Together for Christmas (18 page)

Despite the war and all its troubles, Hilda thought how everyone was out to enjoy themselves. The guests talked, laughed, even proposed toasts that had nothing to do with Kitchener’s men
or the kaiser’s onslaught across Europe. The raised glasses were offered to those closer to home: the titled and wealthy, the grand names of society, whom Hilda knew rolled off the tongue of
every individual present as easily as cream over strawberries. By the time the last course was served, Hilda had lost count of the indiscretions below-table. Black-stockinged legs had touched
gentlemen’s calves or thighs, embroidered shoes had quite clearly nudged or entwined with highly polished leather.

Lady Bertha herself hadn’t indulged in such behaviour, Hilda reflected. Her jet-black hair was fashioned glossily around her head; her dark, quickly moving eyes were swift to see whose
glass needed replenishing. She held a fan of dyed ostrich feathers that, Hilda decided, befitted a much older woman. Gracie had told her that the mistress was in her fiftieth year. Hilda thought
that if she were Lady Bertha’s personal maid, she would have recommended a plain cream or fawn silk gown rather than the unflattering dull-blue chiffon that she wore. To Hilda’s
surprise, the sight of Lady Bertha’s husband, James Forsythe, proved extremely disappointing. Although he looked much younger than his wife, the monocle balanced on his large nose and his
weak chin were most unattractive! The small amount of hair he possessed was combed thinly over his head, like a pie top on a pudding.

Absorbing every small detail, Hilda had raised her eyes every now and then to study Lady Bertha and her guests. But it was not Lady Bertha or her guests who had occupied her thoughts since
Friday night. It was the most outstanding man in the room, Lord Guy Calvey, who had set her pulse racing. She had felt very jealous as he laughed and teased his pretty companions. Hilda had
deliberately paused closely to him, setting down the dish she was carrying with extreme care on the sideboard. Then just as carefully on her return across the floor, she had linked her gaze with
his. Even now, she still couldn’t believe their eyes had met—

‘’Ilda, where’ve you been?’ Gracie yelled, bringing Hilda sharply back to the moment. Gracie was at the kitchen door, waiting for her. Hilda felt a little sorry for the
scullery maid who had never been offered the opportunity to serve at table.

‘You know where.’ Hilda shrugged, a little out of breath. ‘Mrs Harris asked me to run across to the green-house for more parsley.’ She held out the jug that contained the
herb. ‘Peter’s so slow, he took ages cutting me fresh sprigs.’ Hilda knew this sounded a poor excuse, but Gracie seemed satisfied. The true reason for the delay was that Hilda had
found a broken mirror just inside the greenhouse. Whilst she’d waited for the gardener to appear, she’d plucked a few strands of hair from under her cap and twirled them around her
finger and across her forehead. Then she’d arranged her braided bun of thick brown hair to lie more loosely at the nape of her neck. The tea-time inspection that Mrs Burns had given the maids
had required white caps to be positioned fully over the head. There was not to be one hair escaping. This was a very plain look and Hilda didn’t hesitate to change it.

‘Are all the guests sitting in the same seats?’ Hilda enquired before Gracie could note the improvement of her appearance.

‘The place names ain’t been changed,’ Gracie said suspiciously. ‘Why are you askin’?’

Hilda shrugged. ‘I wondered if Lord William would be present. It is the last night, after all.’

‘Lord William?’ Gracie repeated, scraping her hand across her nose. ‘You’ll never catch sight of ’im at one of these parties.’

‘But it’s Christmas.’

‘That don’t matter to ’im. He’s just like a bloomin’ ghost, haunting the house. Fact is, ’e might as well be one. If it wasn’t for old Turner, his
valet, looking after ’im, you’d never know there was a fourth earl moulderin’ out his days at Adelphi.’

Hilda wasn’t particularly interested in Lord William. An old man like him was welcome to his privacy as far as she was concerned. She’d only asked about the seating arrangements in
order to divert Gracie’s suspicions. The truth was she was eager to discover whether Lord Guy would be seated at the head of the table. From this vantage point, he had full view of her, and
she had of him, when she brought in the trays.

‘Mrs ’Arris says you’re to follow Maxwell and John who’ll be in charge of the soup and pâtés.’ Gracie gave Hilda a little shove. ‘They’re
in the kitchen now, waiting for you.’

