Wheels of Grace

by Crosse, Tania

  They were approaching the portico at the entrance to the house when a most curious sight drew Grace’s attention. She tried not to stare, but a strange fascination dragged her gaze towards two patients coming towards them. She couldn’t say they were walking, because they weren’t. Making their way – or struggling their way would be a better way to describe it.

  Grace was used to Larry’s strange gait, but one of these poor fellows was twisted from his head to his feet, tottering precariously. The other stopped every couple of strides while his head and shoulders twitched violently and an odd, guttural cry emerged from his suddenly flapping mouth. These two shattered souls resembled severely mentally and physically disabled invalids, yet they were attired in the military patient uniform, and so only recently must have been fit and healthy young men.

  Grace had imagined all kinds of horrific physical injuries that killed or maimed, but never anything like this. What she instinctively knew must be a brain injury of some sort. A helpless sense of futility choked her appalled mind, for what on earth could be done to help such damaged wretches? She averted her eyes as she and Larry followed Mrs Franfield into a vestibule twice the size of the downstairs room of her family home.

  ‘Unbelievable, isn’t it?’ the matron said in a voice that resonated with sympathy. ‘There’s nothing physically wrong with them. That’s what we’re mainly going to deal with here, the mental trauma of receiving some permanent physical injury, or of just being in the trenches. Some simply can’t take it. Their nerves are so deeply affected that it produces the sort of physical effects you saw there. In the early stages, sufferers can appear crazed. They can cower, or freeze with fear. We talk openly about it here. It’s part of the therapy. And we want the world to know about it. At first, it was labelled cowardice. Sometimes soldiers suffering from it were physically pushed “over the top”, as they call it. Others have even been shot for cowardice because they ran away. But at least, the army has finally recognized that it’s a true mental condition.’

  Grace had been listening intently, wondering why Martin had ended up at this place, wonderful as it seemed to her. They passed through the doors in a skilfully crafted glass wall into a massive double-height hall. At one end, a grand staircase led up to a galleried landing around the inner walls of the upper storey, above which a magnificent stained-glass atrium roof in shades of yellow and amber allowed light to flood into the hall below. Indeed, there was a further, slightly smaller such atrium roof over the stairwell itself.

  Grace could never have envisaged such beauty. The building itself would be instrumental in lifting one’s sorely tried spirits, she considered, and it was a moment before her attention was drawn back to the occupants of the enormous room. At the opposite end to the staircase, it opened into a wide bay with a broad, almost full-length arched window overlooking the grounds. Nurses were tending a good number of patients resting in chairs, and tea was being served from a trolley. Grace noticed a piano to one side, the lid open and sheet music on the stand as if someone would be playing later. And all the time while she spoke to the visitors, Ling Franfield was nodding her head and smiling at patients here, patting a shoulder there.

  ‘I expect you know we’ve only been open a week,’ Ling continued, leading them towards a doorway. ‘The idea is to offer our patients as much peace and quiet as we can, so we’re taking on as many volunteers as come forward, many of them VADs. I expect you know the Devon 10 opened a small hospital for the physically wounded in Bedford Villas, and they also take some at the town’s cottage hospital. But as I say, what we’re aiming to do here is to treat the mind. Some of our volunteers just listen or chat. Or just sit quietly, showing that they care. We’re planning on giving some of our patients little jobs, to relax them and get them to concentrate on other things besides their fears. Gardening, or in the kitchen. And we’ll encourage hobbies, anything from stamp collecting to painting or basket weaving.’

  She paused, her fingers closed about the door handle, and her chestnut eyes danced with inspired enthusiasm. ‘There’s a man called Arthur Hurst,’ she went on. ‘A doctor with the military at a place called Netley near Southampton. He’s helping victims like our acute patients you saw just now by using hypnosis. Getting magnificent results. Elliott, my husband, has gone there for a few weeks to study under him. Obviously he doesn’t expect to learn everything about it in so short a time. But if he can learn some techniques to help his patients relax their minds, empty out some of their terrors, it must surely help.’

