Then she saw him and could hardly believe her eyes. He looked up at the same time and saw her. He stood staring at her without saying a word. ‘Bobby, what on earth are you doing up here?’
‘They burnt it,’ he shouted at her. ‘They burnt m’house.’
She walked into the clearing and looked about her. ‘But you can’t live here. I thought you were in the workhouse in Rennington.’
He shook his great bear-like head. ‘Bad place. They burnt it.’
‘Why was the workhouse a bad place, Bobby? They would have fed you, and given you a place to sleep?’
‘Bad people,’ he turned away from her and began to wander off into the forest.
Made him bathe and clean himself up no doubt, Isobel thought. But what was he surviving on and there was no drink available here. She went to follow him but he turned and shouted at her to go away. So she fell back to the clearing and decided to wait.
Sitting on a tree stump she thought to give him half-an-hour then she would have to return home. She should inform the police of his presence here in the woods but somehow she felt reluctant to do that. She worried as to how he would survive. The lack of bathing and laundry wouldn’t bother him but without any social influence of any kind wouldn’t he revert to an animal-like existence, and she couldn’t let that happen.
On the point of leaving she heard him returning and watched in amazement as he entered the clearing and dropped two rabbits and two fish down by the fire. ‘Traps,’ he said, nodding his head, and taking a knife from his pocket started to clean them.
Isobel watched in fascination as he skinned and cleaned the rabbits then covered them in mud which he made from the water in one of his jars. Now he stirred the ashes of the seemingly dead fire and placing the covered rabbits in a hollow covered them with ash before bringing the fire back to life again. Once small flames began to appear he gutted the fish and skewering a hole through them stuck them on a branch and rested them across the two hearthstones one on either side of the fire.
Isobel sighed. In the short time she had been here in the clearing Bobby had provided himself with not only one meal but two. The variety of jars and bottles were his water supply obviously from some source nearby. Satisfied that she no longer needed to worry about his welfare, other than his lack of company, she said goodbye to him and returned to the village.
* * *
When next she visited the Lewises there was no reply to her call for Mrs Lewis to come to her aid with the broom. So she was left with no option but to cross the yard taking her bike with her and keeping it between her and the geese.
The kitchen door opened to the lift of the latch, but the kitchen when she entered it was empty. Calling still brought no response and with a puzzled frown she went through into the front room in search of Jack. Again the room was empty.
The open doors didn’t surprise her for country folk rarely locked their doors. But to find the place totally deserted when they knew she would be visiting was a surprise. Moving to the back door she looked out across the yard and up the hillside beyond. There was no sign of a living soul anywhere. She went back inside and made herself a cup of tea. Time passed and still they hadn’t returned. Worried now she knew she would have to leave if she was to cover her other calls. So she scribbled a short message and leaving it on the table left the house.
She called at the doctor’s first thing next morning to inform him that she would be fitting a second visit to the Lewis’s into her schedule, and was shocked when he said, ‘No need, Duncan Lewis was injured yesterday and is in the Royal Hospital.’
‘Why, what happened?’
The doctor looked at her over the top of his glasses. ‘He fell and hit his head. He has yet to recover consciousness.’
Isobel bit back her concern knowing full well that the doctor would think it very unprofessional of her to show any personal feelings. ‘Have we any idea how long he will be in hospital?’
‘None at all, it depends entirely when, and if, he recovers consciousness.’
‘I’ll cross them off my list then until I hear otherwise.’
‘That will be for the best. How is Mrs Foster coming along?’
‘She has oedema and her blood pressure is a little high, but apart from that she seems to be managing as well as can be expected in the circumstances.’
He continued down the list of Isobel’s patients asking after each and every one of them. And this was what endeared him to Isobel, for no matter how rude or gruff and outspoken he was she knew that deep down he cared deeply about the health and well-being of each and every one of them.
‘Have you had any word from your brother?’
‘No, Doctor.’
