Together for Christmas (9 page)

Flora smiled. ‘Did you see your room?’

‘There wasn’t time. But I’m sure it’ll be nice.’

‘The house sounds very big, with plenty to clean.’

Hilda ignored this and rushed on. ‘We didn’t even go up to the top floor where Lord William’s rooms are. No one’s allowed up there expect Mr Leighton and the footmen and
Turner, Lord William’s valet.’

‘Did Mrs Burns explain your duties?’

Hilda looked vague. ‘Yes, but I wasn’t really listening.’

‘Why not?’

‘I was thinking of the painting of Lord Guy at the top of the staircase. Oh, I couldn’t believe me eyes, Flora. I’ve never seen any man so handsome.’

‘It was only a painting.’ Flora recalled the photograph in Mr Leighton’s office. Quite the opposite of Hilda, she thought Lord Guy had an unpleasantly spoiled expression.

‘The painting is a good likeness, so Mrs Burns said,’ Hilda said with a tilt of her chin. ‘Anyway, I’ll tell you the rest on our way home.’ Hilda looked back at the
house. ‘Though I don’t want to leave.’

‘When do you start?’

‘Dunno. But soon,’ Hilda said, her brown eyes shining, ‘just before the family return from abroad.’

Flora looked for a long while at her friend. ‘Are you sure it’s what you want, Hilda?’

‘Why do you keep asking me that?’

‘Because country life will be very different to London.’

Hilda’s gaze went longingly back to the house. ‘I’ve never belonged anywhere before. Not since Mum died. I know I’ll belong here.’

‘Remember, you’ll be under Mrs Burns’ eye.’ Flora stood up.

‘I know, but I think she favours me,’ Hilda said as she rose to her feet. ‘I can make meself a life here, Flora. A proper one. Somewhere I know I’m
appreciated.’

‘I hope that’s true.’

They linked arms to walk through the kitchen garden towards the stables. ‘I’ll be a lady’s maid before long. In no time at all, I’ll have everything I always
wanted.’

‘I hope so.’

‘I’ll miss you and Will. But you can come to visit me. Of course, I have to ask Mrs Burns first.’

Flora nodded a little sadly. She would be parted from Hilda, her very best friend, her sister. But if this was what Hilda wanted, then Flora hoped she would find happiness here at Adelphi Hall.
A happiness she believed she hadn’t been able to find before.

As they walked into the courtyard, Albert stood waiting. Flora’s spirits lifted at the sight of him. Unlike Hilda, Flora loved her life on the city’s island and couldn’t wait
to get home.

Albert pulled the canvas sheet across the cart, then helped them aboard. ‘We’re not likely to be back afore nightfall,’ he warned. ‘You’d better
wrap yourselves up warm in them blankets. Didn’t reckon on waiting for yer this long.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Flora said. ‘Mrs Burns showed Hilda round the house.’

‘It’s a big ’un, an’ all,’ agreed Albert, gathering the reins in his hands. ‘Did you get the job?’ he asked Hilda.

‘Yes. Of course,’ Hilda replied primly.

‘Well, at least you’ll not starve here,’ Albert replied with a toothless grin. ‘Not if the food is anything like the tasty pie I was given to eat, washed down with a mug
of ale.’

Flora thought that Albert was lucky to have been shown such hospitality. If it wasn’t for Gracie she wouldn’t even have had a cup of tea.

As the cart rumbled out of the courtyard, Hilda sighed. With two fingers she lifted the corner of the blanket. ‘What a dirty rag this is.’

Flora laughed. ‘You’re not living at Adelphi yet.’

‘I can’t afford to catch fleas.’ Hilda pushed the blanket on the floor.

‘Did Mrs Harris give you anything to eat or drink?’

‘Yes, a slice of caraway cake and a cup of tea.’

‘That was nice,’ said Flora. ‘Did she ask you any questions?’

‘No, she’s not nosey like Mrs Bell.’

‘You don’t really know her yet.’

Hilda gave Flora a quick glance. ‘Who did you talk to?’

‘Mr Leighton and Gracie, the scullery maid. The one who the footman bumped into in the passage. Gracie showed me inside the butler’s quarters. To his dining room and pantry where the
silver is polished. There was a cellar downstairs, but we didn’t go down there.’

‘A butler is the most important member of all the staff,’ Hilda said in a reproving tone. ‘He wouldn’t have liked you going into his rooms.’

‘We weren’t there long.’

Hilda was silent, then burst out, ‘Well, what did you think of them?’

