The Little Angel

by Rosie Goodwin

  Flinging the book down, Sunday exploded from the room, holding her skirt high so that it wouldn’t hinder her. She fairly flew through the hallways, and as she raced out into the back yard the bitterly cold air seemed to suck the air from her lungs. From there it took seconds to reach the stable block where she found Ben and George hanging over Tom who was a ghastly white colour as he lay on the ground clutching his leg.

  ‘I had a bit of a fall, pet,’ he gasped, trying to put a brave front on but at a glance Sunday could see that it was much more than that. Below the knee his trouser leg was soaked with blood and his leg was twisted at an unnatural angle.

  ‘He were exercisin’ Major and just bringin’ him back to the stables when the ’oss slipped on the frosty cobbles an’ unseated him,’ George explained. ‘Luckily I reckon Major has only sprained a ligament but we’ll have to get the vet out to look at him.’

  At that moment, much as she loved the horses, Sunday’s concerns were all for Tom who was clearly in agony, and she had to force herself to stay outwardly calm although she felt sick with fear.

  ‘Ben, help us get Tom into the house then take the car into town and fetch the doctor as soon as you can.’ She was trying not to panic but she couldn’t prevent her hands from trembling. ‘You could ask the vet to call and look at Major at the same time,’ she ended.

  George turned and hared off into the stable block to fetch a door they could lie Tom on as Sunday dropped to her knees at the side of him regardless of the mess it would make of her smart silk skirt.

  ‘I don’t know, I can’t leave you alone for a minute,’ she chided him but her voice was heavy with tears. He was clearly in tremendous pain though he was valiantly trying to hide it from her.

  Once George returned with the door he and Ben lifted the injured man as carefully as they could onto it but Tom couldn’t help but scream with pain. Between them they carried him back through the house and into the drawing room, with Sunday clinging to his hand, then Ben raced off intent on fetching the doctor as quickly as he could.

  Alerted by all the noise, Lavinia had come downstairs, and seeing that Sunday was almost beside herself with fear she instantly took control of the situation.

  ‘We’re going to need scissors to cut his trouser leg and hot water and clean cloths, plenty of them,’ she said. ‘Off you go now, chop-chop! Panicking isn’t going to help.’

  Tom’s eyes were rolling back in his head by then and he seemed to be barely aware that they were even there as Sunday rushed off to do as she was told.

  ‘Right,’ Lavinia told her when she returned. ‘I’m going to cut this trouser leg straight up now. Hold his hand. It’s going to hurt, I’m afraid.’

  As gently as she could she began to cut through the material but she had hardly reached his knee when the full extent of his injuries became evident and Sunday almost swooned with shock. His leg from the knee down was already swollen to twice its size and a bone stuck grotesquely through the skin as blood pumped from the wound.

  ‘Pass me a cloth quickly – we have to stem this flow of blood,’ Lavinia ordered. Once Sunday had done as she was told, Lavinia then tore the cloth into long strips and tied it above the knee as tightly as she could in a tourniquet, to try and stem the bleeding. Sweat stood out on her forehead. Tom then screamed once more before lapsing into merciful unconsciousness. Lavinia then propped the injured leg on a small pile of cloths, to keep it elevated.

  ‘Right – we’ll try and clean him up a little now,’ she said, fully in control of the situation. It was just as well, for Sunday was a gibbering wreck. The women made him as comfortable as they possibly could, then after ensuring that he was well covered and the drawing-room fire was blazing fiercely, all they could do was wait for Ben to return.

  At last, after almost an hour, Ben appeared with Dr Cushion close on his heels. Tom was still unconscious and after seeing the extent of his injury the doctor declared it was just as well.

  ‘We shall need to get him to hospital,’ he told them. ‘They are going to have to put the bone back in place and splint it, and it will require a number of stitches. Hopefully he will stay asleep until it’s done, otherwise he’s going to be in agony, poor chap.’

  ‘But he will be all right, won’t he?’ Sunday asked, her voice quavering.

