by Nancy M Bell
Returning to the bed she tucked her feet under her and picked up George’s letter again. Holding it near her face she inhaled the ingrained smell of the paper. Closing her eyes she imagined there was a faint underlying trace of his scent. Realistically, the odour of ink, mud and something sharp that made her eyes water over rode any subtle aroma, but it pleased Annie to think she could discern some trace of him. Opening her eyes her fingers lingered over a splotch on the paper that was darker and somehow more sinister than water marks. Blood? It could be? Please God, not his… “Quit being a silly goose.” She shook her head and folded the paper again. “He’d tell you if he was hurt. Although, I wouldn’t object to a blighty if it meant he could come home. Or maybe that’s being selfish and unpatriotic. But oh, I wish the damn war would end and all the boys could come home.”
Annie tucked George’s letter under her pillow. It had taken some doing, but finally her parents had been persuaded that writing to the boys on the front was only the Christian thing to do. There had been a great deal of excitement when the first of George’s letters arrived and it had taken all her wit to keep Father from throwing it into the fire. So now, Annie wrote to Peter, George, the Foley boys and the other local boys spending their youth in the muddy fields of France and Belgium.
Settling down to sleep Annie reflected on the young men present at the Labour Day celebrations. It was hard not to feel resentful that they had escaped the conscription using the excuse they were needed on the farms. Everywhere women were stepping up and filling the empty shoes of their men, some who had made the supreme sacrifice, copped a packet as the lads were wont to say. Even Rotha was off somewhere secret near Trenton where she was involved in Lord only knew what. The woman was closed mouth as a clam about her war duties. Personally, Annie thought most of the men not doing their part were cowards. She sighed. I suppose I can’t blame the Dean boy, with his weak chest he’d never last a minute in the wet and the cold. But the rest of them…? She’d like to give them a piece of her mind.
Chapter Thirteen
“Annabelle, haven’t you finished with the fruit cake yet?” Mother bustled into the kitchen patting a stray hair back into place.
“Almost, Mother.” She placed the last thin slice on the fine china plate.
“Hurry along, then. Bring it in directly and a tea tray too, if you please.” Mother scooped the platter of shortbread and sugar cookies off the counter and disappeared back toward the parlour.
Annie sighed and leaned on the counter for a moment gazing unseeing out the window over the sink. Snow fell in gentle swirling flakes adding to the drifts already accumulated. The neatly shovelled paths to the outbuildings and the privy were rapidly filling in. One more chore she’d chivvy Ivan into helping her with. How could it be Christmas already? The fourth Christmas of the war. Two Christmases without her big brothers. After the first devastating telegram there had been no word of Steve. Annie feared the worst but refused to acknowledge what common sense told her must be the truth. And Evan, fun loving handsome Evan. His last letter to Father came in August and no word since. A chill hand seized her heart. Anything could have happened to him, but she clung to the old adage ‘no news is good news’. Better no news at all than the finality of another telegram bearing the ill-fated news. She spared a thought for Della, her sweetheart Aaron Foley was reported killed in action just last month. Poor old heart-broken Mister Foley went to her hat in hand bearing the terrible information.
Annie swiped the back of her hand across wet cheeks. Enough of this. It does nobody any good to go borrowing trouble.
“Annabelle!”
“Coming, Mother.” She wiped her eyes on the hem of her apron and pressed a hand over the tiny calico pouch holding George’s hair. Picking up the plate of fruitcake she wedged it on the tea tray and made sure the teapot was hot. Lifting the heavy tray she pasted a smile on her face and moved toward the parlour where Father’s guests were assembled. She backed into the parlour and set the tea down on the sideboard next to Mother’s prized crystal candelabra. Careful not to brush the delicate thing, Annie poured and circulated cups and saucers of fragrant strong black Irish tea, the leaves from Mother’s dwindling cache being carefully measured out. She followed up with milk and sugar and a small plate of lemon wedges. Mother sniffed in disapproval at the extravagance, but Father had somehow managed to find two small somewhat shrivelled lemons. A minor miracle in the midst of winter and the shortages caused by the war. Annie breathed a sigh of relief at Mother’s discrete wave of dismissal.
