Home Fires and Spitfires

by Daisy Styles

  ‘Dearest,’ she said in a whisper, ‘it’s been a long day; you must get some rest,’ she urged.

  Shirley’s eyelids fluttered open, and when she turned to her friend Sister Ann smothered a gasp when she saw in Shirley’s wide-open eyes the depths of her love and joy.

  ‘This is the happiest day of my life,’ the new Sister Theresa announced. She stood and walked back to the convent hand in hand with her mentor.

  20. Salves and Poultices

  Though Zelda had fled in fear the morning she bumped into Frank Arkwright in Mary Vale’s hospital, she nevertheless could not fail to notice the hideous red raw scar on his right cheek. Even though she had not ventured anywhere near Frank, she had dared on a couple of occasions to poke her head out of Gracie’s van window to peep at him when they were at the farm.

  ‘Heavens!’ Zelda exclaimed to Gracie as they drove out of the farmyard after collecting Alf’s market produce. ‘I never realized Frank Arkwright’s face was so disfigured.’

  Gracie nodded as she kept her eyes on the road. ‘He was burned by a hand grenade that exploded in the Sherman tank he was travelling in. Alf told me that Sister Ada and Dr Reid have been treating Frank’s scar, but, as far as I can see, there’s not much improvement.’ Suddenly struck by a thought, Gracie turned to Zelda. ‘Why are you suddenly interested in Frank Arkwright?’ she teased. ‘You run a mile at the sight of the man!’

  Looking self-conscious, Zelda answered her question. ‘I just caught sight of him out of the window and felt sorry for him. I wonder …’ she mused out loud.

  ‘Wonder what?’ Gracie enquired.

  ‘When I was studying botany in Germany, we did some research on the healing benefits of herbal poultices and creams for burns and scar tissue.’

  Gracie was so astonished she nearly drove into an unruly bunch of sheep a shepherd was herding to Kendal market.

  ‘Really?’ she exclaimed. ‘You should definitely tell Ada – I suspect she needs all the help she can get, now that Dr Reid’s left the Home.’

  Leaving Gracie to concentrate on the market traffic gathering in the grey stone town square, Zelda thought to herself, ‘Gracie’s quite right. Ada might be grateful for a bit of help and, as long as I never have to come into direct contact with Frank Arkwright, I’d be happy to ease Ada’s load.’

  A few days later Zelda, with a pile of textbooks tucked under her arm (courtesy of Shirley and Sister Ann, who had borrowed them from the convent library), sat across the desk from Ada in the nurse’s office just off the ward. Carefully opening the books at selected pages, Zelda repeated what she had recently told Gracie with surprising confidence.

  ‘When I studied botany in Munich, we learnt about the benefits of herbal remedies for skin ailments and scars. Look.’ Zelda pointed to pictures of flowering herbs, plant leaves and the roots of some spices. ‘Chamomile, red clover, witch hazel, comfrey, chickweed, marsh marigold, cinnamon and turmeric. And honey and apple-cider vinegar.’

  Though taken aback by Zelda’s surprising announcement, Ada nevertheless gazed thoughtfully at the images as Zelda continued. ‘All of these help in the healing of scar tissue caused by burning.’

  Ada’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course, they have to be distilled and carefully blended into a paste,’ she added. ‘But they have been tested over time and have proved quite beneficial.’

  Ada looked up from the images she had been carefully scrutinizing. ‘I assume you’re thinking of Frank Arkwright’s wound?’

  Zelda blushed. ‘It might help him, and anyone else suffering from burn wounds,’ she answered awkwardly.

  Ada’s gaze returned to the delicately drawn botanical images in the textbooks. ‘It’s very interesting,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve been using lavender oil, witch hazel and chamomile to soothe wounds and burns for years, but I had no idea of the benefits of honey, cinnamon and turmeric – and I must admit I’ve never even heard of apple-cider vinegar!’ she laughed.

  ‘The healing properties of some natural ingredients are astonishing,’ Zelda enthused. ‘Take honey: it provides a moist healing environment, clears infection and reduces inflammation too. Apple-cider vinegar accelerates the healing process and reduces scar tissue.’

  ‘But how can you blend them?’ Ada enquired. ‘You would need to know the ratio of herbs to liquid before you could do any distilling.’

