by Carol Rivers
Flora saw that Polly had turned a ghastly bluish colour. The doctor took a wooden tube from his Gladstone bag, which he kept packed and ready for night-time emergencies, and put it to her chest. He rested his ear on the other end, and his face looked grave. Quickly, he pulled a small brown bottle from the bag. Lifting Polly’s head, he placed the smelling salts under her nose.
To Flora’s dismay, there was no response. Polly’s head fell back and her small mouth, which had at first been trying to suck in air, went slack.
The doctor attempted to rouse her, but Flora knew it was too late. The little girl’s life had slipped slowly away before their very eyes.
That afternoon, Flora and Dr Tapper were riding in the doctor’s open trap pulled by his elderly grey pony. The death of the little girl had put everything else from Flora’s mind but now Flora had a little time to think about the mysterious events earlier that morning. She had never known the doctor to be late for his surgery. Added to this was his early-morning dismissal of Mrs Carver. Flora wondered if there had been a disagreement between them.
‘You know what to look out for, Flora,’ the doctor called to her as the trap bounced along. ‘Swollen glands or a sickly cough and skin infections. When I examined Mr Riggs, I found nothing but fleas and malnourishment. Pray God that it’s the same for his other children.’
Flora tried to hide her shudder. What would they find at Mr Riggs’ riverside hovel? The buildings in the road he lived in were derelict. It was a dockside terrace that often flooded at high tide, and the crumbling structures were condemned. Flora knew the doctor had to examine Polly’s sisters and brothers. If any of them showed signs of diphtheria – the deadly, infectious disease from which the doctor confirmed Polly had perished – they must be sent to the isolation hospital. There had been an outbreak of diphtheria two years ago. The quick march of the disease had taken many of their patients’ lives.
‘Here we are.’ The doctor reined in the pony and climbed down from the cab. Flora followed. They looked up at what had once been a waterside cottage. Now its mossy green stonework had collapsed. The windows were boarded. Mr Riggs opened the front door, which was a rotting piece of wood with no handle. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face full of grief.
Flora tried not to breathe in the overpowering smell of damp and decay. She trod carefully over the duckboards, careful to avoid the muddy puddles creeping over them.
There were just two rooms left in the broken, almost roofless building. The staircase had vanished. Above them were worm-eaten rafters. Flora saw what must be the kitchen and scullery to the left – dark spaces, with a filthy stove. To the right was a large room, bereft of furniture. Two mattresses, stained by water, lay on the duckboards. Four children – two boys and two girls, all younger than Polly – were huddled in a group. They were dressed in what were little more than rags, and barefoot. Flora’s heart went out to them.
‘I would like some clean water, boiled on the stove,’ the doctor told Mr Riggs. ‘My nurse will wash the children.’
‘Ain’t got no coke to light the stove,’ Mr Riggs said with a shrug.
‘Then we’ll have to make do with cold.’
Flora always had strong disinfectant to hand. Naptha was used liberally for all forms of disease. Taking her apron from her bag, she tied it around her waist. Since the water was drawn from the pump in the yard, she carried in a full pail for each of the children, adding a little of the disinfectant. The children screamed and kicked as she cleaned them. Flora tried to comfort them with her soft voice, but their cries were too loud. There were no towels to dry them with, so she used a blanket from the trap. The doctor found the children to be like Mr Riggs: under-nourished and infested with lice.
‘I’m very sorry about your sister,’ the doctor said to them when the miserable task was over. ‘Please try to wash yourselves each day. Learn to keep yourselves clean.’ He turned to their father. ‘Have you no help?’
‘Nah. Who’d help us?’ Mr Riggs’ eyes filled with tears. ‘My Polly was the one who looked after ’em.’
‘Do the children go to school?’
‘They get sent ’ome again. The stink’s too much for the other kids.’
The doctor frowned. ‘Something must be done about this.’
‘You ain’t gonna take ’em away, are yer?’ Mr Riggs scratched his unshaven face.
‘How can you continue to live under these circumstances?’ Dr Tapper indicated the filthy mattresses and cockroaches on the walls. ‘You must allow me to help you.’