  Grace felt herself mesmerized by the passion that shone from Mrs Franfield’s face. The woman was still very attractive, but with a strength of character that reflected through her beauty. Grace was in awe of her and was sure she would offer amazing comfort to those who would pass through her care.

  ‘Now then, I’m certain you can’t wait to see your brother. He’s here, in Sunshine Ward. It’s really for amputees, for us to assess their mental ability to cope with their loss as well as to convalesce physically. Your brother was brought here because his commanding officer considered his behaviour had been a little erratic of late.’

  She opened the door to a spacious room that was indeed bathed in the afternoon sunlight blazing through another arched window that matched the one in the main hall. The ward smelt faintly of disinfectant and was home to two neat rows of beds, four on either side. In the centre was a desk where sat a corpulent woman in a dark blue uniform and a white pinafore, but without the red cross Grace had noticed on so many of the other nurses.

  ‘Visitors for Martin Vencombe, Sister,’ Ling announced.

  The sister beamed at them and rose to her feet. ‘This way, my dears.’

  Grace’s heart jerked. She had been so appalled and yet intrigued by what she had seen and by Mrs Franfield’s explanations that she had allowed herself to blank out the reason for their visit. Trepidation rushed back at her, and she felt herself break out in a cold sweat. Martin. Dear, jovial, devil-may-care Martin. Would he be the same? How could he after what he had been through? And what was it the matron had said about erratic behaviour? And … and amputees?

  Grace was suddenly terrified, and was grateful when Larry squeezed her hand.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MARTIN WAS LYING in the furthest bed in the corner. Grace wouldn’t have recognized him so pale and skeletal was his face, so it was as well that the homely nursing sister had shown them the way. His eyes were closed, his cheeks as white as the crisp sheet that covered him.

  Grace slid behind Larry so that he went to the bedside first. Verity had been so upset the previous day that she had apparently gone straight to bed and Geoffrey had gone up to take care of her. In the morning, Grace had merely overheard him saying to Larry that Martin’s main injuries were to his legs, and Grace had not wanted to pry further. Now she stared at the bedclothes resting on a cage over Martin’s legs, and horror took her by the throat as Matron Franfield’s words reverberated in her skull. Oh, dear God. They hadn’t needed to … to…?

  Her own legs began to wobble and she was relieved when a nurse brought up two chairs for them. She sank gratefully onto hers, dissolving like a puppet. Larry, though, leant over the inert form in the bed, and watching him, Grace dreaded the moment when it would be her turn to speak to this lifelong friend who suddenly seemed like a stranger.

  ‘Martin?’

  The heavy eyelids flickered upwards and his eyes wandered for an instant before focusing on his brother’s face. It was difficult to tell through such weariness, but Grace believed she detected a spark in Martin’s dulled expression.

  ‘Larry,’ he answered simply, and then a hand appeared from beneath the covers and grasped Larry’s, fingers tightly entwined.

  Grace saw the infinite compassion on Larry’s face. The slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was almost unbearable, and she wondered how it would have been for her if it had been Stephen lying there instead of Martin. For one brief, shattering moment, her own grief broke to the surf
ace again, and she balled her fists as she brought it under control.

  She saw Martin’s hand drop back onto the bed. ‘I feel better already,’ he said, ‘seeing you two again. Well, not you so much, you ugly bugger, but Gracie … My, what a sight for sore eyes! You didn’t tell me in your letters – or those that got to me – what a beauty she’s grown into. Saving her for yourself, were you, you crafty old devil?’

  His voice appeared to gather strength as he spoke and Grace thought she noticed the familiar teasing light returning to his eyes. She thanked God, and when he opened his arms and said, ‘Come on, Gracie, give an old crock a hug,’ she went to him without a thought, and even kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘You don’t have to be gentle with me,’ he told her gruffly as she sat down again, and Larry, too, made use of the chair that had been brought for him. ‘I won’t break. If a Boche shell can’t kill me off, you certainly won’t.’

