by Carol Rivers
Hilda lay in the darkness. She felt angry with Gracie, with Mrs Burns and with Mr Leighton. They were all against her. She even felt angry with Flora, who had come to see her with a man. Who this man could be, she didn’t know. Gracie had just said that he was tall and had a posh voice. Well, that wasn’t very helpful! Hilda decided it must be someone that the doctor knew. Or even Lady Hailing. Someone wealthy enough to own a car. Flora must have told everyone she was coming to Adelphi Hall.
At this, Hilda grew even angrier. Flora could have spoiled everything. She would have made a great fuss if she’d seen Hilda’s black eye and bound arm. Insisted that something else be done for her injuries. In her heart, Hilda needed her friend’s sympathy. She had always had it before. Mrs Bell’s too. And now she missed their attention.
Hilda managed to find a comfortable position under the bedclothes. She felt ugly and sorry for herself. Guy was the only person who had shown her any sympathy. No wonder she loved him as much as she did.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘I’m going to ask you to walk without your cane this evening,’ the doctor said as he completed his examination of Michael’s leg. ‘After all, there is definite improvement. The muscle is firming up and your cane could be redundant.’
Without speaking, Michael slid his legs from the couch and dressed with Flora’s help.
She caught his grateful gaze, just for a moment, but today she felt there was something wrong. Before Christmas last year, he had hardly been able to bend his leg without agony. But that had all changed over the months of exercises. He was always eager to try to test himself, to do all the doctor asked of him. But tonight, the energy seemed to have deserted him. Since their return from Surrey two weeks ago, Flora had noticed how quiet he’d become.
‘We’ll try with the cane first,’ Dr Tapper said when Michael was fully dressed. ‘Walk a direct line to the window, then turn to your left and pause at my desk. Retrace your steps to the door and back to the window again.’
Michael took his cane from beside the couch. He stood still for a few seconds, staring at the window, then moved slowly towards it. Flora noticed how pronounced his limp was and it became worse when he left the desk and walked to the door.
‘What is it?’ the doctor asked in concern.
‘Nothing. Perhaps just a little discomfort in the thigh.’ Flora couldn’t understand what this could be. Over the weeks and months, the muscles had slowly healed and the nerve endings had ceased to radiate pain. After half an hour’s massage, Michael was always eager to try to walk. It was the doctor who cautioned him not to hurry.
Michael limped on. Flora saw how slumped his normally straight shoulders were. How his leg dragged as he shuffled towards the window.
‘Now, without the cane,’ Dr Tapper said. But when Flora looked at him she knew he was thinking the same too. Had Michael relapsed in his recovery?
Michael leaned the cane against the wall. He turned, and his face was white and tense with small beads of sweat across his brow. He took three steps forward then reached out and gripped a chair. Shaking his head, he looked up. ‘I’m afraid I’m making a hash of this.’
‘Keep trying,’ the doctor encouraged.
Michael took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. He tried to walk forward but stumbled. Then his tall, lean frame started to sway. Flora wanted to rush forward and help him. But the doctor glanced at her and shook his head. She knew he wanted Michael to recover on his own.
Another faltering step came, then another. After passing the desk, Michael stood still, once more stroking his handkerchief across his damp forehead. Shaking his head slightly and blinking his eyes, he took a long step, but then hesitated, almost overbalancing.
The doctor reached him before he collapsed completely. Flora ran over too, and between them they helped Michael back to the couch.
He sat silently, his head in his hands. ‘I think I’m beaten,’ he said wearily.
Dr Tapper looked at Flora. ‘A cup of tea, my dear. Can you make a pot in my kitchen and bring it down? I don’t think Michael will attempt the stairs today.’ She read the message in the doctor’s eyes. He was as bewildered as she was. Only a few weeks ago, Michael had seemed close to walking without a cane and eager to try. But the beaten man who now sat before them looked a shadow of his former self.
‘I can find nothing wrong with him. His thigh bears the scars of his injury, but on examination shows no sign of deterioration,’ Dr Tapper told Flora after Michael had left. ‘Yet, as we saw, he was unable to walk more than a few feet without discomfort.’
