A Christmas Gift

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘Nonsense, Sebastian,’ said Millie forcefully, ‘the foot must be elevated, not dangled from the back of a lorry. Sally took a first-aid course. You’ll bandage him up, won’t you, Sally?’

  Neither nurse nor patient looked convinced.

  ‘Just get it done,’ ordered Max, ‘and by the time I give the order to move.’

  ‘I’ll do it, Sally,’ said Millie, relenting when she saw Sally’s face. ‘Sprains are a daily risk for dancers and so I’ve done it a lot.’

  ‘What if it’s broken? It’s getting awfully fat. Does it hurt really badly, Sebastian?’

  ‘I’ll live, Sal. Would you be an angel and follow Max. I’m not sure that he realises he’s bleeding. See that he’s all right, please. Much good I am – this damned ankle. I’ll find something to lean on and come after you.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort; that ankle might be broken, Seb.’ Millie seemed glad to have found someone to look after. ‘Sally is perfectly capable of checking on other injuries.’

  Sally took a quick breath. She rather hoped that Sybil or perhaps the incomparable Lalita had already cleaned up Max’s face – or any other injuries sustained by company members – before they found out just how hopeless her first-aid skills were. But she owed it to them all to do what she could. She straightened her shoulders and breathed in and out a few times. ‘Good, I can do this,’ she said and began to walk among the stranded vehicles, determined to find Max and to clean his face, no matter how bad it was.

  ‘And no matter how badly anyone’s hurt I will not faint, I will not,’ she said without realising that she had spoken aloud.

  ‘Of course you won’t faint,’ said the somehow still immaculate Sybil. ‘I’ve cleaned Max’s nosebleed – if you were looking for him – but two of the Balladeers have cuts and someone has been violently sick over some of the costumes. Be an angel, Sally, cuts first – there’s some clean water in that bottle over there – and let me know if anyone is still bleeding when you’ve cleaned them up. Clean cloth and a bit of pressure should do it. And if you could just get that ghastly mess off the Ugly Sisters’ ball gowns before it sets, I’ll be in your debt.’

  Sally, finding it hard to breathe since the smell was so awful, attended to the cuts sustained by the men first.

  ‘What caused this one?’ she asked looking at a nasty cut on the younger man’s forehead. ‘Doesn’t look as if you banged it.’

  ‘He’s the luckiest bugger in England tonight, love,’ said the older Balladeer. ‘Me too, I suppose, being so near him at the time, but that track was made by a bullet. Came through the canvas and ricocheted off the French horn. No wonder he were sick.’

  ‘No wonder,’ said Sally, as she tried and failed to find a smile.

  ‘He should have it made into a brooch for the wife. See how close you came to losing me.’

  They both laughed and now Sally managed to smile with them as she dabbed gently at the long cut.

  ‘She’d probably rather have the bullet, Sid; threaten to use it next time you and me stays too long in Blackpool.’

  That remark really made them laugh and Sally, now desperately cleaning up the vomit, wondered at them. Was this humour the Blitz Spirit, which the newspapers spoke about? One or possibly both of the men had been very close to death just a few minutes before and here they were laughing.

  ‘You’re the prettiest nurse we’ve ever had taking care of us, isn’t she, Sid?’

  ‘I’m nowhere near being a nurse; I did take a first-aid course and I was a complete failure. My friend, Grace, tiny little person like Millie, she could deal with anything.’

  ‘Good for Grace. But, trust us, Sal, you should write to her now and say, “Graduation was delayed but have now passed with flying colours.”’

  And they laughed again.

  Max was discussing the safest route to London with their military drivers. He knew the company were exhausted and wanted to take the quickest road home.

  ‘Not a good idea. Jerry likes to drop excess cargo to make his plane quicker on the way home.’

  ‘So we don’t go the obvious way?’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Hunter. Any planes still airborne will be anxious to score as many points as possible as they go home. Wouldn’t like to be the Jerry who has to tell his boss that he couldn’t hit any part of an entire convoy of army vehicles in the middle of a main road.’

  ‘And they know which trunk road we’re on.’

  ‘Right, so, we’ve had a good look at our fuel tanks and we figure we’ve got enough to let us do a little sightseeing. We have scouts out but a motorbike can’t outrun a plane.’

  ‘I know you’ll all do your best. Maybe we’ll grab some sleep.’

