by Ursula Bloom
‘I don’t want to have to tell Mother. She’d be hurt.’
‘Why?’
‘For one thing, you’re married.’
‘And I’m not marrying again, for another! I divorced my first wife, and damned glad I was …’
‘I don’t believe in divorce.’
‘You wouldn’t at your age! Wait till it serves your purpose and you’ll change your high standard of living. Take my advice, keep out of what doesn’t concern you. This isn’t any business of yours. I’m taking no liberties with you, you anyway are perfectly safe with me.’
‘You’re insulting! How dare you suggest such a thing?’
‘You’re pretty insulting yourself. My divorce was nothing to do with you, and I’m not running off with your little sister, even if you think I am. You never get any thanks for sticking your nose into other people’s business, you know.’
‘I know my duty and shall abide by it. I don’t need a divorced man to tell me what to do.’
At that moment the door opened, and in came Sister, her arms folded on a dark blue alpaca breast. Sister was in a bad mood. She had a ne’er-do-well brother, continually asking for one last loan that would right everything and put him back where he belonged, and this happened to be one of his days. She saw Major Kemp sitting on the dressing-stool looking angry, and Isabel strawberry in the face, biting her lip and looking furious as she tugged at the bed. Sister glanced again at Major Kemp; he shrugged his shoulders.
‘Do I have to put up with overtures as well as everything else, and in my very room?’ he asked coldly.
Round wheeled Sister. ‘What are you doing here, Nurse Walker? You know that you are not supposed to be making the beds when the patients are dressing. Go downstairs at once.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
Isabel went downstairs, only praying to be alone. She went into the tiny boot cupboard which was lit by a dirty window on to the yard. She stood there trying to stop herself crying, because it would never do to allow that wretched man to put her so badly in the wrong. She was very young. At this moment she had flashes of wanting to commit suicide, of wishing she could go into a decline, or run away to London, and yet was old enough to know the futility of all such ideas. It was Lilian’s fault. If Lilian had not been born pretty and flirtatious none of this would have happened.
Sister stumped downstairs into her office. ‘Nurse Walker?’ called Sister.
‘Coming, Sister.’
Stuffing her handkerchief inside her bib, Isabel went into the office which was so sedate. The windows were slightly misted from the gas fire, and beyond them was a glimpse of thinning trees with little balls of rain hanging like tiny Christmas tree ornaments on their dark branches. It was one of those penetratingly murky autumn days; no wonder her mother had a bad cold, she thought
‘Nurse Walker, some people are born with too much conscience and too little common-sense. If you take my advice you’ll keep your conscience to yourself, and out of the patients’ bedrooms, however disposed you feel to reprimand Major Kemp.’
‘It was my duty to speak to him, Sister.’
‘And why?’
‘He was making love to my sister.’
Sister hesitated for a fraction of a second, then, determined not to be dragged into a yet more permeating row, she said, ‘Whatever happened I don’t wish to hear it. That is pure and simple tale-bearing. Your sister has a perfectly good father and mother to see after her, and myself. You are, after all, only her sister! You’ll have the most unhappy life, Nurse, if you don’t learn to curb that conscience of yours a little.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘You had no right in Major Kemp’s room whilst he was dressing, and certainly no right to reprove him. It was sheer impertinence and it is not to happen again. Now you may go.’
‘Thank you, Sister.’
She groped for the door handle, found it only by instinct, and staggered out into the hall. She had got to do something to prevent herself from breaking down. Her wild idea was to get away somewhere and have a good cry, but her courage put a brake on that. She saw that a man in uniform was standing in the hall, a strange officer, a padre, stockily built, and looking about him apprehensively. He had a cherubic face that was rosy, greying hair at the temples, and a certain bird-brightness about him. He had a suit-case beside him and a bulging kit-bag, of the type that the tommies carried.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked and hoped that he would not notice that she had been crying.
‘Oh, thank you, Nurse. I came down on an early train, and nobody seems to be about.’
‘What is your name? We were expecting two fresh patients today.’
