Flora's War

by Audrey Reimann

  As if she cared two hoots for them. Government measures for the requisitioning of properties were excessive. Besides, there were dozens of large houses in the area that could have been requisitioned before Ingersley. It was not as if she hadn’t done her bit. She had filled all the cottages accessible to the road with evacuees – mothers and babies, expectant mothers with young children, though at least she was compensated for that. A government grant per head of placement gave a much better return than the rents of tied cottages. There were no worries about repairing the properties or of tenants falling behind with the rent. The Ministry gave the money directly to her for this stream of endlessly shifting people.

  But Gordon ought to have demanded that Ingersley be excluded from requisitioning, or at least that she be consulted. She sipped her tea and snapped a biscuit in half. How dare those awful Ministry men walk in and decide how her house should be run?

  She ate half a biscuit, flicked the crumbs off the sheet and refilled her tea cup. There had been one small victory. She had won a battle of wills with the dreadful Wilkins from the Ministry when she demanded that they convert the room above Gordon’s study into a kitchenette preserved for her privacy and the workmen had made a speedy and good job of it.

  Ruth got out of bed, slipped off her silk nightgown and quickly pulled on the fine wool vest and knickers, which had been wrapped around a hot-water bottle. Then she took a bottle of Atkinson’s lavender water from the dressing table, unscrewed the silver lid and splashed the cool, fresh scent over the insides of her wrists to calm herself and soothe her nerves before she could return to the bed and her tea. How dare Gordon say, I am sorry that you are inconvenienced? Inconvenience was a massive understatement. She was worn to a shadow with it all. If he were here, he’d see for himself.

  Mrs Stewart was taking up one of the beds at the hospital at this moment, struck down with influenza a week ago. And with her out of action, Maud and Bessie, mother and daughter, the two remaining servants who lived rent-free in one of the cottages, were having to do the cooking as well as the cleaning. Bessie would be making breakfast in the kitchenette instead of getting on with cleaning the drawing room and lighting fires. It was too bad of Mrs Stewart. She could not expect to be off work for much longer. She was needed here. She read on.

  I am certain that you will be called upon to assist when the injured start to arrive. And then you will not feel so helpless, as you put it.

  She had meant, by saying that she felt helpless, that she was managing without help. Nanny was no use. In fact she was becoming very managerial since she had opened two bedrooms at Ivy Lodge for mothers who could not be delivered in their own homes. So far Ivy Lodge had not been needed as a maternity home and Nanny found it more convenient to remain at Ingersley, especially as Lucy Hamilton was pregnant and had asked Nanny to attend her and deliver the baby.

  That was not all. Nanny, who had driven an ambulance in the Great War, had also volunteered to help both with the hospital and the District Nursing Service. They had taken up her offer with alacrity. Today she was to have driving instruction at some Ministry department or other. Ruth had no doubt that they would use Nanny’s services at the most inconvenient times.

  She finished the tea and left the second biscuit uneaten. Still, if Nanny learned to drive properly it could be an advantage. Ruth had purchased a licence long before mandatory driving tests were introduced, but she detested driving. Nothing but a dire emergency would induce her to get behind the wheel of a car. Nanny would be able to chauffeur her around in the Armstrong Siddeley, which had been spared the ignominy of being requisitioned for the police or fire brigade by Nanny’s district nursing work. At the age of sixty-one, Nanny was indefatigable.

  Gordon’s letter went on:

  Yes, I do think about our future. As soon as I can, I will offer Ingersley either to the Ministry or to Hamilton. We will buy something more manageable. It would be different, I agree, if we had children. But we do not.

  As curt as that. How did he know she was not already pregnant? The last time they had made love was four months ago, on Mike Hamilton’s wedding day, before Gordon returned to the ship. If she had become pregnant after that encounter it could not have been confirmed before now. A lady simply did not speak of such things, even to her own doctor, until she was sure, around the fourth month. But Ruth was not pregnant, and had been distraught to find that she was not. The only way she’d keep Ingersley, and probably her marriage to Gordon, was by giving him children, preferably a son. It had come to that. It was now vital that she had a child. She read the line again: It would be different, I agree, if we had children. But we do not. There was no shadow of doubt. Unless she bore a child Gordon would sell the estate. She needed a baby. Now.

