A Last Goodbye

by Dee Yates

  Clara stepped forward and looked at the damaged knee. Tom didn’t take his eyes off her face. He felt his cheeks burning, at odds with her cool hands as they examined the swelling and it was only when she attempted to bend his leg that Tom yelled out with pain.

  ‘Oh, Tom. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  It was her voice, unchanged over the years, that convinced him that she was indeed real.

  ‘That’s all right, lass. You’ve got to do your job.’ A slow blush spread up Clara’s face. ‘This here is the result of me doing mine.’ He gave a nod in the direction of his wound.

  ‘On the farm?’ she asked.

  ‘At Ypres.’

  ‘You’ve been in the war?’

  ‘Aye, since July last year.’

  ‘I’d no idea.’

  ‘So, Miss Moxon, when the two of you have finished exchanging pleasantries, what do you think?’

  ‘There is obvious infection there, sir. I suggest we use a poultice to bring the infection out. It may need lancing if pus has formed.’

  ‘Yes. Good. What else?’

  ‘There is a possibility that there is a foreign body in there – a piece of shrapnel, maybe, that’s been left behind. So it may need another operation to examine it and remove anything that’s still there.’

  ‘Very good. And what if nothing is done?’

  ‘It may settle down by itself, if the body fights the infection successfully. But to do nothing would be risky. If the knee joint is involved, continuing inflammation could lead to arthrodesis.’

  ‘Which is…?’ the professor prompted.

  ‘An inability to bend the knee, sir.’

  ‘And… what else?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. What do you mean?’

  ‘What else may happen, woman, if we do nothing?’

  Clara’s voice dropped, though not enough to prevent Tom hearing her next words. ‘He could lose his leg, sir.’

  ‘Precisely! He could lose his leg,’ the professor repeated in a louder voice. ‘So I suggest to you, sir, that you do exactly what you are told. I want a hot poultice applied to the leg, nurse. We will see him tomorrow morning and reassess the knee. Come, Miss Moxon. There are plenty more patients waiting for us.’

  Tom stared at the swinging curtain, still finding it hard to believe in the apparition that had, until a second ago, been standing in front of him. He smiled slowly, and when the nurse returned to do his dressing, he hardly felt it when the thin bandage was wrapped round his knee and a thick layer of steaming kaolin applied to it.

  His blissful distraction continued as he sat in the room outside, waiting for his wife to return. He was sure that at any minute Clara would burst through the open door to greet him. But although the nurse went backwards and forwards about her business, there was no further sign of either doctor. It mattered little though. Tomorrow he would be back. And surely then Clara would find time to talk to him. Whatever happened, he would now have no qualms about returning to the hospital. Perhaps his wound was the best thing that could have happened to him.

  *

  The euphoria of the morning’s visit stayed with him during the day. He dozed in the chair and none of the nightmarish dreams returned to trouble his sleep. He had said very little to Ellen, apart from the fact that they wished to see him the following day. He did not tell her who ‘they’ were, preferring to keep the delicious secret to himself.

  There was no change at all in Clara – the dark curly hair, the quiet self-assurance that he had always loved about her, the steady, almost stern gaze. He thought guiltily of the photograph crushed beneath his boot into the mud. If anything, she was even more lovely than when that picture had been taken. When had he last seen her? It must have been nearly two years ago, the day he had driven her back to the village to catch her train. Before his marriage to Ellen.

  He shivered. The weather was getting colder and he hoped it wouldn’t snow.

  Ellen brought him soup but he barely touched it. She tried to tempt him with cups of tea, but he could swallow no more than a couple of mouthfuls.

  ‘You’ll no’ get better unless you eat,’ she said, putting a hand to his forehead. You feel as though you are starting with a fever.’

  ‘I’m all right, lass. Don’t fuss.’ He smiled at her and dozed again.

  *

  Tom retired to bed early, seeking to allay his restlessness in sleep, but sleep eluded him. If only Ellen would come, he would at least have company.

