by Ian Porter
Alice looked at him like the workhouse beadle had young Twist after his inappropriate food request. She wondered how Nashey knew this. This information was not supposed to be in the public domain. It had only been relayed to her by the local medical officer a few days ago. The flu had apparently become a serious matter at the Front. Thousands had been infected. And many were dying. It was why, despite her just coming to the end of another appallingly long shift, she had made a beeline to see her friend Ruby. But a doctor exhausted from twenty four hours without sleep was not at her most considered, confidentially aware. She blurted out far too honest an answer.
“Well, just between you, me and the gatepost Nashey, the flu is very bad in the trenches. They are setting up flu infirmaries behind the lines. Many soldiers have succumbed I’m afraid; others are being sent back to Blighty to convalesce. It’s initially being spread here by soldiers coming home, then munitions workers are spreading it further afield as they move between cities.
Nash pulled a face. He wasn’t convinced he was getting the full story.
“Just ordinary flu ain’t bad enough to kill loads of big hairy arsed soldiers is it?” he queried, with a hint of accusation in his voice.
No sooner had her words left her mouth and Alice had realised that she had lapsed in her level of professional conduct. She needed to get off the subject of soldiers and influenza as speedily as possible. Otherwise, in her tired state she might let slip something more. If it got out that the war had somehow created a mutation of the flu, producing a killer virus of epic proportions, who knew how the public might react.
She appreciated that throwing medical terms into a conversation with a layman served little purpose so she was usually careful to speak in a way that could be understood. But on this occasion she decided to retreat into medical-speak in the hope it would bring said conversation to a close.
“There is also a new disease which is initially being called war nephitis which has very similar symptoms to both flu and the broncho-pneumonic conditions that are usually associated with soldiers being gassed. The deaths you mention appear to have been caused by severe broncho-pneumonia caused by secondary bacterial infection. Mortality may have occurred from any or all of these conditions.”
Nash had expected her to say something along the lines of, conditions in the trenches being so poor, with soldiers so weak from fighting, a few had inevitably succumbed to a disease which would not normally have carried them off. But her medical waffle made him think there was more to it than met the eye. He simply nodded and assured the doctor that he would try to keep his wife indoors, though given he had lots of work on he was going to have to leave her to her own devices, and they both knew what that meant.
Relieved the conversation about flu deaths was over, Alice ventured into a little levity.
“It would seem you got off lightly with steam inhalation Ruby. I have heard a rumour that some doctors have prescribed venesection. Blood-letting if you please! I thought those days were over!”
Neither Ruby nor Nash reacted or replied. Their doctor felt awkward. She said something about her needing to be off and Ruby needing to rest, gave her goodbyes and made for the front door. Nash followed to see her out. Alice felt the need to toss some small talk over her shoulder as she was about to leave.
“You mentioned having a lot of work on Nashey. Would that be war work?”
“When I asked you about the boys in the trenches you could have just said ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Eh doc?”
He followed this with a wink, to reassure her that no offence had been either given or taken.
Chapter 19
“We took in bronchitis and rheumatism cases. Some of the bronchitis patients were as bad as the men who were gassed…It was pathetic to see the young men crippled…sometimes doubled up as if they were men of eighty instead of boys in their twenties. They suffered terrible pain with it.”
Sister Mary Stollard, Beckett’s Park
Military Hospital, Leeds.
Nash had visited the man who had collapsed in front of him outside the cinema. After a lengthy wait on the doorstep, his knock had eventually been answered by the man’s wife, Elsie. She barely had the strength to stand and, from what could be seen of her face behind the handkerchief she had over her mouth, she looked awful. Nash saw past her into the living room. Her husband, slumped in an armchair by the fire, appeared even worse. Nash reciprocated with his own hankie and kept his distance while a short conversation ensued on the doorstep, which finished with him promising to pop by in a couple of days to see how they were getting along. He had asked if they were short of anything, and had been told they were running low on coal.
He had not been looking forward to returning. From what he had gleaned about the general severity of the flu, he felt sure his visit would end in a knock on the door going unanswered and a neighbour coming out to tell him that the couple had passed away.
Now he stood on the couple’s front step, with a small sack of coal over his right shoulder, like a Santa from Newcastle. He used his spare hand to bang on the door. To his surprise it was answered within a couple of seconds, by the man of the house. A silent exchange between the two men had Nash lowering the sack, which was answered with a nod beckoning him inside.
Nash walked in to receive his orders from Elsie, who had been waiting just inside the door.
“Empty it down there duck,” she said, motioning to the grate.
“You can keep the sack, save the dust going everywhere,” replied Nash, dropping the sack deftly on to the tiles of the grate.
Elsie thanked Nash while her husband sank to his knees to empty some of the precious black stuff into the fireplace. It was time to warm the place and get the kettle on. The man set to work with some enthusiasm. It was not the house of death or suffering that Nash had expected.
