by A. W. Exley
"I'm sure Henry came to warn us, father. He wouldn't knowingly put us at risk." She spoke from the doorway at the base of the tower.
It only took a few words and the sound of her voice, for the years to fall away and tumble me back to 1906. I was a clumsy seven year old and Ella five. A new schoolhouse had been built and a teacher engaged. Ella and I raced around the short lawn, following the noise of laughing children. A group of boys and girls played under a spreading tree. One caught my attention, a short girl with two chubby blonde plaits. Clear blue eyes fixed me to the spot.
"What are you looking at?" she had said. Then she picked up a stone and threw it at me.
Hazel always had fantastic aim, even then. I raised a hand to my forehead and the faint recollection of a scar. The cool press of my fingers made the image swim and disappear as I returned to the present.
When I went off to war, I left behind a girl of thirteen. Now seventeen, the emerging woman stole my breath. I couldn't look at her; it hurt my eyes to see how she had grown and to know I would never be worthy of her friendship again.
"There is a plague at loose in the world and he could have brought it with him," Mr Morris said.
Her father spoke my darkest fear. Why had Ella suggested I come here? In seeing how the family fared, I had endangered them all.
"Better we admit Henry, who appears hale and hearty, than a sick traveller. And now we are forewarned for when someone next knocks on our door." Hazel dodged chickens as she walked toward us. Her blonde hair had grown, caught in a single thick plait running all the way down to her waist. She was still shorter than me. By quite a bit.
George Morris crunched the paper in his hands. "It is an unacceptable risk. He should go, now."
He was right. I turned on my heel and spun back the way I came.
"Do you have nothing to say to me, Henry?"
Her softly spoken question halted me in my tracks. If I could squeeze the noises from my rusty throat, I would say so much. But my clumsy apology for abandoning her melted under the harsh glare of her father. I could say nothing in front of him. Foolish promises of a fifteen-year-old boy scattered at our feet like grain for the chickens.
I shook my head and rubbed my throat, but she kept advancing. My hands clutched an invisible rifle. You learn in battle the benefit of using the length of steel to repel an enemy when you run out of bullets, but I had nothing to ward her off.
"What's wrong with you?" She circled me then stopped in front. She peered up at my hidden gaze. "Why don't you say something?"
My chest tightened, and no matter how many times I swallowed, nothing came out. She deserved an answer, as pathetic as it would seem. I pulled out the little notebook and scribbled can't talk, then I turned the page to her.
"Why not?" Then her jaw dropped and she stared even more intently. "Did you lose your tongue in the war? Did a German cut it out?"
I wish. That would have at least been a tale of horror and bravery. Instead my affliction was a weak mind, bombarded by artillery and worn down by trench life. I shuffled from foot to foot. Her constant attention prickled over my skin and seemed to steal the air from my lungs like the heat blast from heavy fire. I needed to escape their enclosure for the open fields beyond, where I could breathe.
I tried to explain it in as few as words as possible. Doctors call it shellshock. They say it affected me in the head and stole my voice.
There. She knew the horrible truth and would stop looking at me. I wasn't just a mute; I was touched in the head.
Instead she read the note and laughed. "Oh, Henry. You were never right in the head, and at least now I don't have to listen to sad old excuses."
Then she turned her back and walked away. She headed for the garden and her mother who had popped up amongst the beans.
Mr Morris pointed a finger at the enormous door in the wall. The man didn't need to speak to convey his message.
With my tail between my legs, I scurried away like a kicked dog.
4
There is a comfort in exhaustion, for it gives you no opportunity to think. Ella was determined to do her bit as the nation fell ill, and far from being left to hide in my room, she included me. She devised a plan that kept us both working every single daylight hour and several dark ones as well. It ensured I dropped into bed too tired to even remove my boots.
Did she know that the long, quiet hours were the hardest for me to endure? Every night I plunged back into the war, relived the horrors over and over. I awoke exhausted, with my throat hoarse and scratchy from screaming in my sleep. The constant physical exertion of Ella’s new regimen drained my mind and I slept deeply and, for a short while, free of the clawing nightmares.
