of Hilda’s progress.’

Flora lowered her eyes. It would seem ungrateful to say that Hilda had been unhappy at Hailing House.

Mother Superior’s hands disappeared into her black sleeves again. ‘Things are not as we hoped for Hilda? Life in service is a disappointment to her?’

‘Oh, no,’ Flora said at once. ‘She was happy at Hailing House. It was just that – well, she had a chance to do better.’

Mother Superior blinked. ‘I should think it very unlikely that a position in Lady Hailing’s service could be bettered.’

Flora looked into the nun’s small eyes hidden behind the thick lenses. ‘It was Lady Hailing who suggested that Hilda move. Or rather, loaned her out, because of staff shortages due
to the war.’

‘So all was done with the approval of her employer?’ clarified Mother Superior, raising an eyebrow.

Flora nodded. She hoped that nothing more was asked about Hilda. She had already told another small fib about Hilda being happy at Hailing House.

‘We shall be glad to have your company at Mass,’ the nun decided after a few moments.

Flora sighed softly. She was very pleased that this awkward conversation was over. But, as she was about to stand, the nun reached out. ‘Please stay seated a while longer.’ She went
to the dresser and opened a drawer.

‘This is yours, my child,’ the nun said, handing a neatly folded cloth to Flora.

Flora took the soft wool in her hands. ‘Mine?’ said Flora, frowning.

‘You were wrapped in it as an infant. It has been in the drawer ever since.’

Flora stared at the fragile weave, seeing as she opened it that the wool was a shawl. ‘This belongs to me?’

The nun nodded silently.

‘But why . . . how—’

‘If you wish to know more, you will have to speak to Sister Patricia.’

‘But she isn’t here.’ Flora stared at the shawl.

‘As you well know, no orphan is allowed more than the other. Any personal items are kept until the young person is considered responsible enough to take them. You are now turned sixteen,
Flora. The shawl is yours to do with as you wish.’

Flora curled her fingers around the soft, lacy shawl that was beginning to yellow with age. There was a ‘W’ and an ‘S’ embroidered in one corner.

‘Whose are these initials? Could they be my mother’s?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I was not here at that time.’

Flora couldn’t take her eyes from the shawl. She had never had anything from her past before. This shawl had been wrapped around her as a baby. Someone had loved her. Was it from her
mother? Could Sister Patricia tell her?

In the chapel, Flora sat at the back on one of the highly polished pews. The nuns all bowed their heads in worship. Pencil-slim candles lit up the chapel in a creamy glow. The smell of incense
drifted out from the sacristy.

When the priest walked slowly to the altar dressed in his long white robe, the nuns made the sign of the cross. The priest greeted them in Latin.

Flora closed her eyes and began to pray.

If only, dear God, the war would end soon.

As Flora arranged the sterilised instruments on the trolley, she was thinking of the shawl. She hadn’t done anything else but think of it since her visit to the orphanage
on Sunday.

‘Good morning, Flora.’ Dr Tapper walked into the room.

‘Good morning, Dr Tapper.’

‘I have heard from the hospital that Eric Soames has passed away.’

Flora felt guilty. She was thinking only of herself, and now the young soldier had died.

‘We must prepare ourselves for more injuries of this type if the war continues,’ said the doctor as he took a seat at his desk. ‘Show our first patient in, please.’

Just as the doctor had foretold, Flora observed similar symptoms in the young man who next sat down in front of the doctor’s desk. His arm was in a sling and his jacket hung loose on one
side.

‘My regiment was able to break through the German defences and capture Loos,’ Private Cecil Morris told them in a wheezy voice. ‘But I saw bodies caught in the wire . . .
twisted . . . bleeding. Some of the men were still alive, choking from the gas they’d swallowed. And doctor, the gas came from our own side. Blown back on the wind to fill the British
troops’ lungs. I tried to run from it.’

‘Were there no gas masks provided?’ the doctor asked.

‘Most of the blokes threw them away as they thought they did more harm than good,’ Cecil explained. ‘We couldn’t see through the fogged-up eye pieces. You didn’t
know who you were shooting at. Or who was shooting at you. But I managed to keep mine on somehow. Still, I reckon I must have swallowed some of that stuff as I’ve been short of breath ever
since.’

‘And the wound on your arm?’ The doctor nodded to the sling.