  She crumpled the letter and pitched it into the waste basket, then retrieved it, flattened it out and read it again. Gordon must come home. She would telephone the base in Liverpool tonight and tell him he was wanted here.

  She dressed quickly. She’d give Heather a good ride out on the beach this morning. Road riding on the lanes as she’d had to do for the last months was no good for either of them, and a good gallop on the freezing cold beach would cool her temper. She pulled on jodhpurs and a heavy jumper and went down to what had been their bedroom floor and was now the living area.

  Standing in the doorway of the new kitchen, she gave instructions to Bessie who was preparing breakfast for herself and Nanny. ‘I won’t be taking breakfast this morning. There’s only Nanny.’

  The maid raised a hand in weary acknowledgement. Ruth went over to her. ‘You all right?’ she asked. Bessie’s normally florid face this morning was pale.

  ‘I don’t feel too good, Lady Campbell. I think I’m getting the flu or a cold,’ she answered. ‘I’ll have to go home.’ This was the last straw. If Bessie went down with influenza then Mrs Stewart must get out of bed and help run the household.

  Ruth said, ‘Oh dear. I hope it isn’t infectious. Before you go, prepare a light lunch for me and Nanny. A sandwich and some soup.’ She added, ‘Your mother will be here to serve it and to make a simple meal this evening, won’t she?’

  Ruth left the kitchen, slung her hacking jacket across her shoulders and ran downstairs. The lift had been commandeered along with the house and she never used it, not wanting to have contact with those terribly common hospital people who talked incessantly in frightful voices. Nanny and she used the main stairs instead. Since Ruth had insisted that the front door entrance – their entrance – was not to be used by hospital visitors or employees, she could get by with a brief nod in the direction of the occasional over-familiar hospital staff she might have to pass on the stairs.

  There were some advantageous spin-offs, though. The tradesmen’s entrance at the back of the house had been enlarged and fitted with smart double swing doors of bombproof reinforced glass, and the small patch of weedy gravel in front of the servants’ door had been transformed into a wide area covered in concrete. It gave plenty of room for ambulances to turn in and would be useful when this damned war was over. The roof, too, had been repaired, and painted in camouflage colours, which she would insist was returned to normal when the war was over.

  Outside, the bitter cold nipped into her fingers and nose. She wrapped her scarf about her head and across her mouth and pulled on her lined-leather gloves. When the South Lodge’s iron gates were requisitioned for scrap metal, Ruth had insisted on having solid wooden gates made to close the entrance. There was now no way in from the road, as the gates were bolted from the inside. The price of her privacy was thus a serious inconvenience to herself, for she now had to use the North Gate, the drive to which passed right in front of the Hamiltons’ farmhouse. But closing the entrance had prevented every Tom, Dick and Harry of the hospital staff from using the front drive, which remained blissfully her own.

  On her way to the stables she passed Land Army girls cutting back the beech hedges and raking gravel. They had long ago learned to ignore her and did not ackn
owledge her presence. Ruth never wasted time gossiping. On reaching the yard she was greeted by Lucy Hamilton, who popped her cheery pink face out from behind the wash-house door, waved and called out, ‘Morning, Lady Campbell.’

  The sight of Lucy in the floral smock that advertised her otherwise unnoticeable condition brought a surge of sick, impotent jealousy to Ruth. Why should this enemy, this thorn in Ruth’s flesh, this simpering woman, have everything that Ruth herself wanted? Lucy was to bear a child and, like the lowest of working women, didn’t try to hide the fact. It was disgusting.

  If she continued as she was going, Lucy Hamilton could soon be the owner of the Ingersley estate. If only Ruth had known that Gordon meant to sell the estate to him, she would have married Mike Hamilton herself. Lucy was rich in her own right. She did not need to go to such miserly lengths as to do her own washing. There was a good laundry service in the town and the farm had all these Land Army girls idling about. It was quite plain that she revelled in pregnancy and domesticity. There were chickens scratching about on the cobbles and in the straw of the unused loose boxes. In an hour’s time the stable yard would be festooned with washing lines full of sheets and tablecloths and everything calculated to frighten the horses.

