by Maggie Holt
‘But I ain’t got kids to look after like they ’ad.’
‘Ye’ve got Teddy, who wouldn’t be alive today if it wasn’t for the way yer looked after him when he was a baby. Now the poor lad’s tryin’ to save yer from yerself. Just think, Maud, s’pose Alex was to turn up suddenly and find yer like this, it’d put him off for good. Wouldn’t yer feel ashamed?’
‘Oh, don’t start gettin’ on at me, Mabel, gal. It’s only Sat’day nights I get really drunk. I’d never risk losin’ me place in Chu Chin Chow, it’s the one fing that keeps me sane.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘They’re ’avin’ a terrible time out there, the Flyin’ Corps, losin’ good boys all the time, an’ every day I fink it could be Alex next. ’Nuff to make anybody drink.’
Her voice quavered and Mabel was filled with pity. ‘Oh, Maudie – Maudie, dear, I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, they’re at it all hours rahnd the clock, ’ave to sleep when they can, eat when they can. They lorst a whole batch o’ new fellers in one day last week – one of ’em was a right toff an’ all, Sir Somebody or ovver from dahn ‘Ampshire way, rollin’ in money, all the wimmin was after ’im, Alex said – all over now, burnt to a bloody cinder when ’is plane was shot dahn.’
‘Yer don’t know his name, Maudie?’ Mabel’s heart had given a great thump.
‘Alex did say, but I can’t remember. There’s been so many of ’em gorn.’
‘Was it – Savage?’
‘Yeah, that was it, Savage – like the fightin’ out there. Why, did yer know ’im?’
‘Only by name,’ Mabel muttered. ‘Here’s yer tea, Maudie.’
‘Cor, fanks, gal. I’ll take a coupla aspirins wiv it.’
Mabel went over to the window. She felt cold all over, and fortunately Maud was too woolly-headed to notice her sudden silence as she stared across the roofs of London, the church spires that rose up out of a city of sorrows, a nation mourning an ever-increasing number of young men killed. How would the women at Houghton Hall take the news? And Alice, how would she react at hearing that Guy Savage was dead? She’d have to hide her feelings and say nothing.
Mabel turned from the window. ‘That’s better, Maudie, ye’ve got a bit o’ colour in yer cheeks. Come on, get up and have a wash, do yer hair an’ go out to get a bit o’ fresh air an’ sunshine.’
Maud gave a hollow groan.
Letters from Belhampton confirmed the utter desolation at Houghton Hall.
‘Lady Savage has not left her bed since she was told the news,’ wrote Aunt Nell.
It was feared that Mrs Holt might miscarry with the shock, so she too has been confined to bed and cannot visit her mother. Miss Georgina is left to run the house as well as she can. They simply cannot believe that this has happened to the heir of Houghton Hall, the last baron of the line, dead without issue. We do not see much of Alice, but she is keeping well and is a good size for the time she has reached, almost six months. Gerald is out of hospital and we hear he is making progress, helped by Alice’s devotion, I’m sure. How thankful the Westhouses must be that their son was spared and that a little one will soon be here to add to their happiness.
Mabel could not help wondering just how soon the little one would arrive – and whom would he or she most resemble?
The work on Enfield continued to be an endless source of interest and satisfaction. Surgery was making new strides with the correction of birth defects, and conditions like harelip and cleft palate could be operated on with a fair guarantee of success. Mabel quickly learned how best to handle the tiny babies who had to be fed with teaspoons or special teats with flanges that were supposed to fill the gap in the child’s upper lip; it was a messy business which led to swallowing of air and consequent windy colic. Club-foot was corrected by division of the tendons and, as with all surgical operations, the ever-present danger was septic infection. Once this set in it was virtually untreatable except by the three principles of nourishment, rest and cleanliness. Oliver took nearly three months to recover from his appendix operation, but Toby’s septic leg refused to heal and, when acute blood poisoning threatened again, the leg was amputated just below the knee. Toby would have to learn to walk with a wooden ‘peg-leg’ until he was older and could be fitted with a proper artificial limb that could ‘wear’ a sock and shoe – and nobody would know it wasn’t real, Mabel told him and his anxious parents.
