Together for Christmas (16 page)

Flora drew up the key behind the letterbox and unlocked her door. The fire that had burned so brightly this morning was now almost out. She had hung a few sprigs of holly from the shelves and
handmade paper-chains over the hearth. Arranged on the mantel were three tiny plaster figures of Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus. The Nativity scene was accompanied by a candle that she would light on
Christmas Eve before Midnight Mass.

Flora sat beside the glow of the ashes, reflecting on all that had happened at the market. Her concerns over Will and Hilda faded as she recalled her meeting with the young lieutenant. He had
overheard her conversation with the stallholder and hadn’t hesitated to speak out in defence of Old Fritz. She liked him for that. As a serving soldier, having lost many of his regiment in
Gallipoli, he too could have condemned the old German, as many had.

Flora closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. Perhaps today’s encounter would fade like a dream, a happy one for her, but for him just a moment in time where he had met an orphanage
girl at an East End market and bought her a lemonade in exchange for some well-meaning advice.

The next morning before surgery, Flora told Dr Tapper about her meeting at the market. If, against all odds, the soldier decided to consult him, then the doctor would be in
full possession of the facts.

‘Appleby?’ The doctor repeated when she gave him the name. ‘And Gallipoli, you say?’

‘A bullet went through the lieutenant’s leg. He lost some of his men and fears he won’t be able to fight again.’

‘I read only this morning that the War Office is expected to abandon Gallipoli,’ the doctor related. ‘A tragic waste of life all round. It’s perhaps a good thing that
he’ll be prevented from returning.’ He looked at Flora curiously. ‘What makes you think I can help this young man where other doctors have failed?’

‘You helped Sidney Cowper,’ Flora said eagerly.

‘Mr Cowper’s wound was quite recent, with little surgery performed to complicate matters.’ The doctor paused. ‘Have you considered that another failure might not help
this young man at all? In fact, it might depress him all the more. I’m sure you tried your best to help, but every wound is different, has its own specific problems and healing can never be
guaranteed even by a qualified physician. And from what you’ve told me, I think Lieutenant Appleby understands his predicament very well and has been sensibly advised by his own
doctors.’ He patted her shoulder kindly. ‘Now, let’s turn our minds to those who really need our help. We have enough poor souls here, ready and willing, to keep us busy well into
the evening.’

Flora began to arrange the trolley, setting out the bandages and ointments. She knew the doctor had gently reproached her for being too impulsive. But she remembered the expression on the young
soldier’s face as he tried to hide the discomfort he was having to endure. She didn’t regret speaking out. All the same, she knew the doctor was probably right and it was unlikely she
would ever see Michael Appleby again.

The following day, a letter finally arrived from Hilda:

Flora smiled. The mystery of the pound was solved! That evening she decided to visit Mrs Bell. The cobbled streets of the island were lit prettily by the lights of the public houses; she could
hear sounds of laughter inside. Even though the war had taken most of the young men, the older ones were trying to cheer themselves up.

When she arrived at Hailing House, the large building stood silhouetted against the night sky. A frost was beginning to creep over the ground, and the tall, thick chimneys belched smoke. Flora
tapped lightly on the kitchen door.

‘Flora!’ Aggie screeched as she opened it. The scullery maid, who unlike tiny Gracie was broad beamed and pink cheeked, called excitedly over her shoulder, ‘Mrs Bell,
Flora’s ’ere.’

Wishing Aggie a happy Christmas, Flora took off her coat, hat and scarf. ‘How is your baby?’ she asked as the maid led her through the porch and into the warm, steamy kitchen.

‘Bouncing, ’e is.’ Aggie grinned, showing her large, uneven teeth. ‘Got another on the way an’ all.’

Flora felt Hilda’s absence at that moment as she would definitely have had something to say on the subject of Aggie’s expanding family.

The kitchen shelves were decorated with sprigs of holly and the moist air smelled of spices and ale. Flora knew Mrs Bell had been baking Christmas pudding; generous helpings were given to the
poor and destitute on Christmas week.

‘Flora, come in, come in,’ called Mrs Bell and hurrying to her she wrapped Flora against her large bosom. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you until Christmas Eve and the
midnight service.’

