Together for Christmas

by Carol Rivers

  Hilda closed her eyes and thought longingly of the last time they were together. After the horse had reared and knocked her down, Lord Guy had lifted her into his arms and kissed her bloody eye. Then he had made a sling for her arm from his shirt. She thought of the feel of his naked, sweat-covered shoulders as she clung to them. Of the slender trail of jet-black hair that snaked down his chest and disappeared beneath the buckle at his waist. Tears filled Hilda’s eyes. She missed him so much. And hated, with every ounce of her strength, the spoiled and ugly Lady Gabriella Beresford.

  The weeks had passed quickly since the night of the Zeppelin attack and Flora counted herself lucky to be alive. She had read in the newspapers that the airship had claimed nine lives and injured many more during its flight over London. Had Michael not come to her rescue, she might well have died under the collapsed buildings of Westferry Road.

  As Lady Hailing had given Mrs Bell another maid to help in the kitchen, Flora was now free to see Michael each Sunday. The crisp autumn days were turning to winter and Michael often drove them into the country. Flora liked best their strolls along the Embankment, pausing to eat roasted chestnuts or drink hot coffee. She always felt proud to be on the arm of the handsome young man who strode beside her with barely a limp. But she never failed to keep in mind that as soon as he passed the army medical, they would have to part.

  One late November evening after they had enjoyed tea at Lyons, Michael suggested they make their way to the river. The lights of the city twinkled as they walked arm in arm while all around them was an air of excitement. The stores were showing signs of Christmas, despite the shadow of war. Barrow boys and coffee stalls were not to be outdone and strung sprigs of holly on their stands. Michael gave a shilling to a beggar who was singing ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ and offered to sing another carol of their choice. Flora knew that people were trying to look on the bright side even though most families were suffering the loss of a loved one, or life-changing injuries. But still, the season of goodwill was upon London and the Embankment, when they reached it, was layered in a fine river mist, sending people’s breaths curling up into the cold winter’s air.

  ‘Christmas is almost upon us,’ Michael said, as they stood at the river wall. ‘But I fear the holiday might come too late for us to be together. I shall soon be deemed fit to return to service.’

  Flora had hoped and prayed that he would still be at home for the 25th of December. But each day now, men were being called up; many to replace the thousands of troops lost at the Somme and Verdun and all along both the Eastern and Western Fronts.

  Michael lifted his fingers to the wisps of silvery blonde hair that escaped over her ears, tucking them gently inside her small fur hat. Then gently touching the brooch pinned to the lapel of her coat, he murmured, ‘Your butterfly brooch is a reminder of life for us after the war, Flora. That is what you want, my dearest?’

  She nodded, a sharp pain close to her heart from the thought they might soon be separated. ‘When I wear it, I shall always think of you,’ she assured him. ‘If only the war were to end now.’

  ‘Who knows when it will be over?’ Michael replied. ‘Or how long it will be before we see each other again?’ He took her in his arms, careless of the glances of the passers-by. ‘There are no guarantees of a future, my darling, but I promise you that wherever I am in this world, I will always let you know I’m thinking of you.’

  ‘And I shall be thinking of you.’

  ‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ he asked her one last time. ‘Am I right to ask it of you? You already have Will—’

  She reached up to lay her fingers on his lips. ‘I have both of you, safe in my heart and my prayers.’

  Before he could reply, a small figure appeared beside them. Michael quickly let her go.

  ‘Matches for yer, sir?’ the match-girl asked, a tangle of brown ringlets falling over her dirty face. Flora saw she was shivering under her thin, grubby coat and she could hardly hold still the battered tray in front of her.

  ‘Find me a nice bundle, will you?’ Michael said kindly as he pressed a large coin into her palm.

  ‘’Alf a crown! Oh, sir – m’lord – your majesty, fank you!’ The match-girl quickly pocketed her treasure. ‘I’d give yer heather as well, but I ain’t got none. Still, keep the matches in yer wallet and I promise they’ll bring yer good luck.’

