‘My name’s Bedpan Annie,’ she would explain, but when some of the patients jokingly called her by this name, she was eyed with disfavour by her seniors who thought her frivolous, which did not worry her as long as the patients liked her. Due to her long and irregular hours of work she needed to be resident, and slept in a small, bare room on the third floor; a necessary arrangement that suited Grace, preferring it to the mounting tension at home as Ernest’s departure drew near.
‘You’ll find Isabel an invaluable help to you, Dad,’ said Mark Storey, ‘just as she’s always been to me. She seems to be able to bring light into the darkest places, and women especially turn to her for comfort. She’s an angel.’
Father and son were seated on a bench in the small back garden of St Barnabas’ vicarage, where a dusty privet hedge screened them from view. The sound of children’s sharp little cockney voices could be heard from the street where they were playing, and an angry shout from a man with a cart ordering them out of his way; barking dogs and women calling from front doors added to the background noises of the warm summer evening, and the two men spoke in lowered tones.
‘I shan’t demand too much of her,’ replied the Reverend Richard Storey who in his seventies had volunteered to come out of retirement and deputise for his son at St Barnabas’. ‘She’s got so many duties, teaching at that school and parish visiting, whereas most clergy wives only have the church and the vicarage to care for – and run the Mothers’ Union, of course.’
‘Ah, we are very fortunate in having Mrs Clements to do those duties,’ said Mark with a smile. ‘The church is her domain, polishing the brasses, doing the flowers, if there are any, and laundering the altar linen and surplices. And she comes in almost daily to cook and clean for us, in fact she’s a treasure, and all she requires is to be regularly told so. She’s inclined to gossip a bit, in fact if you want anything to be known in the parish, you’ve only to tell Mrs Clements and it’ll be all round in no time, but if there’s any trouble between her and other parishioners, Isabel’s the best one to deal with any differences.’ Mark paused, noting how frail his father looked, and yet how firm of purpose. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am…we are to you, Dad, leaving Instone and coming here – and being separated from my mother.’
‘Your mother will be well looked after at Sylvia’s, son, and I came here in answer to a clear call from God,’ replied the old man firmly. ‘I’d been turning the matter over in my mind and conscience for some time, wondering what His will was for me at this time of national crisis, and when your letter came to tell us that you were joining up as an army chaplain, everything fell into place and I could see my duty clear before me – just as you do, Mark. Your mother is in total agreement, and willingly commits us both to God’s care. I shall do what I can for the souls of this parish, with His divine help. Let us bow our heads for a moment, Mark, and pray for our country and your part in its defence.’
The two men duly lowered their heads and the father commended the whole family into God’s care and protection; as Mark added his fervent Amen, Isabel called to them that supper was ready.
Isabel looked pale and was rather silent as she served her husband and father-in-law with a stew made from neck of mutton and root vegetables with the addition of a little pearl barley ‘as the Irish do, to make it go further,’ she said with a little smile. Bread-and-butter pudding followed – ‘it’s margarine, actually,’ – and when they had finished old Mr Storey tactfully withdrew to his room, saying that he needed to spend some time in prayer. In fact he felt tired out.
‘We shan’t be late to bed, shall we, my love?’ said Mark when they had finished the washing-up and the table was laid for breakfast. Isabel took her husband’s hand and followed him up the stairs to their room and the bed awaiting them. They opened the window on to the fading light; a brilliant sunset lit the western sky.
Lying side by side, Mark spoke with a certain hesitation. ‘I haven’t any words, Isabel, only that I love you and I’ll think of you and pray for you every day we’re apart.’
‘And so shall I, Mark,’ she replied, and flinging her arms around him, she whispered, ‘Love me, Mark! Love me now, tonight, always!’
At once he felt his defences were broken, and he took her at her word, seizing her and throwing his body over hers. ‘You want me to, Isabel, and by God, I will!’