We rose early each day to undertake farm chores. For me, that meant helping Stewart catch up on four years of damaged fences, broken water troughs, fields in desperate need of ploughing and reseeding, and tracking down a small band of sheep that decided to go feral. The old ram had become stroppy after years of doing his own thing and it took days to find him and another week to creep up behind him.
Once Ella and I had lunch, we would hitch Cossimo to the small cart and head over to Serenity House. I achieved my dream of striding its long hallways. Except instead of carrying a silver tray bearing the day's mail, I disposed of soiled bed linen and kept fractious patients in their beds. Not quite the prestigious life of service to a great aristocratic family that seemed the pinnacle of success to a young boy.
"I'll meet you back here at five," Ella said. She tied a large white handkerchief around her head and tucked under stray ends of blonde hair. With a tired smile, she squeezed my arm and then darted away to follow three other women through the side entrance.
I heaved a sigh. Rich paper covered the walls, expensive carpets protected the polished timbers of the floor, and chandeliers sparkled overhead. Yet the stench of war pervaded every room. Or was it a smell peculiar to death, no matter where it stalked? Whether you stood on mud or marble, death would find you just the same.
A sombre mood settled on the great house. Some of the ill seemed aware they couldn't fight the Grim Reaper, yet they tried even when we knew their battle was lost. Other patients simply gave up and waited for their souls to be harvested. Those were the hardest to tend. They lay still, eyes open but unseeing or uncaring.
I reported with the other male workers to a dour chap who doled out the butler's orders. War or disease changed nothing about life for those of us who resided below stairs. We were British after all, and tradition must be followed. Having received my orders for the day, I walked to the laundry and picked up an armload of fresh linen.
The ballroom was laid with a sprung floor to make dancing more comfortable on the feet. Tiny strips of oak, walnut, and cherry formed an intricate mosaic, making up the parquet surface. Chandeliers made of thousands of crystals spun overhead. Glass-panelled French doors opened out to the balcony on one side, but those doors stayed closed now.
Below the spinning crystals of the overhead lights, rows of metal cots with crisp white sheets held feverish patients. Once, Serenity House acted as a convalescence home for wounded soldiers. As those men moved out, the grand old house took in influenza victims from the surrounding area who had no family to care for them.
I deposited clean linen on the table at the end of each row. Then I walked back along and picked up the dirty sheets for the return trip to the laundry. I spotted Ella, sitting on a cot with a bowl of water on her lap, sponging the brow of a feverish woman. At the Jeffrey farm, Alice and Stewart did the same for Magda and Charlotte, and we all prayed their fevers would break before their bodies wore down.
There seemed so little doctors or nurses could do when the influenza attacked a person. We made them comfortable, placed cold flannels on foreheads, and gave them aspirin. What manner of disease resisted all medicine?
As I went about my allotted tasks, a particularly gloomy tone crept through the house. The liveried servants kept their heads down, and when two passed in
the halls, they exchanged raised eyebrows and shrugged shoulders. Life is full of frustration when you can't speak and simple questions go unanswered. I eventually caught the attention of a maid and through a series of hand gestures and letters written in the air, tried to ask what was going on.
"The duke has fallen ill. He's delirious up in his room and calling out for his son. It doesn't look good," she whispered.
Bad news indeed for the noble house. The heir, or Captain deMage as I knew him, was still abroad. From what I saw of him at the front, he was somewhat rare for an aristocratic officer. He fought alongside the men instead of hiding in Paris surrounded by burlesque dancers.
Curiosity satisfied, I continued on my way. With my arms otherwise engaged, I used my backside to push down the door handle and then thumped the door open to the courtyard. I screwed up my nose at the load I carried. Soaked with sweat and urine, the sheets were pungent, and I twisted my nose away from the enormous bundle. Perhaps that is why I never saw the foot, but I felt the rough hand shove my back as I lost my balance.