‘I don’t want ’em sent off.’
‘But you don’t want your children to suffer the same fate as Polly.’
The man began to weep. Flora saw Dr Tapper take some coins from his pocket. He pressed them in Mr Riggs’ dirty hand. ‘Buy some food for your family. An officer of the law will call on you tomorrow.’
Flora watched as the children clung to their father. All of them had runny noses and dirty faces. They scratched at the lice running over them. It was a miracle, Flora thought, that none of them showed signs of diphtheria, living as they did in this squalor with no heat or fresh water. The disease thrived in such insanitary conditions.
‘What will happen to them?’ Flora asked as she and the doctor climbed back into the trap.
‘I shall have to report the case,’ Dr Tapper told her as he picked up the reins. ‘Better the workhouse than a slow death in that miserable slum.’
Flora thought how lucky she had been. Her fate might have been the same. Flora didn’t know who her parents were or if they had been as poor and unfortunate as Mr Riggs and his family. But she had been taken to the safety of the convent. Flora would always be grateful to her unknown parents for the precious gift of her life.
‘Come, come, my dear, don’t look so down. Their fortunes will improve.’
‘And Mr Riggs, what of him?’
‘What indeed,’ the doctor said, sighing.
Flora knew the grieving father’s fortunes would be unpredictable, just like the many hundreds of men who were destitute. She looked at the kindly doctor. The brim of his black felt hat, damp with rain, hid his eyes and the thoughts reflected in them. He tickled the whip lightly over the pony’s back to encourage a faster speed. He had given money from his own pocket to help the family – Flora had seen this happen many times before. He cared for his patients beyond the call of duty.
‘Pull your cape round you,’ he told her as they clattered through the wet streets. ‘We don’t want you going down with a cold.’
Flora smiled. He was, to her, the father she had never had. Wilfred must be a very proud son. Flora’s thoughts went back to the children they had just left. If only Hilda could have seen Mr Riggs and his family. She would have thought herself very lucky to be living in such a fine place as Hailing House.
Chapter Four
Flora sat alone in her small room after cleaning it, and herself, thoroughly. She was glad they had reached the end of this exhausting day; the undertakers had been called to perform their duties and Polly’s death reported to the authorities. The only light was from the gas lamp, spreading over the scrubbed surfaces.
Flora sighed, trying to find the strength to stand up. When she and Dr Tapper had returned from their visit to Mr Riggs and his family, there had been patients waiting. Among them were more wounded men from the Western Front. Some had obvious physical injuries, but others were suffering mentally. She had seen one man weeping, unable to stop the shivering and shaking that racked his whole body. Another soldier had been brought in by his elderly mother. He had lost the power of speech, his face twisted by a grimace, as though he was haunted by the harrowing memories he must carry with him.
‘Flora?’
She jumped to her feet, surprised to see the doctor standing there.
‘You must go now, it’s past eight o’clock.’
Flora tried to smile, pushing her straying blonde locks under her white cap. It was an effort even to part her lips.
‘I
shall be on time in the morning,’ he told her. ‘Unfortunately, I had some rather bad news today.’ He shook his head slowly, loosening the untidy thatch of grey hair, so that a lock fell across his forehead. ‘I sent Mrs Carver home, since a letter came . . . a letter that needed my full attention.’ The doctor looked sadly into Flora’s concerned face. ‘I’m afraid Wilfred is reported missing in action.’
Flora took a sharp breath. ‘But when . . .? How?’
‘I know nothing more,’ the doctor replied, his voice rough with emotion. ‘But I pray for better news to come.’
Flora swallowed. A stone seemed to lodge where her heart should be.
The doctor touched her shoulder. ‘You have done very well today, Flora. Now, off you go and get some rest. I’ll turn out the lights.’
