Together for Christmas (12 page)

‘In the fog, I ran right into the enemy lines. A bayonet ripped into my arm. The blade didn’t go through the bone, but it ain’t a pretty sight, doctor.’

After removing the sling, Flora undid the dirty bandages.

‘I can see no infection,’ the doctor told him as he examined the injury. ‘But you must keep the wound clean.’ Then he took his wooden listening tube and placed it on
Cecil’s chest. After a few seconds, he nodded. ‘You were sensible in wearing your mask, even though you couldn’t see through it. I’ll give you a linctus to help, but take it
only when needed. Now, my good man, are you staying with your family?’

‘Ain’t got none,’ Cecil replied. ‘My old mother died when I was away. I’ve a bed with the Salvationists.’

Dr Tapper nodded. ‘I shall want to see you again in a few days’ time.’

‘Us lads from the artillery were lambs to the slaughter,’ the next patient, Sidney Cowper, told them, holding his shoulder. He was a young recruit of just nineteen. ‘We tried
to make a dash across the fields, the German machine guns opened up and mowed us down. I took a bullet in the shoulder. The next thing we knew, Fritz was on us, polishing off any life they could
find. I played for dead and somehow I survived. But my shoulder still hurts like billy-o!’

Flora helped the young man to take off his jacket, shirt and vest. The wound left by the bullet’s entry had been treated and stitched. But when the doctor made his examination, Sidney
cried out in pain. ‘When did this happen?’ asked the doctor.

‘More than a month or so ago,’ Sidney replied. ‘I was put on a merchant ship, else I’d still be ’oled up in France.’

When the doctor’s examination was over, he sat at his desk. ‘The nerve endings in your shoulder have been damaged.’

‘What does that mean? Can’t I be helped?’ Sidney asked as Flora helped him to dress.

‘In some cases, there’s little that can be done. But perhaps in yours, it may be different. You are, after all, in the early stages of healing.’

‘Can you help me, doc?’

‘I can send you to a colleague who would consider your case for treatment.’

‘I’d rather you do it, if yer can.’

Dr Tapper smiled. ‘Your best chance is with the hospital. You may need surgery again. Or, if you are lucky, the treatment of exercise and massage will bring results.’

‘I could do with a nice bit of massage, doc.’ Sidney grinned.

‘I’m afraid you will not find it very pleasant,’ the doctor warned as he wrote on a piece of paper. ‘In fact, quite the opposite.’

‘What have I to lose?’ Sidney said as the doctor sealed the letter in an envelope.

‘Take this to the London Hospital. See it is delivered to Mr Whitham’s office. Say the letter is from me and is urgent. Wait until you are told it has been handed over safely. Leave
your name and address and say that you will return the next day for an answer.’

Sidney rose to his feet. ‘Thank you, doctor. God bless yer.’

‘You’ve had a rough time of it, Sidney. Godspeed.’

After Sidney had left, the doctor turned to Flora with a deep sigh. ‘I have done my best, but the hospitals are under pressure. Gordon Whitham believes, as I do, that there is more to be
done for certain cases than going repeatedly under the knife. Whether or not Sidney is a candidate for his busy list, I don’t know.’

‘Couldn’t you give him the treatment?’ Flora asked, just as Sidney had.

‘If I were to fail, I should blame myself for not having referred the man to Gordon, who is a specialist in his field.’

Flora nodded. She wanted to say that if she had been in Sidney’s shoes, she would only have wanted the doctor to treat her.

The doctor put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Your faith in me is very gratifying, Flora. But I haven’t attempted this method for many years.’ He looked into her eyes and frowned.
‘You know, you look a little tired. I insist you take this Sunday off. Even if there are knocks on your door, you must send them upstairs to me. October is almost at an end. A foggy, damp
November is sure to keep us on our feet, as you well know.’ He wagged a gentle finger. ‘You’ve worked tirelessly and deserve a complete day to rest. I want you to take
it.’

But Flora knew Dr Tapper would not rest. Not only did he care professionally for the sick and needy of the East End; in every soldier, he saw Wilfred and took their woes to heart. She knew he
was still hoping that his dear son didn’t lie in the muddy, rat-infested trenches of the battlefields. That somehow he’d escaped death, as Sidney Cowper had.

It just didn’t seem fair to Flora that her kind employer might lose his only son when he devoted his life to helping so many others.

On Sunday, the weather turned cold. A fog began to settle over the rooftops as Flora made her way to Hailing House. The blanket of yellow covered everything, even the Tilley
lamps of the horse-drawn vehicles.