‘Captain Clement Strong. I ‒ I’m very tired, it was an awful journey and a very slow train. Could I go to my room?’
‘Of course.’ She led the way along the passage to the far end, where a tiny room had been boarded off from the hall with match-boarding. It was well furnished, an optimist would have described it as being ‘cosy’, a pessimist as ‘cramped’, but Clement Strong seemed to be pleased enough with it, and slumped tiredly on to the bed.
‘Can I get you a hot drink?’ she asked.
‘I’d be grateful for some hot milk.’
‘Very well. You rest and I’ll fetch it.’
Isabel went back to the kitchen; one’s duty always got one away from a crisis, and already she felt better. Lilian was there; she was standing in the butler’s pantry, looking at the newly wiped breakfast things as handed over by the departing V.A.D.
‘Just look at those, Isabel; she never wipes the cups at all, just gives them a good shake, hangs them up and each one has a little puddle in it. It’s so tiresome.’
‘I’d report her.’
‘Yes, you would, but I wouldn’t! What’s more, she’s three teaspoons short. Oh dear!’
Isabel heated the milk on the gas-ring in the outer pantry. It took a long time, and anyway she hated the smell of boiling milk, which always made her feel rather sick. She caught it as it rose in a thick churning mass of foam, filled a china tankard with it, and returned to Captain Strong. He was nice. She liked the way in which he looked at her, she liked him for being older than the flippant patients, and very much for being a padre!
He was lying on the bed watching the drops of rain trickling down the window, and the grey sky merging with the downland. He looked at the neat tray with the milk on it, appreciating Isabel’s carefulness. She seemed to be a very nice girl, he thought, and was distressed that she should have been crying. He admired her exactitude, her efficiency, and the way she stood there, her hands folded, almost like a Sister.
She said, ‘I’m going off duty now, but I do hope that you’ll be comfortable here. I should rest till lunch, then you will be called in good time. My sister will be on duty.’
‘Is she like you?’
‘No,’ said Isabel uncomfortably. ‘No, she isn’t.’
‘Oh, but there must be some family likeness. Perhaps I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.’
‘Yes, you will,’ said Isabel and left him.
Clement Strong didn’t recognize Lilian when she was sent to tell him lunch was almost ready. He thought her over gay. One of those good-looking girls of whom there are too many in the world. Very pretty, of course, but definitely disturbing. Lilian thought he was just a funny old fossil. Just funny!
Isabel walked home slowly through the mist, her cloak drawn about her? It was Tuesday, cattle-market day, and the poor beasts were in their iron pens by the river. One of those grey days which, combined with the circumstances, made her feel dim within herself.
The last of the leaves in Chestnut Road were still clinging to the trees, but rather miserably, and the gutter was a drift of faded, tarnished gold. The old rambling houses with their stucco fronts level with the street, and usually so bright, had windows dirtied by the fog.
Joyce passed on her bicycle plodding back from Miss Allan’s, her school books on the carrier. Isabel wished that Joyce did not look so dreadful. Th
at untidy mid-teen stage was a lichen on Joycie who was desperately interested in art and beauty, yet would do nothing to beautify herself.
Isabel had had no time to think about her mother’s cold today, too much had happened to her. The whisky toddy would have made Anna sleep late, and Isabel had left early and had not disturbed her. As she opened the front door of Church House, she saw that a man’s hat and gloves lay on the chair. Dr. Palmer must be here. Out of the kitchen at the far end, she saw Janet approaching, wiping floury hands on her apron. She came straight into the main hall.
‘It’s your mother, Miss Isabel. She’s bad! She don’t seem to be able to breathe.’
‘It isn’t pneumonia?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t know, miss, but they’re upstairs now. Dr. Palmer said she hadn’t never ought to have had that whisky toddy, just like what I said at the time, but you wouldn’t listen.’
‘She oughtn’t to have had the whisky toddy?’ Isabel felt her eyes dilating with horror as she stood there staring at Janet.