As she left, Flora thought about Wilfred. Dr Tapper was so proud of his son. At twenty-five, Wilfred was an officer with the British Expeditionary Force. Dr Tapper had told her that Wilfred had joined up at the outbreak of war. He had sailed to France last September. Flora thought back to the day, a month before Wilfred had left England, when she had met Hilda and Will in Hyde Park. To the young men on the banks of the Serpentine who were eager to answer Lord Kitchener’s call to arms. Their assumption, like Will’s, was that the war would be over by Christmas. But Christmas had come and gone and the war continued. Thousands had been slaughtered on the battlefields. Many of those young volunteers would never come home again.
Closing the heavy surgery door behind her, Flora remembered Will’s letter. There had been no time to read it today. Whatever news Will had written was welcome. Up until the date on the envelope, Will had been alive and able to write to her.
Flora settled herself by the unlit fire in the airey and drew out the single sheet of paper, which was addressed to both her and Hilda and dated simply ‘March’. Flora wondered why there had been a delay in posting. But Will’s news was better than expected, as, at the time of writing, he had still been in England. This both surprised and delighted her. The longer Will remained in England, the safer he would be. The reason was, she now discovered, that he had fallen sick.
‘The inoculations had a very bad effect on me,’ he complained.
At first, the doctors thought I might be suffering from the measles or some other infectious pox. They at once quarantined me. Dreadful red, itchy spots brought me very low. There was no hope of joining the London Regiment who enjoyed exercises on Hackney Marsh. But the rashes wore off eventually, though leaving me quite deflated and confined to the medical hut. It was an agony to get myself going again, especially as the roughness of the uniform irritated my skin. I’m determined though. I’ll be ready for our next inspection in two days’ time. A friend is posting this letter in the village for me as I am still unable to leave camp. How are things with you and Hilda? Is there anything exciting going on? Life is very dull here at Hemsley Camp. But word is, we’re bound for France soon. I can’t wait to join our boys. Take care of yourselves and write when you have time. God bless you both. Your soldier, (in waiting), Will.
Flora sank back in the fireside chair where a cup of tea had gone cold at her side. Without a fire, the room held no warmth at all. She shivered, aching for the warmth of her bed. Will, at least, was safe. But for how long would that state of affairs last? Flora had always believed he wasn’t at all robust. Though tall, he was extremely thin. And such a pallor under the baker’s flour! To think that a boy as gentle as Will would soon be fighting to kill with a gun or bayonet.
Falling asleep that night was impossible. First, she saw Will, exposed to the elements in the mud-soaked trenches that the returning troops had described to her. Then her mind went to Polly and her last, brief gasps for breath as she lay on the couch. Then to Mr Riggs, grieving and desperate for his four remaining children. Lastly, she thought of the doctor himself. Of the moment he had told her about Wilfred. A warm tear slid slowly from Flora’s eye. He had spent his life in service to other people, yet those closest to him had been cruelly taken away.
Flora sniffed back her tears. ‘Oh, Jesus, calm my fears, increase my trust and help me to aid those less better off than me,’ she whispered, recalling the words Sister Patricia had taught them. She took comfort in the fact her prayers had helped her through so far. If she was to be of any use to Dr Tapper, she had to believe her faith would help them in the many testing weeks and months to come.
It wasn’t until the first Saturday in June that Flora next saw Hilda. They had decided to go to the market together on their afternoon off. For the occasion, Flora had worn her only really good day dress. The colour was a soft pigeon-breast grey and buttoned through from top to bottom. Together with a grey velvet-trimmed hat, they had been her first purchases after she’d left the orphanage and started work. Although Dr Tapper allowed her to live in the airey rent-free, he also gave her a wage of twelve guineas a year. At first, she had felt very well-off. She had never had any money before. But, as the days and weeks passed, she discovered that money spent in the big wide world disappeared very quickly. After paying the gas, coal and food bills, there wasn’t much left over. She’d had to buy clothes; she only had what she stood up in on the day she left the orphanage. Boots and shoes were needed too. The market became the source of all her purchases.
Flora was surprised to see Hilda wearing new clothes: a bright green hat with an ostrich feather, together with a smart belted jacket worn over a brown skirt.
‘You look very nice,’ Flora said as they met at the top of the street.
