Together for Christmas (3 page)

‘Good man. Now bear with me while I see what’s to be done.’ Dr Tapper glanced at Flora who stood in readiness to help. ‘His boot first, nurse, if you please.’

Flora had no difficulty in removing the battered boot that hid a filthy sock beneath. But at the putrid stench of infection coming from his exposed leg, she had to steady herself. After Flora
eased the rough and bloodstained cloth to his knee, her eyes fell on the wound. Though she had assisted the doctor ever since leaving the orphanage three years ago, this was the worst sight she had
ever witnessed.

She heard the doctor’s indrawn breath and saw his grey head of hair shake almost imperceptibly. ‘Why didn’t you return to me sooner?’ the doctor asked, as Flora took the
sterilized scissors from the metal trolley and handed them to her employer. As the sodden bandages caked with pus and blood fell away, Flora found herself unable to distinguish what had once been a
human leg from a mass of diseased flesh.

‘I was afraid you’d chop off me leg,’ said the man with a choke, trying to hide the pain that had turned his gaunt face a marble-grey.

‘The decision isn’t for me to make,’ the doctor answered. ‘Now, hold still. I shall have my nurse clean your wound the best she can. Meanwhile, I’ll find you
something to ease the pain.’

The man caught the doctor’s arm. ‘I’m no use to me family with only one leg, Dr Tapper.’

‘You’re even less use to them dead,’ the doctor said gravely, nodding to Flora, who stood ready to repair what she could of the result of the terrible infection. ‘But we
won’t discuss it further until I have made a thorough examination.’

Flora knew that the man would almost certainly lose his leg. When she had been present at his first visit two months ago, the doctor had judged there was some hope to save the limb. The wound
had been treated at the field hospital. But, like many who were injured at the front lines carved across Europe’s battlefields, many cases proved hopeless.

In just a few minutes, Dr Tapper returned with the pain-relieving Jamaican balm that was derived from arrowroot, a pap that Flora herself had helped him to prepare that morning. After she had
cleansed the wound, she took the boiled application from the bowl in the doctor’s hands and laid it carefully on the weeping sores that were eating down to the bone of the man’s
limb.

‘Thank you, nurse.’ Dr Tapper placed his hand on Stephen Pollard’s shoulder. ‘Is your wife here today?’

The man nodded, his agony causing him to writhe uncomfortably beneath the doctor’s grasp.

‘Nurse, will you please inform Mrs Pollard that my intention is to refer her husband to the infirmary.’

‘No! No!’ protested the distraught patient. ‘They’ll rob me of my leg for sure!’

Dr Tapper was silent. After washing her hands in the china bowl, Flora left for the waiting room. Here, every seat was taken. Despite it being late on Saturday morning, twenty or more bodies
filled the small space, making it clear to Flora that the handful of wooden chairs she had arranged on the bare boards were insufficient for their needs.

Flora looked with pity at the babies wrapped in their dirt-ridden shawls, the runny-nosed, shabbily dressed toddlers who whimpered at their mothers’ feet, the older patients full of the
ague and vapours, together with disabled veterans of Europe’s devastating war. Three younger men leaned against the peeling walls, supported by crutches and crudely made walking aids. Every
face turned to her expectantly. One woman rose to her feet. Flora beckoned her.

‘It’s all right for some,’ an older lady shouted after them. ‘I’ve been sitting here for over an hour. All I want is something for me rheumatics.’

‘Think yourself lucky!’ wheezed an elderly man who occupied the chair beside her. ‘I’ll be dead before I’m seen, at this rate.’

Flora led the way to the small room adjoining the doctor’s that she used to sterilize the equipment on a burner and help the doctor prepare his prescriptions. It was also a place she used
to comfort the patients.

The smell of carbolic and herbal remedies was strong as Flora entered the tiny space. Here, Flora kept rows of bottles on the shelves in neat order; they were the doctor’s armoury against
disease. Smelling salts for fits of the vapours, poultices made from hot water and mustard, Sloan’s Liniment for the agues, camphorated and eucalyptus oils for congestion of the lungs,
arrowroot to alleviate nausea, Fuller’s Earth for stings, burns and sores, and compounds of mercury and chloride that were used in emergencies to treat the bowels. There was laudanum too, and
opium, for the more serious and sometimes terminal cases. She kept these under lock and key in the cabinet on the wall. On the bench below and in the cupboards were dressings and saline solutions,
bandages, lints and sterilized equipment ready for use. Flora often worked at the big porcelain sink with its single tap. She kept it spotless.