Hilda felt excited and fearful all at once. She couldn’t wait to be in the heady atmosphere of the dining room. It was like a theatre in which she also played a part. She was certain Lord
Guy would be looking out for her. Hadn’t he given her a secretive smile again last night? Teased her with his mysterious dark eyes and followed her movements across the floor? She knew she
had caught his attention.

And she would make sure tonight would be no exception.

‘Thank yer, ducks, and good health to yer,’ said the old man, smacking his lips and downing the thimbleful in one.

It was Friday and Christmas Eve. Dr Tapper had provided Flora with a bottle of port to distribute amongst the patients; there had been many smiling faces at the surgery today, thought Flora
happily. The last to leave was an elderly man and he chuckled wheezily as he accepted the tumbler that Flora offered him. ‘Good luck to you, love, and the doctor. Here’s to all our
soldiers abroad.’

Flora smiled. She was thinking of one very special soldier.

‘Got a sweetheart in the trenches, ’ave yer?’

‘Someone very close,’ she replied.

‘Well, if yer let me have that last drop, I’ll do them another honour.’ The old man looked greedily at the remaining finger of port.

Before Flora could reply, she saw a tall figure standing in the doorway. Michael leaned his cane against the wall and shook the flakes of snow from his overcoat.

‘Good evening to you, gov, I was just doing the honours,’ the old man said, grabbing the tumbler in his gnarled hands. ‘Here’s to this young lady’s beau and
let’s hope he comes home to claim her, all in one piece with no bits missing.’ The liquid went down his throat in an instant. ‘God bless yer both,’ the departing patient
wished them as he pulled up the collar of his threadbare jacket and left.

Michael raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope I’m not too early.’

‘No. Please come in.’ Flora managed to conceal the delight that filled her as she beckoned him into the doctor’s room. Not only had Michael agreed to the doctor’s
treatment, but over the last few days he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the strict regime of exercises.

‘Good evening, Michael,’ Dr Tapper said, getting up from his desk. ‘And how are you today?’

‘Well, doctor, thank you.’

‘Are we making progress do you think?’

Flora took Michael’s coat and hat. He was dressed casually in a shirt and waistcoat and heavy winter trousers. She saw that, after five treatments so far, he still leaned on his cane.

‘Perhaps some,’ he nodded.

‘But the pain is worse?’ the doctor guessed, urging Michael towards the couch.

‘On occasions, I’m afraid to say it is.’

‘Quite to be expected, as we are challenging the body to repair itself,’ the doctor told him. ‘I’ve made up a pain relief preparation for you to use when needed. And
today, perhaps we shall try not to test you so much. Just a half an hour, Flora. That should be sufficient.’ The doctor made his way to the door, then stopped. He turned and frowned. ‘I
take it you are with your family this Christmas, Michael?’

‘Actually, no, sir. Mama is holidaying in Scotland with friends.’

‘In that case,’ the doctor said pleasantly, ‘I wonder if you’d care to join Flora and I tomorrow for dinner? That is, if you are not busy elsewhere?’

‘Not at all,’ Michael replied in surprise, ‘but I couldn’t impose.’

‘Mrs Carver has stuffed the bird and prepared the vegetables. All that is to be done is to cook and enjoy them.’ The doctor looked at Flora. ‘We shall be delighted to have your
company, won’t we, Flora?’

Flora tried to gather herself. She had been very surprised at her employer’s kind offer. ‘Yes . . . yes, of course,’ she agreed.

‘Very well. Shall we say one o’clock?’ The doctor raised his bushy eyebrows.

‘On the dot.’ Michael gave a wide grin.

Ten minutes later, Flora was trying to keep her attention on Michael’s injured leg, as the doctor had taught her. She had accustomed herself to gripping his leg firmly and guiding it. But
as her hand supported his thigh, she felt the muscles in his calf as they reacted to her touch.

‘Flora, is something wrong?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘I feel sure there is.’

‘I’m trying to concentrate.’

‘Would you like to stop? Are you tired? Perhaps these treatments have been too wearing on you.’

‘Of course they haven’t.’ Flora tried to look unruffled. But the thought of spending Christmas Day with Michael had come as quite a shock. ‘I don’t want to hurt
you, that’s all,’ she said as she lifted his leg gently into position.

‘Your touch is very light.’ Suddenly, he reached out and took her wrist. ‘Come sit by me and rest a moment.’ He gestured to the chair beside the couch.

Flora took a seat and clutched her hands tightly in her lap.

