Together for Christmas (27 page)

‘Th . . . they was st . . . still alive, my mates . . . they was . . .’

‘He saw them die, Dr Tapper. That’s what he’s trying to say.’ Tears shone in Mrs Benson’s eyes. ‘I tried to stop him volunteering. He wasn’t even
eighteen. He was just a boy, doctor, just a boy!’

Suddenly, Archie began to shake. Uncontrollable jerks took hold of his body. The violent spasms seemed to catch him unawares, and he gave a strange grunt as he tried to get up.

Mrs Benson took her son’s hand. ‘It’s all right, Archie. Sit down.’

The doctor leaned forward. ‘As your mother has told you, you are not in any way threatened, there will be no more fighting and I’ll give you some medicine to help calm you. Do you
think you can tell me more about what happened on the day you were wounded?’ The doctor spoke softly, his hand on Archie’s arm.

As they listened to Archie’s stumbling account, his breath almost a hiss as he told them of his friends who died beside him, Flora cleaned and redressed his calf wound. Mrs Benson was
right, she thought with relief. The injury had healed very well and Flora guessed that eventually he would be able to walk unaided again. It was, she knew, the horrifying images still in his mind
and that he now described that would not be swift to heal.

When the time had come for them to depart, Mrs Benson saw them to the door. ‘What’s your verdict, doctor?’ she whispered. ‘Will he get better?’

‘Physically, yes, Mrs Benson,’ the doctor answered a little vaguely. ‘With the help of your good self and a nourishing diet. As for the mental trauma . . .’ He considered
his words, before finishing. ‘I shall refer Archie to a specialist consultant. Would you be able to attend the hospital?’

‘Yes, but they won’t put him in an asylum, will they?’

‘No. But he will need treatment. It will be a very slow process.’ The doctor tipped his hat.

When Flora climbed up beside him in the trap, she glanced back at the house. ‘Can Archie be helped?’

‘Perhaps,’ he replied as he gathered the reins. ‘At least Archie will speak of his experiences. Unlike Michael, who has locked them away.’

Flora thought back to all the many hours she had spent with Michael. They had discussed their lives and talked easily together. But Michael had never spoken of his active service, or in any
detail of the day he was wounded. Why had she never thought of this before?

The doctor raised a bushy grey brow. ‘We’re not far from Shire Street.’

Flora smiled. She wanted to see Michael more than she dared say.

Lillian Appleby gave them a warm welcome and led them through the house to the conservatory. As they passed the portrait of Julian Appleby dressed in his Eastern robes of
crimson and orange, Flora remembered what Lillian had told her that day. Michael had inherited his father’s green eyes and courage. Flora felt a pang of alarm. Perhaps Michael felt he had
lost his courage and the meeting with Lord Guy Calvey had served to confirm this.

‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Dr Tapper,’ Lillian said as they sat on the comfortable wicker chairs in the sunny, glass-windowed room. ‘Michael’s told me so much
about you.’

Flora looked into her face and saw beyond the warm smile. Lillian’s dark eyes, framed by her rich brown hair drawn elegantly up behind her head, held an anxious expression. She was dressed
as before in a long, sweeping dress, and sat with her hands folded in her lap. She returned Flora’s gaze with a quick smile. ‘Flora, it’s been some while, hasn’t it? I was
hoping to see you again soon after our last meeting. But I know how busy you are.’

‘We called as we have a patient in this area,’ the doctor said quickly. ‘Michael hasn’t arrived for his weekly treatments. We hope all is well?’

‘I am afraid to say that my son is not his usual self, Dr Tapper,’ Lillian said uneasily. ‘I’m most relieved you called.’

‘Can I be of help?’

‘Oh, I wish I could say.’ Lillian raised her hand and dropped it heavily into her lap. ‘I’m afraid I can’t get a word out of him. He refuses to tell me what’s
wrong. Of course, Michael is always a dear, polite boy and we share a close relationship, as you know, Flora. But lately, I’m afraid, he prefers his own company and either takes out the car
or reads in his room. I would say he has become . . . melancholy.’ She looked at Flora with her big brown eyes open wide. ‘He was so full of hope, so determined to return to good
health.’

‘He was most certainly recovering,’ Dr Tapper agreed. ‘Until a few weeks ago.’