‘Mr Leighton’s rooms?’ Flora shrugged. ‘They were quite dark and gloomy. But I liked the photographs on the wall. Some were of the servants and one was of the
family.’

Hilda sat upright. ‘So you saw Lord Guy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t he handsome?’

‘Some would say so.’

‘Who else did you see?’

‘The earl, Lord William. He looked very distinguished in his military regalia. Lady Bertha looked very fashionable. As for her husband, James Forsythe, he didn’t strike me as much at
all.’

‘Did you know that a lady’s maid accompanies her mistress when she goes abroad?’ Hilda said eagerly. ‘I might see Italy one day. Or travel on a steam train to some other
country house. I hear there are special trains that carry the entire family, their personal belongings and staff, together with their automobiles.’

Flora giggled. ‘I can’t keep up with your wealth of knowledge.’

Hilda laughed too. Then, turning to Flora, she murmured, ‘I haven’t forgotten it’s your birthday today.’

Flora looked surprised. ‘So it is. I’d almost forgotten it myself. But it don’t feel any different to be sixteen.’

‘I’ll take you up to Lyons for tea one day.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

As the cart jogged along, Hilda fell asleep, her hatless head on Flora’s shoulder. Flora’s thoughts tumbled through her mind in time with the clattering wheels of the cart. She had
hoped to persuade Hilda to go to St Edmund’s with her and celebrate Mass today. But Hilda would have gone reluctantly, if at all. Instead, they had enjoyed a look into a very different world.
Hilda had been impressed by Adelphi Hall. It was fair to say, Flora reflected, that her friend now had only one thing on her mind: to move from Hailing House as quickly as she could.

But in the light of what Flora had seen today, she was certain that Mrs Burns would demand much more of Hilda than Mrs Bell ever had. It hadn’t occurred to Hilda, it seemed, that like all
would-be lady’s maids, she would have to work her way up the ranks, as Mrs Bell had once warned her.

It was the beginning of September and Flora was listening to the patients. They were talking excitedly about the recent attack by a German Zeppelin.

‘Did you see the airship?’ asked one elderly man who had just left the doctor’s room.

‘It dropped a bomb near Westferry Road, where I live,’ an expectant mother confirmed. ‘I nearly went into labour right there and then.’

‘Which way did it go?’ someone else asked.

‘Flew over the river to Greenwich.’

‘Bermondsey and Rotherhithe was hit,’ another man informed them. ‘Then it had the cheek to go back and cross the city.’

‘The cost of the damage it done will be down to us,’ a tall lady, nursing a bandaged foot, added. ‘As if the war’s not costing us enough already.’

Flora had been woken by a thump in the night, but she had been too tired to investigate. The day before had been very busy. It hadn’t been until a quarter to nine in the evening that she
and the doctor had ended their exhausting day.

‘Now you see ’em, now you don’t,’ the first man complained. ‘It’s inhuman, that’s what it is. You can’t get yer revenge on something as high up as
those damned balloons.’

‘The newspapers say our aeroplanes can’t fly high enough to catch ’em,’ the lady with the bad foot protested. ‘What is the government going to do about it?
That’s what I’d like to know.’

Just as Flora was about to interrupt the complaints, she heard a woman’s screams outside.

‘Is that the airships back again?’ someone yelled. Everyone began to panic.

Flora hurried to open the door and as she pulled the handle, a man rushed in at her, pushing her out of the way. Flora fell back, momentarily stunned. An older woman followed him breathlessly.
Her coat was half-on over her nightdress and her grey hair tied in plaits.

‘Mrs Howe, what’s the matter?’ Flora asked the widow, a patient of Dr Tapper’s. ‘Is it the Zeppelin coming again?’

‘No, nurse, it’s my boy, Tom. He’s home just a week from the Front. A bullet’s gone through his hand, but it’s his mind what’s injured. He’s like a
trapped animal. Can’t sleep because of his nightmares, won’t eat. And last night when the Zeppelin flew over, he went crazy. The noise of the bomb sent him running down the road,
shrieking. And because it’s so dark in the blackouts, I couldn’t catch him. If it wasn’t for my neighbour persuading him back, I dread to think what would have
happened.’

Flora hurried after the young man who had run into her small room. When she arrived there, he was cowering in the recess by the sink. His eyes blinked rapidly. ‘Tom?’ she asked
softly.

‘You see, nurse,’ Mrs Howe whispered at Flora’s shoulder. ‘I’m at me wit’s end.’

Flora moved an inch closer to the trembling soldier. ‘Tom, let me help you.’