‘I hope the doctor’s invitation hasn’t upset you.’ He stared at her with his deep gaze for what seemed like endless minutes. ‘Is it perhaps the thought of your
beau, Will, that’s causing you to be sad?’

‘Will isn’t my beau.’

‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with the old man. You said he was someone very close.’

‘As I’ve said before, Will is like family to me and Hilda. We are the only family each of us has. Growing up in an orphanage is very different to the life you’ve led. Friends
are scarce. Everyone looks out for themselves. The nuns of St Boniface were kind, but children can be very cruel.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘But we three had each other.’

Michael nodded thoughtfully. ‘Has the doctor any family?’

‘Yes, a sister living in Bath. The doctor’s wife, Edith, died. Their son, Wilfred, is a soldier.’ Flora sighed softly. ‘This year he was reported as missing in
action.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

Flora sat quietly. She saw Michael’s face grow sombre. Should she have told him about Wilfred, bringing back unhappy thoughts of the war?

‘Are you sure you’re happy to have me join you tomorrow?’ Michael glanced at her sharply.

She kept a straight face. ‘No, I’m very put out, as it happens.’

They both burst into laughter. Flora found her heart racing. When Michael laughed like that, something inside her – an emotion she couldn’t name – made her feel so happy.

Michael said, ‘For me, this Christmas will be very special indeed.’

And Flora knew it would be for her, too.

Christmas Day dawned and Flora wasn’t surprised to arrive upstairs at the surgery to find the door unlocked. Dr Tapper must have come down from his rooms to turn the lock
in readiness for their arrival. The smell of roast chicken and stuffing was wafting down the staircase and into the hall. The fumes of strong disinfectant had for once receded into the
background.

The long case clock in the hall said a quarter to one. Had Michael arrived yet, Flora wondered anxiously? She hurried up the stairs, glancing at the photograph of Edith Tapper and her son
Wilfred. If only Wilfred was here today! She knew that Wilfred had never missed spending a Christmas with his father even though, before the war, he led a busy life as a solicitor in the city.

The door opened before she reached it. Dr Tapper stood in his best dark suit, a white shirt and winged collar, with a silver fob watch pinned to his floral waistcoat. Flora knew he only wore his
fob and this waistcoat on special occasions; they had been gifts from his late wife. ‘Welcome, Flora. You look most charming.’

Flora blushed. The doctor never usually commented on her appearance. But perhaps that was because she was always dressed in her uniform.

‘You’re first to arrive.’

Flora felt very nervous now. Did she look presentable enough for Christmas Day? She was wearing the blue suit that Hilda had given her. Although the colour was very summery, it was the best suit
she had. Before church last night she had washed the disinfectant from her hair and bathed in the tin bath in order to look and smell her best on Christmas Day. After the late-night service had
ended, she had hurried home to set her fringe in sugar water and pins before going to bed. This morning she had paid special attention to combing it out and twisting the curls into place. Then,
forming two glossy wings on top of her head, she had pinned the remainder into a golden bun at the nape of her neck. Michael always looked well dressed and smart, despite having to use the cane.
She didn’t want to let herself or the doctor down. ‘I came a little early to help you.’

Dr Tapper beamed her a smile. ‘Everything is in hand. I hope you remembered me in your prayers at church last night?’

‘Mrs Bell helped me to light candles for everyone.’

‘Heaven’s gates were very busy, no doubt. Now leave your coat on the stand and come and warm yourself.’

When Flora walked into the large and comfortable sitting room, she felt at home. She loved this traditional Victorian parlour, with its long sash windows, comfortable green leather sofa, thick
rugs and a fire burning brightly in the grate. It was as if the doctor’s wife was still present, keeping it ready for guests. Flora knew Mrs Carver kept it clean and tidy, but the heart in
this home was still as Edith Tapper would have wanted.

Flora particularly liked the many books on the shelves. Some of them were heavy medical tomes with names in gilt lettering on their spines that she couldn’t pronounce. Over the wooden
mantel and black-leaded fireplace surrounded by floral tiles was a painting of a country cottage. The pretty thatched building was set in a garden amongst beds of roses. The doctor had told Flora
that this was his wife’s family’s house in Yorkshire. Underneath this, he had arranged his Christmas cards, one of which was her handmade card of a small boy with a red woollen hat and
scarf, riding on a sledge in the snow, accompanied by her own writing, ‘Season’s Greetings from Flora’. She would have liked to write something more intimate, but didn’t
think that it would be suitable.