Elsie told Nash to take the weight off his feet, which had him sinking in to an ancient leather armchair which was more arms than chair. It was so lacking any springs or upholstery that he felt his backside touch the floor. It was as if the furniture was consuming him, his shoulders pushed inwards as if he were in a straight-jacket, his weight seemingly forced back and down; he felt like a beetle stranded on its back. And the animal analogy did not end there. His head felt like it was disappearing into his neck, like one of those tortoise things he’d seen at the zoo. He couldn’t remember when he had felt more small and vulnerable. At his scary granny’s when he was a little urchin probably. He decided the next time he ever wanted to get some information out of someone who didn’t want to provide it, he would place them in such a contraption. They would surely come up with the answers immediately.
Elsie spoke at Nash rather than to him, rambling merrily away ten to the dozen. It was the obvious over compensation of a woman whose husband was unable to verbally interact with her. Nash had known many such East End women over the years. Though usually it was because their husbands, exhausted from working long shifts in dock, factory or sweatshop, perhaps drunk from the escape of the pub, were too morose, bad tempered and dehumanised to bother to make any conversation with their wives and children.
Nash faded in and out of listening to the woman. He could not concentrate on everything she was spouting. When not listening, he glanced round the room of the slum, wondering how this couple had survived so well.
Elsie ended many of her sentences with a question.
“Didn’t we Bert?”
But without seemingly drawing breath, or waiting for a nod in answer, she continued with her verbose diatribe.
Bert wheezed and clapped his hands with satisfaction when the fire took hold. He then got to his feet while Elsie disappeared outside to fill a bucket of water from a yard tap. Nash took this as an opportunity to escape the clutches of the chair. With some difficulty he levered himself out of his captor, and offered it to the man of the house. Bert waved the offer aw
ay, but Nash stayed on his feet.
He tried to think of something to say that could be answered with a nod or a shake of the head.
“Good to see you both up and about. You both seem over the flu right enough.”
Bert nodded. He took a step to a packing case that was the closest thing the house had to a table. On top of it, next to the tea cups which Elsie had already laid out in anticipation, was a battered old tobacco tin. He opened it and took out a shard of pencil and a scrap of paper. He licked the business end of the graphite, then scribbled something and handed it to Nash.
It said, ‘I was up and about after 3 days. Else had it worse.”
Nash remembered how badly the flu had struck down his fit, strong, normally healthy Ruby. And Elsie looked a good strong lass too. He was amazed a man with such weak lungs could not only survive it but actually recover quicker than others. Nash surmised that perhaps the poor little fellow had only had a cold. It was just coincidence it was at the same time as his wife had been laid low.
“Well you certainly seem more chipper than when I last saw you.”
Bert nodded and started scribbling again.
This time he relayed how rationing had been a Godsend. Several inquiries from Nash and replied missives later, it was apparent that Bert’s pension was way too low to be able to afford to cook and eat their full meat ration. But they bought their entire sixteen ounces of meat and five of bacon per person per week ration, and sold some of it off to more financially fortunate people. But they were able to keep some meat for themselves, and thanks to Nash’s coal delivery would be eating meat tonight. Bert’s final note told Nash that he now felt like a man again.
Nash nodded. He remembered how, when he was a lad and his family were barely keeping out of the workhouse, his father always got whatever meat they could afford, even when he was injured from a fall in the docks and out of work. Mother was the only one bringing in money and she needed to keep her strength up to do that, but it was father who got the meat. It had been, and Nash conceded still was, an important part of being a man.
The government had taken everything but his life from Bert, and then thrown him on the dust heap. But he had now recovered a modicum of self-respect. And he was grateful. If Ruby’s desire to help people affected by the war had sewn seeds of doubt in Nash about his own role in the conflict, pathetic young Bert had dispelled those concerns.
“I might have a job for you,” said Nash. “Only part time mind. Reckon you could make your way to Shoreditch and deliver messages for me as and when?”
Nash was becoming so busy he needed an errand boy to do trivial jobs. And since the Woolwich ferry incident he wanted to keep the level of contact he had with his objectors to a minimum just in case he was ever under surveillance. Why not use Bert and pay him for his time? He would get the No Conscription Fellowship to put their hands in their pockets to sponsor the arrangement. It was the least they could do. It would allow the poor young sod to keep a bit more of his meat ration for himself and his wife. And maybe gain a bit more self-respect into the bargain.
Chapter 20
“A sense of humour had kept me from any bitterness. I was quite as enthusiastically ready to work with and for the police as I had been prepared, if necessary, to enter into combat with them.”
Mary Allen, ex-Suffragette and
British policewoman, memoir,
The Pioneer Policewoman
Deliverance from the grasping clutches of the flu had left Ruby more determined than ever to put something back. She ignored both her doctor and husband. As soon as the latter had not been around to keep her under control, she had got out of bed, washed and dressed. Her legs felt like jelly to begin with so she busied herself around the house for a while, holding on to a chair, kitchen table, sink or any other support, while she inadvertently did a mean impersonation of Charlie Chaplin’s drunk routine. Once her legs started to behave themselves, she ventured out.