  If Ruth were in charge she would forbid it, but now she fought down her rage and said politely, ‘Lucy? Did you pass on my message? Is Heather ready?’

  ‘No. Mike said you might like to …’ Her voice trailed off.

  Ruth attempted a little irony, though it would be wasted on Lucy. ‘He said I might enjoy grooming and saddling my own animal? Is that it?’ Fuming, she collected the saddle, bit and bridle from the tack room, then let herself in to Heather’s loose box. The mare snickered in anticipation as Ruth lit a cigarette, tacked up and talked to her. ‘We’ll have a good ride out today, Heather. Strengthen those hocks …’ With the Gold Flake in her mouth and her eyes narrowed against the smoke, she lifted the horse’s feet one by one. ‘Perfect. You won’t need shoeing for a while.’

  A shadow fell across the sunlit straw and Mike Hamilton’s voice boomed out: ‘Don’t smoke in here. Your mare will be taken to the smiddy next week and fitted with heavy shoes.’ Ruth felt the old familiar thrill of being close to him, but she shot him a contemptuous look as she took the cigarette out of her mouth and said through clenched teeth, ‘So you think you are to tell me what I may do with my own horse?’

  ‘Your horse is needed for farm work,’ Mike said curtly before stepping aside to open the door for her to lead Heather out.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Ruth put her left foot in the stirrup and mounted, quick and lithe though Heather stamped impatiently. She looked down on him. ‘My light hunter is quite useless for your purposes.’ Mike was behaving as if he were already master of the estate instead of a simple tenant farmer. ‘Take your hands off the bridle.’

  The confidence of a man who knew he was within his rights showed in his sly smile as he dropped his hands. ‘Well, it’s no’ for ye to decide, woman. The Ministry is putting tight restrictions and regulations on animals. We cannae afford to feed an animal that’s nae use. Major’s pulling a plough. Your mare will be hitched to the milk trap from next Saturday. Take it or leave it.’

  She would not deign to reply. Mike Hamilton would lose control first. He would saddle up Major and follow her down to the sands and at last they would have the showdown she hoped would lead to a revival of their affair.

  The frozen cobblestones rang under Heather’s hooves as they left the yard. She glanced back as she turned on to the lane leading to the beach. Mike Hamilton, red-faced, was waving his arms madly, signalling her to stop. She laughed and urged Heather into a trot.

  Ten minutes later, with the sea sparkling on her right and the frosty buckthorn bushes glittering in the sun, she was exhilarated. She let Heather have her head. A gentle, salt laden breeze blew into Ruth’s open mouth as she put her weight in her heels, lifted her seat out of the saddle, leaned over Heather’s silky mane and urged, ‘Go on!’ They pounded down the flat sand to the old slipway, where she turned the mare, eased her left leg out, brought her right in and pressed into Heather’s quarters to make the horse loop into the turn to race along the white fringes of foam. Hooves pounded wet sand. Sea water splashed up between the horse’s legs, soaking Ruth’s jodhpurs as they raced along the water’s edge.

  Then she saw him again, Mike Hamilton, waving his arms like a man demented. She pretended not to notice and, head down over the horse’s neck, drove Heather on into the sparkling, curling foam for the quarter-mile return, but they had not ridden this way for months and Ruth knew enough not to strain the heart of an unfit horse. She sat back in the saddle and slowed Heather down to a trot before they reached the sheltered, secluded bay area with its backdrop of buckthorn and jagged rocks above the waterline, and table-top basalt rocks, which the sea had made smooth below. She brought the horse’s head round and slowed to a walk as Heather picked her way between the rocks to the path that wound through the buckthorn.

  He was here again, dark and angry, blocking her path. Ruth pulled Heather up. ‘What is it?’ she demanded, a smile of satisfaction spreading across her face.

  ‘Get off that horse!’ He grabbed the bridle with one hand and the back of her jacket with the other and dragged her out of the saddle to the ground. She lost her balance and fell at his feet, put her hand out to save herself and wrenched her wrist. ‘This beach is mined!’ he shrieked. ‘Can’t you read? Danger. Keep Out! Ye’ve ridden past at least four o’ the bloody things. You could have been killed.’