Meanwhile she had made a friend, the senior staff nurse on Enfield, a well-built girl whose plain features were redeemed by intelligent grey eyes that always softened when she was attending to a child. Violet Stoke-Marriner had taken up sick children’s nursing in defiance of her family’s wishes, bored by the social round enjoyed by her mother and sisters.
‘Their kind of life never interested me, Nurse Court. I wanted to do something for children, especially those at the lower end of society, and at last I had to stand up and say so,’ she said. ‘My mother threw a fit, but my father saw that I was in earnest and he agreed to pay for my training. I chose to come here rather than Great Ormond Street, because it’s such a poor area. I think I’ve picked up just about every kind of infestation that there is – lice, fleas, scabies – not threadworms, though, not yet!’ She gave a booming chuckle.
‘What d’yer family think o’ yer now?’ asked Mabel, fascinated by the story.
‘Oh, they look upon me as a freak. But think, Nurse Court, what a farce it would have been for a big creature like me to be presented at Court! I’d have probably keeled right over when I curtsied to Their Majesties!’ She laughed again. ‘But this – ah, Nurse Court, this is real life.’
She spooned up another helping of milk pudding to push into the mouth of a flushed little girl whose tonsils had been removed and who whimpered every time she swallowed because of her sore throat. ‘Come on, dear, it’ll be better soon – good girl.’
Yes, thought Mabel, she’s right, this is real life. What a privilege it was to care for sick children and see at least some of them get better: it was what she tried to share with Harry when she told him stories about Shadwell.
Nurse Marriner was asking her a question: ‘Have you seen this show that everybody’s talking about, Nurse Court? This Chu Chin Chow? All the soldiers on leave are being taken to see it, and everybody’s singing the songs – would you like to go one evening?’
Mabel longed to accept, but there was Harry who could not go with her. ‘I’d’ve liked to go and see it with me young man – yer know, the one who’s badly shell-shocked an’ lost an arm – but he can’t go,’ she said sadly.
‘Why not? Can’t he get to the theatre?’
‘No, not the way he is, Nurse Marriner. And he’s very much under his parents’ thumb, and they’re Salvation Army people and don’t really approve o’ the theatre, y’see.’
‘I don’t quite understand, Nurse Court. Hasn’t he got a mind of his own at all? If I were to hire a taxicab for us, is there any reason why we couldn’t call for him and take him to the theatre one evening when we’re both off duty? And take him home again afterwards?’
Mabel remembered how much Harry had enjoyed sitting beside her at the Canterbury to see Cinderella. It would be such a wonderful change for him – a treat for them both. She suddenly made up her mind.
‘Thank yer very much indeed, Nurse Marriner, an’ yes, it’s marvellous idea, and I’ve got a friend who’s in the show an’ she can get us tickets!’ She was becoming more enthusiastic by the minute.
‘And what about that other friend of yours, Nurse Court, the one who’s in charge of a babies’ home?’ asked Violet Stoke-Marriner. ‘Wouldn’t she like to come, too?’
‘Oh, it’s no good askin’ Norah, she won’t go to anythin’ unless me brother takes her,’ replied Mabel, shaking her head. ‘And the Lord only knows when he’ll be home from sea again.’
And so a decision was made, and a delighted Maud produced four tickets. ‘Just in case my Alex can get over, then ’e can sit an’ flirt wiv yer posh friend while you enjoy yerself
wiv ’Arry!’
Harry and the Drovers were duly told of the treat in store, and the Major soon agreed to his son having an evening out with Mabel and her friends, especially as he would be fetched and brought back in a cab. It was to be on the eighteenth of May, a Friday.
And then, on the Thursday before the outing, a miracle occurred: the reappearance of the proverbial bad penny.
‘Albert!’ Ecstatic hugs and kisses from his sister were followed by a dash to the Midway and the sight of Norah’s blue eyes lighting up with joy. And she was not entirely surprised.
‘Albert! Sure an’ didn’t I see yer last night, smilin’ an’ wavin’, on yer way home to me.’
‘Gawd, ye’re more beautiful than ever, Norah.’ As always, he was somewhat tentative about embracing his ‘little nun’ at first, and only when she put her arms round his neck and planted her soft, warm lips on his weatherbeaten cheek did he show how much he had been longing and living for this moment.