‘Fancy you being out in this pea-souper!’ Mrs Bell exclaimed as she opened the back door and the fog blew in.

‘Hilda asked me to visit you.’ Flora stepped in to the cosy kitchen.

‘Did she now?’ Mrs Bell hid her rueful grin. ‘Well, at least she’s thinking of me, even if she can’t find the strength to write.’

‘I asked Dr Tapper for your embrocation.’ Flora gave Mrs Bell a jar of the liniment that the doctor made up for her.

‘Oh, bless you,’ the cook said, gratefully. ‘These cold mornings my back and legs are stiff as pennywhistles. Thank you, my love.’

Flora let Mrs Bell take her coat and hang it on the peg. After seating Flora by the warm range, the cook put the big kitchen kettle on to boil. ‘We’ll have a nice cup of Rosie.
Matter of fact, I’ve a few fruit scones baking.’

Flora smiled. Mrs Bell always made her visitors feel welcome and had a never-ending supply of scones baking in the oven. She couldn’t imagine Mrs Harris at Adelphi Hall being the same.

Mrs Bell took a seat beside Flora, folding her plump arms across her waist. ‘I miss Hilda more than I thought, you know,’ she confessed. ‘Took to her like the daughter I never
had, or could ever hope to have. She was an affectionate child when she arrived, and because of that, I suppose I forgot she was not my own blood.’ The cook sighed. ‘But she seemed to
change this last year, ever since the war began. I had to bite me tongue right up to the day she left, to prevent meself from saying something that would upset her. It was no business of mine, her
leaving here for pastures green. But I knew she thought I was trying to clip her wings. And maybe I shall miss her more than she’ll miss me. But a girl like Hilda could easily put her trust
in the wrong sort.’

‘I’m sure Mrs Burns, the housekeeper, will keep an eye on her.’

‘Yes, I have that thought to comfort me,’ Mrs Bell agreed. ‘Most housekeepers earn their stiff reputations. And from what Hilda told me about this lady, she sounds a scorcher,
just as her name indicates.’

They both laughed. Mrs Bell leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper, as if someone might be listening. ‘Tell me, now Hilda isn’t here to pull a long face, what’s your
honest opinion of her prospects with the Calveys?’

‘Hilda has high hopes,’ was Flora’s only reply.

‘Indeed she does. But our girl assumes her good looks will get her to being a lady’s maid in the blink of an eye. She don’t realize she’ll be worked off her feet, much
more so than with Lady Hailing. It was hard enough for a housemaid in my day. But with the war and the men going away to fight it, the gentry are said to be taskmasters to their remaining
staff.’

‘But Hilda’s young and knows what she wants.’

‘She does that all right.’ Mrs Bell clucked her tongue.

‘Mrs Bell, I’ve something else to tell you.’

‘About Hilda?’ Mrs Bell looked hopefully at Flora.

‘No, I’m afraid not. I went back to the convent where me and Hilda and Will grew up. I spoke to Mother Superior.’

Mrs Bell got up to take the scones from the oven. Flora knew she was still thinking about Hilda.

‘I thought I might be able to go to Mass in the chapel and perhaps speak to our teacher, Sister Patricia. She was very good to me and Hilda.’

Mrs Bell took out a knife from the drawer and slid the sharp tip into the hot dough. When the knife came out cleanly, she nodded in satisfaction.

‘But Sister Patricia is in France, at the Motherhouse,’ Flora continued.

‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ Mrs Bell took a pair of tongs from the rack and transferred the scones to a large plate.

‘I hope she’ll come back soon. Mother Superior gave me a shawl. She said I was wrapped in it when I was found.’

At this, Mrs Bell stopped what she was doing and looked at Flora. ‘Why weren’t you given this shawl before?’

‘Orphans aren’t allowed to have things of their own.’

‘Even if it belongs to them?’

‘No. It’s the orphanage rule.’

A frown touched Mrs Bell’s forehead. ‘Was it your mother who wrapped you in it?’

‘Mother Superior said Sister Patricia might know. But she’s in France.’

The cook raised her eyebrows. ‘The poor soul could be trapped behind enemy lines.’

‘She might be.’ Flora felt very worried now.

Mrs Bell frowned thoughtfully. ‘What’s this shawl look like?’

‘There’s a “W” and an “S” embroidered in one corner.’

Mrs Bell sat down and turned her full attention on Flora. ‘Is this shawl moth-eaten and poor in quality?’

‘Not at all. The wool is old, but still very fine.’