  ‘I know some but certainly not enough,’ Zelda admitted. ‘I’d like to educate myself a bit more on the subject before I launch into making treatments,’ she said with a shy smile.

  ‘How would you go about it?’ Ada asked curiously.

  ‘I borrowed these reference books from the convent library, but what I really need is a good old-fashioned Herbal,’ Zelda explained. ‘There’s a second-hand bookshop in Kendal where I hope I’ll be able to buy such a book.’

  Ada nodded in agreement with her. ‘That would be a good place to start.’ Looking Zelda in the eye she asked, ‘Will you keep me posted on your findings?’

  ‘Of course,’ Zelda promised. ‘As I said, I have some experience of the practice, but my research was done under supervision in a laboratory. I remember when I got excited about my experiments,’ she said with a wistful expression on her sweet, heart-shaped face, ‘my husband used to tease me and call me a white witch!’

  ‘Well, if you could cast your spell over Frank Arkwright, I’m sure he’d be very grateful,’ Ada said, smiling. Zelda did not return the smile; instead she replied somewhat abruptly, ‘Sister, I have a favour to ask of you.’

  Ada cocked her head.

  ‘If I do succeed in making salves and poultices Frank Arkwright must never know of my involvement,’ Zelda insisted.

  ‘Why?’ Ada gently enquired.

  Blushing with embarrassment, Zelda blurted out her answer. ‘I think if he found out that a German was mixing potions for his wounds, he would assume I was trying to kill him.’

  Ada thought the notion so ridiculous she couldn’t stop herself from bursting out laughing. With her face flushed and her hands trembling, Zelda protested. ‘You may mock, but you haven’t heard Mr Arkwright damning all Germans to hell like I have.’

  Looking guilty, Ada quickly apologized. ‘I’m sorry, Zelda. I had no idea.’

  Zelda pressed on. ‘So, if I do this work, you must promise never to tell Mr Arkwright.’

  ‘I promise I won’t say a word, if that’s what you want,’ Ada solemnly answered.

  Zelda looked calmer already. ‘I’d need a pestle and mortar to break down the herbs and spices.’

  ‘That’s not a problem – there are plenty of those in the hospital,’ Ada replied. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I have some herbs I dried over the summer,’ Zelda continued. ‘And I can search the countryside for others that might still be growing wild at this time of the year. Once I’ve got the essential essences, I’ll be able to make up salves and creams with a carrier, like beeswax. It’s essential that the salve is easy to apply,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It must be soft and smooth; otherwise it will drag on damaged skin tissue.’

  Ada looked excited. ‘Do you really think it could work?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Zelda replied. ‘I saw the beneficial effects of such salves on damaged skin when I was working in the laboratory; these traditional remedies have been tested over centuries.’

  Ada quickly nodded, then had a thought. ‘I see Frank once a week. Maybe we could start your herbal treatments next week?’

  ‘I’ll do my best but first I have to find a Herbal,’ Zelda reminded her.

  ‘It’s really kind of you to offer to help, dear,’ Ada said gratefully.

  Before she left the room, Zelda gave her friend a grateful smile. ‘It would make me very happy to do something in exchange for all that you have given me.’

  After she had gone, Ada thoughtfully tapped her long, slender fingers on her wooden desk. Initially it was the residents who intimidated Zelda; now it was Frank Arkwright. He had, albei
t unwittingly, put the fear of God in the poor girl. Would Zelda ever find peace at Mary Vale, or anywhere else for that matter?

  ‘What will she do once her baby is born?’ Ada thought to herself as she walked down the corridor leading on to the wards. ‘Where in England in wartime will a German woman with a new-born find a welcome?’

  True to her word, Zelda set off on the local bus for the bookshop in Kendal, where she found not one Herbal but several. They were all old, leather-bound and reassuringly well thumbed. All had beautiful artwork, images of exotic herbs from foreign lands, and everyday common or garden herbs that grew in abundance in English hedgerows. Zelda excitedly bought two volumes, one written by Nicholas Culpeper, the famous apothecary of the seventeenth century. With her books tucked under her arm, she then set off for the old-fashioned chemist’s shop in the town centre, where she studiously browsed along the shelves containing old-fashioned tonics, elixirs, oils and cordials all stored in elaborate glass bottles. Zelda started when she heard somebody just behind her say, ‘May I help you?’

