“You must be David.”
I sat down, astonished, my shaky legs refusing to hold me.
“Yes. How did you know? Who are you?”
“I’m your Aunt Flo.”
At that moment the kettle began to sing. I stood up with difficulty, made the tea and found some milk in the bottom of a carton.
“Sugar?”
“Two.”
A dirty cup stood in the sink. I stood on the pedal pump until water came, rinsed the cup and poured some tea.
“I don’t think I can sit up. Put it down beside me to cool.”
I looked at the frail figure. “Are you Granny’s sister?”
She moaned a little, then replied “Yes, the last one.”
Before I could stop myself I asked “But, how old are you? I thought ….”
She opened her eyes.
“I’m 80 – too old for the drugs or injections, but still alive after a week – only just.” and she shut her eyes again.
I thought back to Mum’s words “You will be all right now. But the older folk, and especially the retired ones simply lie down and die in three days.”
“ Aunty Flo – try to drink some of your tea. It’ll make you feel stronger”
I gently shook her arm and she opened her eyes. We struggled to sit her up and she managed two or three mouthfuls of tea. “That’s enough – I’ll just lie down again.”
“Does Mum know you’re here?”
“Yes dear.”
“But shouldn’t you be in …..?” my voice dropped off.
“The flu centre. I managed to drag myself to this old van and drive myself here before they came for me.”
That seemed scarcely believable.
“But won’t Mum have to report you?”
“I don’t know David – I hope not.”
She was silent for a long time “You’d better go home, and draw the curtains shut please”
And as she turned over, giving another groan. “Don’t tell anyone about me or that you’ve been in.”
“I shan’t – and there’s nobody around. Most houses round here are empty now.”
My head was spinning as I tottered home and lay down on my own bed again, utterly exhausted by the effort.
Later that day I went back twice to give Aunt Flo drinks, wondering when Mum would get home. She came in late and exhausted. As she peeled off her coat she asked
“David, how are you feeling?”
“A little better, still very wobbly.”
“Any spots? Any blood in your urine?”
I shook my head.
“Thank goodness, dear. You’re over the worst now. I’ve brought some sandwiches from the clinic.”
“Mum.”
“Yes, dear?”
That camper that appeared yesterday. It’s got Aunty Flo inside. I’ve taken her drinks three times.”
Mum sat down, closed her eyes for a long time and then said.
“David, you’re a good lad. I don’t know what to do about Flo. The regulations are that old people must be taken to the camps, where most of them die almost immediately. I think there’s a second virus going through the camps plus an MRSA. I feel almost worse about everything having had injections and the anti-virus tablets.”
“But Mum, you’ve got to keep well to treat people. Mum, can we keep her here?”
“I suppose so, though it may be dangerous. I’ll go and see her now”
Mum came back ten minutes later looking anxious.
“I think she’ll recover, but she’s too weak at present to get up stairs. And I can't keep her downstairs. We’ll have to get her in after dark, perhaps tomorrow night. Meanwhile I’ll take her drinks and food this evening and ask you to give her more tomorrow. I was able to find a spare Gaz cylinder and managed to buy a few candles.”
“Mum, Any news of Dad?”
“No dear, but there’s scarcely news of anything. The flu may miss South Georgia completely. I don’t know whether sea birds carry it. But almost all communications have broken down, and what comes through is very doubtful. The mortality round here is about 85%, but the radio talks of 10%.”
Next day Flo had definitely improved and that night we brought her upstairs. I felt better also. Nobody was any the wiser, and very soon there were no regulations to worry about.
I’ve remembered those days many times, though most of the time I’m far too busy to think much about the past. It’s not easy being the man of the house. The epidemic burnt itself out quickly, and within a year or two many services restarted and last month we even had electricity for a few hours each day. The people in the village here are quite proud of Flo – the only old person in the County. Because many years ago she used to be a Guide Leader she remembers some of the forgotten ways of doing things and she had a pony as a girl so knew how to handle the horse we found. She thinks she survived because she had ‘flu badly in ’56 and built up enough antibodies, but I think she’s just tough and very stubborn. The old VW camper sits in a barn at our new place, and when we get a little petrol I start the engine and run it for a few minutes to circulate the oil. And I saw a swallow yesterday for the first time in years. Meanwhile it’s my turn to harness the horse and take the cart into town.
