Together for Christmas

by Carol Rivers

  ‘That’s wonderful news, Flora,’ Lillian Appleby replied. ‘Though as a mother, I fear the day when my son is well enough to go away again.’ She looked into Flora’s eyes. ‘The future is so uncertain for our young men.’

  Flora nodded. She understood how Michael’s mother felt.

  ‘But we mustn’t talk of war just now. Let me take off this dirty smock and we’ll go in for tea.’ She went through the wooden door of the hut, leaving Flora alone. Michael made his way up the wooden steps surprisingly quickly to stand with her.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked inquisitively.

  ‘About what?’ Flora teased. She knew he was talking about his mother.

  ‘Mama likes you, I can see that.’

  ‘And I like her.’

  He stood very close. She could feel his breath on her face and see the slight smile play on his lips. Was she imagining she could feel the beat of his heart as he pressed against her? His hand was on her waist, drawing her near. The March wind blew fragrances of an early spring around them; the dogs barked playfully on the lawn and Flora looked into his eyes.

  ‘Michael, I . . .’ she began but her words were lost as something inside her made her want to be close to him. Her mouth parted of its own accord and her eyes began to close.

  But then a noise from inside the hut made them part. Flora knew her cheeks were very red when Lillian Appleby stepped out.

  Flora liked Lillian Appleby’s house. Every nook and cranny was crammed with something interesting. Books and papers spilled along with tennis racquets, picnic baskets, boots and galoshes, wherever there was space to pile them. The chairs and sofas were covered in beautiful but elderly cushions, their silks and embroideries still fine, but faded. There were mementoes from many countries, which Michael had spoken of before: the tiger skin in the drawing room, the sculptured wooden furniture from the Far East with strange oriental markings, the head of a great antelope in the hall over a pair of mahogany doors that led through into the dining room. And bookcases stuffed with books, though all in a rather haphazard manner. Flora liked to see the dogs bound in, unchecked, through every room, their paws noisy on the bare boards.

  ‘I’ve asked Jenny to set tea in the conservatory,’ Lillian Appleby said, now dressed in an elegant floral frock, her slim figure seeming to glide through the house. She led them through a set of glass doors to a wide, airy room at the rear of the house, filled with potted palms and ferns. ‘We might as well enjoy the sun while it’s out. Flora, sit here by me.’ Lillian indicated one of four cushioned white wicker chairs drawn up to a low table. Flora couldn’t help but admire the sparkling white china teacups, large fruit cake and rack of small, triangular-shaped crustless sandwiches.

  Flora sat down, aware of Michael’s close presence beside her.

  ‘Jenny, we’ll have tea now, I think, or Flora, would you prefer coffee?’

  ‘No, tea will be fine, thank you.’ She smiled up at the pretty young girl with dark hair who, unlike any maid she had ever seen, was dressed in a plain white blouse and grey skirt. She wore no mob cap or apron and looked more like a visitor.

  ‘Jenny is a neighbour’s daughter,’ explained Lillian when the girl had gone. ‘She comes in once or twice a week to help in the house. I’m afraid the days of small households having the luxury of permanent staff are numbered. Young women these days prefer to work for the war effort. But there again, all our lives have been touched in some way.’ Lillian glanced at her son, then crossed one leg over the other, arranging her long, flowing skirt over her knees. ‘Michael has told me how your friend Will volunteered for France in August 1914. And later, how Hilda went into service at Lord Talbott’s estate. You must miss your friends a great deal.’

  Flora looked quickly at Michael. It seemed he really had told his mother all about her. ‘Yes, I do miss them,’ Flora admitted. ‘Will is having a very hard time.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘No, but his letter came just after the German attack on Verdun.’

  ‘Verdun? Such a nightmare.’ Lillian looked up at Jenny as she brought in the tray. A large white china pot and a milk jug stood on it. ‘Thank you, Jenny.’ Lillian lifted the teapot. ‘And Hilda? How is she faring? Michael tells me she hopes to be lady’s maid to Bertie Forsythe.’

  Flora frowned. Who was Bertie Forsythe?

  ‘Lady Bertha is called Bertie by some,’ Michael explained.

