Dusters and Dreams

by Hannah Buckland

  Sophia mimicked Mrs. Grey’s flustered voice. “You must boil them, not scramble. They need to cool down well first. It needs to be old and dry—the bread, I mean. People these days don’t understand bread. It’s no good being too fresh. You can’t cut it thin enough, and it doesn’t absorb properly. The previous baker understood these things, but the new one does not. I knew his mother, dear old lady and not a tooth in her mouth.”

  Sophia paused and put a hand over her heart. “Forgive me, Rebecca, but I couldn’t help asking how the old lady managed dry bread with no teeth.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I’m afraid I did.”

  “And how did she manage?”

  “Dunk it and suck it!”

  The two women shrieked with laughter and were still wiping away their tears when a housemaid announced a visitor.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but Reverend Hayworth is here to see his wife.”

  All mirth drained from Rebecca. This was an unusual occurrence. Something must have happened.

  Jack was shown into the room, and his face confirmed her suspicions. Forgetting his normal manners, he omitted any greeting to Sophia and addressed Rebecca.

  “I have just received a telegram from Uncle Hector’s housekeeper, Mrs. Hill. He has had a large stroke and is unconscious.”

  “Then I must go.”

  Hardly aware of what was happening, Rebecca donned her cloak and left. Had she even said good-bye to Sophia? In numb haste, she packed her case and changed into her best frock. Violet kindly offered to escort her, but Rebecca, knowing how hard it would be for her to leave Joe, declined. Meanwhile, Jack had scouted the village for a willing driver, only to find that Sophia had mobilised her coachman into action. Rebecca struggled to hold back her tears as Jack helped her into the carriage and climbed in beside her. She chided herself. She was not crying for Uncle Hector, but for herself: for leaving Capford, leaving her husband, and returning to the prison house.

  The sight of poor Uncle Hector was truly alarming. Any self-pity drained away as Rebecca stared aghast at his ashen, unresponsive face. Rebecca bent down to kiss him and found that his skin was cold and clammy.

  “’E’s right bad,” whispered Mrs. Hill, rather unnecessarily.

  “What did his physician say?” Rebecca whispered back.

  “’E said . . . only time will tell.”

  “Highly scientific.”

  Rebecca had wished for more detailed medical guidance. In the dim light of the darkened room, the two ladies stood silently assessing the situation. It was clear to both that Uncle Hector needed full nursing care, and it was equally clear that they needed assistance. But where can one find a good, reliable nurse? Mrs. Hill knew only tradesmen and housekeepers, and Rebecca knew absolutely no one. She offered up a silent prayer as they sighed despondently.

  Over a much-needed cup of tea, Rebecca remembered the dear old nurse that had attended the Dowager Wilson so faithfully. Jack had spoken of her most warmly, and she seemed a woman of Christian convictions. Would her fees be too prohibitive? Judging from his largesse, surely Uncle Hector could afford to employ a good nurse. Yes, Rebecca convinced herself, as his nearest relatives, she and Jack were duty-bound to provide Uncle Hector with the best possible care and to act on his behalf in securing it.

  Without delay, she sent a telegram to Jack asking him to make enquiries into the whereabouts of the nurse and request her assistance if available. Having done this, she mentally girded up her loins. Until help arrived, she and Mrs. Hill must stand in the breach.

  The days and nights merged into one as Rebecca and Mrs. Hill attended the stricken man. With gentle care, they cleaned and turned him, held his limp hand, and stroked his clammy brow. They sought signs of consciousness but detected nothing. Once a day the physician arrived to apply leeches or give directions. At his instruction, they put small cubes of ice in Uncle Hector’s mouth to give him fluid, but most of the melted water ran down his sagging chin onto his nightshirt.

  The first night had been the worst, for Rebecca was unprepared for the long vigil ahead. The staff members were attentive and asked if she had everything necessary, but it was only after they had all retired to bed that she began to realise what was necessary. Unless she rationed the coal, the fire would die out before dawn. Her corset was not designed for slouching in an armchair and began to rub her back and pinch her armpits. As the darkness deepened and London sank into silence, a chill crept over her. How she longed for a couple of warm blankets and her outside shawl! She also wanted to relieve herself, but could she leave Uncle Hector? What if he slipped out of bed, suddenly awoke or—even worse—passed away when she was absent?