  He dozed and suddenly woke, and still her side of the bed remained unoccupied. He listened but there was no sound, tried to rise but his head felt heavy and he was slightly nauseous. The candle was burning low now. It must be hours that he had been lying alone.

  ‘Ellen! Are you there?’ He heard the sound of footsteps and she entered the room.

  ‘What’s the matter? Do you feel bad?’

  ‘I were wondering if you were going to stay up all night.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didnae realise how late it was.’

  He watched her as she undressed.

  ‘I would have thought you’d come to keep me company. They say I might have to stay in hospital.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that.’ Ellen stared at him, alarmed.

  ‘I’m telling you now. They might even have to operate.’ His voice was drowsy. ‘They said I could lose my leg if I didn’t do what they told me.’

  ‘Then why did you say nothing?’ Her voice broke.

  ‘Because I didn’t want you making all this fuss.’

  ‘But I’ve a right to know. I’m your wife.’

  ‘And I’ve a right to expect you by my side at night. Like you say, you’re my wife.’

  She opened her mouth to reply, but the words remained unspoken. She hesitated, just for a moment, then blew out the candle and climbed in beside him.

  29

  Changing the Face of the Valley

  Ellen sat at Tom’s side as the train made its meandering way towards the city. She was frightened. Frightened of what would happen to Tom. Frightened of the city, about which she had heard so much but never visited. She glanced at her husband, amazed at his composure.

  ‘What are they going to do, Tom?’

  ‘The consultant said he will have to operate. He says there may be shrapnel left and, in any case, he wants to drain the knee.’

  ‘But why do you need to go to Glasgow? Can’t he do the operation in the cottage hospital?’

  ‘He doesn’t do operations there. All his staff live and work in the Royal Infirmary and it’s them who will look after me. Don’t fret. I don’t expect you to come and visit me every day.’

  ‘I want to… but I can’t very well, right enough. It’s too far. I would be all day travelling, and we don’t have the money. And, apart from all that, what would I do with Netta? I can't bring her with me and Father's too busy to look after her more than occasionally.’

  ‘I’ve managed for the last year and a half. I’m sure I’ll cope. And I’ll be in good hands.’ He looked out of the window and smiled. Ellen followed his gaze. With a pang of disquiet, she noticed the city buildings encroaching on the railway. In no time at all, the train was clanking and hissing to a stop in the cheerless echoing building that was Central Station.

  On questioning, they discovered that it was a considerable distance to the Infirmary, and they made the rest of the journey in a horse-drawn cab, Ellen anxiously attempting to remember the landmarks, for she had insufficient money to make the return journey to the station in the same way.

  At the gatehouse, Tom handed the professor’s hastily scribbled note to the nurse and was directed to the surgical ward. By the time they had reached their destination, he was exhausted. He slumped down in a chair in the corridor and blew out his cheeks.

  ‘I’m fair lathered,’ he said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. ‘Get me a drink, lass, will you?’

  Ellen knocked timidly on the door of the office and watched as an official-looking nurse stood
up and bustled towards her.

  ‘Yes, how can I help?’

  ‘I have this note from the professor… and my husband would like a drink, please.’

  ‘Certainly not.’ The nurse scanned the piece of paper. ‘Professor McAndrew will be operating on him. There’s to be nil by mouth.’ She called to a young nurse who was walking towards the ward. ‘Nurse Thomson, put Mr Fairclough in bed 18 and take his particulars. The professor will be here directly.’

  ‘Yes, Sister. Follow me, please,’ Nurse Thomson said, smiling at Tom.

  Tom struggled out of the chair and limped behind the nurse, leaving Ellen stranded in the middle of the corridor. She sat down again and waited for what seemed like hours. The immensity and strangeness of the hospital cowed her and she longed to be back in the countryside where she felt comfortable. But she didn’t want to abandon her husband here with little chance of seeing him until he returned home. Right enough, he had been grumpy and disagreeable since his return but, given the infection in his leg, this was only to be expected. Maybe after treatment he would be easier to live with.