  ‘Before Michael’s dear father blotted our copybook,’ said Lillian with a rueful smile as she poured the tea, ‘we mixed in rather different circles. My husband took many trips abroad and always needed wealthy sponsors, hence the somewhat heady lifestyle we led. Michael’s told you all about our family’s chequered history, I think?’

  Flora nodded hesitantly. She felt uncomfortable that Michael had shared with her what seemed to be such personal family details.

  ‘Oh, please don’t be embarrassed, my dear,’ Lillian said with a chuckle. ‘The world and his wife were once privy to my late husband’s bankruptcy. Lady Bertha and I have known each other since my marriage to Michael’s father, Julian, who was a favourite of Bertie’s set.’ Lillian raised her beautiful eyebrows and sighed. ‘Julian was a charming adventurer and the life and soul of any party. Indeed, his passion for gaming took him into the most celebrated circles. Until finally, the money ran out. Or rather my grandfather’s money, which had taken a lifetime to accumulate and took only a handful of years to fritter away.’ She laughed lightly, surprising Flora. ‘It’s quite all right, Flora. Michael and I now look on our previous life with some amusement. Thank the good Lord we both survived. But no thanks at all to our dear departed.’ She looked up and nodded to a painting hung on the chimney breast. The handsome subject was a man with light-brown hair and very green eyes. He wore a long Indian-looking robe of crimson and orange.

  ‘My father,’ said Michael with a twist of his lips. ‘Mama painted him in one of his favourite get-ups, a gift from some Eastern maharaja.’

  Lillian smiled. ‘Michael has Julian’s eyes and his courage.’

  ‘A pity there is very little left of Father other than his trophies,’ remarked Michael, as he drank his tea. ‘A good name would have helped Mama in her hour of need.’

  Flora heard a trace of bitterness in his voice; it was the first time he had spoken that way.

  ‘And you, Flora,’ Lillian said quickly. ‘Tell us something about yourself.’

  Flora glanced at Michael. Would he think any less of her if she talked about being an orphan? He smiled. She found the courage to answer. ‘I was found as a baby outside the convent by one of the nuns on the first day of August 1899. I never knew who my mother or father were.’

  ‘Did the nuns?’ Lillian asked curiously.

  Flora was taken aback. She had never been asked that question before. ‘I was never told anything.’ She hesitated. ‘But after I left the orphanage I was given a shawl that Mother Superior said I was wrapped in when they found me.’ Flora smiled. ‘Someone had embroidered “W” and “S” in one corner.’

  ‘Could this be a clue to your mother?’ Michael asked, and his eyebrows rose. ‘Are you sure the nuns didn’t know more?’

  ‘Mother Superior said that my teacher, Sister Patricia, might. But she’s in France.’

  ‘Oh, dear, that’s very sad. But don’t give up hope, Flora.’

  Flora felt close to tears. How kind this lady was.

  ‘Now, please let us all enjoy Jenny’s tea.’ Lillian unfolded her napkin.

  Flora began to eat, but she wasn’t really hungry and was glad when the meal was over.

  ‘Shall we walk in the woods, Flora?’ Lillian stood up. ‘I am sure Michael has plenty to do in the workshop.’

  Michael grinned. He knew he had been dismissed.

  ‘What a pretty brooch you’re wearing,’ Lillian said with a teasing grin as they strolled arm in arm together through the trees, the dogs at their side.

  Flora blushed. ‘It’s a gift from Mich
ael.’

  ‘He thinks a great deal of you, Flora. I hope that he has made it plain to you that he must go back to war if he recovers.’

  ‘Oh, yes. From the very first moment we met, I knew that.’

  Lillian patted her arm gently. ‘He told me that you were asking after Fritz. And how upset you both were at the unforgiveable treatment meted out to him. He was such a pleasant old man and treated everyone with respect. I knew him for years and enjoyed buying my small pieces from him and discussing the ways of the world. It’s very sad that the war has brought us all to this kind of reprehensible behaviour. Friends are very few and far between these days. But then of course, you understand that well.’

  Flora nodded. ‘I miss Hilda a great deal as we grew up together and always saw each other on our days off.’

  ‘I do hope you will find her . . . settled,’ Lillian said. ‘Good friends in life are, without doubt, very rare. After our financial ruin, many of those I looked on as friends simply faded away.’