She shook out her skirts and gathered them in her hands prior to ascending the stairs. Rotha was coming home tomorrow and Annie needed to set up the extra cot in her room. It would be a little like old times sharing a room with her sister. There was a letter from Alice Father planned to read aloud to them later. Of course Hetty and the stiff necked Clarence would come for Christmas Eve service tomorrow and then arrive at the house the next day to exchange gifts and stay for Christmas dinner. She spared a thought for the poor Tom turkey who was even now happily poking around in the barn oblivious to his fate. At least his demise would be quick unlike the lot of those PBI — the Poor Blood Infantry — who lay in the no man’s land between the opposing armies slowly dying of their wounds. Della’s sister was an ambulance driver in France and sent back accounts of what was really happening on the Western Front. Annie shuddered. It certainly wasn’t the glory and honour of fighting for King and country the newspapers would have people believe. She kept these thoughts to herself as it only upset Mother and Father insisted it was all balderdash and the Germans would soon be on the run.
Annie opened the linen press in the hallway and retrieved clean sheets, a pillow and case and a warm blanket. Ivan had set up the narrow cot against the far wall of her room earlier. It was only the work of a few minutes for her to make the bed up and fluff the pillow. The sun set early this late in December and the encroaching darkness matched her mood. Crossing to the window she paused a moment to stare at the blue shadows bruising the pearly snow drifts.
Poor Rotha must be freezing on the drafty train right now. By this time tomorrow though she’d be home and snug as a bug. Annie pulled one side of the heavy curtain across and reached to secure the other to stave off the fingers of wind that found their way through every nook and cranny. Movement by the farm gate stayed her hand. She leaned closer to the single pane glass and rubbed at the frost accumulated on the inside. What is that? She squinted. A moose? No, a bear? Whatever it was that moved in the gathering dusk seemed to stumble along on two legs. It must be a person, but Rotha couldn’t possibly be in Sprucedale yet, let along come this far, and Father wasn’t expecting anyone else that she knew of. The figure stumbled in the deep drifts between the ruts of the lane and almost went headfirst into the snow. Snugging the curtain closed Annie hurried downstairs.
She slipped into the parlour and whispered in her Mother’s ear. “There’s someone coming up the lane. Are we expecting any one?”
“Hsst. Go and see who it is and what they want. No doubt someone coming for a potion or some doctoring. If it’s not life threatening take them into the kitchen and let them wait on Mister Baldwin’s pleasure. Go now, girl. Be quick about it.” Her mother gave her an imperative shove before picking up her tea cup again.
“Fine,” Annie huffed under her breath. She snatched a woollen shawl from the newel post and wrapped it around her. The air in the hall was frigid her breath puffed out before her as she breathed. Just like Saint George and his dragon, she giggled at the thought. The dusk was heavy now when she peered out the small window by the door. Most people come for doctoring went to the back door, but the muffled figure continued its unsteady way toward the main door where she waited. That was curious, it wasn’t one of the natives then, they always came to the back and usually had a brace of rabbits or quail in hand. Maybe it’s one of the Finlanders from Gordon Dean’s cottages down on the lake. If so, she’d best go fetch the Finnish-English dictionary. The Finlanders ca
me to work the logging camps and escape the economic hardships of their home country. There was only a handful of them, but Father seemed to think there would be an influx of them in the next few years. Between their broken English and Father’s broken Finnish they seemed to manage to communicate. Annie took a last quick look out the frosty window before going to fetch the small book. She stopped and whirled back, hand pressed to her breast as she fought for breath.
Dear Lord, it looks like an army issue haversack — what did George call it — a kit bag. Her heart skipped a beat hoping it was George before common sense told her this man was far too tall to be George Richardson. Even bent over as he was under the burden on his back. Annie fumbled with the matches and had to try twice to light the wick of the lamp, her fingers shaking with more than the cold. Holding the lamp high she cracked the door open and peered out. The figure at the edge of the wide snow covered porch lifted his head and stared at her with haunted eyes.