‘What’s happening, nurse?’ The young woman sat down on the only wooden chair. Flora knew Mrs Pollard was in her twenties but looked twice her age. Haggard and frail, she was
old before her time.

‘Your husband’s wound is infected. He will have to go to the infirmary.’

‘But how will we manage?’ Tears came to Mrs Pollard’s eyes. ‘We’ve got four nippers and an infant. The few pennies Stephen earns are all that we have
and—’ She began to cough. It was a deep, racking cough that caused her to bend over and hang her head as she tried to smother the pitiful choking. Flora gave her a clean rag and the
woman pressed it to her mouth. A stain glowed bright red on the white cloth.

‘How long have you been sick, Mrs Pollard?’ Flora took the blood-spattered cloth and threw it in the pail.

‘It’s only a cough.’ Mrs Pollard gazed up at the shelves. ‘Give me something from one of them glass bottles, won’t you? Some wintergreen. Or maybe a bit of
embrocation for me chest.’

‘I’ll ask the doctor.’ Flora knew that none of the remedies on the shelf could help this young woman.

Just then the doctor walked in and heard for himself the sickly sounds the woman was making. Flora looked into his eyes. His gaze went to the cloth in the pail and he gently put his hand on Mrs
Pollard’s shoulder. ‘The ambulance has been sent for,’ he said quietly. ‘Your husband must go to the infirmary.’

‘No!’ shrieked Mrs Pollard. She gazed tearfully up at the doctor. ‘Please don’t send him away.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Dr Tapper replied firmly. ‘Now, let us see about you. How long have you been coughing like this?’

Flora left them alone and went to the waiting room. She did her best to calm the doctor’s anxious patients. But she couldn’t help thinking of Mrs Pollard. There was little doubt in
her mind that the young woman had tuberculosis: a cruel and highly infectious disease of the lungs.

Woken by a banging on the front door, Flora left the warmth of her bed and pulled on her dressing gown. As she hurried to the sitting room she fastened back her long, tangled
locks that had been kept orderly under her white cap for the working week. Flora blinked at the strong daylight streaming in through the drapes. The embers of last night’s fire still glowed
in the hearth and had kept the basement, which Flora and Dr Tapper always called the airey, warm.

Flora pulled back the heavy bolt and opened the door to find Hilda standing there. ‘Goodness, Hilda, what are you doing here at this time of the morning?’

‘Let me in, I’ve some terrible news.’ Hilda flung herself from the basement step into Flora’s sitting room. ‘It’s the
Lusitania
. She’s been
sunk.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ replied Flora. ‘Not a great liner like the
Lusitania
.’

‘She was torpedoed by the Germans yesterday. Just off the Irish coast. Over a thousand passengers are missing.’ With her brown curls flying around her face and her jacket unbelted at
the waist, Hilda was breathless.

‘Sit down.’ Flora indicated the chair by the fire, with its plump cherry-red cushion. ‘I’ll open the curtains.’

‘I can’t stay long. I’ve got to get back to the house.’ Hilda flopped down on the chair. ‘Mrs Bell just told me. She heard it from her ladyship’s maid. One of
Lady Hailing’s friends, a wife of a high-ranking government official, was on board and is unaccounted for, along with her staff.’

Light filled the room, and Flora sat down. ‘What a terrible catastrophe!’

‘Yes, and it’s gentry who’ll suffer the most losses. It’s only them with money who can afford passage with the Cunard Steamship Company.’

‘Does this mean all Britain’s ships are at risk now?’

‘Dunno. But you can’t deny that this changes everything.’ Hilda swallowed hurriedly. ‘More men will be drafted to the Front, leaving their jobs to the women. It’s
already been written in the newspapers that female workers are twice as good as the men. I reckon I’d do all right for meself in a factory.’

‘You’d hate it, I’m sure.’

Hilda rolled her brown eyes. ‘No more than I hate the house. Anyway, what I’ve come to tell you is, I’m giving in me notice today. The
Lusitania
sinking is a
sign.’

‘But you can’t, Hilda. It’s a good job you’ve got.’

‘I told you, it ain’t. Mrs Bell gives me all Aggie’s jobs. Aggie is worn out with her kids and husband to look after. The mistress calls on me for help in the soup kitchen, and
with all me other jobs, I’m going down the very same road as Mum. She was at the nuns’ beck and call. Stuck in the laundry, washing her life away in those great big tubs. Well, I
won’t be treated the same. I won’t!’

