The Little Angel

by Rosie Goodwin

  He glanced to either side of him. The beds were rammed in close together in regimentally straight lines along both sides of the hospital tent. It was hard to determine how old the man was in the bed to the right of him. His whole head, even his eyes, was heavily bandaged with only his lips showing and he was lying so still that he might already have died. Burns probably, Tom thought with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  The young chap in the bed to the left of him was shouting feverishly, and once the nurse had prepared Tom for theatre and taken away the bloody bowl of water, Tom tried to comfort him. Poor lad, he couldn’t have been any older than eighteen or nineteen and the wire cage across his legs told its own sorry story.

  ‘Calm down, old chap,’ Tom said kindly. ‘Shall I call the nurse for you? Are you in pain?’ He was suddenly ashamed that his own complaint seemed so trivial.

  ‘I’ve lost me legs,’ the boy sobbed. ‘An’ yet I swear I can still feel ’em.’ He turned tortured eyes towards Tom, whose heart went out to him. ‘What’ll I do now? My girl back at home won’t want me like this, will she?’

  ‘She will, son, if she truly loves you,’ Tom tried to reassure him but the lad’s head wagged from side to side.

  ‘No. My Molly’s a looker, a little beaut. She’ll not want a cripple! An’ I … I want my mum!’

  Stretching his hand out as far as it would go, Tom managed to stroke the boy’s arm. Words seemed so inadequate.

  The discomfort in his foot was getting worse now. Strange, that – he hadn’t felt anything while his feet were freezing but now that he was becoming warmer for the first time in weeks, the pain was setting in.

  When he awoke the next morning to the sounds of the big guns booming, he blinked, wondering where he was. Then a young nurse’s face swam into focus and she smiled at him tiredly.

  ‘Your op went well,’ she told him as she tucked the covers around him. ‘And you’re one of the lucky ones. There’s an ambulance due here today to take the injured to the nearest port so’s you can be shipped home.’

  Tom returned her smile groggily then glanced towards the bed on the left to see that it was empty and neatly made with clean sheets and blankets.

  ‘The young chap that was there last night – where is he?’

  The nurse sadly shook her head. ‘He didn’t make it. It was the shock, you see?’

  Turning his face into his pillow, Tom sobbed. When was this bloody senseless war going to end? And how many more young lives would it claim before it did?

  The voyage back to Blighty on the hospital ship was appalling. There were no painkillers available and now Tom’s heavily bandaged foot felt as if it was on fire. He quickly became hot and feverish. As the boat was tossed about like a cork he began to vomit and a nurse fetched a doctor to him.

  ‘Infection has set in,’ the doctor informed him. He wasn’t really surprised. The conditions surgeons were forced to cope with in the field hospitals were far from ideal and infections were rife. ‘Never mind, old chap. Just try to hold on in there. Soon as we land we’ll get you transported home and then I’ve no doubt your wife will give you the best of care.’ Even though Tom was gravely ill, his injuries did not warrant a bed in one of the military hos-pitals. These were reserved for the more serious wounds and even then, there were nowhere near enough beds.

  ‘I’m all … all right.’ Pains were shooting up his leg but thoughts of home made him grit his teeth bravely.

  ‘That’s the ticket.’ The doctor patted his arm approvingly and moved on to the next patient as Tom tried to sleep. When he did eventually manage to drop off, his dreams were weird and mixed. Sunday was there, and Kitty and Ben, and his lips curved in a smile. But then he was back on the field watching Cissie’s son fall into the mud and he began to thrash about. He had just told her that Hugh had died a coward’s death and she was inconsolable.

  ‘Wake up, Corporal Branning. We’re in port now and going to transfer you to an ambulance. Can you hear me?’

  He started awake, his face drenched in sweat and found himself staring up into the face of a nurse with a kindly smile. He nodded dizzily, and then he was being lifted onto a stretcher and once more sleep claimed him.

  It was late that evening when the transport he was in turned into the drive of Treetops.