  ‘That must have been very hard for you.’

  ‘Yes, I discovered they were only fair-weather acquaintances. And I should never have known that, had not the worst happened.’

  Flora wondered if Lady Bertha Forsythe was one of those so-called friends.

  As they walked on, Lillian asked more about her work. Flora spoke of people like Stephen Pollard and Mr Riggs and poor little Polly and of the war veterans like Eric Soames and Sidney Cowper. Lillian listened very attentively, at last heaving a deep sigh.

  ‘How fortunate it is that the world has people like Dr Tapper to look after it,’ Lillian said as she came to a stop by the stream. She looked into Flora’s eyes. ‘And how very insignificant our daily woes are in the light of all this.’

  ‘I often think the same when I read Will’s letters.’

  ‘Ah, yes, your dear friend Will. Has he no other relatives?’

  Flora shook her head. ‘Like me, he doesn’t know who his parents are. Unlike Hilda, whose mother worked in the convent laundry. When Hilda was eight Rose Jones died and the nuns took Hilda in.’

  ‘What marvellous work these nuns do.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Flora at once. ‘We could have been sent to the workhouse.’

  ‘A terrifying thought!’

  Flora smiled. She knew that this kind lady didn’t look down on her.

  ‘It’s wonderful to know that all three of you remain close.’

  They stopped as the dogs ran barking and chasing into the trees. ‘I wish Hilda was still safely in service with Lady Hailing,’ Flora admitted.

  ‘Lady Hailing – a wonderful woman and great philanthropist!’ Lillian exclaimed. ‘One cannot speak too highly of the family.’ There was a long pause. ‘Would you say Hilda is right for her new position with the Calveys?’

  Flora hesitated as she thought about this. ‘Mrs Bell, Lady Hailing’s cook, has her doubts.’

  ‘Does she indeed?’ Lillian said as they turned towards home. ‘And why is that, do you suppose?’

  ‘Mrs Bell has always worked for Lady Hailing. She thinks Hilda would have fared better where she was. But that could be because Mrs Bell looks on Hilda as a daughter and worries about her dreadfully.’

  Lillian looked thoughtful. ‘You keep up a correspondence with Hilda, of course?’

  Flora nodded. ‘But she’s a very poor hand with the pen. So I’m hoping to visit her next month.’

  ‘Ah!’ Lillian exclaimed as they came in sight of the house. ‘And then you’ll be able to see first-hand how things really are.’

  Flora thought how very much she liked Lillian Appleby. There was nothing that Flora felt she couldn’t discuss with her. However, she had reminded Flora that Michael would have to return to war if he recovered. It was the shadow lurking in both their minds.

  Flora thought about the moment on the veranda when she and Michael had stood very close. She had felt a moment of great intimacy and all she had wanted was for Michael to kiss her. It was a very new feeling and had taken her by surprise. Could she be falling in love? If she was, her heart, as Mrs Bell would say, was ruling her head.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Hilda crouched low behind the prickly spring gorse, her heart thumping. She listened for the sounds of the pounding hooves and snorting of the horse as it charged after her. The cold March night was for the moment silent. This time, she had reached the trees to the south of the barn. She had never run this far before.

  Perhaps Guy would find her in the forest. She hated the dark, eerie layers of branches, the carpet of noisy leaves and bracken that told of her every move. No, she wouldn’t go in there. The open land was at least lit by the moonlight.

  Hilda closed her eyes in distress. Would he ride up soon? The first time this had happened, she had been at her lowest ebb. Dizzy with the wine he made her drink and every bone in her body aching from the run. She had made her way across the dark field, towards the trees. Very soon he’d ridden after her, catching her easily on the big brown stallion. Its great sweating body had trembled as it reared up. Bursts of grey-white air streamed from its frothing nostrils. Guy had dismounted, laughing.

  It was then she had first been frightened. Their game had lost its appeal. Guy appeared the same, with his beautiful face and body, but his eyes had glittered menacingly. She had tried to scramble away, but he’d caught her hair and dragged her to a wooded thicket. She had felt like some wounded creature, as the thorns had torn into her skin and red welts appeared over her arms and legs. Her beautiful dresses, the ones that Lady Hailing had given her, had been reduced to rags. To think of all she had done for him. The money she had borrowed from Mrs Bell to buy frivolous trinkets and perfumes to make herself more beautiful in his eyes. The lies she had told Gracie about where she had been at night. And eventually, the scorn in Gracie’s eyes when the truth had finally come out.