‘Michael told me he’d been disappointed at his last test. That he had been unable to walk without his cane.’

‘Yes, an unexpected turn of events.’

‘But why is this?’ Lillian’s pale face was full of concern.

‘That’s something we must discuss with your son. I believe that his physical injury has healed and he should be dispensing with the cane.’

Just then Flora heard a noise. They all looked round to see a tall figure appear at the door. Lillian smiled eagerly. ‘Michael, where have you been? We have visitors, as you can
see.’

‘I walked down to the stream, Mama, for some air.’ He smiled a tight, guarded smile as the dogs bounded in beside him. Flora reached out to stroke Ivy and Jack as they panted softly
at her feet. Their soft black fur and warm bodies made her remember fondly the day she had first come here with Michael. Then he had been happy and smiling, eager for her to meet his mother. Now,
the light had gone from his once clear green eyes, despite his best effort to smile. ‘I’m very pleased to see you both,’ he said, limping over, his cane tapping on the polished
boards of the floor. He took a chair rather clumsily. ‘I’ve been meaning to call at the surgery. But after the disappointing results of walking without my cane, I thought better of it.
I fear I’ve failed you both.’

‘Not at all,’ the doctor was quick to assure him. ‘But I should have liked you to continue with your treatment.’

‘I thought perhaps a rest might help.’

Flora looked into his steady gaze. He seemed to be Michael, the man she had become so fond of. But he had changed and was keeping his distance from them as politely as he could.

‘Yes,’ the doctor agreed. ‘When you feel rested, perhaps we can start again.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You must stop for some tea now that Michael is here.’ Lillian turned to the doctor. ‘Would you care to enjoy it in the garden, Dr Tapper? We can sit on the lawn and enjoy some
sunshine. Are you interested in gardening at all?’

‘My wife came from a country family in the north,’ the doctor said, rising to his feet. ‘I’m afraid we never had much more than a yard in London.’ He smiled.
‘I should enjoy your offer of tea very much.’

Flora watched him accompany Lillian out of the room.

‘You must think me very rude,’ Michael said quietly when they found themselves alone. ‘I should have driven over to see you.’

‘Michael, what’s wrong?’ She wanted to hold his hand, to comfort him. But she knew he wouldn’t want that.

‘I feel I’ve misled you, Flora. And God knows, that was not my intention.’

‘But how have you misled me?’

‘I believed I could recover and be as I was before.’

‘But you will be.’

He laughed without humour. ‘I think not.’

‘I should never have let you drive me to Adelphi.’

At once, Michael rose to his feet. ‘On the contrary. It was there that I realized my limitations. How wrong I was to ask a commitment of you.’

Flora felt sick with heartache. Was Michael telling her he didn’t want to see her again?

‘Let’s join the others.’ His polite smile returned as he extended his arm. Flora could do nothing but grasp it. They walked in silence to the garden and the croquet lawn and
beyond Flora could see the wooden hut where they had once almost kissed.

Flora opened her eyes the next morning and thought of Michael. Their friendship was over. Whatever had happened at Adelphi Hall had changed his feelings towards her.

She got ready for work, but without enthusiasm. It was a day like any other, but her heart felt heavy, as though something inside her was missing. She knew the doctor had been upset at
Michael’s decision to stop the treatment. But on their way home in the trap, he said they had to abide by Michael’s decision.

The day passed as usual with patients coming and going. The talk was of the war and how hard it was becoming to find cheap food now that British ships were being torpedoed by Germany’s
U-boats. Britain was cut off from its suppliers and to make things worse, the doctor told Flora that morning that the Irish troubles were worsening. Dublin was staging a full-scale rebellion
against British rule. Many of the patients had relatives in Ireland. Flora knew it was only natural for the Irish community in the East End to feel sympathetic to their families. But it was hard to
ignore the jibes against the British that were often voiced.

That night, Flora dreamed of the conflict and Will. Of the mud and dead troops in the trenches. Every now and then she called out his name. But her voice was so faint.

She woke up in the middle of the dream with a start. Her nightdress was wet with perspiration. After she had washed and dressed and eaten a small breakfast, she went up the airey’s steps
into the bright summer morning. The air was soft and still, but she couldn’t shake off the bad feeling of her dream.