  ‘Very nice home you’ve got here, matey,’ the jolly stretcher-bearer remarked as he peered through the trees. ‘This is goin’ to be a wonderful surprise for your missus. She’ll have you right as rain in no time, no doubt.’

  Tom felt a surge of joy as he nodded weakly and then they were pulling up at the bottom of the steps and the driver hopped out to run up and knock on the door.

  It was Cissie who opened it and when the man told her why they were there she squealed with delight and ran back into the house, all of a flap, to find Sunday.

  ‘Tom!’ Suddenly his wife was there, and strangely the pain didn’t feel quite so acute. She clutched his hand as the driver told her the extent of his injuries and gave advice for the treatment and then Tom was stretchered inside and up to their bedroom. Once the transport men had left, leaving strict instructions for her to get their own doctor to see him as soon as possible, Sunday made sure he had a cup of tea and hot buttered toast first before washing him from head to toe, with many changes of warm water and using her own soap, before drying him, rebandaging his wound and helping him into a clean pair of pyjamas. As he settled back onto the feather mattress and pillows, enjoying the warmth of the roaring fire, Tom felt truly as if he had died and gone to heaven.

  Cissie then fetched him a small bowl of hot stew, thick with gravy and chunks of tender meat, and Sunday spoonfed it to him. There had been times when she had feared she would never see him again, but her husband was home, and now she was determined to get him well and fit again.

  ‘I love you and I’ve missed you so much,’ she whispered to him as she held another cup of hot sweet tea to his mouth.

  ‘I missed you too.’ And then with his belly full and a smile on his lips he sank into a deep and healing sleep. The only problem with getting him well again, Sunday thought to herself as she sat and watched over him, was that he would then be recalled to rejoin his unit. But she decided that she wouldn’t dwell on that for now. Christmas was just a whisper away and thanks be to God she would be sharing it with the man she loved.

  Chapter Fifty

  ‘You’re going to spend Christmas with your family again?’ Kitty couldn’t hide her dismay from Richard, who had just told her of his plans.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ he answered curtly.

  She wanted to scream at him, Because I thought you would be spending it with me! But the words seemed to lodge in her throat.

  ‘I dare say you’ll be happy enough spending it with Ruby and Maggie,’ he said dismissively. He had been nowhere near as attentive to her of late and Kitty was beginning to wonder if their relationship was ever going anywhere. She knew that Maggie would be happy to see her away from Richard for good, but there was something about him that she found impossible to resist. He only had to crook his little finger and she came running. She only wished that she could have the same effect on him.

  Suddenly tired of everything, she collected her bag and after walking to the door of the studio she told him, ‘I think I’ll go and get an early night. I have a headache coming on.’

  He didn’t even look up from the newspaper he was reading but simply nodded. ‘As you wish. I’ll see you tomorrow before I leave for the family seat in the country.’

  Kitty plodded through the hallway to the front door on feet that felt like lead. Why wasn’t he asking her to go with him? She knew that she was well spoken, Sunday had seen to that, so surely it couldn’t be because he was ashamed of her? But then she thought of the evenings she spent with Richard’s so-called friends and wondered if this was the reason why he wanted to keep her a secret. Now he had used her for his own purposes, she was no longer a desirable prospect.

  She pushed the id
ea away as she stepped out into the chilly night to hail a cab. Richard didn’t even trouble himself to hail one for her and see her safely inside it – nor had he done so for some months, now that she came to think about it. She stood there shivering as a cab pulled up beside her. The weather was so cold that already her teeth were chattering and added to that it was raining, fine needle-sharp spits of rain that made her cheeks sting. The month before had been reported as the second coldest November on record and December hadn’t been much better. Kitty wondered briefly if they might have a white Christmas but she doubted it. The weather was too wet and cold for snow, and as she settled into the cab she found herself remembering the happy Christmases she had spent at Treetops with Sunday and Tom.