  Hilda listened . . .

  All she could hear was the breath of a trapped animal. They were her own short, terrified gasps. She understood how a fox must feel at the point of capture. Or a deer, staring into the gaze of the hunter.

  Hilda started in fright. The noise was familiar; a horse was thundering towards her. She fell backwards, the terror within her mounting. With her back to the rough bark of a tree she waited. Sweat poured from her, soaked her damp, torn dress, spread over her loose, full breasts and down her spine.

  Suddenly, a shadow appeared. Clods of earth, leaves and bits of bracken fell into her hair. Long legs thrashed by her head, hooves flew past her cheeks. Hilda cowered, trying to protect her face.

  ‘Come, come, Hilda, this is no time to pause,’ called Guy from above her. ‘Get on with you, girl, run faster. Our game must be made more exciting.’

  She dared to glance up. Between the strands of his wet black hair, his eyes seemed to glow. ‘I . . . I can’t run no more, my lord,’ she begged. ‘Have pity.’

  He stared at her, breathless and panting, his shirt open, exposing the black whorls of hair on his chest. The hair that Hilda had once run her fingers through in ecstasy. ‘Run! This is your last chance!’ he yelled at her.

  Hilda dragged herself up. She knew that if she didn’t obey him, his mood would worsen. At least if she ran until he brought her down, he would perhaps decide to end the chase.

  Hilda began to run. Her scratched and bleeding bare feet were no match for the coarse forest floor. But still she tried. Through the pain she ran, her lungs almost bursting. The burs and twigs that caught in her hair fell across her face. Sharp, twisted branches slapped against her arms and legs. In the dawn light, Hilda saw only the dripping trees, their tiny buds yet to unfurl. The mist enfolded her as if taking her down to hell. Hilda listened to her own sobs of defeat. Her choked, cowardly gulps of fear.

  At last she fell, headlong, sprawling and rolling down an incline. Over and over until she reached the narrow valley. Her head struck something hard, a stone perhaps. When she looked up, dazed and terrified, there was silence. A warm trickle ran down her ch
eek. She lifted her fingers to touch the blood. A strange greyness came into her vision. She lifted her head, trying to adjust her eyes to the light.

  The tall, sweat-soaked figure of her master loomed over her. Hilda gave out a pathetic moan, pleading for mercy. Her master kneeled beside her, touching her face tenderly, drawing aside her tangled hair.

  ‘Your blood, Hilda – first blood.’ He ran his thumb over the wound. ‘You wanted to play, little kitten, you said you would do anything for me.’ His eyes glittered. His mouth worked as the wet, shiny saliva formed over his lips. His hair, like hers, was limp and matted and clung to his face and neck. ‘Do you still want to please me?’

  ‘Y . . . yes, my lord,’ she stammered.

  He smiled, showing his white teeth, which reminded Hilda of the fox corpses she had seen, strung up by their legs, their mouths open. He took hold of the flimsy remains of her dress and tore it roughly from her. Hilda shuddered and trembled. He touched her naked breasts, looking at her with lust.

  As he took her, Hilda told herself that she still loved him. She could forgive these silly games, because after the chase, he would make love to her. Even if he hurt her, she believed it was her fault; that she was not pleasing him as he wanted to be pleased.

  If only she could convince him she loved him.

  But then Hilda felt the brute force of his harsh demands. She allowed herself to be degraded. And as much as she pleaded with him, he seemed not to care and became this other person she didn’t know.

  It was almost Easter and Flora was happy to see the doctor looking better after spending the week with his sister. He had said very little about Wilfred’s memorial service, but Flora knew that he had done all he could to say a last farewell to his son.

  ‘I have told all the patients we’ve seen today that the surgery will be closed for Easter,’ he said as they ended surgery on Thursday evening. ‘I have an old friend coming to stay with me. We shall spend some time together in the city.’ He smiled. ‘We were young doctors together and we met up again in Bath. And I’m sure you, Flora, have plenty to keep you busy.’