One sultry evening in August, she got back to Willow Cottage, swaying with exhaustion. As always, she went straight to her cottage. Every morning since she’d been going to the camp, she would use the garden hose to fill up a small tin bath just outside the cottage. On hot days the water would be warm when she returned in the early evening, so she could bathe in it.
Mabel had hit upon this idea as there were thick bushes around the spot where she put the bath, and she rather enjoyed the idea of doing something so risky. But tonight, she was so tired she could barely strip off her clothes. Although the cool water perked her up enough to dry herself, dress again and put her clothes in the bathwater, she hadn’t the energy to wash them and hang them on the line to dry. As she walked over to the main house, she was staggering.
As she came through the back door, Clara was in the hallway. She took one look at her housekeeper, saw the state she was in, and gasped.
‘Oh, Mabel! What have you done to yourself? Are you ill, or just worn out?’
She took Mabel’s hand, led her into the kitchen and sat her down.
‘I’ll be fine after a sleep, Clara,’ Mabel said. But even her voice was slow and indistinct.
Clara made a pot of tea and poured a cup for Mabel. ‘Have you fever, a sore throat, anything which might suggest you’ve got the …’ She didn’t finish the sentence because she couldn’t bear the thought of what that would mean.
‘No, nothing,’ Mabel insisted.
‘Then I’m going to insist you stay upstairs tonight. I’ll make you some supper and come up with it.’
Sometime later, when Clara carried a tray upstairs with soup, bread and cheese and some apple pie for Mabel, she found her housekeeper fast asleep in the spare room.
Clara felt guilty then that she hadn’t heated up the chicken soup that Mabel had made that morning and made her eat it before sending her to bed.
She stood for a moment or two, looking at the girl, and felt a pang of guilt at her own selfishness. No one had ever worked for her the way Mabel did. She was a good cook, she cleaned to perfection, the laundry was all done – washed, dried and ironed – without her even noticing. She mended clothes, and even cleaned Clara’s shoes for her. Yet with this big house to look after, she still insisted on helping nurse those men at the camp!
No one else around here would do it. There were some in Dorchester who’d be happy if every POW died. And these were people who went to church every Sunday and claimed to be Christians.
Clara did find Mabel a bit puzzling. She didn’t ever talk about her past – at least, no further back than the time she’d spent in Bristol. If she mentioned her husband, it was only in passing; she didn’t seem to be suffering from grief. But more than that, she’d never given Clara a sense of what her family background was.
Yet despite this puzzle, looking down at the girl with her glorious red hair spread over the pillow, she felt a surge of real affection for her. Mabel had made her life ordered, comfortable and easy. She didn’t demand anything, she was always pleasant and interested in anything Clara had to say. A paragon of virtue, really, along with being very pretty.
But for all that, Clara knew there was something dark in Mabel’s past!
9
Clara was concerned when Mabel didn’t wake up the next morning. She had gone into the room to check on her the previous night, and she was totally out for the count, which was good. But considering she was usually up at six every day, it was worrying to find her sleeping soundly at eight. At ten she was still asleep, but by then Clara could see that she seemed completely relaxed, and the pallor she’d had the previous evening had been replaced by pink cheeks.
Clara was relieved she wasn’t ill, so she let her sleep on. She even went down to the cottage and, on seeing Mabel’s clothes still in the tin bath, she fished them out, wrung them out, and then hung them on the line to dry.
Around four in the afternoon, Clara was in her studio painting when the spare-room door opened and Mabel came out, looking like a little girl with her hair cascading over the shoulders of one of Clara’s voluminous nightdresses.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said as the clock downstairs chimed the hour. ‘I can’t believe I’ve slept so long.’
Clara laughed. ‘Well, I’m glad you were only suffering from exhaustion. Last night I was afraid you might be coming down with something. You’ve been doing too much. It’s so truly kind and noble of you to help at the camp, but if it wears you out, you must stop.’
‘I can’t, Clara,’ she said. ‘Those poor men need my help.’
Clara could see complete determination in Mabel’s eyes, and knew no reproving words were going to stop her. ‘Yes, I suppose they do, but just promise me you won’t let yourself get into that state again. All sorts of nasty diseases can take hold when your body is at a low ebb. I want you here for many more years yet.’
Spanish flu was the only thing people wanted to discuss. It had completely eclipsed the war as a topic of conversation, but then everyone believed the war was all over bar the shouting. This wasn’t true, of course, as Clara and Mabel realized when they studied reports in The Times . The fighting was every bit as fierce as it had been all along, but it was true that the American troops, fresh to battle, had managed to push the Germans back.
No one even seemed that shocked when news broke that Tsar Nicholas and his whole family had been executed in Moscow, in July. It was as if everyone was wearing blinkers and couldn’t see anything but the Spanish flu.
Maybe Dorchester wasn’t as severely affected by the pandemic as the cities they read about in the newspaper, but here in Dorset the farmers were worried about who would be left to get the harvest in. The previous year there had been plenty of prisoners to call on, but now they were confined to the camp. The farmers’ sons had either been killed in France, were still fighting there, or were at home recovering from serious wounds. On most farms there was only one elderly man and his womenfolk and children, and though they would all do their best when the time came, they too had the fear of catching this terrible disease.