  Turning, she saw a grey-haired gentleman with a moustache and round horn-rimmed glasses wearing an immaculate long white coat.

  ‘I’m Mr Marsden, the chemist,’ he said.

  Delighted to meet him, Zelda shook him by the hand and, after introducing herself, she told him of her plan. ‘I’ve just flicked through a few Herbals, and I can see already there are a number of ingredients that I won’t be able to pick in the wild or grow myself; it would be useful to be able to purchase some of your oils and more exotic herbs,’ she eagerly explained.

  Mr Marsden beamed enthusiastically. ‘I’d be happy to help in any way I can,’ he assured Zelda. ‘With medicines urgently needed by the troops, we should be thinking about genuine alternatives; in these days of increased rationing old remedies and treatments might prove very popular.’

  Heartened by his encouraging words, Zelda bade Mr Marsden goodbye and got the bus back to Mary Vale, where she immediately set to work. Taking the pestle and mortar that Ada had supplied her with, Zelda hurried to her garden shed, where she stored her tools, seeds, onion sets and herbs that she had harvested earlier in the year when they were at their freshest. Now they dangled from bits of string attached to the rafters, filling the shed with the combined fragrance of basil, sage, fennel, chamomile, lavender and thyme. After lighting the little wood-burner that she had recently cleaned up, Zelda made a long list of ingredients that she would need; then, over the next few days, she wandered the surrounding countryside collecting any wild herbs that were still viable. During one of her Saturday market-day visits to Kendal, Zelda popped into Mr Marsden’s shop and bought apple-cider vinegar, witch hazel and turmeric, which the chemist kept stored in old-fashioned pharmaceutical jars. Sister Mary Paul had already donated convent honey and cinnamon from her larder, and the nun in charge of the convent beehives had promised Zelda as much beeswax as she needed.

  With all the ingredients now to hand, Zelda placed her precious Culpeper’s Herbal alongside an old leather-bound volume entitled Healing in the Herb Garden on her workbench. Trembling with both nerves and excitement, she tucked her long red hair under a cotton turban, so it didn’t get in her eyes, and donned her gardening apron. First she dropped little bunches of comfrey, St John’s wort, chickweed, marsh marigold and witch hazel, the basic components for Frank’s salve, into a small saucepan, which she covered with a lid and left to simmer on top of the crackling wood-burner, stoking it to get a good heat going. While the pungent mixture simmered, Zelda pounded borage, chickweed, lavender and chamomile in her mortar. After twenty minutes she removed the bubbling pan from the heat and strained the steaming liquid; then she removed the spiky stalks. Leaving the liquid to cool, she returned to grinding the herbs in the mortar.

  ‘This is the moment of truth,’ she said out loud, as she gazed intently from the herbal essences to the much reduced liquor. ‘I’ve got to combine the two without making a complete mess of it,’ she muttered, as she slowly added the liquor to the pounded herbs. At the end of the process she gradually added beeswax to the compound, until it reached the viscous consistency of hand cream.

  Pleased that she had completed the delicate procedures, Zelda sank back on to her gardening stool and thoughtfully drank tea from a Thermos flask that she had brought along with her.

  ‘I need to try it out before I give it to Ada,’ she murmured, as she smoothed the salve on to her own hands, which bore no marks of burning or scarring. ‘Who could I experiment with?’ Zelda wondered out loud. Suddenly she smiled. ‘Of course,’ she exclaimed. ‘The queen of Mary Vale’s kitchen – Sister Mary Paul!’

  The old nun was touched when Zelda presented her with a small pot of ointment. ‘It’s a natural hand cream made from herbs and honey,’ she explained. ‘It’s an old remedy that’s supposed to ease burns and blisters. I thought with all the cooking you do you might find it useful.’

  Sister Mary Paul unscrewed the jar lid and cautiously sniffed the contents. ‘It smells nice enough,’ she said. ‘And you’re right, my hands are full of burns from that blessed old oven. Thank you, dear.’

  Trying not to sound too eager, Zelda said, ‘Please will you tell me how you get on with it? You know, if you see any improvement?’

  ‘I most certainly will,’ the nun assured her.

