by Maggie Holt
‘Come on, come on, girl, I haven’t got all day,’ barked Poole as Mabel fished the steel instruments out of the bubbling steriliser and laid them on the trolley. He was a stocky, balding man who did not waste words, and as a surgeon was neat and quick at his work. Where deficiency diseases like rickets had bowed the mothers’ legs and flattened their pelves, he had no choice but to deliver by Caesarean, and having the small maternity theatre made this much more convenient. After his skirmishes with Mrs Higgs and her obstructive attitude, this probationer Court was a godsend, and he nodded in silent approval as she handed him the knife, the clamps, the dissectors and retractors in correct sequence, mopping out the pelvic cavity with a gauze swab while he pushed his gloved hands into the opened womb, grasping the baby and hauling it up and out into the air. She watched its tiny face contort, its limbs jerk: she waited for its chest to expand, drawing in air, to be exhaled as a gasp – a grunt – a cry. Her eyes closed in relief and opened at once: Poole severed the cord and handed her the new human creature, and she saw that it was a boy: another child born into poverty.
‘Good! This is going to halve the mortality rate for Booth Street,’ said Poole in satisfaction and Nurse Court knew better than to point out that the child would very likely die in his first year, which would not affect the Infirmary’s statistics. She only spoke to the surgeon when spoken to and had not made up her mind about him. He was kind enough to the mothers in his way, though he could be sharply impatient at their slowness to answer his questions, which annoyed Mabel, though she later realised that it was his way of hiding his pity for them, not being a sentimental man. Any communication between him and Mrs Higgs was carried on in an atmosphere of mutual contempt, not to say loathing, and he had little time for the rest of the midwives. But this one was different and he gradually unbent to her.
‘So, Court, I hear you’re a Salvationist, then!’ he remarked one day while stitching up the layers of muscle and skin after another Caesar.
‘I hope to be a Salvation Army wife, sir,’ she answered, handing him a curved needle threaded with catgut.
‘Ah, yes, your young man. I believe he’s survived Gallipoli, is that right?’
‘Yes, he’s home again, sir.’
‘Good! Are they sending him back to the Front when he’s fit enough?’
She winced. ‘I hope not, sir. I’m hoping that the war’ll be over first.’
‘H’m.’ He shook his head gloomily. ‘Y’know, you ought to go in for midwifery, my girl, and get work with a private practice such as I have. That’s where the money is.’
Mabel looked up in blank astonishment. ‘You, Mr Poole? But yer work’s here, ye’re the only consultant –’
‘My dear girl, how do you think I turned this glorified cupboard into a maternity theatre? How did I purchase the table and all the equipment, and pay this anaesthetist to come in?’ He nodded towards the tired-looking doctor who sat holding a gauze Schimmel-Busch mask over the patient’s nose and mouth. ‘My private patients paid for all this, Court, and in return they get the benefit of my expertise, the experience I’ve gained by practising on these poor wretches here. This is where we learn our trade, Court!’
Mabel stared in disbelief. ‘But that’s not right!’ she exclaimed, holding a needle-holder in mid-air and forgetting to say ‘sir’.
He gave a short laugh. ‘Isn’t it, young woman? Don’t I do anything for the women who come in here to be delivered? Would they be better off if I stayed away and left them to the tender mercies of the charming Mrs Higgs and company?’ He glanced towards the new baby, crying in its cot close by. ‘I’ll tell you what, Court, that child would never have got through the mother’s pelvis. At least it’s now got a chance – it’s alive!’
To which there seemed to be no reply, and Nurse Court was left to ponder over the moral compromises contained in Mr Poole’s argument.
To Mabel’s relief Mrs Hayes returned to maternity after her theatre course, so now there were two trained theatre nurses to stand by for Caesar-call; they usually took it in turns, so Mabel was no longer confined to the building, though the afternoon meetings beside the boiler-room had to finish. December came in with bitter winds and lashing rain, and in any case Captain Drover had resumed some of his Salvation Army duties, particularly as bandsman; his trombome was taken out of its case and polished, and Mabel attended the indoor meetings when she could. Neither of them mentioned the possibility of his return to active service, though the thought was never far from their minds, like Norah’s anxiety which showed in her shadowed blue eyes. There had been no word from Albert for over two months.