  A week later, the frightening incident had been banished to the ‘unpleasant memories’ folder. Sebastian, still limping badly, was out with Max and a few others at a male-voice lunchtime event at St Barts. Sally and Millie, wearing their most casual outfits and with their hair wrapped in scarves, were having a ‘tidy up while we get ready for Christmas’ day.

  Millie finished very quickly and since Sally had offered to do the week’s ironing, began again to talk of her hopes of paying her respects at her husband’s grave.

  Sally realised that she had begun to iron a very delicate silk blouse and, since, at the same time, she was trying to give Millie her undivided attention, was paying little or no attention to the hot iron. With a shriek of anguish she lifted it up just in time to avoid a scorch mark or possibly even a huge iron-shaped hole.

  Millie was so involved in her planning that she seemed unaware of Sally’s near miss.

  Sally put the blouse aside while she waited for the iron to cool. She looked through the clean-clothes basket, picked up the kitchen tablecloth and began to iron it.

  ‘Did you hear our revered landlord this morning when I put the tea-stained one on the table?’

  Millie shook her head. ‘What was it? Some wise words from this terrifying grandmother of his?’

  Sally laughed and was delighted to hear Millie join in. ‘Indeed it was. Grandmamma had standards, Millie, standards. If we lower them, the enemy has won.’

  ‘Not sure I’d have liked his grandmother; the woman has a lot to answer for, I think. But never mind that. I hope you told him to iron the clean one himself.’

  ‘Never thought of that but I’d love to have told his grandmamma to iron it; frightening woman.’

  ‘She was an angel, Sally Brewer, one with the highest standards which, I have to admit, she was able to indulge because she lived in the era of the servant class.’

  Sebastian had returned, obviously in time to hear at least the end of their conversation. ‘But,’ he continued, ‘being not frightening but formidable, she would have worked out how to do it. “Needs must,” she used to say. Now fill me in on your morning’s chatter, if it didn’t all involve household chores.’

  And Sally did. She finished by telling him that she hoped to persuade Millie to go to Dartford with her.

  ‘Great idea, Sal, but I have to tell you both that if Millie prefers to stay here, Sybil and Lalita are happy to make use of her.’ He laughed and turned to Millie. ‘If, of course, you want peace and quiet, then Dmitri and I will stand at the end of the moat and fight them off.’

  ‘Dmitri?’ So far Millie had not met this enigmatic character.

  ‘Russian aristocrat, accountant, writer and car mechanic, Millicent. According to him, you are a bal-lerina and therefore must be cherished.’

  ‘Sweet man. But, Seb, you appear to be empty-handed and did you not agree to arrange supper this evening?’

  ‘You’ll break his heart if he discovers that your main interest is food.’

  ‘He’s Russian. Aristocrat or not – he’ll understand.’

  ‘Very well. Come along, ladies, and I’ll show you what we have to go with our non-rationed rabbit sausages.’ Sebastian ushered them, like ducklings, ahead of him and into the kitchen. ‘Voilà.’

  ‘Where on ea
rth did you get that?’ The girls had been muttering about rabbits but Sebastian’s second surprise caused them to question him in unison.

  Sebastian handed Millie the bottle that claimed to be claret. ‘Dmitri,’ he said. ‘He helped another of the residents with his car in return for this. My clever Russian prefers what he calls “Wodka” and, since he has a friend who had a bottle or two to hand, I gave him a little remuneration and he gave me the wine.’

  ‘Is this black market, Seb?’ asked Millie.

  ‘Shouldn’t think so, darling. Alcohol isn’t rationed; it’s merely dreadfully expensive. Of course, French wines are becoming more and more difficult to obtain; between bombing raids and U-boats. I hope the vineyards are safe but why should they be, if ordinary homes and wonderful historical buildings are not?’ Sebastian pretended to sigh. ‘Those of us who have developed a taste for lovely French cheese with a glass of the right vintage are doomed.’

  Millie stood up quickly. ‘Don’t make stupid jokes, Seb, doomed? What do you know about being doomed?’

  ‘Bad taste, Millie, sorry. Now let’s cook the sausages and serve them with some lovely mashed potato. We’ll have a glass of wine, and I’ll tell you what we were given to eat in the canteen or whatever it’s called at St Barts.’