  He pulled her to her feet and held her arms and the harshness had gone from his voice. ‘Ye could have been bloody well killed …’

  ‘And is that not what you want?’ She looked up at him in the old inviting way. ‘You have avoided me. Been rude to me. And now you …’ She moved so that she was hard up against him and his smell of horses and leather and sweating, angry maleness brought a sense of triumph she must not let him see. He was excited. She could feel the hardness of him through all these layers of clothes. He could never resist her. ‘You want me … don’t you?’

  ‘Aye. But I’m not going to take you because your man is fighting a war. And I have too much respect for him – and he for me.’

  ‘Respect was always pretty low on your scale of feelings, Mike.’

  ‘Aye.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve come a long way in the last four months. I’ve aye wanted a son. I have a mighty store of respect and love now for the woman who’s carrying my child.’ He released her abruptly. ‘Ye’ll have to find another if your man’s nae use to you.’ Then he turned and walked away.

  Ruth mounted the snorting Heather and swore under her breath at the pain that was shooting through her arm from wrist to shoulder. What a day this was proving to be. One damned thing after another. All her plans were crumbling. Her servants were dropping like flies. Gordon was going to sell Ingersley. And if he could not impregnate her when he came home, then her only hope of having a child – through Mike Hamilton’s need of her had been dashed.

  How fickle men were. Six months ago Mike had been disconsolate because she, Ruth, would not marry him. Now he was like a solan gander, strutting and posturing, guarding his broody goose on the nest.

  She reached the yard and heard Lucy singing and sloshing around, happy with her tubs of soapy water. She remained in the saddle and called out impatiently, ‘Lucy! Come and help me down, will you?’

  ‘You all right?’ Lucy came out, a frown of worry on her face.

  ‘I’ve had a fall. Help me down.’ She leaned forward, kicked off the stirrups and swung her legs over so that she need not use her wrist. Lucy put a hand out to steady her at the elbow and she was down safely. ‘You’ll have to water, feed and unsaddle for me. I’m hurt.’

  ‘Oh dear. Nanny need not come to me today. You need her.’

  Ruth clenched her teeth to hold back from shouting in pain, but managed to say, ‘Nanny is learning to drive an ambulance this morning.
’

  ‘That’s nice for her.’ Lucy took the reins and led the horse away, then stopped and turned back. ‘There’s a girl wandering around the estate, looking for Mrs Stewart. She came to the farmhouse. Lost her way, I expect, now the South Gate’s closed.’

  Ruth said, ‘It’ll be one of the workers or a patient’s visitor.’

  ‘Well, she definitely said Mrs Stewart,’ Lucy answered. ‘I sent her up to the house not ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Damn!’ Ruth uttered under her breath. Every step she took down the frosty gravel drive jolted her wrist. She must telephone the doctor. She would not go down to the hospital to ask for help. ‘Double damn!’

  There was a girl limping towards her, a pretty girl, dressed sensibly in a brown tweed coat and pull-on hat that could not hide the flaming red hair cascading about her neck and shoulders. She could have no business on this side of the house. Ruth put her hand gently into her pocket to support it. The girl stopped at the corner of the house. In a piercing, imperious voice Ruth asked, ‘What are you doing here?’

  The girl was tall, very young, and a blush came poppy red into her pale cheeks as she said nervously, ‘I’m looking for Mrs Stewart. The cook.’

  ‘Well, you won’t find her. Not even if you go round to the tradesmen’s entrance.’ Ruth tried to indicate the way she should have taken but caught her breath with the pain in her hand. ‘What do you want with her?’ She looked harder at the girl. Though her clothes were not of the best quality, she was not a rough type. In her manner, dress and speech she gave the impression of being well brought up. But the blush had faded and left her white and drawn as if she too were in great pain. Ruth demanded, ‘How far have you come? How did you get here?’

  ‘I walked up from the station. I couldn’t find the entrance. So I walked round the wall till I came to the gates.’ The girl looked all in. She began to cry, soft tears rolling down her pinched cheeks. ‘I have to see Mrs Stewart.’