RESCUE AT THE MILL.
Dear Aunty Chris,
Thank you for your most wonderful Christmas present of such glamorous silk pyjamas. They were lovely, wonderfully smooth and, like an adorable young puppy, cried out to be stroked. I have been slow to write because of three major things, floods, college and Jack! In Hong Kong you may not have heard about our floods, but they were very deep, so now Mum, I, and Triksy live in a caravan parked in front of the Mill. It’s pretty cramped, but I’m off to college tomorrow.
Christmas was fine, but when Mum and I were in the Mill playing Scrabble on Boxing Day, water began to come under the door. The river was well above its usual winter level and though we tried to keep it out, soon it was knee-deep and the electricity failed. We retreated upstairs and used our mobiles to call for help – but by then the whole district was cut off. Eventually we had a message that Jack Williams possessed the only boat for miles, a two-person canoe. He would bring it and paddle over for us. When he arrived Mum climbed down from the upstairs window and he took her over to the lane where a car waited. Then he came back for me, but when we joined Mum on dry land she threw a wobbly because Triksy was still in the Mill.
Jack and I were already wet and it was getting dark but we went back to collect Triksy – easier said than done. She had climbed onto a high beam in the spare room, spat and scratched, and would not come down. When we decided we could not catch her we returned to the window. The water had risen higher, a tree had floated against the wall, and the canoe was sunk under a screen of branches. So we phoned Mum and Jack’s parents. Mum was collected from the lane, and we were marooned. Old Boons Mill is sturdy so we had no fears that we would be washed away.
By now the water was two-thirds up the stairs from the kitchen. The deep freeze was floating but nothing else was in reach. I had a small torch with a tired battery and Jack’s torch had gone down with the canoe, so we had only a dim light and we were wet and cold. Anyway I found blankets which warmed us up, and to conserve the torch we talked in the dark.
I had scarcely known Jack till then – just another slight acquaintance. He is only a little older than I, rather shy, and from the other end of the village. But it was fascinating to talk about Bristol University, and his interests, and home where his parents run a small farm and B&B. I had never realised what a lovely person he is. We talked about lots of things that normally you might not, and I heard how his girlfriend had dumped him for a married lecturer. I told him about Mum and you, the things we used to do, how much I missed you after you went away to the East, a bit about myself, and that I was soon going to college in Bristol.
Eventually we telephoned Mum and Jack’s parents again and it was clear that no rescue would come that night. “I suppose we had better t
urn in.” said Jack. He switched the torch on, and took a pile of blankets to the spare room. He came back. “Will you be all right?” he asked. I nodded, he kissed me lightly on the cheek, put down the torch, and went to the spare room.
You can imagine my thoughts and some of the things you had told me about men and good and less good times. Then I remembered your present – which might boost my confidence – unfolded them and put them on. I lay awake, must have slept a little, and then noticed a pale light through the window. Across the meadows was the most beautiful and wonderful sight – a thin layer of mist lay over the water, with the full moon shining down. A line of light glinted off the surface and black trees shed long silvery shadows.
So I wakened Jack, and told him come to the window quickly. “What is it?” he asked following me in his shirt tails. “Look” I said, taking his hand. After a minute or two as we watched he said “That was well worth getting up for.” And when his fingers touched the silk I think your gift worked its spell. I felt him shiver and whispered to him “You're getting cold.” and we left the moon to its own devices.
Sometime later I stirred as a hairy head settled on me. Triksy had joined us – perhaps she thought I had been calling her. And at 3 AM when Mum, who had been lying awake, rang to ask about Triksy (not me), I replied truthfully “She’s safe in bed with me, Mum.” However, the disturbance was quite welcome since Jack wakened with the call, and we pushed Triksy out to provide a bit more space.