‘Dr. Palmer carried on something dreadful about it. As I says, let doctors do the doctoring and other folks keep out of it. Now you can see what’s happened!’
‘But, Janet, I only gave it to her because I thought it was the right thing for her.’
‘Well, miss, now you know that it wasn’t the right thing at all!’
‘I’ll go up to her.’
‘No, that you won’t! You’ll wait till the doctor and your Dad come down.’
‘Oh, poor Father! He must be desperately worried.’
She did not think that she could stand more of Janet, so she went up the stairs on to the spacious landing, with the misted skylight above it. There was no sun today. She could hear the men talking in the bedroom and sat forlornly on the ottoman which housed the spare blankets. She felt utterly miserable. Isabel loved her mother, and Janet had not realised that she had only made that toddy with the idea of getting Anna better. She had not meant to be overbearing. Early in life, Isabel had discovered that people would not listen to her unless she was insistent. She had to emphasize her remarks or they passed by unheeded. She must not start crying again, because if she did she wouldn’t be able to stop. She just sat there in her tired uniform, twisting her handkerchief between her hands, and staring up at the skylight above.
Presently the bedroom door opened. Dr. Palmer came out, closely followed by her father. He still smiled but it was a travesty of cheerfulness, and the little pumpkin of a stomach protruded round the door long before the smile appeared.
‘Ah, there you are, Isabel,’ he said.
‘Your mother is very ill,’ said Dr. Palmer. ‘She has got to have a nurse.’
‘She isn’t …?’
‘Your mother has pleurisy, and a pneumonia patch. That toddy was quite wrong for her. Had I wished her to take it, I should have ordered it. Nurse Moggs will be coming in at once, she’s a very capable woman, and you will have to help her.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I presume you will do the day work; Nurse the night. I’ll see Sister at the Home about leave for you.’
‘Thank you, doctor.’ She straightened herself, thrust the sodden handkerchief inside her bib again where it made a grey moist patch, and then she looked at her father. He seemed to be older than she had ever seen him before, or perhaps she was noticing it for the first time. ‘May I go in to Mother?’
‘You won’t agitate her? Be reassuring, and gentle. Encourage her to sleep if you can, and don’t leave her till Nurse Moggs comes.’
‘Yes, doctor.’
Isabel went into the big bedroom and shut the door behind her.
For the next few days, Isabel hardly knew if it were morning or night. She devoted herself entirely to her mother. Nurse Moggs, a large Scotch woman, declared that never had she known such a devoted and attentive daughter. She could leave Isabel in charge and be happy in the knowledge that she would rigorously carry out all orders to the letter. Isabel, said Nurse Moggs, was wonderful.
The girl hardly slept at all. She rarely left her mother’s room, and if she did, it was only to see that her father ate his meals, or that Lilian kept an eye on Joycie’s prep. For the moment she actually forgot the trying interview with Bill Kemp, and the pleasant little padre patient whom she had promised to see next day. She forgot everything, save that her mother was very ill indeed, and that it depended upon her devotion to her duty whether the illness took a right turn.
‘She’s as good as a second nurse with me,’ said Nurse Moggs going into the kitchen for extra hot water. Janet said nothing at all. She didn’t hold with nurses, never had done, considering that they always made more trouble than they were worth.
The crisis came at night. Nurse Moggs and Isabel faced it together. Harold Walker, more disturbed by this serious illness than he had believed possible, had gone to bed. His had never been a love match, but he was very well used to Anna and could not picture any existence without her. The possibility of her dying terrified him, in spite of his constant self-reassurance that it was all right. Worn out, he went to bed early.
‘Ought we to call him?’ asked Isabel.
‘Not yet,’ said the nurse.
They sat on either side of the big humpy bed with the oxygen cylinder standing like a dwarfed lamp standard at the far end. Outside, Godsmead was hushed, only the clock in the church spire struck its wearying hours, approaching the three o’clock when the human body sinks to its lowest ebb. Anna Walker seemed to have become dreadfully thin as she lay there; it was too obvious that she had called upon all her resources and had very little fight left in her. She had remained unconscious for some hours, and her eyes were sunk into two dark pits, whilst her lips peeled and seemed so thin that they could not cover the gums. The two watched all the time, Nurse Moggs with her finger on the patient’s pulse.