  ‘It all depends, my dear Mrs Branning,’ the man said. ‘His injuries are not life-threatening but it could be that he’ll lose his leg. Let’s wait and see what the surgeon has to say about it, shall we?’

  At that moment, the door to the drawing room inched open and Kitty’s anxious little face appeared. Her eyes went straight to Tom and the doctor hastily pulled the blanket across his injured leg.

  ‘Is Tom going to be all right?’ she asked, much as Sunday had done only seconds before.

  ‘Of course he is, pet.’ Sunday hurried over to her and forced a watery smile. ‘We just have to get him to hospital so the doctors there can make him better, so you run along to Cissie, eh?’

  Seeing the blood that had seeped through the blanket, Kitty began to cry. She could still clearly remember how upset they had all been when Zillah had died, and now she was terrified that Tom was going to die too.

  ‘But I want to go to the hospital with him,’ she wailed, afraid to let him out of her sight. Tom was the nearest thing to a father that she had ever known.

  Ben and George had already lifted the door on which Tom was still lying and as they strode out to the car with it, it was all Sunday could do to persuade Kitty to let them do what had to be done.

  ‘Come on now, sweetheart,’ she encouraged chokily as Kitty clung to her blood-stained skirts. ‘You wouldn’t want Tom to go to the hospital without me, would you? I need you to stay here and be brave for me and I’ll tell you what’s happening when I get back, I promise.’

  Thankfully, Cissie appeared then and after gentle coaxing led the distraught child away to the kitchen. One of Mrs Cotton’s fresh-baked scones always made everything seem better.

  Meanwhile, oblivious to the state she was in, Sunday lifted her skirts, snatched up a coat and chased after Ben and George.

  It was late that evening when she returned home to Treetops Manor looking pale and drained. Cissie and the staff were waiting for her.

  ‘How is he?’ they all chorused as she stepped through the door.

  ‘Well, his leg has been set and he’s been stitched up,’ she was able to inform them. ‘Now we just have to pray that he doesn’t get an infection. The surgeon said it was one of the worst breaks he had ever seen.’

  ‘Right, we’d best get something hot inside you,’ Mrs Cotton said bossily, taking matters into her own hands. ‘I’ve got a nice pan of beef stew and dumplings keeping warm for you. And I don’t want no excuses, mind. If you don’t eat we’ll end up with two invalids on our hands.’

  Knowing it would be pointless to argue, Sunday nodded before asking Cissie, ‘How is Kitty? She was very upset when we left.’

  Cissie, who was keen to get back to Primrose Cottage now that she knew there was no more she could do, shrugged. ‘Frightened and tearful, but she’ll be fine. Children are a lot more resilient than you think. Soon as she knows he’s on the mend you can take her to visit him and she’ll be right as rain. But now if there’s nothing you need, I’d best be off. George took Johnny over to the cottage some time ago. They’ll think I’ve got lost.’ She pecked Sunday on the cheek then and hurried away as Sunday reluctantly went to face her beef stew. Eating was the last thing on her mind.

  For the rest of that week, Kitty stayed constantly at Sunday’s side apart from when Sunday went to visit Tom at the hospital. It was as if she was afraid to let her only remaining ‘parent’ out of her sight. Thankfully, the swelling on Tom’s leg had gone down and he appeared to be on the mend although he was still in a great deal of pain and fretting about how Sunday would manage without him at Treetops.

  ‘Nobody is indispensable,’ she reminded him as she straightened the covers on his bed, and he alm
ost growled with frustration. Tom had never been one to laze about and it was going sorely against the grain. And then on the following day when Sunday entered the ward she was concerned to see that the curtains were drawn about his bed. The ward sister instantly drew her to one side.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Branning has developed an infection,’ she told Sunday. ‘The doctor is in with him now.’

  Sunday paled. ‘Will they be able to cure it?’ she asked in a wobbly voice.

  The woman shook her head, setting her starched white cap swaying on her iron-grey hair. ‘Of course we shall do everything within our power, but now I think you should prepare yourself. If we can’t beat the infection it looks more than likely that the surgeon will have to amputate his leg below the knee.’