“Annie? Is it really you? I’m not dreaming?” The man fell to his knees letting his gear scatter around him.
“Evan? Dear God, Evan!” She pulled the door wide open ignoring the cold wind that swept down the hall and hurried to his side. “Oh, Evan. I’m so glad to see you. I can’t believe you’re home. Here, let me help you up, get you inside and warm you up.” Setting the still lit lamp on the bench by the door she oxtercogged her brother upright, swaying under the strain of taking all of his weight. “Father, Mother! Come quick! Help!” Without waiting for a response Annie managed to get him moving and through the door. He eased himself down on a the hall entry bench, leaning his head back and closing his eyes as if the effort to keep them open was too much for him. “Mother!” Annie scurried back out and gathered Evan’s kit out of the snow and rescued the spluttering lamp from the snowy bench by the door. Heaving the kit bag and other paraphernalia inside she pulled the door shut, kneeling by Evan’s feet and pulling off the snow encrusted hobnailed trench boots. “Father!” She called as loudly as she could, afraid to leave her brother long enough to open the parlour door.
“Annie, whatever are you carrying on about?” Ivan poked his head into the hall. “Father says to quit caterwauling and…” He stopped in mid-sentence, mouth falling open in shock. “Evan?” he whispered before charging back into the parlour screeching at the top of his lungs.
“Annabelle, what have you done to set your brother off like that?” Mother stepped out of the doorway. “What’s this? Whatever is going on here?” The older woman ventured a few steps closer clutching her fine woollen shawl to her throat. “Annabelle…”
“It’s Evan, Mother. It’s Evan, and he’s frozen half to death. Get Father, he’s too heavy for me to get into the kitchen near the big stove.” Her last words were spoken to the empty hall as Ella Baldwin fled back into the parlour. “There now, my lad. We’ll have you warm in no time and food in your belly. They’ll be here to help in a moment, just you wait and see.” She frowned at the exhausted expression on his handsome face and his curiously blank look. At least it used to be handsome, now it was gaunt with dark shadows like bruises under his eyes and cheekbones sharp enough she wouldn’t be surprised if they broke through the ashen skin stretched tautly across them. Discarding the icy boots, Annie peeled off the thick socks and wrapped his feet in her shawl.
“Evan, lad. Is it you?” Father burst into the hall way followed by two of his male guests. Mother hovered behind them, dabbing at her eyes daintily with an Irish lace handkerchief.
“Aye, what’s left of me.” Evan’s voice was thin and rusty as if he hadn’t used it in some time. “Christ, I’m knackered.” His chin dropped unto his chest.
“He’s half-frozen, Father. We need to get him into the kitchen by the stove and something hot into him.” Annie moved out of the way to allow the men folks to get her brother on his feet. She squeezed Ivan’s shoulder. The boy looked gobsmacked, his face pale in the flickering light.
“Is he alright, then, Annie? He looks real sick.” Her younger brother’s voice trembled.
“He’s exhausted, Ivan. And frozen half to death. Nothing some heat and a good feed can’t cure,” she assured him with false bravado. Privately, Annie feared there was far more amiss with her older brother than cold and hunger. Shell shock, that’s what Della’s sister wrote home about. Brave young men with night terrors and gibbering like idiots, screaming and staring at something only they could see.
“Go see how Mother is faring,” she ordered Ivan. Her mother had disappeared into the parlour and one of the lady guests was waving smelling salts under her nose when Annie glanced in the door on the way by. “It will do her heart good to have one son hale and hearty beside her. Don’t worry, I’ll see to Evan. It will be fine. You’ll see.” Annie gave him a gentle shove. “Go sit by her feet and entertain her and her guests with one of your witty stories. You know how she loves that.”
Annie glanced at the mess in the hall and decided it could wait. Evan’s wellbeing was far more important at the moment. Heaven only knew when Mother would recover from her fainting spell brought on by the shock. You’d think she’d be overjoyed to have Evan alive and safe at home. She shrugged, if she lived to be a hundred Annie would never fathom how Mother’s mind worked. She pushed open the kitchen door and stepped into the welcome warmth.