  ‘Oh, and one more thing, Sister Mary Paul.’ Zelda blushed as she told a bit of a white lie. ‘Will you keep this a secret? If it’s successful I could make pots of the same hand cream for the residents at Christmas.’

  Sister Mary Paul beamed as she pocketed Zelda’s gift. ‘Let’s see how I get on with this one first, shall we?’

  Though Zelda was desperate to find out if her salve had worked on Sister Mary Paul’s blistered hands, she reined in her impatience and waited for the nun to come to her. Her heart skipped a beat of excitement when one morning Sister Mary Paul came to find her in the garden, where Zelda was preparing onion sets. Breathless from hurrying across the lawn, the nun handed Zelda a steaming mug of hot tea before she made her announcement.

  ‘It works!’ She spread her hands before Zelda. ‘The back of my hands were badly burned from catching the side of that old oven – it happens all the time when I’m moving big heavy trays and pans up and down on the shelves. I’ve been using your cream every night and, look, I can see a difference.’ She turned her hands palms-up and then palms-down for Zelda to see. ‘The skin’s soft and moist and the burns are healing.’

  Zelda carefully examined Sister Mary Paul’s hands, which did look less inflamed.

  ‘So,’ she started cautiously, ‘would you say that the cream helped heal the damaged skin?’

  ‘For sure, and it’s nice and soothing too,’ Sister Mary Paul replied. ‘The bad news is I’ve run out of it already so,’ she chuckled, ‘I’d be grateful if I could have another pot, please.’

  Zelda gave her a bright smile. ‘Of course, Sister, with pleasure.’

  When the nun was safely halfway back across the garden, Zelda did a little jig of joy, which she was forced to stop when her baby protested with a hefty kick. Gently stroking her big tummy where her restless baby wriggled, Zelda murmured, ‘Sorry, little one, your clever mama’s feeling rather pleased with herself.’

  As soon as she had time, Zelda repeated the whole process all over again, but made double the quantity. When she had finished, Zelda gazed thoughtfully at the two pots sitting on her bench: the smaller one for Sister Mary Paul, the larger one for Frank Cartwright. A tingle of excitement ran through her body: if this simple natural recipe was effective, there was a possibility that it could help other burn sufferers. Smiling to herself, Zelda dropped off Sister Mary Paul’s ‘hand cream’, then she headed for the hospital, where she found Ada on the post-natal ward.

  ‘Here,’ she said, handing her the larger pot of salve. ‘Apply liberally every night before bedtime for a week; hopefully you should soon see a difference. If it does work, I can make up more as you require.’
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br />   Ada peered at the label on the pot: Zelda had carefully listed all the natural ingredients. Impressed, she said, ‘It’s full of good stuff – let’s hope it works for Frank.’

  ‘I think it will,’ Zelda replied. ‘Please remember your promise, Ada: Frank Arkwright must never know that I had anything to do with this treatment.’

  21. Shockwaves

  Though Ada regularly received letters from Jamie, she had made up her mind that she wasn’t going to mention them again to Diana, in whom she and her staff had noticed worrying changes: the weeks of unsuccessfully waiting for further news of Harry had taken their toll on her general health.

  ‘She’s pale and listless, and losing weight rather than gaining it,’ Ada confided, as she and Sister Ann shared a pot of coffee (heavily mixed with chicory) in Matron’s office early one dank November morning.

  ‘She does look all baby,’ Sister Ann agreed, stirring her coffee. ‘But we know it’s not unusual: babies often grow at the mother’s expense, especially these days, when we’re all existing on meagre rationed food,’ she added, as she nodded towards the coffee pot. ‘Does Diana show any other symptoms? High blood pressure, swelling of face and hands?’

  Ada shook her head. ‘No, I regularly check her blood pressure,’ she said. ‘Desperate as she is, she simply can’t get any information out of anybody.’ Ada gave a heavy sigh. ‘You can see it’s wearing her down.’ Looking annoyed, Ada replaced her coffee cup in its saucer. ‘Why can’t one of those wretched RAF men whom Diana worked with take pity on the poor girl? Just a little word or two to ease her misery?’

  Sister Ann gave her a thoughtful look. ‘It might well be top-secret information that it’s too dangerous even to talk about.’