by Carol Rivers
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.
Chapter Sixteen
‘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.
Hilda stood, quaking in her shoes. Fear and excitement rushed through her veins. There were thirty visitors together with their staff to accommodate. The past week had been a whirlwind of activity. The rooms on the top floor had been opened, their bathrooms scrubbed, fires lit and their wardrobes and carpets, rugs, cushions and ornaments all cleaned. After this, she had laundered the bedclothes, taken down the curtains, brushed, ironed and re-hung them. Hilda had hardly been able to keep up with the gruelling schedule. Now, she couldn’t believe her luck. She was going to see Lord Guy again!
‘I expect no mistakes, Hilda. Make certain you pay attention to Mrs Harris and, for goodness’ sake, don’t drop anything.’
Hilda nodded eagerly. The memory of her meeting with the young lord on the servants’ staircase made her shiver. Gracie had almost fainted when Hilda had told her what had happened. She said she had never known Lord Guy, or any of the family, to use that particular door.
‘Are you paying attention, Hilda?’ Mrs Burns’ sharp tone brought Hilda back to the moment.
‘Yes, Mrs Burns.’
‘Go along to Mrs Harris. I’ve already told her you are to be helping in the dining room tonight.’
Hilda did as she was told. The thought of being part of the elaborate plans for the weekend made her go weak at the knees. She was still shaking as she hurried to the kitchen, where Mrs Harris, red-faced and sweating, stood at the range. She saw Hilda and shouted, ‘I’ve just spoken with Lady Bertha and there’s a change of plan. Oysters and caviar as first decided, but not the lobster with French dressing as I had in mind to serve. Instead, Violet has persuaded Lady Bertha to settle for common-place sirloin steak.’ Mrs Harris sniffed with disdain. ‘Fortunately, we still have the soup and foul on the menu, with poached salmon, cutlets of lamb and veal escalope to follow, all as I had originally suggested. My hot strawberry soufflé, peach melba and banana flambé have also been confirmed.’ Mrs Harris tossed her head as though she had triumphed over the wishes of Violet. ‘Now, find Gracie and we’ll prepare the fish soup, pâté and glazes. Hurry, girl! Hurry!’
Hilda rushed through the passage to the scullery, where Gracie was preparing the vegetables. ‘Gracie, we’ve to help Mrs Harris with the soup!’
The water was running from the single tap over the sink. Gracie’s red hands were full of peeled potatoes. ‘I can’t. I’ve got the beans to do yet and the parsley and mint.’
‘Leave them. Mrs Harris is in a real tizz.’
Gracie knew this was a danger sign and quickly wiped her hands on her dirty apron. She pushed her thin hair up under her cap, muttering under her breath. Together they ran back to the kitchen.
‘The strainer, Gracie, at once!’ Mrs Harris commanded.
Gracie took a large white cloth from the drawer. She pushed two ends into Hilda’s hands and took the opposite corners. Once placed over the empty bowl on the table, the cook began to pour the thick liquid from the saucepan.
‘Hold it still and pull tight,’ Mrs Harris ordered. When the saucepan was empty, the cook seized a wooden spoon and began to mash what remained.
It was a long, hard process in the hot kitchen. Sweating, and still thinking about Lord Guy, Hilda held the cloth tightly. The steam and stink of mashed vegetables and fish made her stomach turn, but all this would be worth the effort for one more glance of his handsome face.
All about her, Hilda could hear the rush of feet, the boiling of pans on the range, the shouts of the kitchen staff as they followed their orders; in the distance, Mr Leighton, with one footman disabled, was roaring at Billy and Joseph, the two stable boys who had been brought in as reserves for the evening. Hilda felt the excitement grow inside her. She couldn’t wait until tonight, when she would look into Lord Guy’s dark gaze. He would recognize her and somehow let her know that she had been in his thoughts since the moment they first met.
‘Mr Leighton will be lucky if he can turn them two sow’s ears into silk purses by tonight.’ Mrs Harris, referring to the stable boys, gave the mashed contents of the cloth one last pounding.
Hilda looked at Gracie through the clouds of steam and stifled a giggle. Gracie was as red as a beetroot, holding on to the cloth for dear life. A clatter came from the long passage and voices were raised. Hilda knew Mr Leighton was preparing the ancestral silverware, which he kept locked in the safe. Candelabras, jugs, plates and tureens had been placed out in his quarters for polishing; the dinner tonight was to be of the highest standard.
Hilda smiled to herself through the steam. Almost everything in her life was as she imagined it would be. The disputes between Mrs Harris and Violet were more frequent. Their clear dislike of one another was evident to one and all. The cook always had the upper hand; Hilda had been told that by Mrs Bell who knew only too well of rivalries below stairs. To add to this, Hilda had noticed that Violet had become ill-tempered and wore a sullen expression. Tonight, Hilda would look her very best. At least, as best as she could in this dour uniform. She would try to catch Lady Bertha’s attention and Lord Guy would watch her every move, too. Even the beautiful women he entertained would pale in contrast to Hilda’s youth and freshness.
Lord Guy had told her he would see her again, hadn’t he? He had almost made a promise. Hilda knew she was attractive to men. John and James flirted with her. When she and Gracie went into the village, they had no shortage of admirers. Though Gracie always shrank from attention, Hilda loved it. She knew how to hold herself in an upright fashion, sway her hips and accentuate the curve of her breasts. Hadn’t Lord Guy held on to her longer than was necessary on the staircase? In one glance he had taken in her beauty.
‘Right, off to the scullery, you two, and bring me the vegetables,’ Mrs Harris boomed, thrusting the filthy straining cloth into Gracie’s hands.
Hilda and Gracie nodded and dashed out of the kitchen together. Hilda’s
plans were working out already. Christmas was going to be wonderful this year!
It was Monday of Christmas week. Flora’s busy day was almost at an end. The strong smell of disinfectant was thick in the air. Flora had cleaned the grubby chairs and floorboards after the doctor had gone upstairs to his rooms.
Flora took off her apron and washed her hands. She was about to turn down the gas lights when a heavy knock came at the front door.
‘Good evening, Flora.’ The man was dressed in a long blue overcoat. His shoulders were broad, but hunched against the cold. He wore a large brimmed hat and was leaning heavily on a cane. He took off his hat.
‘Michael!’
‘I hope I’m not too late?’
‘I . . . well, no . . .’ she stammered. Realizing he was waiting for her to open the door, she stepped back.
‘I’ve no excuse I’m afraid,’ he began as he stepped forward. A gust of cold night air swept in with him. ‘I gave what you said a great deal of thought. But—’ He swayed, only just managing to steady himself. Flora caught his arm and guided him towards a chair. He sunk down with a sigh and grimaced. ‘Thank you.’