by Carol Rivers
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.’
‘And no doubt you’re always at his side.’
‘I don’t mind.’
Mrs Bell began to fry the minced meat. She thrust it around in the pan with onion and carrots. ‘This will make a nice broth. I like a change from soup occasionally. Now, how is that soldier of yours?’
Flora felt her face flush. ‘He doesn’t come for treatment now.’
‘Is he better, then?’
‘No.’
‘Well, the doctor can’t cure everyone. Now, add the stock and vegetables, dear. Later I’ll pop in a dumpling or three.’
As they worked, Mrs Bell forgot about Michael and began to repeat again what the ‘lost souls’, as she called them, had told her in the soup kitchen. ‘The women are wives and mothers, nurses and breadwinners all rolled into one. Their heart-rending stories are endless! There’s one poor wretch who has to look after her father, husband and brother. Now, if that’s not a cross to carry, I don’t know what is.’
Flora listened sympathetically. She knew that, in a strange way, the war had put an end to Mrs Bell’s loneliness. The lost souls of the soup kitchen had become her family.
‘Just you watch out for them Zeppelins,’ Mrs Bell warned her as she left that evening. ‘You never know when one’s flying over.’
Flora looked up into the dusky August sky, which glowed in the east with a fiery scarlet sunset. Michael had once told her that although the Zeppelins were frightening, they were often blown off course by high winds. They were also difficult to control and their crews inexperienced. Many airships had crashed, he assured her, and others had been lost in uncharted territory. They had talked about so many things . . . shared so many confidences.
Flora tried to stop her thoughts from wandering. Her memories of Michael were happy but they always left her feeling blue.
It was after a particularly busy Thursday surgery that Flora found the doctor had fallen asleep at his desk. His head was bent low and the pen had dropped from his hand.
‘Dr Tapper?’
He roused and blinked. ‘Oh, it’s you, Flora.’
‘Shall I close the doors?’
‘No, I have to call on Mrs Benson with Archie’s medicine,’ he said, standing up slowly and pushing his hand through his dishevelled grey hair.
‘I’ll take it,’ Flora offered, as he looked very tired.
‘Please make sure Mrs Benson is following the directions I left with her. This sedative is strong and must be used with care.’
Flora assured him she would and half an hour later she set out for Poplar. The evening had turned cooler and as she walked she heard a distant rumble of thunder. Dr Tapper had warned her that Archie was still waiting to be seen by the hospital doctors and until then he must take the potassium salt sedatives he had prescribed.
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nbsp; ‘Oh, thank goodness you’ve come,’ Mrs Benson said when Flora arrived. ‘My Archie is in a terrible state. That’s why I couldn’t come to the surgery. I daren’t leave him.’
‘What happened?’ Flora couldn’t see Archie sitting in his usual chair.
‘There was a loud noise in the street. It was from one of them new-fangled motor cars. Archie went wild, shouting “bombs” and ran upstairs, shutting himself in his room.’ She blinked and looked at Flora as if seeing her for the first time. ‘But where’s Dr Tapper?’
‘He couldn’t come tonight.’
‘What are we going to do, then? Archie won’t listen to me and I doubt he will take any notice of you. He seems to have gone crazy.’
‘Has he had his medicine?’
‘No, I ran out of it.’ Mrs Benson’s pale, thin face flushed and she looked away. ‘I thought a bit extra at night would make him sleep.’
‘The doctor writes the instructions on the packet. You must keep to the dose.’
‘Yes, but I needed to sleep too.’
Flora took the small packet of salts from her bag. ‘Go and mix the right amount with water and bring it up to Archie’s room.’
Mrs Benson took the packet and rushed away to the kitchen.
Flora climbed the narrow staircase. The only light was from an oil lamp on a small table. She passed an empty bedroom and went to the next. Knocking softly on the closed door, she waited. When there was no reply she took the oil lamp and turned the handle. The room was in turmoil. Clothes and books were strewn everywhere. Behind the bed, a shaven head poked up. ‘What do you want?’ Archie whimpered. ‘Have you found the bomb?’
‘There isn’t one, Archie.’ Flora stepped inside.
‘There is. They’ve hidden it.’
‘Shall I look?’ Flora knew she had to win his trust. ‘I can see better than you by the light of the lamp.’
Flora heard Archie scramble under the bed. She lowered the lamp to the bedside table, then folded the clothes back into their drawers. After arranging the books back on the shelves, she looked under the bed.
‘There’s no bombs, Archie. It’s safe to come out.’
‘I don’t want to die.’
‘You won’t die. Take my hand and I’ll help you.’
Slowly, Archie crawled out. He was holding Flora’s hand so tightly that she could feel his thin bones creak between her fingers.
Mrs Benson came into the room with Archie’s medicine and he drank it noisily. ‘My poor boy,’ she sighed heavily, wiping her hand over her tired face. ‘If only I was a bit younger and your father still alive.’
‘When did you become a widow, Mrs Benson?’ Flora asked in concern.
‘When Archie was three. I’ve brought him up on me own and it’s been hard. My husband was much older than me, near to twenty years. We never thought we could have children. Then, when I was forty, I discovered I was having a baby. It was a difficult birth and nearly killed us both. Archie only knew his dad for a short while and now I’m gone sixty, still trying to make ends meet and look after my son at the same time. I’m at the end of me tether.’
‘You must try to rest,’ Flora told her gently. ‘Go downstairs and I’ll see to Archie.’
After Mrs Benson had gone, Flora washed Archie with cold water from the china bowl standing on the marble-topped wash stand. She was relieved to discover that his wound had almost healed and did not need attention. Finally, she helped him to put on clean pyjamas.