‘’Ere, nurse, ’ave you ’eard?’ their first patient said. The woman carried a dirty, runny-nosed child in her arms. ‘There’s been thousands of our lads
killed at the Somme. And every one of ’em a volunteer. Lots of ’em come from the London Regiment – gun fodder for the Hun. I reckon you’d best be prepared for all the poor
injured sods coming back.’

Flora felt quite sick. The dream seemed very real. Will had been sprawled in mud. The blood had seeped through his jacket and was pouring into the black, slimy puddles. She had called out,
trying to help him. But there had been no one to help. The noise of the bombs in her ears had been deafening. Will was not moving. Was he dead?

‘You all right, love? You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’

‘Yes, you can go through to the doctor now.’ Flora led the way. But when the door had closed behind the woman, she sat down in her small room. The sweat was running down her spine.
The dream of Will had been so very real.

It took all her willpower to return to the waiting room and try to sort out the patients.

‘This is for you,’ Mrs Bell said when Flora arrived at Hailing House on the first Sunday of August. ‘I know it was your birthday last week, but I did send a
card.’ She gave Flora a small parcel, tied with string.

Flora undid the paper and took out a delicate chiffon scarf.

‘Blue is your colour, my dear.’

Flora threaded her fingers over the soft material. ‘It’s beautiful, thank you,’ Flora said gratefully.

‘Did you celebrate on Tuesday?’

‘No, we were too busy at the surgery.’ Her seventeenth birthday had come and gone very quickly. She had received cards from Mrs Bell, the doctor and Mother Superior and the nuns of
St Boniface. Each year, they remembered her birthday and usually Will did too. But this year there had been no cards from her friends, or even letters. There hadn’t even been time during the
day for Flora to think about being seventeen. There had been plenty of patients to see that day. There had been a sudden rise in temperature and people were suffering from the heat. The conditions
in the dock factories had led to many casualties. Fainting and exhaustion was common as were prickly heat rashes and impetigo. Some factories were no more than huge tin sheds; in winter they were
freezing and in summer, stifling.

‘You deserve the best.’ Mrs Bell kissed her cheek. ‘Now, I’ve got a broth simmering, so when you’ve put on Aggie’s apron, I’d like you to drop in a few
more potatoes.’ Mrs Bell returned to the hot stove and was soon dabbing her forehead with her handkerchief as she laboured over the heat.

Flora put aside her scarf and tied Aggie’s apron around her waist. She dropped the chopped potatoes into the steaming saucepan and stirred vigorously. Now, in this time of crisis, when so
many bereaved families needed feeding, she had offered to help Mrs Bell. So many had suffered after the Somme. There were many more killed than the authorities had at first recorded. At the soup
kitchens, the women told their sad stories to Mrs Bell, who repeated them to Flora. Husbands, brothers, relatives, thousands upon thousands, so it was said, were lost in the first five minutes of
battle. Flora had heard for herself the terrible tales from the wounded men. They were slowly beginning to arrive home; they hobbled, stumbled and were even carried to the surgery by relatives or
friends. Dr Tapper did all he could, but the pitiful sights of wounded servicemen were endless.

Flora thought of Michael and sighed. If only she could talk to him . . .

‘Lady Hailing will have to send us more help,’ Mrs Bell complained, breaking into Flora’s thoughts. ‘Me and Aggie are working all hours. With daily soup kitchens
there’s no time to look after the house.’

‘I’d help you more, but the doctor needs me.’

‘Course he does, love. And it’s domestic staff we need, not nurses. But, as you know, the young girls won’t go for service. They prefer a factory job with good pay. This
war’s changed everything. Including the aristocracy. Many of the big houses are being used as hospitals now. Can’t see how life for the uppers will ever be the same again.’

‘Do you think Hilda will come home if Adelphi Hall is turned into a hospital?’ Flora wondered aloud.

Mrs Bell shrugged as she shredded the beef through the mincer. ‘Who knows! Pass me that cloth, love, I’m making a mess.’

Flora gave Mrs Bell the cloth. These days, Mrs Bell didn’t mention Hilda or seem concerned about her. As Hilda never wrote, Flora guessed it was to be expected.

‘I’m going to the market next Saturday with Reg,’ Mrs Bell said. ‘Would you like us to call for you?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Not while we’re so busy.’

‘Don’t work too hard, love.’

‘Since the doctor lost Wilfred he works very hard.’