Flora looked at her friend with sympathy, but knew things could be much worse. ‘You have a roof over your head. Many girls would be envious of your position.’

‘It’s all right for you to say, living here at Tap House.’ Hilda got up and began to pace round the comfortable room. With puzzled eyes, Flora watched her friend treading
slowly over the wooden duckboards and stroking her fingers across the chintz covers that Flora had made for the fireside chairs. ‘You’ve made it so pretty, so homely. Three rooms all to
yourself, even a little kitchen and scullery. I’d be very happy to live here.’

‘Hilda, you have very pleasant quarters at the house.’

‘I’m glad you think so,’ Hilda replied sourly. ‘A room in the attic not big enough to swing a cat.’

‘Compared to our dormitory at the orphanage—’ Flora began.

‘You’re right,’ Hilda interrupted. ‘I came from one prison and now I live in another.’

Flora smiled. ‘Hilda, such drama!’

‘Added to my imprisonment,’ Hilda continued sulkily, ‘Mrs Bell insists I finish Aggie’s silver polishing today. Which means that we can’t meet this
afternoon.’

Flora decided to cheer up her friend. ‘In that case, I’ll come over to you. Mrs Bell will let me help you with the silver, I’m sure.’

Hilda rushed to the chair and clapped her hands together. ‘I hoped you’d say that. Seeing as you’re a favourite of Mrs Bell, she’ll bake a cake – oh, how good it is
to have a friend like you!’

‘Hilda, please think again about leaving.’

‘But I might miss me chance. What with the
Lusitania
and all—’

‘There’s no rush, I’m sure.’

Hilda sank down on the cushions and yawned.

‘I’ll make us some tea.’ Flora hurried out to the kitchen. She knew how impulsive Hilda was. If only she could persuade her to change her mind.

Hilda was asleep in the chair when Flora brought in the tea tray. Flora poured the tea and shook Hilda’s shoulder. ‘Drink this before you go.’

Hilda gulped down her tea. She blinked at Flora. ‘Have you heard from Will?’

‘Not since he joined his regiment in January.’ They both glanced up at the photograph that Will had sent them. It stood proudly on Flora’s mantel.

‘He looks very handsome in uniform,’ said Hilda.

Flora instantly thought about Will fighting, and shook her head to rid it of the image. ‘Hilda, please don’t give up your job.’

Hilda rolled her dark eyes.

‘Promise me, won’t you?’ Flora hoped Hilda would soon realize how lucky she was to have such a comfortable life at Hailing House.

‘All right,’ Hilda said eventually. ‘I promise.’

Flora smiled. Though when Hilda left, she didn’t bother to hug Flora goodbye.

Flora sat in the kitchen of Hailing House, enjoying the afternoon tea that Mrs Bell had generously served up. The fruit cake was still warm from baking in the black-leaded
range. ‘Oh, this is heaven,’ said Flora as she swallowed, closing her eyes for a brief second.

‘You’re welcome, dear. I’ve not seen the silver shining so bright in a long time. It was very obliging of you to help Hilda.’ Flora saw Mrs Bell eye Hilda
suspiciously.

‘I like coming here,’ Flora replied with a smile.

‘And don’t you look a picture!’ The cook patted Flora’s arm.

Flora glanced down at the clothes that she had worn for Mass that morning. It was a pleasant change to be out of her uniform. This checked brown wool suit was her favourite, with its
broderie-anglaise collar and ankle-length skirt. Her curls were tucked above her collar, under the brim of her brown felt hat. Mrs Bell had given her a very large apron to wear for the silver
cleaning, an apron so large that Flora had looped the belt twice round her waist. The suit was old, bought second-hand from a market stall and needed no special protection after years of hard wear,
but she wore the apron anyway.

‘As slim as a reed,’ continued Mrs Bell, approvingly. ‘A figure that I envy.’ Mrs Bell gestured to her own full bosom and wide, matronly hips hidden under her apron and
grey skirt. ‘As for me, I’m cursed to be as round as a barrel. Forced to test the food I serve, the pounds and ounces just pile on.’ Self-consciously, she touched her white
cook’s cap, under which her grey hair was pulled back in a bun. ‘Still, I’ll happily suffer for a deserving cause like the poor and needy of this island.’

Flora smiled but Hilda looked put out. ‘Forced!’ she repeated, gawping at the generous wedge of cake on the cook’s own plate.

‘None of your cheek, my girl,’ Mrs Bell scolded. ‘My goodness, I don’t know how I put up with you.’