He pulled up her nightgown, something he usually left her to do when she felt ready, and clasped her in his arms so tightly that she gasped for breath; instead of waiting for her to open her thighs to him, he roughly forced the weight of his body between them, and instead of touching her secret place with a questing forefinger and gradually bringing her up to a peak of pleasure, he thrust his rigid member inside her, hard and harder still, flattening her down upon the bed. She gave a little gasp of discomfort, but he seemed not to hear.
‘Isabel, I’m here, I’m here with you – I’m here within you!’ he groaned with a kind of desperation. There was no tenderness, none of the consideration he had always hitherto shown her; never before had he used her in such a brutal way, if such a word could be applied to her gentle, serious-minded husband, a clergyman of the Church. She was overpowered, unable to move or resist, utterly helpless. It made her remember stories she had heard from women of the parish whose drunken husbands had forced themselves upon their wives; they had confided in her as a married woman who would understand the meaning of the word rape, and this night she felt that it was happening to her. She had not sufficient breath to cry out, and her attempts to push him away were ineffectual; she simply had to lie there until at length he gave another wordless groan and collapsed panting, his passion subsided. She was at last able to move away from under him, her flesh bruised and sore.
‘Isabel – oh, Isabel.’
Shocked and bewildered, at first she had no words for him. He, her husband, the dedicated and highly respected vicar of St Barnabas’ had forced her, just as a drunken brute might have done, or a soldier quenching his lust with a whore.
‘Isabel, my love, forgive me. Forgive me, Isabel.’
What should she say? How could she reply?
Lying silent and still beside him, her eyes closed, she prayed earnestly for the right words; she reflected on his gentleness and courtesy over the past two years, patiently and self-effacingly denying himself his full conjugal rights throughout all this time, for her sake. Until now. And remembering this, she had her answer. She understood his anguish at leaving her to go and serve in a war from which he might not return, and his need to make love to her fully and properly before what might be their last farewell.
She turned to him and put her arms around his neck; she kissed him with an almost maternal tenderness, and gave him her whispered assurances that there was nothing to forgive.
August, 1916
‘Yes, we saw Ernest off yesterday, and Isabel’s husband went last Friday,’ Tom Munday said bleakly. ‘Makes you wonder how many more good men are going to be sent out there to be slaughtered.’
Eddie stared in some surprise. It wasn’t like old Tom to speak in such an unhopeful way. The two of them were sitting in the dusty yard at the back of the Tradesmen’s Arms on what would have been a perfect August evening had it not been for the tension and anxiety in the air. All over the country families waited for news and searched the casualty lists dreading to find a loved one’s name.
‘How’s old Yeomans taking it?’ asked Tom. ‘I reckon your Mary won’t be short o’ work.’
Eddie Cooper shook his head. ‘He’s a broken man – aged ten years overnight. And my Mary has to put in a twelve-hour day, and keep them two land girls at it. She’ll crock herself up, that’s what she’ll do. Looked exhausted when I went over to give ’em a hand with the haymakin’ last weekend, seein’ there’s no casual labour to be had, they’re all at the front. It’s desperate – God knows how it’ll end.’ Eddie downed his glass of beer. ‘Anyway, Tom, you’d better be gettin’ back to that missus o’ yours – sh
e’ll be lookin’ out for you.’
‘Not just yet. I’ll take another five minutes before I go home and pretend to look on the bright side for her sake. I’m bloody worn out with it.’
Eddie gave him a sharp glance. ‘Yeah?’
‘Trouble is I can’t speak the truth to Violet, Eddie. I have to hide behind a lot of comforting words, and I’m just about emptied out. My son’s at the front, so’s my son-in-law, Isabel’s on her own in a rough East End parish, with Zeppelins flying overhead. And I have to grin like a fool and pretend not to be worried. Hah!’
Eddie’s eyes showed his helpless sympathy as he tried to think of something encouraging to say. ‘What about your girl Grace?’ he asked. ‘She’s settled well enough at Everham General, hasn’t she?’
‘Yeah, she’s a ward maid or somesuch. We don’t see much of her because she has to live in. Just as well, really, home isn’t very jolly these days.’ He got up from the garden seat. ‘So long, Eddie. Hope your Mary keeps going at Yeomans’ farm.’