‘I’ve something to show you.’ Flora took her usual seat by the warm range.

Mrs Bell reached for the large kettle. ‘I was going to make tea but would you prefer a ginger beer? After all, it’s nearly Christmas.’

Flora nodded. ‘A ginger beer would be lovely.’

‘We’ll have a nice bowl of pudding and custard to go with it, piping hot off the stove.’

Aggie hovered expectantly, her eyes wide in her round face.

Mrs Bell quickly prepared the drinks, allowing the fizzy liquid to bubble over the rims of the glasses. Then, removing the cloth that covered a large bowl, she served up two portions of
Christmas pudding, pouring custard over them from a large china jug. Then glaring at the scullery maid, she demanded, ‘What are you waiting for, Aggie? You ate your portion of pudding at tea
time! Be off with you, girl, home to your babies! There’s some treats in that package over there for your young ’uns. And think yourself lucky that I had a few bits left
over.’

Aggie’s smile returned. She hurriedly snatched up her thin coat and the grease-stained brown-paper parcel, dropping it in her battered straw basket. ‘’Appy Christmas, Flora.
I’d better be going before my old man comes ’ome. He likes to have his dinner on the table the moment he walks in.’

When Aggie had gone, Flora gave Mrs Bell a card. She had made her own cards in the end, sewing a little lace on the paper edges and drawing a red-breasted robin inside. ‘Just for
you,’ she had written. ‘Wishing you a very merry Christmas, from Flora.’

‘Oh, Flora! Fancy that. You’re a very thoughtful girl. Thank you. Now here’s mine to you.’ Mrs Bell took an envelope from the mantel shelf.

Flora opened the card. On it was a picture of a Victorian lady dressed in a long red cape. She was gazing into a brightly lit butcher’s window. Rows of feathered fowl hung upside down from
large, wooden hooks. Inside the card Mrs Bell had written in rather lopsided writing, ‘The best of the season’s wishes, my dear.’

‘Have you heard from Hilda?’ Flora asked and on receiving a brisk shake of the head she took Hilda’s letter from her pocket. ‘There’s something in here that will
interest you.’

The cook put on her half-moon spectacles. She peered at the letter. After a few seconds, she grinned. ‘Oh, bless me! The girl hadn’t been paid and only wanted an afternoon
out.’ Mrs Bell tutted. ‘Now I feel shamed for thinking she was up to mischief. And look, she behaved herself with the two recruits!’

Flora began to laugh. Mrs Bell did too as she read what Hilda had written of the saucer-eared soldier.

Mrs Bell took off her spectacles and sighed. ‘She even thought to put in a P.S. that she was thinking of young Will and would write to me. Ah well, now me mind is at rest and I won’t
have to spend too long on me knees at Christmas, praying to the good Lord to keep her safe.’ Mrs Bell returned the letter to Flora. ‘Now let’s eat our supper before it
spoils.’

As usual, the food was delicious. After they’d finished, Mrs Bell raised her glass. ‘Here’s to Hilda and here’s to us, Flora, and here’s to all the young men who
are fighting for king and country. God bless ’em all.’ A tear sprang to her eye. She wiped the moisture away quickly with the corner of her apron.

Flora hoped Will would receive her card before Christmas. On it she had drawn a Christmas angel. Its wings were coloured in the palest pink, blue and yellow chalks. ‘An angel to keep you
safe.’ She had written this in her best handwriting, along with a heartfelt message of deep affection.

‘Aggie and me will see you for the midnight service,’ Mrs Bell said when Flora was ready to leave. ‘Though it won’t seem right without our Hilda.’

Flora hugged Mrs Bell close. She knew the elderly lady had been very lonely, as Flora had, without Hilda. But Hilda’s letter had arrived in time to make them all feel happier.

A few flakes of snow fell as Flora made her way home. She recalled how, as children, she and Hilda and Will had played in the snow. They had made snowballs and snowmen in the orphanage yard,
their thin mittens freezing on their fingers.