  ‘I’ll keep you to that, young lady.’ Michael chuckled as he accepted the roughly cut wooden sticks tied with frayed string.

  They watched her scurry off into the mist, a small, bedraggled figure with wild brown ringlets bouncing on her shoulders. Flora thought of Hilda. Had it not been for the nuns of St Boniface, she and Hilda could easily have been beggars too.

  ‘My lucky talisman,’ Michael said as he tucked the matches in his pocket. ‘Now I have something for you.’ He slipped his hand under his red silk cravat and took out a small box. ‘I hope you like this, Flora.’

  The box felt as soft as velvet between her fingers. She opened the lid carefully. A flash of light dazzled her before she realized what she was holding. ‘A ring?’ she gasped. ‘Michael, are you sure this is for me?’

  ‘Who else would it be for?’

  ‘It’s so very beautiful.’

  ‘Three small diamonds,’ he explained, indicating each nugget, ‘fashioned into a cluster to sit on your delicate finger.’

  Flora had never held a diamond before. She had never even seen one! The gems on the jeweller’s stall at the market were mostly glass and paste. She couldn’t take her eyes from the ring’s exquisite beauty.

  ‘I love you with all my heart, dearest.’

  She gazed up at him, the words trembling on her lips. ‘And I love you.’

  ‘Then that’s all that matters.’ His lips touched hers in a kiss that was full of everything she loved: the mist on the river, the salt in its water and the scents of the winter air. A kiss that was full of promise and of the life that one day, they might share.

  He kissed her again, but this time she felt the passion of his longing. ‘If you accept this, then I know you are to be mine,’ he whispered, lifting her hand to slip on the ring. She spread out her fingers. ‘But you are very young yet. And you may change your mind before I can return to marry you.’

  ‘No, I’ll never do that.’

  The diamonds glimmered and above their heads Flora caught sight of the star. Their star. The star that would shine on her husband-to-be and bring him home safely to her arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It was Saturday, the day before Christmas Eve, and the surgery had been full of the walking wounded, the young and the elderly and the disabled veterans of war. Flora had offered each adult a glass of port and mince pie and all had accepted, enjoying a little warmth on a grey winter’s day that held little other seasonal cheer. The complaints of the patients rang in her ears; there were few who regarded the election of a new prime minister as compensation for the failure to return the men who had been too long at war.

  ‘All washouts!’ exclaimed one older be-whiskered patient, whose painful gout had been temporarily forgotten after downing a port. ‘Asquith was conspired against and ousted by Lloyd George’s puppets. The king got involved too. All with promises to end the conflict and still there ain’t no sign of peace!’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed a young veteran, his hairless scalp displaying the scars of hurriedly performed stitching, ‘they’re all useless. The politicians blow ’ot and cold just to win themselves votes. I’d like to see all these stuffed suits at Whitehall kitted out with a private’s tunic. Stand where a soldier stands, made to jump over the top and run like stink towards certain death. Oh, yes, I’d like that—’ The man began to cough heavily, waving aside the help offered as he stumbled towards the door, never finishing his sentence.

  There was silence amongst the last few patients who sat in their seats, nodding their agreement, and despite Flora’s attempts to lighten the air, there wasn’t a smile to be seen. Fl
ora found herself grateful that the week had come to an end. With the last of the port drunk and the mince pies eaten, she knew that for the people of the East End, this Christmas would be the hardest and leanest of the war so far.

  As she washed and dried her hands in her small room, she looked at the empty space on her left finger. Her ring was too precious to wear to work. She kept it safely with her shawl and the butterfly brooch in the drawer downstairs.

  She had wanted to say so many things to Michael, but there was no time. Now all she had was memories of their last, brief goodbye.