‘I thought you were never coming home,’ grumbled Violet Munday. ‘You say you’re short of work, but there’s still time to gossip with Eddie Cooper down at that pub. I’d have thought you’d want to get home as soon as you can, knowing I’m on my own here.’
‘Sorry, Vi,’ he said, kissing her. ‘Eddie was telling me what it’s like on Yeomans’ farm now that Dick’s gone, and no labour to be had.’
‘It’s downright scandalous that a farmer’s son’s sent out to get killed while that white-livered milksop Sidney Goddard stands in that damned shop selling ribbon and buttons and stuff – and our son facing death—’ She broke off, wringing her hands. ‘You won’t catch me going in there, and I’m not the only woman in North Camp to shun Goddard’s haberdashery, I can tell you!’
Tom heard the hysterical edge to her voice, and gently put an arm around her shoulders.
‘Sidney Goddard failed his medical on account of his poor sight, Vi,’ he reminded her mildly. ‘What do you think he ought to do, if not to look after his father’s business?’
‘Find some work that a proper man can do – go down a coal mine, go and quarry stone and break it up, drive a goods train and stoke up the furnace – anything as long as he hides his stupid face in shame!’
‘Now, Vi, don’t get yourself into a state, it won’t make any difference to the war,’ soothed Tom. ‘As a matter of fact, I think I can find a job for young Goddard.’
‘Why on earth should you bother yourself about him when you’ve got a son and a son-in-law risking their lives every hour of the day at the front? I’ll never understand you, Tom Munday!’
‘Come on, Vi, calm down, there’s a good girl. We’ve got to go on being brave for Ernest’s sake – and for Mark and Aaron and all of them out there.’
She burst into a storm of weeping. ‘For God’s sake, shut up about being brave! Dick Yeomans killed last month, and our son could be next – and if you only saw the misery of poor Ethel Bird, her son Ted gone, and Tim still out there – don’t you dare talk about calming down and being brave – shut up and leave me alone!’
‘All right, Vi, only don’t forget I’m feeling it too. I’ll get the supper—’
‘Don’t bother about supper for me, I can’t eat anything. Just leave me alone.’
‘I’ll make a pot o’ tea, then.’ And do some watering, he thought to himself. The tomato plants were looking droopy, and life had to go on. An idea had come into his head, and tomorrow he’d have another word with Eddie and perhaps call on the Goddards. Desperate times call for unusual solutions.
Cadet Nurse Munday had fallen asleep after the alarm bell had gone off, woke with a start, leapt out of bed and dressed, grabbed a cup of stewed tea from the staff dining room and scuttled into Princess Alexandra ward where Matron was already taking morning prayers. It was going to be one of those days, Grace thought. She tiptoed towards the nurses standing around the sister’s desk, heads bowed and ready to recite the Lord’s Prayer in conclusion. Before Matron left to take prayers on Prince Albert ward, she eyed Nurse Munday with disapproval.
‘Unpunctuality is slackness, Nurse. Don’t make a habit of it.’
‘Sorry, Matron,’ muttered Grace with downcast eyes, and hurried into the ward kitchen where tea, porridge and bread and butter were waiting to be served to the patients, who included two children; one was a little girl of four who was to have a removal of tubercular glands of the neck that morning. Grace had a special smile for her and a word for Mrs Temple, a mother in her thirties who had undergone a mastectomy for breast cancer and was only slowly recovering.
‘Poor little Tilly can’t understand why she’s not having any breakfast this morning, Mrs Temple, and thinks it’s because she’s been naughty – and old Mrs Stephens has to be fed her porridge, otherwise she just lays back and says her family have put her in the workhouse,’ Grace said cheerfully. ‘And there’s two women asking for bedpans before the breakfast things are cleared away – just try and hang on for another two minutes, ladies!’