Flora stared at the cups of cold tea that no one had drunk. Everything had been going so well until they had gone to Surrey.
The doctor looked at her keenly. ‘What is it, Flora?’
‘As we left Adelphi Hall, we stopped to look back at the house. A horse and rider galloped towards us. Michael was by the car, putting up the hood, but I was by the fence. I thought for a moment the horse wasn’t going to stop.’
‘And Michael tried to reach you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me again exactly what happened,’ the doctor said, at once alert and sitting forward.
Flora repeated in more detail all that had happened. As she spoke, he listened carefully and when she had finished, he sat back with a long sigh.
‘This, I believe, is important.’
‘Do you think Michael hurt himself as he rushed from the car?’ she asked.
‘No. But something happened that is far more worrying.’ He was deep in thought for a few moments. ‘As you know, Flora, many of the men we see in surgery suffer the effects of conflict when they return home. Our first casualty was Tom Howe, but we have seen many such cases since. Michael is different. He showed no signs of emotional trauma. In fact, he seemed to be extremely well adjusted, other than his concerns about surgery. He was eager to return to his regiment. However . . .’
Flora held her breath. She knew that what the doctor was about to say would be very important.
‘Michael is a soldier, trained for battle. All his instincts would have been to defend you – and he failed.’
‘But he didn’t fail.’
‘No, he did not,’ the doctor agreed. ‘In fact, he acted gallantly, attempting to prevent the horse from injuring you. But I believe that in this moment, in his inability to move swiftly and take action, a memory or memories were triggered of something that happened in Gallipoli. Something he buried deep inside and, until his meeting with Lord Guy Calvey, had stayed hidden.’
Flora felt her heart sink. If only they hadn’t gone to Surrey! If only she had taken notice of Hilda’s letter. Even Mrs Bell had suggested a trip to the seaside instead.
The tears were suddenly close.
Her feeling of dismay deepened the following Tuesday when Michael didn’t arrive for his appointment. Nor did he come to the surgery the following week. By the time the month was out, there had been no message from Michael. Each day Flora took the shawl and butterfly brooch from the drawer and gazed at them. What had happened to her mother? And Michael? Would she ever see him again?
On a hot Sunday morning at the beginning of July, Dr Tapper knocked on Flora’s door. He was dressed in his best black frock coat and held his Gladstone bag.
‘Last night, I was visited by a patient,’ he told her. ‘The mother of a young man who has just returned from the fighting. He is suffering from shell shock and walks with a stick. I’ll call on him today. Would you like to join me?’
Flora was dressed to attend Mass at St Edmund’s, wearing Hilda’s blue suit and a soft blue beret. She hoped to counteract the worries that had beset her since she had last seen Michael by an hour on her knees and a special novena said at Our Lady’s altar. Even Mrs Bell, whom she had spoken to about Michael the previous week, had reminded her that heaven’s gates sometimes needed battering.
But five minutes later, Flora was sitting in the trap instead. She could smell the salty tang of the river a
s the breeze blew off the incoming tide and gave relief to the still warmth of the summer’s day. The pony’s head bobbed up and down, reminding her of the last time she had accompanied the doctor, on their call to Mr Riggs. Over a year had passed since poor little Polly had died and the Lusitania had sunk. Her thoughts went back to that time, when Will had found himself a victim to life in the trenches and Hilda had uprooted her whole life at Hailing House. So much had happened in the two years of war. She thought of Michael and their first meeting at the market. A young man who, since then, had never been far from her thoughts.
The symptoms of shell shock were very clear on Archie Benson’s gaunt face. His eyes held a fearful expression. His shaven head and big ears looked too large for his thin body. Flora noticed his walking stick which was positioned by his chair. Mrs Benson had rolled up one trouser leg, exposing the bandage on his calf muscle, in readiness for the doctor’s examination.
‘They brought him home on a merchant ship,’ Mrs Benson told them as she sat on the narrow couch. The living room of her small Poplar terrace was neat and tidy, Flora thought, but it was filled with the invisible tension that came with ill health. ‘I’m lucky, I know, to have one son survive,’ Mrs Benson continued. ‘My eldest, Stan, was killed at Flanders. Archie was caught in an explosion. A piece of metal went into his leg, but the surgeon got it out and it seems to be healing. But it’s the memories of what happened that torment Archie. The nightmares he still has, of the men from his unit who were killed.’