‘How is she?’ Isabel asked, unable to bear the silence any more. Anything would be better than the uninterrupted terror which lay like a pall on her heart. If her mother died it would be her fault. The whisky toddy!
‘I think she’s a trifle better,’ Nurse Moggs whispered, ‘I thought I saw perspiration.’
They looked at the parchment-like brow, which had burnt until it appeared to be shrivelled and all the gleam of living had gone out of it. As they watched it seemed that now it was tinged faintly with pearl. Uncertainly they still stared, and in the next five minutes the skin moistened slightly, the breathing did not rasp so much, and they knew that Anna had turned a definite corner. Across the bed, Nurse Moggs nodded hopefully. She glanced at the clock, went to the cylinder and unclamped it. Isabel heard the strange tinkling sound that it made as the oxygen trickled through the container. For five minutes the tinkle was all that she heard, then the cylinder was clamped back. Anna opened her eyes. Isabel had dreaded the look in those eyes, for sometimes lately they had not been like her mother’s at all. They were eyes that roamed vaguely round the place, and looked at familiar objects unseeing, or seeing too much. There was no accounting for what those tortured eyes might see. Now they were serene. The terrified disquiet had passed out of them, now they were merely weary eyes, tired of prolonged searching for enemies, and recognizing the people who leant over the bed.
‘You’re all right, Mother dear,’ said Isabel huskily. Anna was going to get well after all. Isabel felt the feeble fingers groping for her own, and took them kindly into her clasp. She wanted to cry. It might be weakly stupid, and Nurse Moggs would probably think her an idiot, but she couldn’t help it.
If Nurse Moggs saw she made no comment. She waited a short while until Anna was asleep, then she said, ‘I’d slip off to bed if I were you. She’ll probably sleep till morning, and be so much better then that you’ll hardly know her.’ As Isabel turned to the door, ‘She owes most of this to you. I’ve never worked with such a good daughter! I wish she knew how much she is in your debt. Good night.’
Isabel stumbled out on to the cold landing with the night sky showing clearly thro
ugh the skylight, sprinkled with little gold stars, and presided over by a newish moon. She went to her own room, too tired to undress ‒ after all, she had not undressed for so many nights that one more couldn’t make much difference ‒ and she lay down on the bed. She fell asleep almost immediately.
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Youth at the Gate by Ursula Bloom
The touching true account of a young woman’s life on the home front during the First World War.
Ursula Bloom (who also wrote as Lozania Prole) movingly describes how the Great War forever changed the lives of ordinary people in Britain. When Ursula says goodbye to both her suitor and brother as they go to war, patriotic excitement soon turns to worry and despair.
This memoir vividly brings to life the experiences of people struggling to live through World War I. Ursula Bloom’s honest and heartfelt story shows us the challenges of food rationing and the constant bombing by Zeppelins overhead. Rumours of German spies abound, and even Ursula and her mother find themselves under suspicion by their neighbours.
Ursula’s autobiography also looks at the realities of life in the early twentieth century, when operations were carried out on the kitchen table, a pregnant woman shouldn’t be seen in public, and an officer and a private couldn’t mix under the same roof.
Not only the realities of war force an innocent Ursula to grow up. She must face her mother’s serious illness, the demons of her husband-to-be, and the snobbery of his wealthy family. There are lighter moments too, such as the tale of the Bloom’s fictitious maid, Emily, who they have to invent rather than admit that they can’t afford a servant.
Ursula Bloom went on to become a bestselling novelist, playwright and journalist. This moving autobiography is a must for all of those interested in life at home during the Great War, as well as for fans of her novels, such as Wonder Cruise.
Read Youth at the Gate by Ursula Bloom now from Amazon UK