‘Got shore leave while the ol’ Galway Castle gets patched up – she’s been knocked abaht a bit this year,’ he explained, his words muffled as he withdrew his lips for a moment to take a breath. ‘Oh, Gawd, to be in ’eaven again . . .’
Maud was hastily consulted, seats in the circle were rearranged and the theatre party was increased to six.
Chapter Sixteen
THEY WERE IN the middle row of the circle. With Harry on her right side and Albert on her left, Mabel was flanked by the two men she loved most in the world. Next to Albert sat Norah and next to Harry, Violet; beyond her sat Alex Redfern, waiting to admire and adore Maud’s every move on the stage as a dancer and a slave-girl: every movement that she made would be for him alone, and tonight after the show they would melt into each other’s arms. Everything had worked out so well, Mabel thought, had fitted like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and with perfect timing, to bring them all together on this May evening at His Majesty’s, thanks to Violet Stoke-Marriner for suggesting it in the first place. Three hours of sheer exotic enjoyment stretched ahead, and such romantic songs as ‘Any Time’s Kissing Time’ and ‘I love Thee So’, as well as the haunting melancholy of ‘The Cobbler’s Song’.
At the moment the lights went down and the curtain rose on the wealthy merchant Kasim Baba being carried on his purple palanquin, the audience sighed with delight and settled down to be entertained. Mabel clutched at Harry’s hand in the darkness and gave her full attention to the scene before her.
Harry longed to lay his head on her beloved bosom, to bury his face between her breasts where he knew he was safe from the dreams and fantasies that lay below the surface of everyday life, festering in the dark of the unconscious. Here all was brightness, music and magic, like the pantomime they had seen together – how long ago? – when Maud had sung ‘You Made Me Love You’ and everybody had cheered and clapped. That had been in another life, before the killing began. This was different, an eastern tale of romance between Ali Baba’s son and the beautiful Marjanah . . .
But as the first act went on, a sinister sound broke in: a steady thump-thump-thump-thump of marching feet, of boots striking the ground in military formation, getting louder, thump-thump-thump-thump! And now there was singing, the sound of a whole battallion raising their voices in chorus:
‘We are the robbers of the woods,
And we rob everyone we can –’
Robbers! Robbing men of blood and health, time and life itself. Thump-thump-thump-thump! Harry began to sweat and tremble: gripping Mabel’s hand tightly, his breathing got shorter and shallower until he was panting in time to the rhythm of the ‘Robbers’ Chorus’. Panic was rising up in his throat to choke him – but here was Mabel, sweet and understanding as always.
‘All right, Harry, it’s all right, don’t worry, it’s just a story on the stage,’ he heard her whisper close to his ear. ‘Just breathe slowly, dear, in and out – in and out, that’s right – that’s better, well done. Close yer eyes and just breathe in and out.’
She kept as quiet as possible, though Violet was aware of her low whispering. Albert and Norah were too absorbed in the play and each other to notice, and Alex Redfern either didn’t know or pretended not to see the effect of the ‘Robbers’ Chorus’ on a member of their party.
Listening to her, holding her right hand and feeling her left hand gently stroking his arm, Harry gradually quietened. She was right, it was only actors on a stage – though he’d enjoyed Cinderella more. Everything was different now, the world had changed and become frightening: even a story on a stage could take on a sinister note.
But the first act was over now, and everybody was talking and laughing, saying how good it was. Norah leaned over to say wasn’t Maud surely lovelier than the girl playing Marjanah!
‘All right now, Harry, dear?’ Mabel whispered, and he put his one arm round her shoulders and nuzzled against her neck as the lights went down. He was feeling tired now – fear always wore him down – and he closed his eyes against the brilliantly lit stage. He’d wait for ‘The Cobbler’s Song’ which Mabel said was the best tune in the show.
But ‘The Cobbler’s Song’ was not until Act Three and first there was Act Two to be got through. It was full of scheming plots and intrigues to do with getting into Kasim Baba’s palace and stealing all his treasures – and then, oh, God help them all, the horrible robber chief appeared again with his fiendish chorus. And he was singing, or rather yelling, a truly terrifying song.