  His basic decency saved the situation, and since he pleased Millie and of course Sally by discussing the area around Arras and making suggestions as to where there might eventually be a British base at which ENSA could perform in relative safety, the evening was spent quite happily.

  Next morning, glad to be out in reasonably fresh air, they walked to the theatre.

  ‘Well, what?’ asked Millie.

  Completely mystified, both Sally and Sebastian looked at her. ‘Well, what what?’ they asked in chorus.

  ‘Food, you know how much food interests me. What food, Seb?’

  ‘Oh, at the hospital? Sorry, I forgot. It was an amazingly not-bad pie, called Woolton pie.’

  ‘Woolton? It had wool in it? Whatever next?’

  ‘Ha ha, you are both side-splittingly hilarious. We’ll get Humph to twinkle around on his toes and you two can do the comedy.’

  ‘Sometimes, we’d be better,’ said Millie in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Go on, Seb, tell.’

  They were forced to hesitate at a wide water-filled hole in the pavement and Sebastian helped Sally across. Millie refused his help and, with a joyful laugh, soared across not only the puddle but also a section of pavement in a perfect ‘split leap’.

  ‘Good Lord, Millie, how did you do that, and from a standing start, too?’

  ‘Seemed a good opportunity to see if I could still manage.’ She looked measuringly at him, a mischievous smile on her face, ‘You could too, Seb. If you start now, I’d say in six or seven years, if your dodgy ankle holds up, you’ll have mastered it.’

  ‘No, thanks. My pelvis, and no doubt other parts of my rather splendid body, weren’t designed for the ballet.’

  Sally was still looking at Millie in wonder. ‘Even in uniform, that was beautiful, Millie.’

  ‘Thanks, but it wouldn’t have been if I’d been wearing my uniform skirt; passers-by would have received quite a shock. Now go on, Seb, and tell us about the pie. If you say it’s really good we could try it at home.’

  ‘Keep up politically. Do you two read nothing but girlie magazines?’

  Sally frowned sadly at him. ‘Sebastian Brady, I’m not sure you meant that.’

  Suddenly aware of what he had said, Sebastian laughed. ‘Sorry, ladies, Women’s magazines. The pie was basically a mixture of vegetables, heavy on potatoes and cauliflower, turnips and carrots, all readily available in the British victory garden or in your local greengrocer’s. Was there an onion? I can’t remember; everything tastes good with an onion, don’t you agree? The vegetables were cooked – in some sort of stock, I suppose – and then put in a pie dish with a lovely pastry top, brushed with a little egg, or perhaps a little margarine because, after baking until the pastry was cooked, it came out all golden – just like Mummy used to make, at least Sally’s mummy, I bet. Our old chum, the chef at the Savoy, created it and named it in honour of Lord Woolton who is …’ He waited unsuccessfully and then filled in, ‘Head of the Ministry of Food.’

  ‘Sounds stodgy; I’d rather have the vegetables raw, except the potatoes.’

  ‘I dream of oranges,’ sighed Sally. ‘Tinned things just aren’t the same.’

  ‘Papayas,’ said Sebastian. ‘Has either of you ever tasted papaya?’

  They shook their heads as they walked. ‘Haven’t even heard of it,’ said Sally.

  ‘Ceylon,’ mused Sebastian, ‘my childhood, the most incredible fruits grew in our garden: bananas, pineapples, mangoes, papayas. Best tastes in the world, I think; I remember the first fresh papaya I ever had, so tasty, and pomegranates. A pomegranate is so beautiful, lovely red-gold skin, slice it in two and you have two bowls of glistening seeds, like edible rubies. My Senegalese Clara said that the fruit grown in Ceylon both cured and prevented illness. Look at me, never so much as a bad sniffle, ever.’

  ‘Then, next time you’re there, Seb, you must pick some for us.’

  ‘We’ll all go,’ promised Sebastian, ‘when this damned war is over.’

  TWELVE

  Sally had tried very hard to persuade Millie to go with her to Dartford for Christmas but Millie was adamant – if she went anywhere at all, it would be either to her parents’ home or to that of her in-laws.

  ‘You’re so kind, Sally, and I do thank your parents for a very genuine invitation but – not this year. I would add nothing to the party and might dampen everyone else’s pleasure. Another time, perhaps. We could do Christmas shopping together, though; something special for Seb. Any ideas?’