Mabel’s cautious overtures of friendship towards Doris Drover met with a polite but cool response and there were no invitations to Falcon Terrace. It was clear that the Drovers thought her an undesirable influence on their son and this was upsetting, though before the year was out she found an unexpected ally.
Quietly getting up to leave before the end of a Citadel meeting, she felt a hand lightly laid upon her arm, and turning round she looked into the flushed face of Mrs Swayne, embarrassed but determined to speak.
‘I must have a word with yer, Miss Court. Excuse me, but I’ve got to thank yer for what ye’ve done for me brother – the difference in him since he’s been back.’
Harry’s elder sister was a capable woman who held herself erect and had a strong, sensible face; Mabel remembered Harry saying that she had worked with prostitutes and was ‘used to dealing with all sorts’. She hardly knew how to reply, and Mrs Swayne continued speaking.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t said anythin’ before, Miss Court, but there hasn’t been much chance o’ seein’ yer. If we’re going to be sisters one day, and I hope we will, then we ought to be friends as well. That’s what I think, anyway,’ she ended with a tentative smile.
Mabel’s heart seemed to melt with gratefulness. ‘Oh, Mrs Swayne –’
‘Call me Ruby.’
‘An’ call me Mabel! – there’s nothin’ I’d like more than for us to – to get to know each other, Ruby. An’ Matthew an’ Mark are such lovely little boys.’
‘Then yer must come and visit us at number 3 Deacon’s Walk, off the Kennington Road. Come over to tea one afternoon, get Harry to bring yer – ah, here he is!’ She smiled up at her brother who had just joined them, having left his place in the band to escort Mabel back to Booth Street.
‘That’d be really nice, Ruby,’ said Mabel hastily. ‘I must go now, ’cause I’ve got to be in by ten, but I’d love to come. Goodnight, Ruby, an’ thank yer.’
Harry was pleased at this gesture from his sister, but he looked grave, and Mabel soon found out why as they walked arm-in-arm along the unlit streets.
‘I’d like yer to be friends, Mabel, and poor Ruby’s goin’ to need all the friends she can get if Herbert’s called up.’
‘But he can’t be, he’s a married man with children!’
‘He could still be called, Mabel, in the New Year. There’s goin’ to be a change in the regulations an’ some married men’ll have to go.’
‘But can he be forced to fight at the Front?’ asked Mabel, frowning.
‘That’s just it, Mabel, he says he won’t fight, he won’t take the life of a brother man in any circumstances. That means he’ll be hauled up before a tribunal and asked to give his reasons. And if he still won’t agree, he could be sent to prison.’
‘Harry! Whatever will Ruby do – and the boys?’
‘The Salvation Army’ll look after their needs as far as possible, but it wouldn’t be easy to face the mockers. We can only pray that it’ll soon be over.’
But from the set of his mouth she could see that he had no early expectations of an end to the conflict that was tearing Europe apart. She took a deep breath: it had to be said.
‘An’ you, Harry – will you have to go back in the New Year as well?’
‘It looks like it, my love.’
‘Oh, no, Harry, no!’ she cried out in anguish, unable to cont
ain herself. ‘Please, please, Harry, go as a stretcher-bearer this time, an ambulance driver, anythin’ – only not to the trenches!’
Her cry echoed down the near-deserted street and he put his arms round her as they stood on the pavement.
‘Dearest Mabel, I can’t even drive. We have to leave it in the Lord’s hands. Hush, dear, hush, let’s wait to see what happens. No sense in jumpin’ the gun, is there?’
The figure of speech had an unintended sinister ring. And all of a sudden she thought of Ada Hodges and her indispensable Arthur . . . just suppose he were called up?
Maud Ling’s eyes were sparkling when she turned up at the nurses’ hostel on the Thursday before Christmas.
‘What a lark, Mabel, guess what’s come up! Y’know we got Cinderella on at the ol’ Canterbury Featre after Chris’muss – well, the Principal Boy’s gorn orf wiv summat in ’er stomach – an’ I got a fair idea o’ what it is, an’ all, poor fing – so guess ’oo’s takin’ over!’
‘Yer don’t mean you, Maudie?’ asked Mabel, smiling at her friend’s excitement.