  ‘NO!’ Sunday’s objection echoed down the ward, alarming the other patients. Tom had always been such an active man; she knew how much he would hate being a cripple. ‘You must ensure that doesn’t happen,’ she said with a new-found strength. ‘My husband is only young, and to lose his leg would break him, I know it. Now, I would like to go and see him, if you please – and the doctor!’

  The sister, who was not used to having her authority flouted, stared open-mouthed as with her back as stiff as a broom handle, Sunday strode off down the ward.

  ‘Now, doctor,’ she said, startling the man as she barged through the curtains. ‘I want your assurance that my husband will receive the very best drugs that are available to fight this infection. If you cannot provide them then tell me who can and I will make sure he gets them.’

  The doctor peered at her over the top of the tiny gold spectacles that were perched on the end of his nose and smiled grudgingly before barking at a small fair-haired nurse: ‘Go and get me a dish with disinfectant in, nurse. Strong disinfectant! I shall bathe this wound myself throughout the day. And you, young man’ – he smiled grimly at Tom – ‘had better grit your teeth because this is going to hurt like hell. Better than losing your leg though, eh? I shall have this bathed every hour on the hour. There’s nothing so fine as a drop of fine disinfectant, but it’ll sting.’

  Sunday took her place at the side of her husband and while the doctor cleaned the wound, Tom gripped her hand and screwed his eyes tight shut.

  ‘Visiting time is over now, Mrs Branning,’ the frosty-faced ward sister informed her sometime later, but Tom was running a very high temperature and Sunday had no intention of leaving him.

  ‘I am well aware of that, sister,’ she answered. ‘But I’m staying with my husband until his temperature comes down a little.’

  The ward sister glanced at the doctor, who had just returned to cleanse Tom’s wound again, and was incensed to see a small grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘I’m sure you won’t mind Mrs Branning staying a little longer, will you, sister?’ he said coaxingly and she positively bristled although she didn’t argue with him.

  ‘I suppose not, just so long as you keep the curtains pulled around the bed,’ she said tightly. ‘It really wouldn’t do to let the rest of the visitors see that we are setting a precedent with Mrs Branning. Rules are made for a reason and the whole of the ward would be in chaos in no time and Matron would be breathing down my neck.’

  From Sunday’s determined stance it was more than clear, however, that in order to get her to leave they would have to forcibly evict her. The sister went off in a huff then and Sunday turned her attention back to Tom.

  It was late that evening before she got home again to find Kitty waiting for her in the hallway in her nightgown.

  ‘She wouldn’t go to bed until you got back,’ Cissie whispered as Sunday put her arm about the girl’s shoulders and gave her a gentle hug.

  ‘We’ve had a little setback,’ she told them truthfully. ‘Tom has developed an infection but the doctors have it in hand and I’m sure he’ll be fine.’ Her arm actually ached from all the hours she had spent bathing his forehead with cold water, but already her efforts appeared to be paying off, for he had not been quite so hot when she had finally left him, and a pleasant young nurse who had come on night duty had promised that she would continue her efforts throughout the night.

  It was almost a week later when Sunday arrived at the hospital one day to find the doctor waiting for her with wonderful news.

  ‘Your husband is mending nicely now, although I have to warn you, he may well always have a limp and that leg will never be as strong as it was. Despite that, he is fit enough to come home tomorrow.’

  Sunday could hardly wait to share her good news with everyone at Treetops, and again the house took on a party atmosphere as they prepared for his return. The crisis was over and soon Tom would be back where he belonged. Kitty flew into her arms when she heard the good news and Sunday was shocked to see how tall she was growing. You’ll be a young lady soon, she found herself thinking and wondered where all the years had gone.

  Chapter Ten

  March 1914

  It was a bright sunny day early in March when Kitty entered the drawing room following her singing lessons to tell Sunday, ‘There’s a lady at the door asking to see Tom.’

  ‘Oh? Did she say who she was?’ Sunday asked curiously, looking up from the housekeeping ledgers that she checked each month for Mrs Brewer. She had never come across a single discrepancy but the woman still insisted she should check them.