A staff nurse came hurrying in. ‘There’s an accident case on the way, a young girl who’s broken her arm,’ she said. ‘And her mother’s on the hospital management committee. Better get this ward tidy quickly – hurry up, Munday!’
A disturbance was heard at the entrance to the ward, and a haughty female voice raised above others. Matron returned, followed by the ward sister as the double doors swung open for a frightened looking girl of about sixteen in a wheelchair, accompanied by a very imperious lady with a huge, flower-decked hat.
‘We shall want a private room for her,’ this lady demanded, and Grace pricked up her ears. She knew that voice, and it held no pleasant memories for her.
The ward sister shook her head. ‘I’m afraid there’s no single room available at present, but Diana could go in a corner bed. Nurse Munday, get Miss Clandon’s bed out of that corner, and move the empty bed into it. Come along, be quick! And fetch the screens to put round it.’
Grace looked sideways at Mrs Temple, and whispered, ‘Delighted to oblige, I’m sure, if I could have another two pairs of hands,’ and aloud she said, ‘Right, Sister, I’m just finishing breakfasts and starting bedpans – be with you in a minute!’
A probationer nurse was summoned to assist with the bed-moving, and transferring the new patient from the wheelchair to the empty bed.
‘Do be careful, my daughter has a broken arm,’ said the girl’s mother, and Grace rolled up her eyes. ‘Oh, heck!’ she muttered to Mrs Temple. ‘It’s Mrs Bentley-Foulkes, a fearful old hag. Watch out, this is going to be a right do-and-a-half!’
‘Diana’s GP has been sent for, and meanwhile she must stay absolutely still,’ said Matron, and the sister nodded. ‘Nurse Munday, bring a bedpan for Miss Bentley-Foulkes, we need to collect a specimen of urine for routine testing.’
Grace approached with a covered bedpan straight from the washer in the sluice, and attempted to help the girl to sit on it.
‘Ow! That’s hot, I can’t sit on that!’ protested the girl. ‘It’ll burn my bottom!’
‘Oh, I’m very sorry, I’ll go and cool it,’ said Grace, whispering to Mrs Temple as she passed her bed, ‘I’ll fill it with ice cubes next time, your ladyship.’
‘You’re so entertaining, Nurse,’ Mrs Temple whispered back, trying not to laugh. ‘It’s better than medicine when you’re around. Only do be careful,’ she added, nodding towards the corner bed.
It appeared that Diana Bentley-Foulkes had fallen off her bicycle as she set off for her voluntary work at the day nursery, and was in great pain with her left arm. When her GP arrived to examine her he announced that it was her left clavicle, or collarbone that had been broken, and that it would need to be manipulated into position under a general anaesthetic. Another GP, skilled in anaesthesia was duly sent for, and Mrs Bentley-Foulkes was told that her daughter was allowed nothing by mouth, not even water.
At this point the theatre trolley arrived to take little Tilly for
her operation, and Grace made up her bed ready to receive her back. Screened off from the group gathered round Diana’s bed, Grace could hear every word.
‘Has that urine specimen been tested?’
‘Er, no, Sister, Munday forgot to save it,’ answered the probationer.
‘Oh, how careless of her! It means we shall have to obtain another.’
‘My daughter’s not going to be able to produce any more if she’s not allowed even a sip of water! Who is that wretched nurse? I seem to recall her face from somewhere. What’s her name?’
‘Munday, Mrs Bentley-Foulkes, she’s a cadet nurse, fairly recently taken on.’
‘I knew it! That’s the one, Munday, she used to work as a waitress in a very high quality tea room, and got dismissed for insolence. Yes, now I remember Mrs Brangton telling me, she then went to work in a public house. A most unsuitable choice for a nurse, I must say – surely Matron must have asked for references? I’ll have a word with her about it.’
Behind the screen, but in view of Mrs Temple, Grace made a rude gesture towards Mrs Bentley-Foulkes, putting her thumb to her nose. Mrs Temple stifled a giggle, and there was a sudden silence. The ward sister gave a cough and cleared her throat.
The Carpenter's Children Page 18