  ‘Is that what happened? A shell?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Got a bit too close to the damned thing. Not close enough to blow my legs off, thank God, but I caught some of the shrapnel from it. A couple of small bits in my arm, but a large piece in my calf, and a bullet in my thigh. No smashed bones, miraculously. And missed all major arteries, or I wouldn’t be here. And certainly not with both legs intact. At least they will be when they’re healed. So, brother, you won’t be the only Vencombe with a limp. For a while, at least. But they tell me I’ll live to fight another day. Literally. I should be fit enough to go back to the Front in a couple of months.’

  Grace had almost collapsed with relief to know her worst fears were unfounded. But Martin had seemed to need to talk without stopping, as if it were some sort of release. But his final words had been laced with such grating sarcasm that Grace was shocked to the core. It was so unlike him. She felt split in two. Over the moon that he had survived his injuries and would recover, but filled with anger that he might well have to return to the maelstrom of the battlefield.

  ‘Is it … terribly painful?’ she ventured to ask.

  ‘Sorry, you’ll have to speak up.’ Martin’s tone was sharp now. ‘That’s the other thing. The constant noise. Shells and heavy guns. It’s affected my hearing. I’ve got this ringing in the ears. The medics give it some fancy name. Tin-something. They say it’ll lessen in time. But it might never go away completely. And going back won’t exactly help, either.’

  Grace felt a little piece more of her heart shear off. Poor Martin. That sounded appalling. She didn’t know what to say. Should she repeat her question in a raised voice? But Larry saved her from having to make the decision.

  ‘So, how long will they keep you here, do you think?’

  Martin shrugged. ‘A few weeks, maybe. Depends how quickly the wounds heal. They were a bit infected. Gave me a slight fever, but I’m over that now. They wash out deep wounds with something called Carrel-Dakin solution. It’s brand new, apparently. Supposed to stop gangrene setting in. Bloody agony each time they do it, mind. But if it saves your leg … I’m well past that stage now. Wouldn’t have minded if I had lost my leg, though. It would have saved me from having to go back.’

  Grace had to stifle a gasp. She could tell he really meant it. Dear Lord, he was so changed from the bright young man who had champed at the bit to give the Boche a bloody nose, as he himself had put it. There were moments when Grace glimpsed Martin’s old sharp wit, but it was so tainted with rancour that she doubted he would ever be the same again.

  ‘We could certainly do with you back in the workshop,’ Larry was telling him, clearly trying to divert the course of the conversation, and Grace realized it was easier for Martin to hear a deeper, male voice than her own. ‘Grace here’s a marvel, but she only works mornings. Young George has left school now and started his apprenticeship with us.’

  ‘Yes. Like Steve did.’ Martin’s words were flat now. ‘I’m really sorry about what happened to him, Gracie. We’ll all miss him. But at least he had it relatively easy in India. Not like at the Front.’

  It was as if a spike twisted in Grace’s side. She saw Larry glance at her warily and was grateful when he went on, ‘Well, George is a fast learner, just like Steve was. But he is only twelve years old, so he can hardly take the place of a fully trained wheelwright. Oh, John’s been called up, did you know that?’

  ‘John Sampson?’

  ‘Yes. Sent to France some time ago. Your paths might have crossed if it hadn’t been for this. He’s in the Eighth Devons, too, apparently. But Dad’s taken on two brawny wenches to take his place. Bit of a laugh, they are.’ Larry gave a forced chuckle. ‘You should hear them. One of them in particular, Gladys, swears like a trooper.’

  ‘Sounds like I should look forward to meeting her.’ And Grace rejoiced to see a smile break onto Martin’s face for the first time.

  ‘So where’s that handsome brother of yourn, then, Larry?’ Gladys dug Elsie in the ribs one morning a few weeks later, and her friend failed to conceal a giggle. ‘Like to get to know him better, us would, while he’s at home.’