‘Ah well he’ll be busy keeping those Germans off our backs, no doubt. He’ll be home soon I’m sure.’
A few days later Isobel decided to make an unofficial call on the Lewis’s. She had heard some unpleasant rumours in the village hinting that Jack had been responsible for his father’s fall.
Mrs Lewis came out at her call. ‘What can I do for you, Nurse? Duncan’s not here,’ she told Isobel, as she came up to the gate.
‘I know that, Mrs Lewis. This is just a social visit to make sure you’re all right, and to ask if there is anything I can do to help.’
‘Thank you, Nurse, but the doctor’s told me there is nothing anyone can do until Duncan wakes up, but if you’d like to come in for a cup of tea I wouldn’t mind the company.’ For once the geese ignored them as they crossed the yard to the kitchen.
Once inside Joyce Lewis made the tea and they both sat down in front of the fire range surrounded by a crate and a couple of cardboard boxes in which lay five sleeping lambs.
‘They’ll wake up soon enough and then we won’t be able to make ourselves heard above the noise,’ Joyce Lewis said. ‘I don’t know what we will do without Duncan. Old Ned is a grand help, but he’s getting on in years and young Billy Mackenzie who helps out part time, can’t wait for his call up papers to come through. The neighbours are all lending a hand with the lambing but . . .’ Her normally worried expression was more deeply etched than usual and she made no attempt to drink her tea.
‘What about Jack?’
The woman’s chin wobbled and the cup rattled in its saucer. ‘In his room. He blames himself for Duncan’s accident but it wasn’t his fault.’
‘What happened?’ Isobel asked, gently taking the cup and saucer from the woman’s hand.
Mrs Lewis sniffed then pulling herself together she said, ‘Duncan was in the barn sorting through some gates for the sheep pens. He had climbed over a pile of other stuff and when he found what he wanted he turned to hand them to Jack, but Jack couldn’t reach them and Duncan slipped and fell.’ She hesitated and gulped a mouth full of air before carrying on. ‘He hit his head on the concrete floor. Jack was standing over him when I went out to call them in for dinner. We don’t know how long he had been there because Jack couldn’t tell us.
‘A neighbour called the ambulance and I went to the hospital with Duncan. I came home this morning on the bus because I couldn’t leave the farm and Jack for long. They promised they would send word the minute Duncan wakes,’ she said, raising her face to Isobel as though seeking confirmation.
‘Of course they will. They will probably telephone Constable Burns who will come up and tell you what is happening.’
‘I was hoping Jack . . . but he won’t answer the door. He was in his room when I got home and he hasn’t come out since.’
‘Let me try,’ Isobel said, getting to her feet.
She went down the passage and knocked on the door of the front room. ‘Jack, it’s Nurse Isobel. Please let me in, I have to talk to you.’
Silence.
‘It’s news from the hospital, about your father,’ she lied.
With her ear pressed to the door she could hear movement, so she stood back and waited but still nothing happened.
‘Jack if you don’t or can’t answer I shall have to call
on Doctor Turnbull who will probably send for help and you will be taken back to hospital.’
There was a scuffle then the door was slowly cracked open. Dark eyes flashed in a white stubbled face. ‘Go away,’ he snarled.
She could smell the stuffy air of neglect in the room. ‘No, stop being so self-pitying and come and help your mother.’
‘What news from the hospital?’
‘The local policeman is going to bring a message when your father wakes up.’ He went to slam the door, but with the speed of a lamb at an open gate she shot her foot in the doorway.
‘Come on, let me in, we have to talk.’
‘Say what you have to say then get out,’ he snarled.
Isobel sat on the end of the unmade bed and stared at the back of his head. Speaking quietly she asked, ‘Where did it happen?’
‘In the barn. I couldn’t move, he just lay there and I couldn’t move.’
‘So you froze, it happens. But he’s in hospital now and being well looked after. Your mother needs your support now.’