‘Yeah, me – aht o’ the chorus an’ into the lead – Prince Charmin’ in person! Startin’ on the twenty-sevenf, seein’ as Boxin’ Day’s a Sunday. Oh, wait till my Alex ’ears this, ’e’ll be that prahd o’ me! ’Ere, you an’ ’Arry’ll ’ave to come an’ see me doin’ me stuff, bring little Norah wiv yer – oh, Mabel, talk abaht bad luck for one an’ good luck for anuvver!’
They hugged each other, and as always Maudie’s exuberance was a tonic at a time of difficulty on the ward and anxiety about Harry and Albert.
‘Are yer gettin’ on any better with Alex’s mother, Maudie?’ she asked, thinking of her own situation with the Drovers.
Maudie’s face fell briefly. ‘Nah, the Redferns don’t like ’im spendin’ ’alf ’is leave wiv me. It’s ’ard on ’em, I can see that, but if they’d only meet me again, they could see ’im all they liked. Cuttin’ orf their nose to spite their face, that’s what they’re doin’.’ She gave a little sigh.
Mabel turned down the corners of her mouth in sympathy, but did not think she should encourage her friend to hope for a change of heart from the Redferns. What privately worried her more was the possibility of young Alex eventually tiring of Maud. She had caused a rift between him and his family – and perhaps more significantly, she might show him up before his friends among the officers and their young ladies. She remembered Alice’s expression when she had mentioned Maud and Alex to young Mr Westhouse – how her sister’s lip had curled in surprise and annoyance when Gerald had praised Alex’s achievements as a flyer. Could Maud ever hope to be one of their circle? It was all very well during these exciting, dangerous times, but would Alex still feel the same when the adventure of war was over and life returned to normal? Mabel was not happy about her friend’s romance.
Chapter Seven
CHRISTMAS DAY DAWNED over a grey city of uncertain hope and Matron Brewer shivered as she dressed, contemplating the long day ahead, the overcrowded wards and disgruntled sisters, the nurses complaining of chilblains and chapped hands. Yesterday there had been three deaths in the Infirmary and today could bring another three or more.
She had fought the Board for extra beef and pork to be supplied for the Christmas dinners which would be taken on the wards by everyone, staff and patients alike; and she had personally supervised the mixing of the puddings which today would be boiled and served with custard. She would be in and out of the kitchen to see that it was done properly – and to check that no strong drink was being passed around. In the afternoon she would visit all the wards and make a point of speaking to everybody. There would be no shifts: all staff were to report on duty from 7.30 a.m. until 8.30 p.m., so that the work would be evenly shared and the nurses would have time to visit other wards during the afternoon, handing round the sweets and biscuits that she had been saving in a locked cupboard. She had little gifts for the children in the women’s wards, and baby clothes, not new but clean and ready to wear, for the babies in maternity. Nurse Court could be relied upon to make a fuss of them and of any older children who came to visit their mothers, no matter how much that Higgs woman might grumble. Sarah Brewer smiled to herself: she had told Nurse Court that her soldier friend could visit on the men’s wards during the afternoon, provided that he wore his Salvation Army uniform, to speak a word of comfort to patients as seemed appropriate. The poor young man still looked pale and wan, she thought, three months after his return from the Dardanelles.
Dressed in full uniform with starched white collar and cuffs in place, her iron-grey hair pinned up and crowned with a stiff white cap edged with a narrow frill, she was ready to face whatever this Christmas Day might send . . .
Harry Drover accompanied his parents, sister, brother-in-law and nephews to the Clapham Citadel for morning praise and worship, and afterwards took his place in the band at an open-air meeting in Battersea Park. They played and sang carols for whoever cared to listen, but the atmosphere was far from festive and there were few to brave the bitter east wind which knifed though Harry’s greatcoat. His feet felt like two blocks of ice.
Christmas dinner at 8 Falcon Terrace was shared by the Swaynes, after which Mrs Drover suggested that they should sit round the fire and ‘Grandad’ would read A Christmas Carol aloud to them all. The boys’ faces brightened, but Harry stood up and said he had to go out.
‘I’m sorry, Mother, but I’m due to call in at Booth Street this afternoon for an hour or two,’ he explained, putting on his greatcoat again.
‘Oh, no, son, not on Christmas Day, surely!’ protested Mrs Drover.