‘Well, if I’m going to be a lady’s maid, I’ve got to practice at being a lady meself,’ said Hilda, swaying her hips and making Flora giggle. ‘I had to borrow a shilling off Mrs Bell to buy it.’
‘Are you short again?’ Flora knew Hilda was hopeless with money. Mrs Bell always helped Hilda out.
‘When I get my new job, I’ll be in the pink.’
‘Do housemaids earn much?’ Flora asked, doubtfully.
‘I told you before, I won’t be a housemaid for long. I’m going to be a lady’s maid.’
‘Well, I must say, you look the part.’
Hilda beamed. ‘How do you get your fringe to curl so prettily?’
Flora blushed at the unexpected compliment. She touched her hair. She was grateful for its natural curl. Wetting her fringe and rolling it around her finger as it dried brought effective results. ‘Oh, it doesn’t take a moment.’
‘I’m saddled with a cow’s lick,’ Hilda complained. ‘Me fringe parts in the middle and sits on my forehead like a blooming great moustache.’
Soon they were laughing and Flora knew Hilda was happy. It was at times like this that Flora knew she would miss Hilda a lot if she went away. They loved walking through the market together. Flora often bought fruit and vegetables and occasionally fish. Cox Street market served all the nearby island hamlets: Millwall, Cubitt Town, Blackwall and even Poplar. Flora found all the traders very friendly. There was more than enough choice of goods. From bric-a-brac and second-hand furniture to jewellery and clothes, fresh meat, fish and costermonger stalls. Flora’s favourite was the tea and coffee stall. The trader sold hot and cold beverages, sweets, biscuits and toffee apples. She also liked the barrow boys offering roast chestnuts, shrimps, cockles and muscles when in season. Sometimes she called in to the little shops running the length of the market on both sides. Flora noticed their trade hadn’t suffered in the first year of war. Grocers, butchers, bakers and food shops were always busy. The stewed eels, tripe and onion and pease pudding café sold the favourite dishes of the day. The smells wafting out of the door were tantalizing. And on Saturday, you had to push your way through the crowds to enter them.
‘Well, what’s all your news?’ asked Hilda as they joined the hustle and bustle.
‘We’ve had a letter from Will,’ Flora said and she opened the clasp of her small bag.
‘Let’s sit down and read it together,’ Hilda said excitedly. ‘I’m thirsty, are you?’ They looked over to the
refreshment stall.
Flora bought two ginger beers and they sat on the wooden benches. Hilda sipped daintily from her enamel mug, her little finger turned out, a new practice that Flora hadn’t noticed before.
‘Inoculations? What are they?’ asked Hilda, with a frown, as she read Will’s letter.
‘Our troops have to be protected against some diseases they could catch in a foreign country.’
‘Poor Will,’ Hilda said as she read on. ‘He wants so much to be a soldier.’
‘If only he didn’t!’
Hilda rolled her eyes. ‘Flora, he wants to fight for his country. For goodness’ sake, he’s old enough to know his own mind.’
Flora thought, but didn’t say, that Will was far too young to know his own mind, just as Hilda was. But she knew it would start Hilda complaining that Flora didn’t understand either of them. And so she kept silent.
‘Dear Will,’ sighed Hilda, returning the letter to Flora. ‘I can’t wait until he comes home to tell us about his adventures.’
‘Hilda, it’s no fun fighting a war.’
‘But what’s the point in worrying? It won’t bring him home any sooner.’
Flora nodded. ‘No, it won’t.’
Hilda smiled at Flora’s approval. She straightened the cloth of each gloved finger, her eyes twinkling. ‘I’ve something else to tell you.’ She looked about to burst. ‘I’m invited to Adelphi Hall in August, to be interviewed by Mrs Burns, the housekeeper.’
Flora looked surprised. ‘So soon?’
Hilda gave a little sigh. ‘Imagine, me going to the grand mansion itself! Oh, what will I wear? What will look best? Should I do me hair different? Shall I look older, as if I know me onions? Or—’
‘Just be yourself.’
‘But this is my big chance, Flora. I’ve got to look the part.’