  ‘What’s a war bond? There was a bit on the wireless about sensible gifts this Christmas. I wrote down a few things that were suggested. War bonds, whatever they are. Flasks to take to the shelters; that’s not a bad idea – Max broke his a few days ago.’

  Millie looked up from restitching the hem of her uni-form skirt, which she had somehow caught on a packing case. ‘Max? Do we have to buy gifts for every-one?’

  Sally laughed. ‘Of course not. But if anyone was to give Max a gift, then a new flask would be a good idea.’

  ‘Patrick’s parents’ flasks are ancient, Sally. Two new ones might be rather nice. What else was suggested that’s not too expensive?’

  ‘The only other thing I wrote down is a sleeping bag. It was suggested for use in the shelters too.’

  ‘Can’t see my mum in a sleeping bag.’

  ‘Does she bake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So does mine and I thought I’d buy her some nuts; in one of her letters she was complaining about the price of nuts and the difficulty of getting fruit for cakes and Christmas puddings, things like currants. What if we went to Fortnum and Mason and if they have a pretty box of nuts and dried fruits I could buy one for Christmas.’

  ‘And then she uses her present to make you a cake?’

  Sally frowned thinking that Millie was probably right. ‘Hm, does sound rather mean – let’s forget that idea, although I will buy some just to take. Have you been to a place called Jackson’s of Piccadilly?’

  ‘The tea shop?’ Millie was staring across the room. ‘Not a bad idea, Sally. I haven’t been there in years and I think it does much more than tea now. Cups,’ she said, and Sally saw that she was looking at exquisite and probably valuable porcelain cups in Sebastian’s display cabinet.

  ‘Super idea, but I couldn’t begin to afford anything like that.’

  Millie stood up and folded the mended skirt. ‘Those are antiques but we could go to Jackson’s for some tea and, who knows, perhaps they sell lovely tea cups or teapots. My mum has a weakness for teapots.’

  Immediately Sally began to feel guilty. The Petries, her parents’ oldest friends, sold fine teas. She could not possibly go to another outlet, no matter how historical or famous.<
br />
  ‘We’ll buy a book for Seb,’ decided Millie, unwittingly making Sally feel better. ‘We’ll find out what has to be read this Christmas, and if Jackson’s sell china, I’ll buy one pretty cup and saucer for my mum, cigarettes for Patrick’s dad and hankies for his mum. That one of yours must have cost a fortune, Sally, where did you get it?’

  For a moment Sally could not recall an expensive handkerchief and then she remembered Sybil’s handkerchief, which she had washed and ironed so carefully and tried to return to its owner who had gently pushed it away. ‘Keep it, child, I have several.’ The handkerchief was at the bottom of her underwear drawer, being saved for a special occasion.

  ‘Sybil gave it to me.’ She said no more and Millie did not ask.

  ‘Hankies make a nice present and I’ll think of something for my dad. First free time, Christmas shopping it is,’ said Sally, ‘and I must buy cards too. I won’t have a friend left in the world soon if I don’t keep in touch.’

  ‘Real friends understand; look at me. I’ve stayed away from everyone since I lost Patrick and my genuine friends have found me, but I still think I’ll stay here this year. Just can’t handle “Deck the Halls.”’

  On the Tuesday of Christmas week they were given a two-hour break and, having had lots of fun making lists, reading book reviews and seeking advice, they went Christmas shopping.

  ‘These books have been suggested for Seb,’ said Millie. ‘Mildred Pierce by someone called James M. Cain, but there’s too much female hysteria, according to the review I read, though the writer has a good reputation. Then there’s Blood, Sweat and Tears by guess who?’

  ‘Not the foggiest.’

  ‘Sally Brewer! The PM, Winston Churchill. Seb’s a great fan, isn’t he? Seems an ideal choice.’

  ‘I’m not sure, Millie. Originally, he was, but his praise has been somewhat less enthusiastic this year.’

  ‘By the way, none of my business, of course, but is there some reason why Seb isn’t in one of the services?’

  Sally thought before answering. Sebastian’s business was his own but Millie had seen her own husband give up his career and then his life serving his country. Perhaps she had a right to know why a seemingly able-bodied young man had not been compelled to enlist. ‘He did try to enlist, wanted to fly, but he was rejected; some inner ear problem.’ She would not add that Sebastian’s failure – as he saw it – was, she believed, the reason he drove himself so hard for ENSA.