All the towns and villages were quiet. Publicans claimed they’d be ruined; shopkeepers saw produce going bad through lack of customers. No one wanted to buy or sell in markets, it was too risky being in crowded places. Schools were badly attended before the holiday in August, and some teachers said they wouldn’t be opening again in September. And almost every single person could speak of a family member who had succumbed to the disease. If this person hadn’t died, they spoke of curious remedies they’d used to save them. Clara claimed it was like going back to the Middle Ages and that, before long, people would start believing in witches and spells.
For those, like Mabel, who saw the disease at close quarters, they took a calmer stance. So far in the camp seven men had died, but over thirty had recovered and gone back to their own huts. Granted, there were new cases almost daily; but it was hoped, with increased awareness of hygiene, that most would survive.
Then, at the end of August, Carsten became sick.
Mabel arrived at the camp on Monday afternoon, as usual, and was shocked to find him in bed in the ward where she always worked. He was shivering, although it was a very warm day. He was hunched up in the bed, the way most of her patients lay in the first stage of the disease.
She immediately got another blanket for him and tucked it round him. ‘How are you feeling, Carsten?’ she asked, putting her hand on his forehead and finding it red-hot.
‘Not good,’ he admitted in a small voice. ‘It came on last night, my throat is so sore.’
‘Don’t try to speak, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll get some saltwater for you to gargle, and some aspirin. You must try and drink water too, even if it’s hard to swallow.’
The onslaught of the disease was often rapid, but she didn’t think she’d seen any other patient’s symptoms increase as rapidly as Carsten’s did. She’d barely got him to gargle with the saltwater, and to swallow the aspirin with a large glass of wat
er, before the sneezing, coughing and runny nose came on vigorously.
Gus came in then and asked her to come and help him in the acute ward. She wanted to refuse and stay to look after Carsten, but she knew that was wrong when other men were even sicker. As Carsten had always worked in the acute ward, and the other orderlies were sick too, they had no one else experienced enough to take his place.
To see men fighting for their breath, their skin taking on a blue tinge, was even more alarming than usual, knowing that the man she loved could easily be in this ward soon, breathing his last.
But somehow she had to squash down that terror, and help soothe these men. They too were loved by someone who would be distraught if they died.
It was quite the worst afternoon of her life, struggling to change sheets on beds, cooling brows, holding kidney dishes to be vomited in, and all the time avoiding spray from sneezes and violent coughs.
The afternoon grew even worse when, just before five, Dieter Kahn died. It was an ugly, violent death; his lungs were full of fluid, and he tried desperately to fight it, throwing himself around in the bed. The sound he made as he tried to breathe was hideous and his skin had turned blue. Gus had to hold him down while Mabel kept swabbing him with cool water and tried to soothe him.
He was just twenty. Still just a boy. It was a relief to all three of them when his body finally gave up the battle to live. Mabel washed his face one last time, closed his eyes and covered him with a sheet. When she finished, she found herself crying. Not just for Dieter, but for everyone who had, or would get, this terrible disease.
Aware that she was possibly splattered with spray from Dieter’s nose and mouth, she didn’t go near Carsten as she was leaving. He was lying on his bed, looking towards the door she’d come from, and she felt cheered a little when she saw recognition in his eyes. She blew him a kiss and said she’d see him the next day.
As she walked home, she offered up a little prayer that she would indeed see him, and that he wouldn’t go into the final stages of the disease during the night.
Carsten was gravely ill for three days. The night after she’d left him, he was moved into the acute ward. Gus told Mabel the next day that he’d called out her name several times during the night when he was delirious.
‘You know him well?’ he asked her, his eyes alight with suspicion.
‘Quite well, he comes to work in the garden of the house where I’m housekeeper.’
‘Is he the reason why you volunteered?’
‘No, although I wouldn’t have known much about the camp but for Carsten telling me things. You know I am a war widow? I like to think if my husband had been taken prisoner, a German woman would’ve looked after him.’
‘People don’t like it that we help Germans,’ Gus said. ‘I’ve been called names and spat at. A couple of times I’ve had our soldiers picking on me in the pub. You be careful, Mabel. I wouldn’t like that to happen to you.’
For two days after Gus’s words, Mabel found it hard to concentrate on anything; she was so worried about Carsten. But while she was up at the camp she made sure she didn’t spend all her time at his bedside, as she guessed there were gossipmongers amongst the English soldiers guarding the camp. It was hard to keep her distance and make out he was of no more importance to her than the other men. The sweat poured off him, yet still he shivered, but Gus said it was a hopeful sign that his lungs seemed reasonably clear. When Mabel did go to him to sponge him down, he caught hold of her hands and held them tightly. He was still delirious, and she didn’t understand when he spoke in German, but she liked to think he was begging her not to leave him.
When she arrived at the camp on Friday, to her utmost surprise and delight, he was sitting up in bed in the first ward, reserved for less serious cases, and when he saw her, his smile stretched from ear to ear.
‘They told me you healed me,’ he said.