  After a couple of slow, uncomfortable hours, she could bear it no longer. Steeling herself for decisive action, she took her lamp, crept to the water closet, and then went to her room. Hastily she wriggled out of her dress and corset. She found another woolen vest, her nighty, and a shawl and removed the blankets and counterpane from her bed. Thus equipped, she returned to her uncle, who seemed no worse for her absence.

  Changing his position was almost impossible on her own, but Rebecca did her best by pushing pillows behind his back. The new position made him snore in such an awful gurgling manner that Rebecca, with strength produced by alarm, pulled out the pillows and flipped him on his side. She was still shaking when she threw a shovel load of coal on the fire and sank back into the chair.

  Having wrapped herself up, she tried to relax. Her hairpins stuck into her head, so she removed them all and plaited her hair instead. She looked reproachfully at the ticking clock. The loudest object in the room, how slowly it moved its hands! Turning her gaze to Uncle Hector, she wondered what he was experiencing. And from the present, her thoughts moved to the future. Did Uncle Hector have an earthly future? And what of his eternal? She knew his opinion on many things but not his opinion on Christ. That was the only thing that mattered now.

  Rebecca felt annoyed with Jack. He was a minister, after all. Why had he never steered the conversation to spiritual matters? That is what ministers are supposed to do, aren’t they? She was annoyed with herself too. She had been too hesitant, too polite, too timid. She wanted to shake Uncle Hector out of his perilous slumber and ask him if he was ready for his journey from time to eternity. The bedroom was so still and peaceful, it seemed hardly possible that it could be the scene of such a momentous event. How awesome it was that one moment a person could be mindlessly drifting in sleep and the next instant standing, more awake than they had ever been, before their Judge.

  Rebecca shivered and once again committed her soul to the Lord. She prayed for Uncle Hector, pleading that if he wasn’t ready for eternity that he would wake up, realise his danger, and flee to Christ. In Christian magazines like Sundays at Home, she had frequently seen deathbed scenes portrayed—grieving relatives kneeling at the bedside and praying as they clutched their dying relative’s hand. Moved by memories of these images, Rebecca flung off her blankets and did the same.

  Returning to her chair afterwards, she reflected on her actions. Was it a bit melodramatic? Was God moved by such displays of emotion? She doubted it—not because she thought God uncaring, but because she knew, from bitter experience, that the heart could be near to breaking in silent prayer, despite everyone around being oblivious to the soul struggle. How often, on her low days, had she been secretly wrestling with God despite bustling about in a gathering of women? We don’t need to pretend to a God who sees our innermost being, thought Rebecca, and the thought made her thankful.

  She must have drifted off to sleep, for she dreamed strange dreams of physicians, leeches, and Mr. Gascoigne. It was almost a relief to be woken by Mrs. Hill. The cup of tea tasted strange in her dry mouth, and her head throbbed. It took very little persuading for her to hand over Uncle Hector’s care to the housekeeper, take breakfast, and go to bed. It was blissfully relaxing to stretch out between the sheets, but the deep chill, unique to a sleepless night and exhaustion, took a l
ong time to disappear, despite hot water bottles. Very gradually Rebecca warmed up, and when she did eventually fall asleep, she slept for hours on end, only to wake with a muzzy head and a gnawing stomach.

  Letters from Jack were always welcome, but Rebecca could have danced a jig after reading the next letter, for the Wilson’s former nurse had been named and located. She was called Hester Haynes, and she lodged with her brother’s widow in Bournemouth when unable to secure work. This much had been gleaned from the housekeeper at Kenwood Manor, who had forwarded her final wages to the address. Not only was Hester without work, but she was willing to nurse Uncle Hector and would be arriving within two days. A huge weight seemed to lift from Rebecca’s tense shoulders, and her headache almost disappeared. Mrs. Hill was no less delighted and, despite her tiredness, organised the transforming of Uncle Hector’s dressing room into a suitable bedroom for the nurse.