  Blinking back tears, a wave of homesickness and despair washed over her. Only now could she admit to herself that she deeply regretted Ruby ever sending for her. The dreams she had secretly harboured of being reunited with a mother who had been forced to give her up because of genuine hardship had long since died. If truth be told, Ruby had no time for her and sadly Kitty knew it. And yet, something made her stay and it wasn’t only Richard. She actually felt sorry for Ruby. There was a certain vulnerability about the woman now that made Kitty feel protective of her. She supposed that was what made Miss Fox stay with her too. It certainly wasn’t because of the way she was treated, that was for sure, for Ruby could often be heard bellowing at her from all over the house.

  With a sigh, Kitty stared at the rain-lashed windows.

  It was mid-January 1916 when Tom received a letter asking him to report for a medical to see if he was fit enough to return to his unit. It sent Sunday spinning into a panic.

  ‘But your foot isn’t properly healed yet,’ she objected.

  Tom smiled at her as he stroked her hair. He was sure she grew more beautiful with each passing year and the thought of leaving her again was like a physical pain, but he knew that every man was needed.

  ‘You know I have no choice,’ he told her softly. ‘If I don’t report for the medical I shall be classed as AWOL and we wouldn’t want that, would we? I may be many things, sweetheart, but I’m not a coward.’

  The words made his thoughts turn to Hugh Tate and he glanced at Cissie who was dusting her way around the drawing room. Up until now he had shied away from telling her about her son, but now he decided that she deserved to know that he was dead.

  ‘Cissie, come and sit with me for a moment, would you?’ He patted the seat at the side of him and Cissie did as she was told, wondering what it was that he wanted.

  ‘The thing is,’ he began, finding this much more difficult than he could ever have imagined. ‘Before I was injured I noticed that your son was stationed in the same place as me.’

  ‘He was?’ Cissie clasped her hands together as she beamed at Kitty. ‘Didn’t I tell you he would have gone to fight?’ She looked at Tom again then with hope shining in her eyes and suddenly he knew what he must do.

  ‘He, err … I don’t quite know how to tell you this, but he – he was killed in battle. Your son died a hero, Cissie, and before he died he asked me to tell you that he was sorry for any trouble he’d caused you, and about the money he had borrowed from you. He intended to pay it back just as soon as he could.’

  Every word was a lie. He better than anyone knew that it was Hugh who had attacked Cissie that night in the copse. But how could he have told her that? He was glad now that he had destroyed the incriminating evidence, the handkerchief Hugh had dropped at the scene, and he prayed that God would forgive him for lying.

  He held his breath as he watched a mixture of emotions flit across her face then a solitary tear ran down her cheek and she managed to smile.

  ‘I always knew he was a good lad deep down,’ she breathed. ‘And at least I can be proud of him now. Thank you for telling me, Tom.’ She rose then and quietly left the room to tell George and to grieve in private. I’ll tell Mr and Mrs Tate the same thing when I’m able to save their heartache as well, Tom promised himself.

  ‘Knowing you as I do, I think there is more to this than you’re saying,’ Sunday told her husband. ‘But bless you for sparing her feelings. At least she has something to hang on to now.’ And then she went into the safe shelter of his arms, determined to make the most of every precious second they had left together.

  A week later, George drove Tom into town in his freshly laundered uniform with his kitbag slung across his shoulder, for his medical. The goodbyes at Treetops had been tearful but Tom was grateful that he had managed to see his home again for a few weeks at least.

  ‘I’ll wait here for you, man,’ George told him in a thick voice when they arrived.

  ‘No, you get yourself away. I’ll probably be catching a train,’ Tom advised.

  ‘Aye well, I’ll wait all the same till yer come out again,’ George insisted, and knowing better than to argue Tom nodded and went inside to meet the Army doctor. His limp had been much more pronounced since losing his toes to frostbite and his foot still pained him, but all the same Tom walked in with his back as straight as he could hold it.