Archie gave a gurgling sound.
‘What is it, son?’
‘Th . . . they was st . . . still alive, my mates . . . they was . . .’
‘He saw them die, Dr Tapper. That’s what he’s trying to say.’ Tears shone in Mrs Benson’s eyes. ‘I tried to stop him volunteering. He wasn’t even eighteen. He was just a boy, doctor, just a boy!’
Suddenly, Archie began to shake. Uncontrollable jerks took hold of his body. The violent spasms seemed to catch him unawares, and he gave a strange grunt as he tried to get up.
Mrs Benson took her son’s hand. ‘It’s all right, Archie. Sit down.’
The doctor leaned forward. ‘As your mother has told you, you are not in any way threatened, there will be no more fighting and I’ll give you some medicine to help calm you. Do you think you can tell me more about what happened on the day you were wounded?’ The doctor spoke softly, his hand on Archie’s arm.
As they listened to Archie’s stumbling account, his breath almost a hiss as he told them of his friends who died beside him, Flora cleaned and redressed his calf wound. Mrs Benson was right, she thought with relief. The injury had healed very well and Flora guessed that eventually he would be able to walk unaided again. It was, she knew, the horrifying images still in his mind and that he now described that would not be swift to heal.
When the time had come for them to depart, Mrs Benson saw them to the door. ‘What’s your verdict, doctor?’ she whispered. ‘Will he get better?’
‘Physically, yes, Mrs Benson,’ the doctor answered a little vaguely. ‘With the help of your good self and a nourishing diet. As for the mental trauma . . .’ He considered his words, before finishing. ‘I shall refer Archie to a specialist consultant. Would you be able to attend the hospital?’
‘Yes, but they won’t put him in an asylum, will they?’
‘No. But he will need treatment. It will be a very slow process.’ The doctor tipped his hat.
When Flora climbed up beside him in the trap, she glanced back at the house. ‘Can Archie be helped?’
‘Perhaps,’ he replied as he gathered the reins. ‘At least Archie will speak of his experiences. Unlike Michael, who has locked them away.’
Flora thought back to all the many hours she had spent with Michael. They had discussed their lives and talked easily together. But Michael had never spoken of his active service, or in any detail of the day he was wounded. Why had she never thought of this before?
The doctor raised a bushy grey brow. ‘We’re not far from Shire Street.’
Flora smiled. She wanted to see Michael more than she dared say.
Lillian Appleby gave them a warm welcome and led them through the house to the conservatory. As they passed the portrait of Julian Appleby dressed in his Eastern robes of crimson and orange, Flora remembered what Lillian had told her that day. Michael had inherited his father’s green eyes and courage. Flora felt a pang of alarm. Perhaps Michael felt he had lost his courage and the meeting with Lord Guy Calvey had served to confirm this.
‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Dr Tapper,’ Lillian said as they sat on the comfortable wicker chairs in the sunny, glass-windowed room. ‘Michael’s told me so much about you.’
Flora looked into her face and saw beyond the warm smile. Lillian’s dark eyes, framed by her rich brown hair drawn elegantly up behind her head, held an anxious expression. She was dressed as before in a long, sweeping dress, and sat with her hands folded in her lap. She returned Flora’s gaze with a quick smile. ‘Flora, it’s been some while, hasn’t it? I was hoping to see you again soon after our last meeting. But I know how busy you are.’
‘We called as we have a patient in this area,’ the doctor said quickly. ‘Michael hasn’t arrived for his weekly treatments. We hope all is well?’
‘I am afraid to say that my son is not his usual self, Dr Tapper,’ Lillian said uneasily. ‘I’m most relieved you called.’
‘Can I be of help?’
‘Oh, I wish I could say.’ Lillian raised her hand and dropped it heavily into her lap. ‘I’m afraid I can’t get a word out of him. He refuses to tell me what’s wrong. Of course, Michael is always a dear, polite boy and we share a close relationship, as you know, Flora. But lately, I’m afraid, he prefers his own company and either takes out the car or reads in his room. I would say he has become . . . melancholy.’ She looked at Flora with her big brown eyes open wide. ‘He was so full of hope, so determined to return to good health.’