The morning was clear. In the distance the Convent School roof was visible where they failed to educate me properly, and when Jack was not looking I made the most vulgar gesture I knew towards my Alma Mater.
Breakfast was cold and very modest from the deep freeze, but the waters had begun to drop quite quickly and by mid-morning we were able to wade to the lane, carrying wretched Triksy to reunite with Mum.
The Boons Mill will take months to dry, to repair, and redecorate, while Mum and Triksy will camp out in the insurers’ caravan. Since Boxing Day I have seen quite a lot of Jack. And yesterday when we went to Bristol to look for accommodation near my college, Jack showed me his small flat in Clifton. Shyly he asked “Would you like to share with me?”
So I shall take your lovely pyjamas to Clifton. I don’t expect to wear them much, but they will be folded ready for any further floods or fires.
Thank you again – for what has been my best ever present.
You’ll like Jack when you meet him.
Your eternally loving niece,
PREPARING THE SERMON.
Silver hair drooped onto the table as he pushed away the papers and put his head on his arms. Four dirty plates stood on the side of his desk in the shabby study. He thought back to the bright days of youth when Mary had been lively, even vivacious. He winced when he contrasted that with the last few years during which her silence, withdrawal, misery, and self-centredness had defeated all his efforts, and those of the psychiatrists. Drugs, even ECT had been of trivial benefit. Heaven knows he had prayed and prayed, and suffered his own reproaches and anger and misery when she failed to improve. What truth did it reveal about his life and ministry when the person closest to him, she who had borne their children, gained nothing from his faith and love? He had begged for a miracle, or at least a little improvement, but in vain. The melancholy had seeped from her to him and sharing depression had been another burden, not a source of understanding.
With a shudder his mind's eye went back to the kitchen a few weeks ago when he had found her dead on the floor - so small and so crumpled. And he was still appalled by the disloyal, heart-rending feeling of relief mixed with his grief that had been so inappropriate and yet so strong. Rationally he knew that her misery was over, yet he still felt the ache of his failure and an empty hollow feeling of guilt. She had left no letter, but he did not believe that she had taken the tablets accidentally.
Over many years he had tried to bring comfort, love, and perhaps faith to many parishioners, so he was well aware of the strength of the shackles of grief and guilt. He also knew how difficult it was to loosen them even when everyone knew they were neither justified nor logical. He began to wonder whether he had ever really eased the pain of losing a loved one, and unbidden he remembered visiting Margaret soon after her bereavement two years before.
Margaret's husband had died suddenly and unexpectedly. He had been moved by the dignity and grace which she had shown t that time, rising through her grief to support the rest of the family, the neighbours, and even her husband's work force. She had listened gravely to his words of support, comfort, and religious promise, had wept for the first time after the death, and then dried her tears, declared herself heartened, and produced excellent scones, honey and tea. Had he helped her, or had she supported him even at that dreadful time? She had put our arms round him and hugged him and he had gone home warmed, but was it as a giver or recipient of love and compassion? Like everyone else in the village, Margaret knew about Mary's depression, though only he had known its depth.
He drowsed a little, and then stirred. On his feet, the creased and greasy waistcoat unbuttoned, he shuffled over to the sideboard and poured himself a whisky. What had the Bishop said? Can your family not stay with you longer call? Get a housekeeper. And what about a dog? Your parish needs you are back in harness as soon as possible. For all his many virtues, had the Bishop himself ever experienced such gloom and weariness?
As the whisky eased his chill he thought again about Mary. When her illness began, one of the first changes had been her lack of interest and her actual displeasure at making love. In his innocence he had thought love-making would comfort and please her and hold them together, but all contact became unwelcome. After a few months she insisted on a separate bedroom. He had fretted and he yearned for a time, but eventually accepted celibacy. Now he wondered whether the loneliness of her absence was better or worse than the misery of partially sharing her depression when she had been alive.