‘I couldn’t help my father though could I!’ he cried. ‘Your time’s up. Get out.’
The anguish in his voice made her long to comfort him, but she rose to her feet and left him, shutting the door softly behind her.
‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?’
It was nearly a week before she called again at the farm. Duncan Lewis was still in a coma. Mrs Lewis came hurrying from the dairy as Isobel arrived. ‘Is there any news of Duncan, Nurse?’
‘No, I’m sorry if you thought I was bringing a message. I was just calling to check on Jack.’
Her face lost what little colour it had as she put down her pail. ‘He went back to the hospital the day before yesterday. Walked down to the village and caught the bus into Rennington. Just said, “It’s better I go, Mam,” and off he went.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘No, he just walked away. He’d been very quiet since your last visit and had come out of his room and started to eat again. But he was no help on the farm. I had hoped, but it wasn’t to be.’ She sighed.
Isobel felt her spirits sink as she turned her bike back down the hill. Guilt swamped her, she had thought to help but it appeared she had said the wrong thing.
* * *
‘No, Nurse you mustn’t think that. If the boy has gone back to the hospital voluntarily it’s because he knows he needs further treatment. He will be well looked after there, they are dealing with the war wounded all the time,’ Doctor Turnbull assured her later that day.
‘I just hope I said nothing to make him think he had to go back.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t, now can we get back to business. I have a telephone message here from the authorities at the workhouse. Apparently Bobby Dunn was supposed to be admitted and they are asking if we have him.’ He looked up over his glasses and scowled at her. ‘What in the name of all that’s holy do they think we are running here, a missing persons’ bureau? Have you seen the wretched man about, Nurse?’
Isobel was standing with her back to him when she answered. ‘No, Doctor, I’m afraid I haven’t seen him in the village at all.’
‘Umm, probably moved on,’ he said, pushing the message to one side.
Isobel wondered about Bobby. It had rained last night and she doubted that his shelter was weather-proof. The workhouse wouldn’t have bothered to ring unless they had some idea that he might be in trouble. They didn’t like the police to get in first and show them up in a bad light. But Isobel knew the only danger Bobby might be to the general public was as a health hazard.
The following afternoon she decided to go back to Bobby’s den. She would take Alan’s old camping gear he’d had since his Boy Scout days and a share of her precious provisions. After packing everything carefully into the kit bag she rolled up the rubber groundsheet and tied it firmly at one end then playing out the cord, tied it around the other end leaving a length of cord to sling around her shoulders.
Not wanting to be seen by anyone on the front street, she left by the back door and down through the garden to the back lane. From here she would join the path up onto the moors a little higher than at the bottom of the main road out of the village.
She passed two boys with worms arguing as to which one was the longest and not long after that a gypsy woman gathering herbs. The path was muddy in places and twice she nearly slipped.
Once into the woods however, the going was easier and it wasn’t long before she came to the clearing where Bobby was living.
A large flat stone had been placed across the two side stones to protect the fire from the rain. Bobby was chopping wood and gathering and piling more brush against the sides of his shelter to give him extra cover. He stopped what he was doing when he saw her enter the clearing. He must have realised I might have informed the authorities of his whereabouts, she thought, yet he had made no effort to move on.
‘I’ve brought you some things, Bobby.’
He grinned. ‘Good things?’ he asked, hovering around her like a child impatient for presents.
‘I hope so,’ she said, untying her bundles and laying them down at his feet. ‘There’s a ground sheet and some cocoa and dried milk for a hot drink and a primus stove and matches incase your fire goes out. In here,’ she said, pulling out the interlocked tins, ‘are your billycan, a pan, plate and mug. In this bag is some bread and cheese, half a cornbeef pie and two apples.’
She pulled some cutlery out of one of her coat pockets and a bag of sweets out of the other. She had been keeping the Black Bullets for Alan, but at the last minute decided that her brother wouldn’t mind sacrificing them and she handed them over to Bobby.