With my feet swept out from under me, I went down hard. Or I would have, but for the armload of dirty laundry. My face disappeared into the acrid linen, and bodily secretions from the sick brushed against my skin. My stomach convulsed as I scrambled to free myself and gulped fresh air.
Behind me came the harsh laughter of two men.
"Evans is taking on a pile of sheets and still doesn't have the balls to win the day," one said.
Something I learned about war—like it didn't turn me into a man, service also didn't transform bullies. War time or peace time, a bully stays a bully. But in war, they found another outlet for their cruelty. Behind me stood the sort of soldier who tortured a dying German with the point of his bayonet. I fixed my gaze on the sheets, now scattered across the ground. Ignoring the taunts, I sat back on my knees and began to pile the laundry together again.
"What's the matter, Evans? Cat got your tongue?" a familiar voice continued to mock me.
My chest heaved and I cast a glance under my arm as I picked up the load. Two men, one tall and thin, the other shorter and chubby. Both had served in my unit. One now wore the Leithfield livery while the other dressed in the plain and rough clothes of a gardener.
My nemesis and his sidekick. In what little free time we had at the front, if they couldn't find a defenceless animal or an unguarded enemy soldier, they tormented me.
"Good men died because of you, Evans. I intend to make sure everyone knows that. Cowards like you should have been buried up to the neck in the mud and left for the crows to pick over," Davie Phelps, the footman, said.
His companion, Alan Simpson, snorted. "Do you think he can even hear you? I hear his brain is addled."
"Oh, he can understand me all right." Phelps never took his gaze from me as he drew on his cigarette and then tossed it to the dirt, crushing the bright ember under the toe of his polished shoe. "I’m surprised he hasn't pissed his pants yet. He did that a lot in the trenches, didn't you Evans?"
Their harsh laughter followed me as I stumbled to the squat laundry building out back. Peals of laughter wrapped around me and their words echoed in my brain as they bounced around in my skull. Surprised he hasn't pissed his pants yet.
Using a shoulder, I pushed into the hot building where women laboured to clean all the clothes and bedding. They stirred bubbling vats with large wooden paddles, sleeves rolled up on straining arms. It was almost like a kitchen making soup for a giant, except each churn extracted filth from fibre. Steam rose off the hot water and curled into my lungs. I gasped as memory flooded my mind with the thin mist.
I can't breathe. Every breath of hot air burns my lungs as the artillery falls. Then, while we are disorientated from the lightning attack, the Germans throw poisonous gas.
My feet pound the hard ground. The coward fleeing from the fight instead of standing his ground. But at least I still have control of my bladder.
Where am I? Did I run too far and cross into enemy territory, or am I still behind the line?
My mind darkens, dust fills the air, and visibility shrinks to a small bubble around me. Blood thrums in my ears and cuts all external noise. My back hits something solid and I slide down it. With my knees drawn to my chest, I burrow my head and fling my arms over the top. You need to make yourself as small a target as possible. Stay low, hit the ground, don't stand tall. Soon, you hope, soon it will pass and you will hear the all-clear siren.
Another soldier takes shelter next to me, to my right. Two of us wait out the firestorm. How many other soldiers are trapped out there? Should I go look? No, my mind whispers. Stay here, against the bunker. Soon the barrage will end and the ground will stop shaking. Then you can go help the wounded.
The dizzy pounding in my head eases and I swallow. My throat is dry and parched from the scorched air and my tongue needs to lap at water. My hand drops to the belt at my waist, but my canteen is missing. I don’t remember dropping it, but I hope it isn’t too far away. Cautiously, I raise my head and find the grey gaze of my companion on me.
Ella sat on the ground next to me and on seeing me stir, she reached out and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. Ella at the front? She must have joined the nursing corps.
The haze in my mind retreated as the panic ebbed. The bunker at my back became the side of the laundry. I hadn't run far at all and Ella had found me.