“Ella, you should wait…Oh, it’s you Annabelle. Come lend a hand here.” Father glanced up and then motioned her to his side. “If you gentlemen would like to rejoin the ladies?” He raised his eyebrows at his guests.
“If you’re sure you no longer have need of us,” Clifford Hanlon said, putting some distance between himself and the noisome bundle that was her brother.
The heat in the kitchen melted the snow and ice clinging to Evan’s clothes and released some of the more noxious odors emanating from him. Annie moved aside to let the men pass.
“Get some blankets and as many bed warmers as you can lay hands on. I’ll get him out of these clothes.” Father unbuttoned the army issue top coat, unwinding the long scarf from around Evan’s neck at the same time.
Annie hurried to fetch as many thick wool blankets as she could carry. Dumping them on the large harvest table she went off in search of copper bed warmers and the pottery pigs that would be filled with hot water. Evan’s breath whistled in his chest and his body shook with chills. By the time she filled the copper pans with coals from the stove, Father was wrestling the stiff khaki off one shoulder. Evan’s left hand closed like a vise over his father’s and Annie started in surprise.
“Don’t.” The command was harsh. “I can’t look at it.” Evan’s head wavered on his neck and he closed his eyes, face twisted in a grotesque grimace.
“What is it, son. What can’t you look at?” Father met Annie’s worried gaze over his head, then glanced at the other sleeve of the coat.
Annie clamped her lips shut against the hiss of denial that rose in her throat. Her stomach hurt like it had when one of the milk cows swung her head into it. The right sleeve of Evan’s coat lay flat and empty. How had she not noticed that fact before? Oh Evan! Annie’s heart broke into a million tiny pieces. The anguish was followed quickly by anger. What kind of God let horrid things like this happen? Sent young men hardly more than boys out to be mowed down by machine gun fire and cut dead by whiz bang shells? She dropped to her knees by his side.
“Evan, Evan. It doesn’t matter. You’re home and you’re alive. That’s all that matters.” She pressed a palm to his cold cheek.
“It matters to me, Annie.” He leaned into her hand while a tear glistened on his dark eyelashes. “It matters to me.”
“Here now, son. Let me take a look. The army doctors saw to it, I suppose? Perhaps something can be done to repair some of the damage.” Father eased the coat and jacket off Evan’s body.
“There’s nothing to repair, Father. It’s gone. From above the elbow down. Gone.”
The stark finality in his tone sent chills over Annie. A goose walking on my grave, that’s what it fe
els like. “I don’t care, Evan. Two arms or no arms, you’re home safe, that’s enough for me. The rest of it, well, we’ll manage. I promise,” she said fiercely. She made herself watch while Father removed Evan’s shirt and revealed the livid red stump. It looked inflamed to her, but she looked to her father for his opinion. From the grim line of his mouth, he wasn’t happy with the condition of the flesh either.
He wrapped two blankets around Evan and set to work on removing the trousers. “Annabelle, perhaps you can busy yourself filling the pigs. No need to embarrass your brother or yourself. I can handle this part of it.”
“Of course.” She scrambled to her feet and set about unscrewing the caps of the thick pottery flat bottom crocks. After rinsing them once with hot water to warm the cold pottery she filled them and re-capped them. Wrapping them in towels she placed one under Evan’s feet and one on each side of them. Father had him swaddled in blankets and sent Ivan with the copper bed warmers to heat the sheets on the makeshift bed on the horsehair sofa in Father’s study. Annie shook her head, when did Ivan leave the parlour come into the kitchen? Well, no matter. At least the bed would be ready when Evan was able to move that far.
“Stay with him, I’m going to fetch my medical bag.” Father let his hand rest on her shoulder. It was the closest thing to thanks and appreciation she could expect from him.
With one eye on her brother, Annie made a large mug of strong sweet tea pressing the offering into his hand, closing his fingers over it.