There was a bout of dizziness as she made her way along the street, which had her making a grab for a railing like someone trying to find their way home in a pea-souper fog. The virus was reminding her that it was not fully ready to leave her company just yet. But she managed to get along to Sylvia’s house without too much risk to life and limb.
Sylvia was understanding. She appreciated that throughout her problems with the police force in the Suffragette years, it had only been following orders. If Ruby could introduce some feminine know how to the service, it had to be a good thing. And the fact that a woman could now become a police officer was all part of what the Votes for Women campaign had been fighting for. It was not just the principle of the vote that was important, it was the realities of what that tick in the box could bring. And this included wider employment opportunities for women. Sylvia wished her the very best of luck in her new position and, like Nashey, she rather hoped that having a police officer as a close ally might also provide some benefit on occasion.
Thankfully Ruby managed to arrive back home before her husband. She considered sneaking back under the bed covers, but given that she had already made up her mind to apply to become a police officer the following day, the sooner her husband appreciated that she was up and about the better.
Nash arrived home to find his wife sitting in the parlour while Maud was through in the kitchen making the tea. Ruby’s friend had already been briefed. She was to do her bit.
“Ain’t it fine to see Ruby up and about and doing so well Nashey?” Maud shouted over her shoulder.
“She ain’t that up and about is she?” queried Nash. “I notice you’re the one on your feet.”
“It were my turn that’s all. Ruby made the last cup.”
Nash didn’t answer, but gave his wife an old fashioned look to suggest he didn’t believe a word of it.
“Good to see you’re looking more like your old self Rubes,” he said softly.
Ruby felt tired from her little excursion but she was not about to admit that to her husband. She took off her face mask and cast it aside with a flourish.
“I don’t need this anymore. Give us a kiss,” she ordered.
He was only too pleased to oblige but kept it to a peck given they were not alone. Maud duly arrived holding a teapot and a third cup for the man of the house.
“Shame her football career’s over for my munitions team eh Nashey?” said Maud lightly. “Can’t have lady coppers in the team pretending to be shells girls can we? At least I’ll be able to replace her now I’m using flour and starch on me face to stop me looking yellow.”
“Yeah, you’re looking a lot better these days Maud,” agreed Nash.
“Well, thank you kind sir,” said Maud with accompanying mock bow. “Your fella’s getting chivalrous in his old age Ruby.”
“It’s all them middle class gentleman he mixes with these days,” said Ruby smirking.
Maud was the one person to know of Nash’s conscientious objector work who did not know him from either his villainous or Suffragette days. She could be trusted. She had no love of a government that had treated both her and her husband as no more than cannon fodder. And living in the same house it would have been difficult to keep such work a secret from her in any case.
Nash had immediately noticed the saucy mood both women were in. Maud was obviously on a mission to have Ruby laugh for the first time in almost a week. It was good to see them both full of joy. He thought he would go along with it.
“I’m not too chivalrous to put the two of you over me knee if you should need it,” he said mock seriously.
“Ooh, promises, promises,” said Maud coquettishly.
“Oi, stop playing up to my husband you,” said Ruby giggling. “Any way he prefers old firewomen, so your chances are slim.”
“Is that right Nashey?” said Maud. “Take a shine to women in power do you? Or do you just like a woman with a helmet?”
The two women burst into full scale laughter.
Nash started to wonder whether he had made a mistake entering into banter with these two in the mood they were in. Although he had successfully dealt with the toughest of men over the years, he knew he could not cope with women once they lapsed into silly schoolgirl behaviour. He decided he would simply ignore the last few remarks. But he had assumed that Ruby had cried off from next Saturday’s game because she appreciated the flu would have left her too weak to play.
“Never mind all that,” he said, before addressing his wife. “Good to see you’re being sensible about the football girl. No need to rush back to play.”
His not rising to their bait simply had the women giggling even more. Excessive laughing when still in the process of recovering from the flu had Ruby coughing, excreting tears out from her eyes and dripping snot out of her nose. The latter, far from being embarrassing, simply had her and her ally giggling even more.
While Ruby pulled out a hankie from under her sleeve and blew her nose, Maud continued with the ribbing.
“She’ll be too busy for football right enough. Still, you’re in luck Nashey, Ruby’ll have power and a helmet after tomorrow!”
More giggling from the women. Consternation from the man.
“What you on about?” he queried.
Once Ruby had pulled herself together she informed her husband that she was going to enrol at the police station the following day. Nash realised that it was not sheer chance that Maud happened to be downstairs having a cuppa at this time. His crafty wife had arranged it so she had some moral support at her shoulder when she told him the news.
Nevertheless, the chiding that she knew was coming, duly arrived. As far as her husband was concerned, Ruby was in no fit state to go anywhere tomorrow, let alone a police station.