  ‘Time to close the doors,’ Dr Tapper said, startling her. She hadn’t heard the last patient leave, so deep was she in thoughts of Michael. Now as she regarded her employer, she could see the relief in his face too. ‘I fear that Christmas 1916 will leave us all a little underwhelmed,’ he said, echoing her thoughts. ‘Too many grieving and too many hungry. What interest has the ordinary man in Lloyd George’s new-style cabinet? Or a reshuffled coalition that plays on tactics involving the king? The people need reassurance, not division.’ He shook his head, then looked at her wearily. ‘Forgive me, my dear, you have your own loss to contend with this year, without my grumbling.’

  Flora smiled. ‘Would you like to eat with me on Christmas Day, Dr Tapper?’

  ‘I would like that very much.’ A twinkle returned to his eyes.

  That night, Flora sat by the fire and considered her plans for Christmas. She had been to the market and bought a small chicken, some fresh vegetables and a little fruit. She counted herself lucky to have purchased a scrawny bird, the last hanging on a hook, from the butcher’s stall. She’d paid twice the price, and had to haggle at the fruit and vegetable stall. The cabbages and apples were the smallest she had ever seen.

  ‘You should have come early,’ the stall-holder admonished her. ‘What we had weren’t much, thanks to our ships being sunk and merchant men going down like swatted flies. We’re at war and have to tighten our belts but I’ll bet you the buggers up at Whitehall will still ’old out their palms for our taxes to keep their fat arses on parliament’s seats.’

  Flora understood these complaints and listened patiently. She knew everyone was letting off steam, frustrated by the interminable war.

  The warmth from the fire glowed on her cheeks. A fire that would be welcomed by many in homes that were suffering from the bitter cold and a scarcity of food and fuel. Once again, Flora thought how fortunate she was to be earning a wage and enjoying a roof over her head. She gazed up at the photographs of Will and Michael. They stood side by side, decorated with a sprig of holly. Next to these was a card from Hilda that had come last week. It showed a winter’s scene in the countryside. Inside, a short message read:

  To Flora, from your very best friend, Hilda, who misses you. I hope you have a happy Christmas and miss me too. I am recovered now and things are changing here. We are told that after Christmas, the east wing of the house is to be set aside for the returning injured troops of the conflict. Mrs Burns is not at all pleased as she insists she has enough to do already. And Mrs Harris will have much more to complain about if she is asked to cook for the army! As for me, I ain’t a bit put out as it will be a treat to see a few handsome new faces. Please write with news and don’t be too long.

  Flora was surprised by this turn of events. How would her friend fare in the changing circumstances that had befallen Adelphi Hall? Would Hilda be expected to help the wounded soldiers? Flora couldn’t hide her smile as she thought of Hilda’s weak stomach.

  Her gaze travelled up to the photograph of Michael. She thought of their last brief embrace on the day they had told Lillian they were engaged.

  Lillian had held her close. ‘I couldn’t be happier, my dear Flora,’ she had whispered. They had all sat in the conservatory and spoken of the time when peace would reign. But as Michael had kissed her goodbye, they had needed no words.

  The truth was, no one could predict the events that would take place in the cold months ahead.

  Chapter Thirty

  The New Year began with freezing temperatures and a spread of bronchitis that kept Flora busy at the surgery. During the day, she made sure the air smelled sweetly of ginger and eucalyptus and the peppery balsams that helped to ease the many chest complaints. At night, when she scrubbed the place clean, these were replaced by the eye-watering odours of Naptha and Jeyes disinfectant.

  In the middle of January, a West Ham munitions factory blew up. Flora was to think again of the Zeppelin attack of August.

  ‘Must be spies!’ the traders at the market said. ‘The explosion was ear-splitting, you could hear it for miles around. Let’s hope they don’t come round ’ere.’

  ‘We’ll give ’em what for if they do,’ others threatened.

  ‘That’s the trouble. Yer can’t see ’em,’ one costermonger shouted above the rest. ‘Yer can’t ’ear ’em. The kaiser’s men are everywhere and nowhere. They even dress up to look like us. Before we all know it, the buggers will take over the country.’

  Flora hated these rumours that stirred everyone up. There was no proof that the explosion wasn’t accidental. This was the same talk of sabotage and German spies that had ended Old Fritz’s livelihood.