  On arriving at 27 Milton Square, Hester Haynes was rewarded with a warm reception. Rebecca and Mrs. Hill already admired her, although they had not yet witnessed her in action. As soon as she had finished her cup of tea, Nurse Haynes unpacked her apron and went to inspect her charge. She was a formidable sight in her copious apron, which rendered her almost as wide as she was tall. Hands on hips, she silently studied the room, the bed, and its occupant. With calm authority, she organised the rearranging of the room to maximize the patient’s comfort and her convenience. She wanted more light and air entering the room and, within an hour of her arrival, it seemed that hope and optimism had entered too.

  CHAPTER 29

  HAVING FUMBLED AROUND, TRYING TO get the key in the keyhole, Jack entered the pitch black hallway. Rebecca would have left a lit lamp for him on the hall table. He felt for the lamp, found it, then with frustration realised he had no idea where the matches were. The whole evening was just one long irritation! Grabbing the lamp, he moved down the hallway toward the kitchen. The location of matches was another item he could add to his mental list of “Things to ask your wife before she unexpectedly disappears.”

  Before he had taken more than three steps, he collided with the hat stand and fell flat on the floor. There was an ominous crash as the lamp chimney shattered on the hard stone surface. Jack groaned as he heaved himself onto his feet. The sharp stinging of his right hand and warm oozing of blood galvanized him into action. Feeling along the wall with his left hand, with the right one held close to his chest, Jack made his way into the kitchen. The stove was burning low but produced just enough glow to be located. His left hand ineptly opened the stove door so he could stir the embers and produce more light. Finding kindling wood in a basket nearby, he stoked the fire and looked around the room. A tea cloth on the back of a chair would serve as a bandage, and a butcher’s receipt became a wick to light the kitchen lamp. With more illumination, he inspected the wound. It wasn’t too deep, but it was in an awkward place—it started bleeding every time he opened his palm. Jack sank onto the wooden kitchen chair, cradling his head in his arms on the table top.

  Technically speaking, the injury wasn’t Lord Wilson’s fault, but Jack put the blame firmly at his door. Why else would he still be up, at well past midnight, on such a wet and gloomy night? Jack’s uninjured hand thumped the kitchen table in frustration. That obnoxious man! Asks questions, but never listens to the reply! Deaf as a door nail when he chooses to be! Drinks too much. Eats too much! Born with more status than his intellect deserves.

  Having had a private and somewhat satisfying rant, Jack decided he should head for bed after bandaging his hand. Bandages!—another thing to add to the growing “wife list.” Having unsuccessfully explored a few drawers, he opted for another tea cloth and bound up his still-oozing hand the best he could. As he lay in bed, fearing the pain would keep him awake, he made up his mind. Next time Lord Wilson sent for him, he would refuse to go. Having made that Queen Vashti-like decision, he fell into a fitful sleep.

  The following morning, Violet was suitably impressed with the blood stains, shattered glass, and misused tea-cloths. She located the bandages and professionally applied one. The matches were, and had always been, right next to the lamp on the hall table. Jack wandered about the house feeling sore, fed up, and belligerent. He had only two more days to prepare his Sunday sermons. He scrapped his notes for the morning service. He had a new subject, and he was in just the right mood to give it his best shot.

  His sermon notes looked like a schoolboy’s first, clumsy attempt at writing, thanks to Violet’s liberal bandaging, and everything seemed to take twice as long. Jack fumbled his way through the thin leaves of his Cruden’s Concordance, Matthew Henry, and other commentaries. But his brain made up for the speed his fingers lacked. Maybe the subject deserved a series, not just one sermon.

  Violet took her half day on Saturday. Once she had left, Jack was free to be a slovenly bachelor for the remainder of the day. He ate his dinner at his desk, mindlessly shoveling in the forkfuls as he continued his preparation. He hardly noticed the afternoon fading into evening until he was abruptly disturbed by the front door bell. Looking up at the study clock, he was surprised to see it was half past eight. His heart sank—Lord Wilson! Sure enough, the caller was Lord Wilson’s groom. Jack steeled himself.