‘He was most certainly recovering,’ Dr Tapper agreed. ‘Until a few weeks ago.’
‘Michael told me he’d been disappointed at his last test. That he had been unable to walk without his cane.’
‘Yes, an unexpected turn of events.’
‘But why is this?’ Lillian’s pale face was full of concern.
‘That’s something we must discuss with your son. I believe that his physical injury has healed and he should be dispensing with the cane.’
Just then Flora heard a noise. They all looked round to see a tall figure appear at the door. Lillian smiled eagerly. ‘Michael, where have you been? We have visitors, as you can see.’
‘I walked down to the stream, Mama, for some air.’ He smiled a tight, guarded smile as the dogs bounded in beside him. Flora reached out to stroke Ivy and Jack as they panted softly at her feet. Their soft black fur and warm bodies made her remember fondly the day she had first come here with Michael. Then he had been happy and smiling, eager for her to meet his mother. Now, the light had gone from his once clear green eyes, despite his best effort to smile. ‘I’m very pleased to see you both,’ he said, limping over, his cane tapping on the polished boards of the floor. He took a chair rather clumsily. ‘I’ve been meaning to call at the surgery. But after the disappointing results of walking without my cane, I thought better of it. I fear I’ve failed you both.’
‘Not at all,’ the doctor was quick to assure him. ‘But I should have liked you to continue with your treatment.’
‘I thought perhaps a rest might help.’
Flora looked into his steady gaze. He seemed to be Michael, the man she had become so fond of. But he had changed and was keeping his distance from them as politely as he could.
‘Yes,’ the doctor agreed. ‘When you feel rested, perhaps we can start again.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You must stop for some tea now that Michael is here.’ Lillian turned to the doctor. ‘Would you care to enjoy it in the garden, Dr Tapper? We can si
t on the lawn and enjoy some sunshine. Are you interested in gardening at all?’
‘My wife came from a country family in the north,’ the doctor said, rising to his feet. ‘I’m afraid we never had much more than a yard in London.’ He smiled. ‘I should enjoy your offer of tea very much.’
Flora watched him accompany Lillian out of the room.
‘You must think me very rude,’ Michael said quietly when they found themselves alone. ‘I should have driven over to see you.’
‘Michael, what’s wrong?’ She wanted to hold his hand, to comfort him. But she knew he wouldn’t want that.
‘I feel I’ve misled you, Flora. And God knows, that was not my intention.’
‘But how have you misled me?’
‘I believed I could recover and be as I was before.’
‘But you will be.’
He laughed without humour. ‘I think not.’
‘I should never have let you drive me to Adelphi.’
At once, Michael rose to his feet. ‘On the contrary. It was there that I realized my limitations. How wrong I was to ask a commitment of you.’
Flora felt sick with heartache. Was Michael telling her he didn’t want to see her again?
‘Let’s join the others.’ His polite smile returned as he extended his arm. Flora could do nothing but grasp it. They walked in silence to the garden and the croquet lawn and beyond Flora could see the wooden hut where they had once almost kissed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Flora opened her eyes the next morning and thought of Michael. Their friendship was over. Whatever had happened at Adelphi Hall had changed his feelings towards her.
She got ready for work, but without enthusiasm. It was a day like any other, but her heart felt heavy, as though something inside her was missing. She knew the doctor had been upset at Michael’s decision to stop the treatment. But on their way home in the trap, he said they had to abide by Michael’s decision.
The day passed as usual with patients coming and going. The talk was of the war and how hard it was becoming to find cheap food now that British ships were being torpedoed by Germany’s U-boats. Britain was cut off from its suppliers and to make things worse, the doctor told Flora that morning that the Irish troubles were worsening. Dublin was staging a full-scale rebellion against British rule. Many of the patients had relatives in Ireland. Flora knew it was only natural for the Irish community in the East End to feel sympathetic to their families. But it was hard to ignore the jibes against the British that were often voiced.