‘That’s rubbish, I only sponged you down and things.’ She wasn’t going to tell him what the ‘and things’ were, as he’d be embarrassed. ‘You were lucky your lungs didn’t become infected. Sponging you down wouldn’t have saved you, if they had been. But how do you feel now?’
‘A bit weak. But hungry.’
‘It just so happens I’ve got some meat pie in my bag,’ she said. ‘I was going to give it to Gus, as I didn’t expect you to be well enough for food. But I’ve got some cake I can give to him.’
She reached into her bag and told him he was to eat it secretly, or he’d get her into trouble. Then she popped in to see Gus.
Gus smiled. ‘Glad to see him a lot better?’
‘Yes, very, but how is everyone else?’
‘No change, except for Carsten, from yesterday. But as you know, things happen fast around here.’
She gave him the cake and went back to see the patients in the adjoining room. She felt so happy she could sing.
As September began, there were no new patients. Another man died, but the rest gradually recovered, aided by fine weather so they could sit outside in the sunshine. Mabel was pleased to see Carsten and the other men getting their colour back and eating well again.
None of those who worked in the sickbay dared to ask whether the pandemic had run its course, but there was an air of optimism around. Then the news came that selected prisoners were going to be allowed to help with the harvest locally.
Carsten was told he could go back to Willow Cottage for one week only, to do light work prior to joining the other men on farms.
‘So, I guess that’s the last I’ll see of you?’ Gus said to Mabel.
‘I’ll come straight back if you get more cases,’ she said. ‘But there’s no point in staying now, when all the men are recovering.’
‘I’ll miss you,’ he said. ‘You ought to train as a nurse. You’re made for it.’
‘I can’t say I’ve really enjoyed it,’ she said. ‘But I am glad I came, and I hope I made a difference. I’m going to miss you too. But you know where I am if you need further help.’
The weather was lovely during the week Carsten came back to Willow Cottage. It was warm and sunny, but not too hot, and local people were hoping it would last until all the crops were harvested.
At Clara’s suggestion Mabel got her chores done early in the morning so that they could both enjoy what might be the last of the summer sunshine. They had a late breakfast outside, then Clara would paint, capturing the voluptuous beauty of the garden before it went into a decline in the autumn. The asters were particularly lovely – huge clumps of violet flowers with bright yellow centres.
Mabel sat in a deck chair, either doing mending or reading a book. Sometimes she got up and busied herself with a bit of weeding and dead-heading until Carsten arrived.
No one would have believed he’d been so ill; his face had filled out again and he was suntanned, his eyes bright and his blond hair shiny. He looked strong and healthy, which was just as well; he was thinning out some of the trees down in the heavily wooded part of the garden that led to the river, before cutting them into logs for the winter.
‘You might be home by winter,’ Clara said to him, when he came up to ask if he should chop down an old and diseased plum tree. ‘I’ll have to try and get someone else to care for the garden.’
‘Let’s hope the war is over soon,’ Carsten agreed. ‘I think a returning soldier would be glad to come and work here. I’ve loved this garden – it, and the two of you, will be my best memories of England.’
‘That’s a lovely thing to say Carsten,’ Clara said. ‘But I suggest you prune that plum tree hard. It might recover. I see the other plum tree is laden with fruit, we ought to pick the ripe ones today and bottle them.’
All the while he was talking to Clara, Mabel couldn’t stop looking at him. Her heart seemed to be swelling with love, so much so that it hurt. She couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving; facing the day without that wide smile, that loud, joyous laugh, would be too sad to contemplate.
She wondered if Clara too
had grown fond of him, because she suggested picnic lunches in the garden all that week and included him. In the cool of the evenings Mabel bottled the plums, made bacon and egg pie – which was delicious eaten cold – little meat pasties, and bread pudding from the left-over stale bread. There were lettuces, tomatoes and radishes in the garden, and pears, apples and gooseberries too. It was so easy to put together a feast of simple foods. Then to eat them outdoors in the sunshine was a delight.
‘You are a little wonder,’ Clara said to Mabel as she cleared away another picnic lunch. ‘You prepare food with such thought, imagination and care. Tell me about your childhood. Did your mother do this too?’
‘She died when I was eight,’ Mabel said, sitting back down at the garden table. ‘I was too young to remember much. But yes, I think perhaps she did. We ate a lot of fish, because my father was a fisherman, but I remember her making it into little fishcakes, or pies. I suppose that was so it wasn’t as boring for us to have fish every day. She liked me to pick wild flowers too for the kitchen. She loved flowers, she would have been so happy to be in this garden.’
‘I think she’d hope that you will marry again.’
Mabel was startled by that statement. Why did Clara make it? And why was she asking about childhood and her mother?
‘I hope that one day I’ll meet another man I want to marry,’ Mabel said. ‘But not yet, I need more time.’
‘A friend told me recently that there won’t be enough young men to go around when they come back from the war,’ Clara said. ‘I assume that means there won’t be enough middle-aged men, either. Not that I want one.’
Mabel laughed. ‘I think you’d like to be wooed.’
‘Maybe, as long as he didn’t get the idea that I would wait on him or agree with him about everything.’
You'll Never See Me Again Page 14