Flora lifted her eyes to the shining star that she had first seen on the night she had met Lieutenant Appleby. The star was still there, shedding down its light on all the earth. She hoped that
whatever happened to him, he would find peace in the future.

The next morning, the waiting room was crowded; coughs, colds and winter ailments abounded. Fevers, swollen glands and bronchitis caused Flora to constantly keep water boiled
to mix with drops of eucalyptus oil. Several patients came to sit in her small room, to bend their heads over the steaming decongestant. A few words of comfort and sympathy, she felt, were as
beneficial as the treatment.

On Sunday, Flora placed several more sprigs of holly on the shelves of her sitting room. Some she reserved for the waiting room upstairs when, on Christmas Eve, she would fill small tumblers
with port. One for each patient before they left the surgery. Dr Tapper always celebrated Christmas this way, giving his patients an extra special glow. Flora smiled as she thought of the happy
faces that would make their way home that day.

In the darkening afternoon, Flora walked to Island Gardens. Though it was bitterly cold, people were enjoying the last weekend before the holiday. A band was playing carols by the entrance to
the underground tunnel which led under the river to Greenwich. The blue-and-red bonnets of the Salvation Army bobbed amongst the brass instruments. An audience stood watching and joining in. Flora
knew that if Hilda was here with her, they would have stopped to sing, too.

Flora walked down to the fence that separated the park from the riverbank. The great River Thames looked an unfriendly grey in the dull afternoon light. Despite this, the South Bank of London
was still visible. A few small boats and tugs ploughed their way through the uninviting water. The tide was out, leaving a thick, wet blanket of mud. There were no mudlarks today: young boys who
trawled the sticky brown surface for lumps of coal dropped from the barges, or pieces of soaked timber that could be dried out for kindling. Instead, the river curled towards the city and lapped
eastward into the estuary that flowed towards Tilbury and Gravesend.

Flora turned to study the seasonal sights once more. The domed entrance to the Greenwich tunnel, the crowds enjoying the loud, cheerful carols: ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman’,
‘Adeste Fideles’, ‘O Come, O Come, Emmanuel’, and the clear favourite, ‘Silent Night’. Some families were accompanied by the disabled veterans of war. A young
man in a Bath chair, another on crutches, one or two hobbling along with walking sticks. She thought of Michael Appleby. What would he be doing this Christmas? She hoped he wasn’t suffering
too much pain.

Flora sighed softly. Her thoughts finally turned to Hilda. They had come here to watch the big ships bring in their exotic cargoes: crates of sausage skins packed in brine, India chutney and
bales of jute, animal skins from Africa and India, coffee beans, tea, spices, potteries, oils, perfumes, the list was endless. They had seen the river traffic in every season, dressed as she was
now in warm winter clothing, and in summer, their skirts, white blouses and straw boaters. The sights, sounds and smells of the docks had always been exciting. They had felt part of the busy
highway, imagining their lives unfolding in the heart of Britain’s capital city.

Tugging her coat tightly around her, she made her way over to the carollers. The night air was filled with hot, happy breath and Flora joined in with the chorus of ‘We Three Kings of
Orient Are’. The words described a star of royal beauty bright; she gazed up to see her special star sparkling. It was just as magnificent, she imagined, on this Christmas of 1915, as it was
all those years ago, when a tiny baby had been born in a stable at Bethlehem, in Judea.

‘Hilda, you will be required to help John carry the dishes into the dining room, followed by Sophie and Amy, the two village girls,’ Mrs Burns barked as she stood
with Hilda in the corridor. ‘You will wear your best black dress. Your hair will be plaited under your cap, your eyes kept down, averted from the guests, and every order given to you by Mr
Leighton will be followed at once.’

Hilda nodded and her heart began to pound. It was Friday, the first night of the grand house-party. There had been chaos for the past six hours. Two of the village girls had failed to arrive.
Their unskilled substitutes, Sophie and Amy, had been found by Mrs Burns at short notice. To add to the housekeeper’s misery, yesterday as the many casks, boxes and trays of food and drink
were being delivered Hilda had watched James drop a barrel on his ankle. Hilda thought the injury did not look serious, but Mr Leighton had been furious at the inconvenience of a limping
footman.