  Larry exchanged glances with Grace and threw a dark look at the two heftily built girls. ‘He’s still in bed, if you must know. He’s here to recoup his strength now he’s been discharged from hospital. And I’m sure he’d appreciate being left in peace to do so.’

  ‘Aw, keep your hair on. I were only asking.’

  Grace frowned. Gladys had meant well, she knew, but Larry did seem a little touchy. ‘I expect Martin were relieved not be woken up at the crack of dawn for his breakfast,’ she put in, trying to keep the peace. ‘He says they wake you up so early in hospital when all you really want is rest.’

  ‘Well, us won’t disturb him,’ Gladys answered haughtily. ‘But when he is better, us’ll have a bit of a laugh with him. And maybies cheer him up. Enough to kill a dead man, you are, you’m so serious.’

  She spun on her heel and Larry returned to his work with a heavenwards roll of his eyes. Grace chewed on her lip as she came up beside him.

  ‘She’s right, you know,’ she said softly. ‘I’m certain Martin would love their company when he’s feeling better.’

  Larry turned his head sharply towards her, but then released a ponderous sigh through pursed lips. ‘Yes, you’re probably right. But … last night wasn’t too grand.’ He lowered his voice so that no one else could hear. ‘It was a lot for him, emotionally, coming home after what he’s been through. His first night. He said it was too quiet. He couldn’t sleep. So he came into my room. Can you imagine, the two of us squeezed into one bed? It was like when we were children. Me, looking after my little brother.’ He paused, and Grace heard the catch it his voice. ‘Do you remember what Mrs Franfield said about the nightmares?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ On the few occasions when Grace had managed to accompany Larry to the hospital, the matron had always found time to exchange a compassionate word with them. She was not allowed to say too much about a patient’s condition, of course, but she had warned them that, like so many soldiers from the trenches, Martin suffered from terrible nightmares.

  Grace put a hand on Larry’s arm. ‘Did he keep you awake, then?’

  ‘I didn’t get much sleep, no,’ Larry admitted. ‘But that’s nothing to what the poor devils out in France go through night after night. And I know Martin’s been discharged from the hospital, but I am still worried about his state of mind.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure after a few weeks peace and quiet, he’ll be fine.’

  Grace tried to sound reassuring, but Larry didn’t seem convinced. ‘Well, I hope you’re right. But there’s no obvious reason why he shouldn’t be returned to the Front when his leg’s fully healed, and I really don’t think he should be. But, Grace, keep this under your hat about the nightmares, won’t you? I don’t think Mum and Dad heard him in the night. He eventually went back to his own room and was sleeping like a baby this morning. I don’t want them having anything more to worry about than they already have.’

  Grace saw the lines deep
en about his mouth. Dear Larry. He always took the weight of the world on his shoulders – always had done ever since she could remember.

  ‘Of course.’ She nodded, her lips compressing into a wry, understanding smile. She experienced a sudden, overpowering desire to brush a kiss on his cheek to show how much she cared. But then it was gone, and she merely tightened her grip on his arm for a second before she made off to the office.

  Grace knew, though, that her mind wasn’t on her work and had to force herself to concentrate. Despite her attempt to reassure Larry, she, too, was concerned for Martin, not so much his physical injuries which were healing well as his uncharacteristic behaviour. For someone who had always been so relaxed and jocular, he seemed tense, like a coiled spring, his normal sense of humour turned to laconic irony. Grace wished Dr Franfield had returned from studying under this Arthur Hurst before Martin had been discharged from Mount Tavy and had been able to assess his mental state. But at least Grace could draw comfort from the fact that Martin wasn’t like the poor fellows she had seen at the hospital whose mental terrors had been translated into physical disabilities.

  Grace wished that she herself could do something to help the patients at Mount Tavy. The atmosphere under Mrs Franfield’s direction was so efficient and yet infinitely tranquil that she envied the VADs who worked there. Helping to make wagon wheels to keep the country fed when imports were so impeded was all very well, but what she had seen on her few visits to the hospital had inspired her heart to higher aspirations. Ah, well.