  Just as she was beginning to think they had forgotten her, Nurse Thomson reappeared and beckoned Ellen.

  ‘I’ll give you two minutes to say goodbye to your husband. Bed 18, halfway down the right-hand side of the ward. Be quick though… the professor will be doing his round soon.’

  Several pairs of eyes, belonging to those patients who were alert enough to show interest in their surroundings, followed her as she tiptoed self-consciously between the beds. Tom’s high colour contrasted with the whiteness of the sheets between which he lay, their pristine neatness disrupted by the presence of a cradle over his bad knee to protect it from the weight of the bedclothes.

  ‘I’ll see you soon, Tom. We’ll all miss you.’

  ‘I know that, lass. Look after yourself and Netta, and don’t fret. I’ll be well cared for here.’

  She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, conscious that the nearest patients were still watching, and turned to go. The swing doors were abruptly pushed back and a cluster of white-coated individuals entered. The ward sister immediately left her office and stepped up to a large man sporting a bow tie. This, thought Ellen, must be the professor. Surrounding him were two or three other men and a woman. She frowned, trying to think where she had seen the woman before. Flattening herself against the wall as the group swept past, she hurried out of the ward, along the endless corridor and down the wide sweep of steps that led to the ground floor and out of the hospital. It was later than she thought. If she didn’t hurry, she would miss her train. She ran through the busy streets, weaving round afternoon shoppers, who seemed in no rush to make room for her, and recognised the station up ahead. She slowed, knowing that now she would be back in time to resume care of Netta so that her father could make a final round of the sheep before darkness fell.

  At the thought of Netta, she came to an abrupt standstill, realisation flooding through her. The woman doctor accompanying the professor was none other than Tom’s friend Clara. Clara, who had visited them on that snowy Christmas two years ago and helped to bring Netta into the world.

  Showing her ticket to the guard, she hurried onto the platform, where the train was waiting to take her back to the peace and security of home. She chose a carriage and sank back gratefully in a window seat, catching her breath. How had she not realised at once that it was Clara amongst the group of doctors?

  She felt vague stirrings of the earlier jealousy that had at times troubled her. She had never really known how close the friendship between her husband and Clara Moxon had been, but she recalled the relish with which he had anticipated Clara’s visit to the farm, even if that visit had turned out somewhat different from what they had all expected.

  Had Tom seen her on their first visit to the cottage hospital? Ellen considered. He had not mentioned it, but he had been very loath to tell her what had gone on and he had seemed much happier after the visit.

  Her train of thought was interrupted by a small, bearded gentleman, dressed smartly in top hat and morning coat, who stepped into the carriage and sat down opposite her.

  The train began to pull out of the station and Ellen stood up to remove her coat.

  ‘Allow me to give you a hand.’ The smartly dressed gentleman rose to help.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Ellen smiled.

  ‘May I introduce myself,’ the man continued. ‘My name is Angus MacPherson… Sir Angus MacPherson,’ he said with an air of authority.

  ‘And I’m Ellen Fairclough. I’ve just been to visit my husband in hospital.’

  ‘I’m on my way to London to speak at a conference of civil engineers. Do you know what a civil engineer is, my child?’

  ‘Er, yes, sir, I think so. You build bridges and roads and reservoirs, like the one that’s being built in the valley. My father and my husband are both shepherds on the Douglas farm.’

  ‘Ah yes. I know the one. Well, what a coincidence!’ The engineer’s eyes twinkled as he looked at Ellen. ‘So, what do you think of my little undertaking.’

  ‘You mean you’re building the reservoir in our valley?’ She stared at him in guarded admiration as he nodded. ‘Well, I find it’s interesting, right enough, though there’s plenty of things I don’t like. And my husband doesnae like it at all. He wishes the valley could be left in peace.’

  ‘You can't stand in the way of progress, my dear. Tell me, why is your husband in hospital?’