A second whisky and Margaret drifted gently into his thoughts again. He savoured the memory of her recent visit, of her upbraiding him, firmly though kindly, about his appearance, and then her reaction to the mess and muddle of his kitchen. Wonderingly he remembered her singing quietly as she swept round all the house apart from his study creating order from chaos. There had been no feminine songs or really brisk bustle for years, nor the faint scent of perfume. What a trim figure she had as well! He remembered the meal she had made during the visit and the peck on his cheek when she had gone home to her cat and dog.
He sighed and settled deeper into the chair. It was only Friday. The draft of his sermon could wait till tomorrow.
And now it was September of the next year in the same place in his study but with the walls were newly papered and bright and the desk polished. He smiled as he looked it is papers. In reply to a call - “What's that dear? Is it really so late. All right - I'm coming to bed now.”
THE TEST
The small town nestled below the Welsh border, narrow streets forming a tangle beside the ruins of a Norman castle. A strong civic spirit supported community life. The volunteers of the Ambulance branch were lively and keen, and enjoyed manning the ambulance and turning out for football matches or point-to-point meetings, whatever the weather. They sent strong teams to take part in the Regional competitions. I acted for a few hours each month as the volunteers’ medical officer in the county town thirty miles away.
My partner James tapped on the window as I left the surgery. "In your traffic warden outfit again? You'll be prosecuted for impersonation. Take care parking." I waved and smiled - there was not enough time to indulge in friendly abuse.
Our uniform was black, red and spectacular. Sometimes I wondered whether the uniform first attracted youngsters, rather than first aid skills. Whatever the cause, branches taught young recruits the rudiments of care for the injured, with resuscitation and bandaging. Certificates were awarded as recruits became more skillful and experienced. I was due to exami
ne for the basic certificate in the little town.
Jane, the local senior officer, had told me there would be fourteen candidates. We expected to meet in the church hall which the branch regularly used, but the heating had failed. "Our Chairman, Sir Mortimer, has stepped into the breach and kindly offered us his offices beside the Manor House."
I had never met Sir Mortimer, and she gave me directions to the Manor. "He also will be one of the candidates tonight. He has been our chairman for about nine months and has insisted that he should have a certificate."
I rehearsed the examination as I drove - simple assessment of an injury, resuscitation, bandaging and a few questions. The candidates were often very anxious, but at this level the tests were very straightforward.
The name Mortimer was resonant. This border between England and Wales was blood-soaked from long before the Norman Conquest until the end of the Civil War. Great war-captains from King Harold to the Black Prince had cut their military teeth fighting the Welsh across these valleys and mountains. The Mortimers had been among the strongest and fiercest of the Border Barons, and the decisive last battle of the Wars of the Roses had been fought at Mortimer's Cross.
I followed Jane's instructions along tiny lanes. An old boss used to say "A country physician may be hopeless at diagnosis but is expert at reversing." I found the Manor House without needing to reverse, drove up the gravel drive and round to the office. Jane welcomed me. "Good evening. Glad you found your way. I think we have everything here. Thank you for coming so far." And she led me inside. The local officers and the candidates were present and in uniform. A big bulky grey-haired man wore tweeds. I was introduced to Sir Mortimer, and thanked him for the use of his office for the evening.
Jane took me to the examination rooms. In the first I met the volunteer casualty, made up to appear to have a leg injury and a broken collar-bone. Bandages and splints lay on a table. In the second room we inspected Annie the Resuscitation mannikin - Resusci-Annie to her friends.
The candidates came in one at a time. Most were teenagers but a few were a little older. They assessed the casualty, answered my questions about what they should do, put on a shoulder sling and bandaged the leg. In the next room they gave a demonstration of assessing Resusci-Annie, and the ABC of Resuscitation - Airway, Breathing, Circulation.
Barnabas Tales Page 20