  Once shown into the doctor’s office he found the man poring over his records. ‘Ah, Corporal Branning?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Tom stood to attention as the doctor came around the desk to him.

  ‘Right, let’s have a look at you then, shall we? Hop onto the couch.’

  Tom proceeded to take his boot and sock off and the doctor then examined him before saying, ‘Could you walk a straight line for me?’

  Tom did as requested as the doctor watched him with a thoughtful expression on his face before saying, ‘You know what, man, I reckon you’ve done your bit now. That leg and foot of yours are in a pretty bad way. I’m going to give you a medical discharge on the grounds of being unfit to fight any more.’

  Tom was astounded. ‘What? You mean I don’t have to go back?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’ The doctor sat back down at his desk and began to scribble on his pad. ‘It’s all credit to you that you enlisted at your age before you were asked to in the first place, so hold your head high and go home to your family. I shall be sending my report to your commanding officer so this is an end to it for you.’ Then his manner becoming official again, he barked, ‘Next!’ as Tom staggered from the room with his sock and his boot still in his hand.

  He found George waiting outside for him and dropped into the passenger seat of the car, looking dazed.

  ‘Railway station is it then?’ When Tom shook his head, George frowned. ‘Where then?’

  ‘Home,’ Tom told him with a broad smile. ‘I’ve been classed as unfit so this is the end of the war for me. I just wish to God that it was for the rest of the chaps still fighting, God bless them!’

  ‘Amen to that,’ George agreed with all his heart as he turned the car towards home.

  It was in August 1916 that Sunday saw the sight everyone dreaded: the telegram boy cycling up the drive. Her heart turned over. It had to be news of Ben – who else could it be? Feeling slightly sick, she went to the door to meet him and once the brown envelope was in her hand she stood staring at it as if it might bite her.

  Cissie found her still standing there in a state of shock some minutes later.

  ‘Where’s Tom?’ Sunday asked in a wobbly voice.

  ‘He’s helpin’ George scythe the grass – but give that here,’ her friend ordered. ‘Best see what it says before we fetch him, eh lass?’

  She took it from Sunday’s shaking hand and quickly split it open, then breathed a huge sigh of relief. Like Sunday, she had thought the worst. ‘It is about Ben but he ain’t dead.’ She gave Sunday, whose face had drained of colour, a quick hug. ‘He’s been injured in Flanders and now he’s in a military hospital in Portsmouth.’

  ‘Does it say what his injuries are?’ Sunday asked tremulously.

  Cissie shook her head. ‘No, but there’s a telephone number to ring. We’d best fetch Tom now an’ let him do it. An’ let’s just thank Go
d that he’s still alive, even if he is wounded.’

  She scuttled away then as Sunday stood gripping the edge of the banister rail. They had all been reading the war reports religiously and she knew of the terrible conditions the troops had been forced to fight in at Flanders. The men were wading waist-deep in stinking mud made deeper still by the relentless rain that had been lashing the battlefield. Men who were unfortunate enough to slip off the duckboards that had been thrown down on the morass were reported to be drowning in the sludge, dragged down by the weight of their equipment. Guns and horses were being sunk irretrievably. Sunday wept as she thought of what Ben must have endured. He was alive, admittedly – but would it be the same Ben they had known who came home to them, if or when he did? Common sense told her that he couldn’t be the same. He had seen things that no one should ever see and the experience was bound to have affected him. But then she knew that they must all cling on to the fact that he was alive whatever his injuries were. Somehow when he came home they must help him to recover.

  In a slightly more positive frame of mind she waited for Tom to join her.

  It took Tom almost two hours to get through to someone at the hospital in Portsmouth who was able to tell them what was wrong with Ben – and it wasn’t good news.

  ‘Severe burns.’ The strain showed on his face as he dropped the receiver back into the cradle. ‘They’re all down one side of his face and one arm, apparently.’

  Cissie and Sunday held hands tightly as they both remembered what a handsome chap Ben had been.

  ‘Will he be badly scarred?’ Sunday breathed.