Mrs Bell was silent. Flora could see that she was thinking as she sliced a scone with a sharp knife. ‘Well, my dear, the thing that strikes me is why was an abandoned little waif like you
wrapped in such a fine shawl? You hear of orphans being found in rags and even in newspaper, but never in good shawls. Tell me, is it a clumsy hand that’s attempted the embroidery?’

‘The letters are sewn very carefully with gold and red silks,’ Flora replied.

‘If it was your mother’s work, then she had great skill.’

Flora felt a warm glow. To hear someone speak about her mother was a new experience.

‘The “S” may very well stand for Shine,’ suggested Mrs Bell. ‘And the “W” could be Winifred or Wilhelmina.’

Flora felt her heart skip a bit. ‘Do you think so?’

‘It’s a pity this Sister Patricia’s in France.’

Flora knew Mrs Bell wasn’t going to say more as both of them knew that bringing the wounded troops home from the fighting was very dangerous. Some of the hospital ships had been sunk by
enemy submarines. The war might take many more years to end. Meanwhile, was the Motherhouse in enemy hands and, if so, had Sister Patricia survived? All these thoughts were going round in
Flora’s head.

Mrs Bell patted her hand. ‘Come along now, eat up your scone.’

But Flora had lost her appetite. She ate the scone slowly and quietly.

‘You need to keep up your spirits.’ Mrs Bell said as she cleared away their plates. ‘Now, before you leave you’d better go up to Hilda’s room. There’s a
parcel on the bed for you.’

‘For me?’

‘Hilda left it. You’ll find everything just as it always was. Though I put a duster round her room every so often, to keep it smelling sweet. You never know . . .’ The cook
sniffed and went to the sink, plunging her hands into the bowl of water.

Flora reluctantly got up and let herself into the cold, dark passage. She didn’t want to go up to Hilda’s room. It would be upsetting not to find her friend there. Flora went up the
back stairs as usual. Her view from the landing window was only of the fog that swirled eerily over the rooftops. She wanted to run back down the stairs again. Instead, she gave a long sigh and
went along the passage to Hilda’s room.

Inside it, the air smelled of mothballs, which Mrs Bell must have put in the wardrobe and drawers. The faded curtains that hung at the windows had been straightened and the bed was neatly made.
On the bed was the parcel.

Flora sat beside it. The last time she sat here, Hilda had been full of excitement at the thought of leaving Hailing House. Now she had gone. Flora looked around her. The room had lost its
heart, as though it knew Hilda would never return.

‘This is for you, Flora,’ read the note on top of the parcel. ‘You
must
have it. Think of me when you wear it. Yours, Hilda.’

Flora opened the parcel and took a sharp breath. It was the blue suit. Tears filled her eyes.

‘Oh, Hilda, I’d rather have you than the suit,’ she whispered, bringing the soft cloth against her cheek. ‘But that’s being selfish.’

If only Hilda knew how much she was loved by Mrs Bell and herself. But then, Flora thought in a sudden flash of understanding, as if the room itself was speaking to her, it wasn’t possible
to keep someone close who wanted to be free. Hilda had once had a mother. And although Rose had died, Hilda remembered a mother’s love. That’s why she didn’t want Mrs Bell to fuss
over her. No one could ever replace Rose.

Flora thought of her shawl, safely in the drawer. She would go home and look at it once again. And try to imagine the person who had wrapped her in it.

Hilda was still asleep in her uncomfortable bed when Gracie roughly shook her.

‘It’s time to get up,’ the scullery maid told her.

Hilda pushed the coarse blanket away from her face. During the freezing cold night, she had burrowed down into the bedclothes, leaving only the tip of her nose to freeze. She pushed the tousled
brown hair from her eyes and yawned. Sitting up, she took the cup of tea that Gracie had brought her.

‘Is it morning already?’ Hilda peered at the tiny girl standing at her bedside. Hilda wasn’t tall herself, just five foot four, and she rarely looked down on anyone. But Gracie
was several inches shorter than her, which, as Hilda blinked, brought her almost eye level to Gracie’s pinched face. Hilda had noticed how red raw Gracie’s hands were as she passed the
cup and saucer. And even at this early hour, Gracie’s white pinafore was spotted with dirt or perhaps food, which would be much to Mrs Burns’ annoyance, reflected Hilda sleepily.

‘It’s a quarter-past five already.’ Gracie gazed adoringly at Hilda and said quickly, ‘I’ve got the kettle on. Violet and Mrs Burns’ trays are
ready.’