‘Are you feeling better now?’ she asked as he sat on the bed.
‘I ain’t got the shakes.’
‘And you look very nice after your wash.’
For the first time, Archie smiled. It was only a shaky grin, as the sedative began to take effect.
‘Tomorrow, you must try to wash and dress yourself. I’ll hang your clothes over the chair.’ Flora took a white shirt and pair of trousers from the wardrobe. ‘Do you think you can do that, Archie?’
Archie nodded, though his gaze seemed vacant.
‘Now, here’s your dressing gown. We’ll go down to the kitchen for something to eat.’ Flora fastened the dressing-gown cord around his thin waist.
As she did so, Flora was thinking, and not for the first time, that a return to normal life for Archie and his mother would be difficult. Caring for an invalid in Archie’s condition would be exhausting. She hoped that with Archie taking the proper doses of his medicine, he would soon be able to help himself.
‘Eat up,’ Flora encouraged, when Archie was seated at the kitchen table. ‘Your mother made you this broth.’
Flora was pleased to see that Archie gulped it down quickly and showed no loss of appetite. He had suffered under the heavy doses that Mrs Benson had mistakenly given him in her effort to get him to sleep. Then when the medicine had stopped abruptly, he had suffered a withdrawal. Now he seemed to be enjoying the nourishing liquid and the thick slices of bread that his mother had prepared. He also responded to Flora’s questions with fairly normal answers. Flora was also very pleased to hear the soft snores of Mrs Benson from the front room.
‘Is me mum all right?’ Archie asked as he ate.
‘Yes, but she is very tired and needs her rest.’
‘She ain’t gonna die?’
‘No. But if you can do a little more to help yourself, she won’t get so tired.’
‘What about me shakes?’
‘They will get better if you take your medicine regularly.’ The doctor had assured Flora that the potassium bromide, if taken correctly, would keep Archie’s hysteria at bay.
‘Will the bombs come back?’ Archie asked between mouthfuls.
‘No. This is England, Archie, not France.’
‘I forgot. Me ma told me that too.’
‘Have you finished your supper?’
He nodded, giving her another shaky grin. He sat like a little boy at the table, his shoulder bones poking out from under his dressing gown and his dark eyes sunken in his thin face. Every now and then he would twitch or shake, making a soft noise as he did so.
‘We’ll go and sit down in the parlour. But be quiet so we don’t wake your mother.’ Flora didn’t help him to walk this time. He pushed his chair back and Flora followed him into the parlour.
‘You won’t need that now.’ Flora took away the stick by the hearth and stored it in the cupboard under the stairs.
As she did so, her thoughts went to Michael. Would he ever be able to walk without his cane? It was a question even the doctor couldn’t answer.
Mrs Benson awoke at eleven o’clock. ‘Why, bless me, you’re up and about, Archie,’ she said dreamily as she looked across at her son, who was sitting in his chair.
‘I’m gonna dress meself tomorrow.’
‘Archie’s a little better,’ Flora confirmed as she picked up her basket. She had swept the parlour floor and cleaned the surfaces of the kitchen with Sunlight soap, leaving the air smelling sweetly. ‘His leg wound has healed. Archie won’t need his stick now.’
Mrs Benson wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘You’ve been very kind.’
Flora nodded to the unlit candle in its holder. ‘To help your son sleep soundly, mould a little warm candle wax into his ears before he goes to bed.’
‘Thank you. I’ll try to remember.’
The streets were very dark and gloomy as Flora left. The taverns had all turned out and Westferry Road was hidden in shadows. A solitary cart trundled past her, its Tilley lamps swinging from the tailgate. She was thinking about the Bensons when suddenly the sky lit up. Long beams of light pierced the darkness, as she had once seen before when the Zeppelins flew over the East End. A thunder in the distance caused Flora to stop still.
People opened their front doors and ran into the street. ‘It must be the Zeppelins,’ a man yelled. ‘Our guns are trying to shoot them down.’
Flora watched the panic begin. People filled the street and looked up. She, too, searched the sky for the flying airships that she had never seen, but
had heard some of the patients describe. She felt both frightened and excited at the same time. Another horse-drawn cart pulled up next to the first one. A man jumped off a bicycle and joined the crowd of onlookers.
The distant rumble of guns became sharper. Still nothing happened. No one seemed to know what to do or where to go.
Flora wondered if she should run. But where to? It might be dangerous. The Zeppelins carried bombs and dropped them indiscriminately. She could see nothing above, only the lights in the sky. They were beginning to make her feel dizzy.
Then suddenly it appeared. A cigar-shaped balloon so immense that its underbelly filled her whole vision. The vast, floating cylinder had tapered ends and fins attached to its sides. The Zeppelin seemed to glow in the searchlights. Then, without warning, a terrible bang, then another, caused Flora to run. She didn’t know where she was going. She was running because there seemed nothing else to do. Her heart beat faster and faster. The strength washed out from her legs.
When she fell, she thought of all the soldiers in the mud-filled trenches. She understood the terror they must have felt as they tried to escape the poison gases. As she lay helplessly in the road, the Zeppelin came closer and trapped her in its great shadow.
Michael stood on the surgery steps, leaning heavily on his cane. He had tried downstairs at the airey first, but no lights were on. He had to warn Flora and the doctor: the Zeppelins had reached England. A policeman had told him that coastal alerts had warned the city police that the Zeppelins were flying above low cloud and headed for the East End.
Michael knocked on the surgery door again. A few minutes later, it opened.
‘Michael, is that you?’ Dr Tapper peered out into the darkness. He was still dressed, but he looked as though he had been sleeping.