  ‘He has to have an operation on his knee… a war wound.’

  ‘Ah, so he’s been at the front. A brave man then. I wonder if he realises that the towns for which this water is intended are making the guns and bullets that he has been firing at the enemy.’

  ‘I’m not sure that he does.’

  ‘Well, I hope he is soon fully recovered and back with you again.’

  ‘If he recovers fully, I suppose he’ll have to go back and fight.’

  ‘I suppose he must.’ Sir Angus leaned back and considered the view from the window for a minute or two. ‘So tell me, Ellen, have you been to the head of the valley and seen the excavations there?’

  Ellen looked at him sharply. ‘Aye, I’ve been.’

  ‘Magnificent, are they not?’

  ‘I was there when the German prisoner was killed by the mud slide.’ Her voice was low.

  ‘Oh, I see. Yes, that was most regrettable. Still, these unfortunate things happen when big projects are undertaken. And at least he was not one of our men.’

  Ellen’s eyes widened angrily and she sat forward in her seat. ‘You have no right to say that! He was a good man. He was very kind to me and my baby. And he was well educated. He used to teach at the university. So, no different from yourself really.’

  ‘No indeed.’ Sir Angus looked suitably humbled. ‘However, you must agree that the men are paid a wage equal to that of our own men, were they free to work on the site. It’s one of the dangers of such work.’

  ‘But Oliver Tauber would not have been doing this work if he had been in his own country.’

  ‘My dear Ellen, if Oliver Tauber and his like had been getting on with their work in their own country, none of this fighting would be going on, your husband would be at home tending the sheep and I would have my usual labouring workforce to carry out my plans.’

  Ellen could see that he was right so she leaned back and sighed.

  ‘How did you come to know this German? Have you been chatting to the men and hindering their work?’ said Sir Angus, his twinkling eyes at odds with his stern questions.

  ‘I looked after one of the men. He took ill with pneumonia soon after they arrived. Oliver came from time to time and interpreted for Josef.’

  ‘And he recovered well? You were a good nursemaid?’

  She laughed. ‘He recovered, though he’s no’ so strong as the others. It has left him with a weakness of the chest.’

  ‘They are good workers, the prisoners of war, I will say that. The project has progr
essed well with their help. And what does this man do in his own land, this Josef? Have you found that out too?’

  ‘Aye. He’s a musician. He plays the piano.’

  ‘Well, let us hope that the war will soon be over and then everyone can get back to doing what they want to do. I only hope there are enough young men left to finish my reservoir at the end of it all.’

  Josef! She hadn’t been able to see him since the fight at the camp and he would have no idea that her husband had returned. He would assume she wanted nothing more to do with him and nothing could be further from the truth. She had been out every night, walking along the valley to the camp in the hopes of seeing him. With her husband home, that was no longer possible. With an end to the war, she would never be able to do what she most wanted to do.

  ‘This is your station, I believe.’ Sir Angus broke into her reverie and Ellen jumped out of her seat in alarm, afraid that the train would depart with her still aboard. ‘Thank you for your company,’ Sir Angus said. ‘I shall look out for you next time I am in the valley.’

  The whistle blew and the train pulled out of the station, taking Sir Angus with it. Ellen left the platform and walked down the slope and across the fields. She was thinking how strange it was that she had met, quite by accident, the man who was changing the face of the valley and had, by employing the prisoners of war, inadvertently influenced the whole focus of her life in the hills.

  30

  Different This Time

  ‘I think I’m expecting another wee one,’ Ellen confided in Margaret Murdie one day in mid-January. The weather had turned milder and she had taken the opportunity to walk with Netta to the Murdie farmhouse. She wondered whether she might see Josef during her walk, but the prisoners were at the far end of the embankment and failed to show any sign of having noticed her and she had completed her walk with a heavy heart.

  ‘That’s good news, lassie. I’m very pleased for you.’

  ‘Are you? I’m frightened after last time. I would hate the same to happen again.’