‘Tools?’ Bobby asked.
Isobel shook her head. ‘I can’t Bobby, I don’t have any.’
‘Need tools,’ he repeated. Leaving the things she had brought him where they lay he turned and went back to his work stacking brush.
She watched him for a while as he worked. He seemed to know what he was about. The shelter was looking more solid already.
‘Don’t you miss other people,’ she asked.
‘People don’t like me, I don’t like people.’
‘Some people like you,’ she said, though right at that moment she couldn’t bring a name to mind.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his great head as he put the last branch in place and stood back to admire his handywork.
‘I haven’t told anyone where you are but if you want anything, or are ill, you must come and find me. You know where I live, don’t you, Bobby?’
He looked round at her and grinned. ‘The Nurse’s Home, you have a cat who likes chicken. I like chicken.’
She had a sudden horrified vision of Bobby raiding her bins for chicken bones, and pulling her coat more closely around her she made to leave.
As she headed back towards the track she told herself she was a fool for bothering about the old tramp, he seemed perfectly capable of fending for himself and it wasn’t really her responsibility to inform the authorities on his whereabouts.
* * *
There was a letter from Alan in the post next morning. He was being moved up to an airfield in Scotland and would have a forty-eight hour pass which he would spend with her on his way up.
She read the newspapers and was well aware of the battle going on for Norway. What other reason could the Air Force have for sending him up into Scotland other than it being a jumping off place for Norway?
That evening she pooled all the rations she had and baked a vegetable pie, and a sponge cake without sugar. She was lucky enough to have eggs and bacon donated by her grateful patients and there was still half a cup of dripping in the larder.
Next she set about baking the rested bread she had set by the fire earlier. Sweat dribbled down her face and she raised a hand to wipe it away as she stood back to admire her handywork. It was near midnight by the time she had finished and she went to bed tired but well satisfied.
In the early hours she was w
oken by someone rattling on her door. Grumbling to herself she climbed out of bed and headed down the stairs, stopping only to pull on her dressing gown and shove her feet into slippers. Doctor Turnbull was standing on the doorstep.
‘You sleep like the dead, woman. Get dressed, we are wanted up at Beacon Hill.’
He turned and stomped off back to the car. Isobel dashed upstairs to dress and was down again in minutes, grabbing her bag as she hurried out to the waiting car.
‘Heron’s wife has had a heart attack.’ He was grinding the gears as the little Austin tore out of the village and along the valley road. It was still dark as they turned up into the hills. It had begun to rain and the wipers creaked as they half-heartedly swiped across the window. He grumbled low in his chest as the headlights picked out three deer lying under the moorland bankside. They got slowly to their feet seemingly reluctant to move over, as he pushed along the narrow road.
They reached the farm and were shown straight upstairs. Hazel Heron lay with her eyes closed against a mound of pillows. Her breathing was shallow and erratic. The farmer sat by the bed holding his wife’s hand.
‘Good to see you, Turnbull,’ he said rising to his feet and taking the doctor’s hand in a firm grip. ‘It came on so sudden, worse than the last time.’ A big rotund man in his late fifties, his florid face laced with broken veins and with the dark brown eyes of a pleading spaniel, nodded in her direction. ‘What can we do for her?’ Farmer Heron asked.
Isobel watched the doctor examine his patient then stand back and frown. ‘Not a lot I’m afraid, apart from make her comfortable. I did warn her the last time.’
‘I know,’ the wretched farmer cried, ‘but you know what she was like she would never slow down, always something else to do.’
The doctor nodded his head. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see when, she comes around. Nurse here will stay with her. You and I will have a word downstairs.’
Later the doctor returned to Thornbury to attend morning surgery leaving Isobel behind to care for the dying woman. Just before noon Hazel Heron died in her sleep with her husband by her bed.
A Caring Heart Page 3