  Kitty shook her head. ‘No, but Tom is out in the manège. I saw him with the new pony on a training lead. Shall I ask him to come in?’

  Although Tom’s leg had healed, just as the doctor had predicted, he now had quite a severe limp and was no longer able to tackle some of the jobs he had used to do. Nowadays much to his frustration he was having to occupy himself with lighter duties, although he was building up a good reputation for being a talented horse-breeder. Riding the horses and driving his beloved car were a couple of things he could still do without putting too much pressure on his weak leg.

  Kitty was now seventeen years old and right up until her sixteenth birthday the money for her keep had been left in the porch, more or less regularly every December, although Sunday had never once managed to get a glimpse of the person who left it there. Kitty had turned into a stunning young woman. She was tall and slim and carried herself with a grace that made Sunday sigh with envy. Like Ben, who was now George’s right-hand man, Kitty too had asked to stay on at Treetops and Sunday couldn’t envisage a life without her although she knew that one day some handsome young blade would come along and sweep her off her feet.

  ‘If you would please, pet,’ Sunday answered now. ‘And on your way through, would you ask the visitor to come in here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Once Kitty had left the room, Sunday leaned back in her chair and absently gazed out of the window. She saw a car rattling down the drive and smiled. It was Mr Dewhurst who had recently become betrothed to her mother – and not before time, the way Sunday saw it. They had been ‘walking out together’, as Lavinia termed it, for a few years now and Sunday hoped they wouldn’t leave it too much longer before they finally became man and wife.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when there was a tap at the door and the mistress of the workhouse popped her head around it.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Conway, how lovely to see you, do come in,’ Sunday encouraged, then glimpsing Ethel in the hallway over the woman’s shoulder she ordered two mugs of hot chocolate and ushered the visitor to the chair by the fire. These early March mornings could still be nippy and Tom’s leg pained him when he got cold, so she ensured the fires were always lit.

  ‘How can I help you?’ she asked then. Mrs Conway and her mother were friends and knew each other well, but Sunday had never known the woman to visit before although she was most welcome.

  ‘Actually, I came because of this, dear.’ The woman began to delve into a voluminous bag and after a few moments she extracted a rather crumpled envelope. ‘This came to the workhouse two days ago; it’s addressed to your husband. I’m sorry I couldn’t ge
t it to you before.’

  ‘To Tom?’ Sunday took the envelope and turned it over. It was indeed addressed to him, care of the Nuneaton Union Workhouse although the postmark was smudged and quite indistinguishable. But who would be writing to him there? It was many years since he had left. Nevertheless, she thanked the woman for delivering the letter and they went on to talk about the new bathrooms that were being installed at the workhouse. It was all very exciting and as Sunday listened to Mrs Conway’s enthusiasm she couldn’t help wishing that this kindly soul had been the mistress there when she and Tom had been in residence instead of the evil Miss Frost.

  Ethel wheeled a trolley in with a selection of Cook’s fresh baked biscuits and a large pot of hot chocolate, and the two women continued to chat amiably until Mrs Conway reluctantly declared, ‘Well, I really should be going, dear.’

  ‘Oh please, let Ben give you a lift back,’ Sunday said. ‘He’s going into town anyway and it’s hardly out of his way.’

  ‘In that case thank you kindly, dear.’ Mrs Conway chuckled. ‘I must admit the walk was a little farther than I’d thought and I’m not getting any younger. I dare say I shall pay for all this exercise tomorrow.’

  They said their goodbyes, and after propping Tom’s letter on the mantelshelf, Sunday went back to what she had been doing before her guest arrived. It was after lunch when she and Tom were sitting enjoying a few moments of peace and quiet before she remembered it again, and jumping up from her seat she carried it across to him.

  ‘A letter for me, delivered to the workhouse?’ He was bemused as he stared at the envelope. ‘I wonder who it could be from.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you open it and find out?’

  He slit the envelope and extracted a sheet of paper and as he began to read, Sunday heard him gasp.