He shook his head, trying to curl himself into the wall. His skin was ashen under his pale hair. His eyes must once have been a very light blue, like her own, she guessed. But now they looked
colourless. The bones of his shoulders under his cheap jacket stood out like sticks. One hand was folded against his chest, wrapped in a dirty bandage.

‘What am I going to do?’ Mrs Howe clutched Flora’s arm. Like her son, she was thin and lean-featured, but a deep despair filled her eyes. ‘He was caught up in a German
bombardment that left him half crazy. It took them over two months to get him home from France after they’d patched up his hand. You won’t let him run off again, will you?’

Flora smiled at the distressed soldier. ‘Tom, you’re safe now.’

‘B . . . bombs,’ he gasped, trying to shrink away.

‘There are no bombs now,’ she told him, and took a beaker from the shelf and filled it with water. ‘Drink this, it will help.’

With shaking hands he took it and gulped greedily. At that moment, the doctor walked in. Flora saw the fear in Tom’s eyes, but the doctor’s voice was soft and enquiring as he
addressed his patient.

‘Hello, Tom. Do you remember me? I brought you into this world, young man.’

‘That’s right, Tom,’ Mrs Howe agreed. ‘This is Dr Tapper.’

‘Come into my room,’ the doctor urged in a gentle manner. ‘Nurse will bring you along as soon as you feel comfortable.’ Taking Mrs Howe’s arm, the doctor steered
the anxious woman out of the door.

Flora knew the doctor was giving Tom time to compose himself. She managed to take the beaker from his clenched hand. ‘I’ll pour you some more in the doctor’s room,’ she
told him. ‘Are you feeling better?’

Tom gave her a wary nod, his pale eyes blinking rapidly.

‘You can tell Dr Tapper what’s upsetting you,’ Flora said softly. ‘Then he’ll give you something to help.’

‘They ain’t taking me back,’ Tom mumbled. ‘No more bombs.’

‘No, Tom. No more bombs. You’re home now, and safe.’ She held out her hand. ‘Come with me.’

The distressed soldier allowed Flora to guide him slowly to the hall. She felt him pull back when the row of faces turned towards him from the waiting room. But this time, there were no protests
from the assembled. Instead looks of sympathy and compassion filled their faces. The sight of the wretched victims of war was becoming all too common in the streets of the East End.

‘Yer’ll be all right, son,’ a man called. ‘You’ve been in hell, but now you’re free of it.’

If only that were true, Flora thought as she helped Tom towards the doctor’s room. The battlefields were a living hell for all those who fought so valiantly on the killing fields. But the
suffering did not end when they returned home.

If the Zeppelin had caused Tom Howe to believe he was back in the trenches of France, Flora was to discover a more distressing threat to the soldiers’ lives. The doctor
had given Tom a mild sedative for his mental agitation and suggested that with time and his mother’s care and understanding, the effects of shell shock would disappear. But early the next
morning, when Flora was presented with Eric Soames who was barely able to stumble into the waiting room, her heart sank.

Unlike Tom, this soldier was not in a state of terror. Rather, he had the apathy and yellow pallor of a sick old man. His face was scarred and ugly. At only twenty years of age, with barely nine
months of service behind him, he hardly had the strength to walk.

‘Can’t breathe, doc,’ Eric said, coughing. He lowered himself into the chair, even this small movement seeming to sap all his energy. His scarred cheeks and forehead were a
deep red with tiny veins showing tightly over the thin skin.

Dr Tapper asked Flora to help him remove the young soldier’s coat. It proved difficult, as any exertion caused Eric to become distressed. When finally his shirt buttons were open, Dr
Tapper examined the thin skin drawn over the young man’s chest with his earpiece.

‘How long have you been sick?’ Dr Tapper asked.

‘Since April.’ Eric’s chest rose and fell with difficulty as he spoke. ‘Me and my mate was caught in a gas attack.’

‘Gas?’ repeated the doctor.

Eric nodded. ‘Fritz’s new weapon of war.’

The doctor’s face darkened. ‘But I heard it was the French and Algerian troops who suffered that monstrous onslaught.’

‘It was, doctor,’ agreed Eric, wheezily. ‘We was ordered to scout up to where our lines met the French. I wish to God now I’d disobeyed that order and run in the opposite
direction. When me and Reg got up there, the troops that survived the gunfire were making a dash towards us. And that was when we first saw it. A bloody great yellow-green cloud, hanging in the
air, like a bank of fog. We thought it was fog too and just stopped to stare at it wondering why the French was bottling out.’ Eric cleared his throat and the sweat broke out on his face.
‘Then we started coughing—’ As if the memory was too painful to voice, he hid his scarred face in his hands.