‘Father’ll be at the Blackfriars’ Shelter tonight, Christmas or not, Mother – the need’s just as great, perhaps greater,’ he said gently. ‘The Matron’s asked me to take the Lord’s word to patients on the men’s wards, so pray that one or two hearts’ll be touched.’
Doris Drover pursed her lips; in fact, she pressed them together hard to stop herself saying that she knew perfectly well why he was going to that Infirmary; but she had no wish to fall out with her boy.
Ruby Swayne caught the tension in the air, and when he had left for Lambeth she pointed out that he would only be visiting men’s wards and Mabel Court worked on maternity.
‘He certainly won’t be allowed in there,’ she said with a smile, but her mother sniffed. That Court girl had ways and means, and Mrs Drover had heard about the boiler-room at Booth Street.
Alex Redfern had sat through Divine Worship at fashionable St Mark’s Church with his parents, his two sisters and brother James, sister-in-law Lilian and their lively toddler Jamie whose constant fidgeting had annoyed him less than the fond mamma’s ineffectual shushing. Back at Elmgrove, the Redferns’ handsome villa in Hamilton Terrace, he was required to feast on roast goose with sage and onion stuffing, followed by rich plum pudding with brandy sauce, served by two maids who swept in and out of the dining-room with steaming silver dishes and tureens. Well-polished mahogany surfaces reflected the gleam of the candlelit tableware and Mrs Redfern’s centrepiece of Christmas roses and holly, but Alex was in the wrong mood. His giggling sister-in-law got on his nerves, and all he longed for was the rambling lodging house in South Lambeth Road where on the second floor Miss Maud Ling entertained her raffish theatrical friends and always kept a place for him. Oh, Maudie, Maudie! He had never realised how necessary she would become to him, and all because of this war.
Alexander at twenty-four was the younger and cleverer of the Redfern brothers, the darling of his mother who had always spoiled him, though his father had begun to look for some return on his expensive public school education – but not any more. Not now that Alex had become a hero. He had never been booky and an early interest in motoring took him into Vickers’ prestigious engineering works; the rapidly expanding car industry was migrating out of London into the suburbs in search of more space, and with the new craze for flying, many of the big names were abandoning cars for aero-engines. When enlistm
ent fever swept the country in 1914 Alex bypassed Sandhurst and chose the new flying corps of the army, and now he had passed out as a flyer and could pilot a de Havilland biplane.
In an open cockpit, cruising above the earth in blue summer skies, into vaporous clouds and out again into the sunshine, he thought it the most exhilarating sensation he had ever known. For centuries man had dreamed of flying like a bird and here he was, Alex Redfern, one of the early chosen few to fulfil that dream. And if by daylight it was exciting, by moonlight it had an unbelievable magic, and he thanked whatever deity there might be that he was young and living at a time such as this.
And when the glorious new invention was put to far more daring uses, and the danger increased tenfold, Redfern boldly rose to the challenge. Taking off into a night sky full of cloud, his fur-lined leather helmet and goggles his only protection against buffeting winds and rain, he patrolled the south coast on home defence against the German Zeppelins. Then came the posting to France when he crossed the grey Channel to a makeshift base at Le Cateau, from where his squadron went out on sorties over enemy lines, above the infantry slogging it out amidst constant shelling. This was like nothing he had ever imagined. Danger too could be intoxicating, but it also brought fear, and he discovered that there was only one remedy for it.
At the Central Flying School at Upavon Redfern had made friends with other young men from similarly privileged backgrounds, and there had been no shortage of pretty girls to escort to parties, tennis clubs, picnics and drives through the green Wiltshire and Hampshire countryside. He had walked with a girl hanging on to his arm along sandy tracks beside tall, fragrant pines; there had been kisses under the stars and his blood had coursed faster, though so far there had been no girl he had desired above the rest.
Until he’d begun to feel fear. That was when he’d needed to know that Maud Ling was waiting for him, to hold him in her arms and envelop him in her warm softness. He could talk to her and not pretend: he could even tell her about the fear, the sudden shiver of dread when the de Havilland took off into the empty sky. Maud had seen life: he didn’t have to try to explain things to this child of the streets who had begged with her baby brother in her arms on cold winter nights.