‘When I draw my short, sharp scimitar –’
‘His scimitar! His scimitar!’
echoed his followers, their grey helmets gleaming.
‘To end thy maudlin mutterings,
And close thy senile stutterings –’
Harry had never heard anything so menacing since – help! He leapt in his seat as a sudden burst of gunfire echoed across the space betwen them and him: he saw the glitter of bayonets bared and raised!
‘Carve thee up, carve thee down,
Slice thee through from heel to crown –’
Half blinded by the sun flashing on the cold steel, the one-armed soldier struggles to rise to his feet. But the enemy has seen him and is after him – look, look! Here they come!
Help me, he’s coming for me, there he is, he’s out to kill me – can’t yer see him?
‘See his scimitar, see his scimitar,
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!’
The shouting of the advancing enemy and the screaming of his own poor, annihilated platoon is now all around him. He tries to get down below the parapet, down into the trench – ugh! It’s all dead flesh, stench, mud and great, slimy rats.
‘Carve him in, carve him out,
Whilst with pride we robbers shout,
See our scimitars, see our scimitars!
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!’
Oh, help me, God, if there is a God who saves – help me, help me!
‘All right, I’ve got him – easy there, steady on, don’t struggle with him, he’s trying to crawl along the row – good God, what a racket!’ Alex Redfern is down on his hands and knees.
A man in evening dress appears. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘Chap’s gone berserk.’
‘Has somebody sent for the police?’
‘Reckon it’s an ambulance we need here.’
‘Oh, Albert, whatever can we do?’ It is Mabel’s voice.
‘Don’t get in a state, gal, ’e just fought ’e was back in them trenches, poor ol’ beggar. Wotcher, ’Arry? What’s up, then, mate?’
And then uniforms and men’s voices, friendly and reassuring. Hands are touching him, not roughly but kindly. Not out to kill him. A whole lot of different voices, all jumbled up together, making no sense.
‘All right, mate, we’ll soon get yer away from here.’
‘What about the young lady?’
‘Are yer comin’ with him, miss?’
‘Look, Mabel, I’ll come along wiv yer bofe. Alex’ll look after Norah an’ Violet.’
&
nbsp; ‘No, Albert, you stay with Norah. I’ll go with them,’ says a woman in firm, well-bred tones.
‘Oh, thanks, Violet. Where’re yer takin’ him?’
‘Springfield Asylum, miss, they’ll settle him down and sort him out there. What d’ye think set him off?’
He hears Alex Redfern answer, ‘The poor devil was in the Somme, and got badly shell-shocked as well as losing an arm.’
‘Gawd, what a shame – what a tragedy, eh?’
‘We’ll see him all right, don’t worry.’
And voices and more voices, rising and falling, a journey lying on his back, a destination, other voices, further away, getting quieter, fading into silence. Night, a faint light and silence. Cut off out of the land of the living.
Doris Drover was furious about Harry’s public humiliation and maintained that the incident had been a judgement for taking him to see a show of such depravity. Everybody who witnessed his abject terror was haunted by it and even Alex Redfern, entwined with Maud in passionate lovemaking that night, could not blot out what he had seen and heard.
‘It was weird, Maudie,’ he panted while still lying on top of her, gripped by her thighs around his trunk. ‘That damned robber chief with his scimitar – I swear I saw what Harry saw.’
Corporal Drover stayed at Springfield Asylum for three days and Albert spent a precious half-day of his leave visiting him there. At his parents’ request he was discharged home; otherwise he would have been sent back to Netley. Miss Stoke-Marriner visited him at 8 Falcon Terrace and accepted all responsibility for persuading Miss Court to take him to the theatre. She said that she should have made more enquiries into the kind of show that it was, the scenes likely to disturb a man returned from the front line. The fact that it was a very popular show among servicemen on leave had misled her, she said, and apologised unreservedly to his parents. Harry appeared to have recovered from the experience, but withdrew even further into a world of his own where he comforted himself with daydreams centred upon Mabel; her visits to Falcon Terrace were coolly received for a week or two, though John Drover suggested that if Mabel called once a week at a prearranged time, he would see that she and Harry were left alone for an hour, simply because ‘it did the boy good’, like his daily ration of tobacco and ale.