  “Evening, parson. The big man be wanting ya again.”

  “Sorry, John, but I am not coming tonight.”

  “’E’s sent me te fetch ya.”

  “Then please send my apologies and say I am too busy preparing tomorrow’s sermons.”

  “’E won’t like that.”

  “I know, but I am here to serve the parish, not just his lordship.”

  “’E don’t think of no one but ’imself.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So ya ain’t coming?”

  “No John, I ain’t . . . I mean I’m not.”

  “You’re a brave man, parson.”

  “Maybe foolhardy, John.”

  “Maybe, maybe.”

  “Goodnight.” Jack closed the door before he could waver and go. That was the end of his sermon preparation for the evening. Pacing about the house, he wondered if he had done the right thing.

  The next morning, fortified by hot porridge he had ended up burning, Jack strode to church. In the chilly vestry he fell on his knees and begged for divine aid. During the first hymn, he looked around the church. It was pleasingly full. In the luxury pews to the side of him sat the stony-faced Wilson family. The readings were short—Psalm 14 and Luke 12 verses 16 to 21. Instead of announcing a text at the beginning of the sermon as was his normal custom, he launched straight into his theme.

  “We all know what the atheist thinks about God,” the Reverend Hayworth said. “We are left in no doubt: their voice is strong in the written press, in science, and in conversation. With loud and lofty words, they pour scorn on the faith of their forefathers. They mock the simple beliefs of the godly and puff themselves up in arrogance and conceit. Only a decade ago they would have been ashamed to utter their opinions in public, but now they shout them from the housetops. Instead of believing the God of the Bible, they prefer to believe that we are a random selection of atoms, the offspring of apes, and a product of chance.

  “The atheist denounces the truths of the Bible—the very truths Tyndale so highly prized, that Ridley and Latimer died for. The truths that sustained the Protestant martyrs in Queen Mary’s reign as they faced their deaths with assured hope of salvation in Christ. They denounce the faith of the saints of old, the cloud of witnesses we read of in Hebrews 11. And what do they give us instead? Will it be any comfort to you on your deathbed to believe you are a random group of atoms? Will you comfort your dear dying daughter with the theory of evolution? Will the idea that she is only different from animals because she has developed opposable thumbs bring her comfort? Why mourn for an ape’s offspring? In adversity, is there any comfort in imagining no one is in control and life’s events occur at random?

  “Yes, we all know the increasingly vocal opinions of the atheists, but
this morning I am going to tell you God’s opinion of them. What does He say about them? In Psalm 14 verse 1 we have His opinion. How does God describe them? Does He praise their intellectual ability and free thinking? No—He calls them fools. ‘The fool hath said in his heart, “There is no God.”’ A fool!

  “It is not pleasant to be called a fool. No one wants to hear that said of himself or herself. But this is God’s assessment of anyone here who says there is no God. A spiritual fool! To be foolish with money is bad: you may lose all your possessions. To be foolish with your health is awful: you may reap years of painful illness. To be foolish in your relationships is terrible: you may endure a life of domestic troubles and heartache. But to be a fool with your soul, your never-dying soul! You may endure an eternity of torment.

  “In our New Testament reading, we heard about the rich fool and how God said, ‘Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee.’ This night! The very God you mock and loudly assert does not exist is the very God who lends you your every breath. He is the one who appoints the moment of your death. This night! Maybe it will not be literally ‘this night,’ but to God a thousand years are as one day. In eternity, won’t your puny life on earth be like an evening that is past? A tale that is told? A drop in the bucket of eternity? Be sure of this: there are no atheists in hell. As J.C. Ryle says, ‘Hell is truth known too late.’ Too late, too late—what folly!”

  Jack paused for effect. The church was silent. No fidgeting, no playing of noughts and crosses or reading of the marriage service as he sometimes saw from his lofty position in the pulpit.