"Phelps is an idiot. He once tried to kiss me and I had to knee him the groin. He's the sort who will only ever target those he thinks are smaller, weaker, or slower. I taught him a lesson about that. Next time you see him, look closely. He still walks slightly bent."
She squeezed me tight. Although she tried to make me feel better, her words showed even a woman could get the better of Phelps, but not me. I was his equal in height but not in actions. A few words cut me down and squashed me into the ground like a cigarette butt under the toe of his boot.
I hated being weak and pathetic. I hated how the other men tunnelled straight under my weakness and brought me down. I should go far away, where no one would ever have to look at me. If I had any guts at all, I would have pressed the end of my rifle against my temple years ago. But I couldn’t. I had to return because I promised to free Hazel.
Ella cradled my face in her hands and made me meet her serious gaze. She gave me nowhere to hide. "I don't even pretend to understand what you went through, Henry, but know this: I will not abandon you. I will do whatever it takes to help you come back to us. You and father. I'll not give up on either of you."
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I needed to tell her nothing remained in this form worth saving. Henry Evans died on the front and only a shade returned.
A soulless carrier of death.
5
Magda's fever broke first. Charlotte, though younger and healthier, fared worse, and the entire household worried if she would live or die. Days stretched into a week before she too woke from fevered dreams. Both women were terribly weak and still abed, but we all breathed a little easier to know their journey through the darkness had ended.
As time passed, worry ate at the back of my mind like a worm through an old apple. Was the Morris family healthy and did they have sufficient supplies?
Hazel seldom complained about her odd parents, even after they shut her away. To keep her safe they said, whenever I knocked on that door and asked if she could come out to play. But in private, they made preparatory arrangements to survive the Judgement Day apocalypse they believed was nigh.
I understood their concern. I, too, wanted to see her kept safe, and I had worried about her for more years than anyone knew. Ever since she lobbed a rock at my head. It didn't matter I was only seven at the time, I never looked at another girl. The passage of years had done nothing to change my mind and I always remained loyal and faithful to her.
The only thing that changed was my realisation that I wasn't worthy of her attention. A girl so pretty, smart, and full of life needed a proper man to tak
e over her care from her father. She deserved someone strong and brave, who could protect her and fend off the troubles of the world. I could still do my little bit, though, to make them comfortable in their isolation.
With a few hours to myself, I decided to hitch up Cossimo to the cart and drive into the village. Alice came out with a woollen scarf and silently wrapped it around my neck. The women mothered me like I was some lame duckling scooped off the side of the road. It annoyed me and comforted me at the same time. I tried to give her a smile of thanks but the message didn't reach my lips.
A chill in the October morning presaged winter's bite arriving far too early. The idea of portents of gloom took root in my mind and grew in the bitter dark. Like black mould. What if the Morrises had it right and the influenza pandemic was the start of a divine plague? Should we all be building walls, digging trenches, and laying in supplies? Would we survive at the Jeffrey estate if a biblical judgement descended upon England?
As Cossimo trotted down the road, I pondered how to reduce the farm's reliance on sporadic deliveries at the village's general store. We grew a few cabbages and leeks in the potager garden, but if we cleaned out the old glasshouse we could keep more vegetables going through the colder months. We had the sheep and cattle to butcher for meat, and the chickens supplied us with plenty of eggs. The house cow had delivered her calf and kept us in milk and cream as long as whoever milked her remembered to warm their hands first. Otherwise she kicked.
We neared the village before I was satisfied my mental preparations would increase our self-sufficiency through winter. The village roads had changed. People rushed where they needed to go. They wore scarves pulled over their mouths, even though the weather wasn't that cold. Newspapers reported the pandemic was a bacterium and advised people to cover their noses and mouths with masks, or whatever they had at hand, when dealing with infected relatives.
Most of the few shops along our short main street were closed, their doors locked and shutters down. I manoeuvred the cart through a ghost town. The sickness affected everybody. Even if it didn’t strike you down, you nursed the ill or looked after the very young, who seemed to escape the worst of it.