  On a bitterly cold morning in February, even the doctor voiced an opinion. ‘One hundred and thirty-four neutral vessels, including America’s, have been sunk in the last three weeks,’ he informed Flora as he read the newspaper. ‘I shall not be surprised if America’s entry into the war is approved by Woodrow Wilson’s congress. The National Guard and navy militia have been ordered into service. Even the United States cannot ignore such open hostility.’ The doctor slipped off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘The rest of the world is watching and the president cannot be seen to be weak. Though if America does declare war, then I fear the neutral countries will be forced to take sides.’ He glanced at Flora. ‘And of course, Greece has always maintained her neutrality.’

  Flora thought of Michael and knew the doctor was thinking of him too. Michael had told them he expected to return to his regiment in Greece. ‘But we mustn’t jump to conclusions,’ the doctor added cautiously. ‘It’s true King Constantine openly favours Germany, but his prime minister supports the Allies. We have to hope that an agreement will be reached between them to avoid a coup and, naturally, in our favour.’

  The newspapers were full of rumours once more. Each day the doctor read out the latest developments to Flora. With America poised to join the conflict, threats and boasts abounded.

  ‘Our boys have won at Gaza,’ one patient announced on a foggy March morning. He flourished a newspaper at the huddled figures in the waiting room. ‘We outmanoeuvred the Turks and sent ’em off with their tails between their legs. The British could do with more good news like this for our forgotten troops at Salonika.’

  ‘Salonika?’ Flora repeated, remembering that Michael had told her that some of his regiment had been sent there from Gallipoli. ‘Why are they called forgotten troops?’

  ‘’Cause the British and French can’t make up their minds what to do there,’ replied the man. ‘The Greeks are split down the middle, see? Some are loyal to the king and the Central Powers. Others to us. Why? You got someone there?’

  ‘He might be.’

  ‘The Greeks have got to make their minds up, ’stead of sitting on the fence,’ the man argued, scratching his dirty whiskers. ‘If they go against the Central Powers then our lads’ll be right alongside ’em.’

  Flora felt her heart sink. Was Michael to be drawn into this fresh conflict?

  ‘Oh, put that rubbish away,’ commanded another man. ‘If it ain’t the Greeks, then it’s the Irish, or the Ruskies.’

  ‘You should keep your ear to the ground, chum,’ retorted another patient. ‘This Lenin fella is getting all cosy with the Germans. It’s said the Russians are freezing to death and want to get out of the war. But where would that leave the Allies on the Eastern Front?’

  ‘We’re already
at death’s door,’ a young mother complained as she cradled her baby in her arms. ‘With no bread, or coal or wood, how are we expected to survive? My baby’s only six months old and he’s got a chest like a foghorn. His nose and eyes are running muck, which ain’t surprising when you look at the dump we live in. Two rooms and walls alive with roaches. Nutty slack that don’t burn and just smokes the place out. With an empty larder, five kids and an old man on the stones, I’m expected to perform miracles. So don’t talk to me about foreigners. The war started with ’em in the first place, so they should finish it and leave us alone.’

  The rest of the shivering, hungry, waiting patients nodded their agreement. But the man with the newspaper stubbornly shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, love. The British nation and its Allies fight for democracy.’

  ‘At the cost of how many lives?’ an elderly man croaked. ‘I had two sons before Kitchener took ’em to their deaths. And I’m supposed to believe in freedom of speech? You must be jokin’, mate.’

  Flora sighed and went about her duties. People were cold, hungry and sick, which often led to them expressing bitter, unreasonable views. It was only when a casualty of battle limped in to join them that the self-pitying faces took stock and kept their tongues in check.

  The days passed slowly and Flora saw no sign of spirits lifting. To make matters worse, a heavy snowfall had frozen the country. She had made her way to the market through streets banked with mucky snow drifts and dangerously iced cobbles. And when she’d arrived there, the stalls had little stock and the home-grown vegetables were browned with frost.