by Rose Meddon
Once settled into their compartment of an otherwise empty first-class railway carriage, and with the terraced houses and factories of south-east London flitting past their window, Kate tried to picture this Mount Eden place. What would it be like? How would Ned look? What would she say to him? The safest thing would surely be to say nothing. After all, what did you say to someone who had crashed their aeroplane and injured both of their legs? “Multiple fractures” were the actual words Naomi had used last night. Lucky to be alive.
Of course, the greater truth was that they were all lucky: somehow, for all the awfulness of this war, everyone within her little circle of family and friends – apart, now, from Ned, of course – had so far managed to avoid coming to harm. Oh, and apart from Mr Lawrence’s brother, Mr Aubrey – but then it had never been entirely clear whether or not his wound had been genuinely gotten in the first place. From time to time, she still found herself wondering what had eventually happened to him – where he had found somewhere to go so as never to be found. The police sergeant was convinced he had fled either to America or to Canada but, as far as she had been able to tell, that was only supposition, no firm indication of his whereabouts ever coming to light.
Continuing to stare out through the window, she sighed. Of greater importance was that, somehow, Luke had managed to remain unscathed, as had Mr Lawrence. Indeed, towards the end of last autumn, just after he had returned to the front following a week’s leave, Luke had been made up to the rank of corporal, and Mr Lawrence to captain. Somewhat less happily, Mabel’s letters from Woodicombe continued to relay details of losses suffered by families in Westward Quay – boys who had been in her class at school, like Tommy Narracott, whose sheer size had always made her wary of him, and little Joey Braund, always the first to get up to no good, both of them blown to pieces on the first day of the Battle of the Somme almost two years ago now. But, other than desperately sad incidents such as those, and despite, at times, the whole business of war still feeling oddly unreal, it had also come to feel horribly normal – the hardships and the suffering simply things they all got on with as best they could.
As best they could. Sometimes, she was minded that the only reason she continued to manage without Luke as she did, was because, from the outset, they’d had so little time together as man and wife. Folk often said you couldn’t miss what you’d never had. And, by the looks of it, it was true. Nevertheless, not a moment passed when she didn’t long for the war to be over and done with, and to have her husband back by her side.
In the absence of any proper memories of being wed to him, the pictures with which she comforted herself varied according to her mood. Sometimes, the two of them would be strolling arm-in-arm around Hyde Park, his fair hair and good looks drawing covert glances from other young women. Other times, they would be riding an omnibus on their way to the theatre – oh, how she longed to go to a theatre again and, from the delightful darkness of the auditorium, mouth the words to a musical spectacular! Other times still, she would picture them simply sitting by the fire, Luke engrossed in something he was reading in the newspaper while she sat darning a rent in one of his shirts, her foot keeping up a ceaseless rocking of a cradle in which lay the first of their children. Her yearning for that last miracle was new, and something she could only attribute to her increasing involvement in caring for Esme, and the astonishing speed with which the little girl was growing up. Either way, sometimes, the fierceness of that particular longing tugged at her insides more forcefully than anything she had ever known.
With the warm and orangey hues of that last picture in mind, she closed her eyes and settled back into her seat. Already, the rhythmical clacking of the rails and the rocking of their carriage was making her feel sleepy – a situation not helped by the fact that she had spent yet another night restless and wakeful. That said, she would resist the urge to doze. According to Naomi, unless you were a very young child, falling asleep in public was inexcusable.
When the next thing she became aware of, though, was a deafening roar, she lifted her head from where it had fallen forward and, raising a hand to rub at the back of her neck, tried to make sense of where she was. The light inside their compartment had turned an odd grey-green colour, while beyond the window everything was pitch black – seemingly, they were hurtling through a tunnel. And, despite her resolve, she had been asleep.
With that, a shriek of the locomotive’s whistle coincided with their return to daylight. Dazzled by the brightness outside, she screwed up her eyes and stared out. Away to the left, through a break in the clouds, sunlight was flashing onto a featureless silvery sea, the squawking of seagulls audible even above the rumbling of the train. The sea. Then they must be nearly there.
Across from her, Naomi was sitting with her hands in her lap, the pearl buttons at the neck of her eau-de-nil travelling jacket unfastened and her magazine closed on the seat next to her.
Catching her eye, Kate stretched out her arms. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I hadn’t realized I was so tired.’
To her admission, Naomi responded with a light shrug. ‘It’s all right. I shouldn’t have minded a nap myself.’
Running her tongue around the inside of her parched mouth, and sensing that they were slowing down, she directed her eyes back out through the window. Running alongside the railway track was a long terrace of houses, behind them a steep hill. As they began to slow further, the houses gave way to railway sidings, and then to the platform of the station itself, where, with a series of jerks, they juddered to a halt.
Just beyond their window, a station official stood holding a flag. ‘Dover Priory,’ he called out. ‘This is Dover Priory. Passengers for Dover town, please alight here.’
Following Naomi’s lead, she got to her feet. They had arrived.
* * *
‘Begging your pardon, Matron, but I have some ladies come to visit Lieutenant Russell.’
Mount Eden Hospital, when they reached it no more than fifteen minutes after arriving at the station, was just as Naomi had suggested – a moderately-sized family home, set in sloping grounds on a rise just outside of the town.
Once they had gone in through the porch, the porter who had come out to meet their cab ushered them into a room whose light colours put Kate in mind of having once been a morning room, or perhaps a lady’s sitting-room. Now, though, beneath the daintily-patterned stucco ceiling, and standing on strips of jute matting laid over the carpet, was an oversized teak desk – ugly in the extreme – along with a washstand, a trestle table stacked with assorted medical equipment of indeterminate purpose, and a couple of tall but non-matching cabinets, each with four drawers.
‘Ah, yes,’ Matron said, setting aside the papers she had been reading and getting to her feet, ‘someone telephoned yesterday evening. Welcome, ladies, to Mount Eden Hospital for Convalescing Officers.’
Despite the rustling of her starched uniform, Matron struck Kate as homely rather than clinical.
‘Thank you,’ Naomi replied. ‘And yes, it was our cousin, Elizabeth Newsome, who telephoned. I am Mrs Colborne, and this is Mrs Channer. We are Lieutenant Russell’s sisters. I do hope our coming isn’t an inconvenience, but my mother is beside herself with worry, and eager that I came poste-haste to ascertain our brother’s condition.’
With that, Kate noticed Matron glance between them. People often did that upon learning they were sisters.
‘It is no inconvenience. We are a small hospital – just the twelve beds – and so I try not to have rules for the sake of them. Of primary concern is the well-being of the men in my care and, since most of them are convalescing as opposed to undergoing treatment, I try to be as accommodating as I can – a visit from family being as beneficial to a man’s spirits as almost anything medicine has to offer.’
Beside her, Naomi nodded. ‘Well, thank you for receiving us anyway.’
When Matron smiled, Kate smiled back. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
‘Well, you’ve come a l
ong way, so let’s take you straight up to your brother. Then I’ll let Doctor Chilton know that you’re here.’
‘Thank you,’ Naomi replied.
‘I should perhaps point out,’ Matron picked up again, ‘that even should your brother be awake, he is likely to be drowsy from the morphine.’
Standing beside Naomi, Kate stiffened. Morphine? People were given morphine for pain, which could only mean that Ned was in quite a bad way.
‘We understand,’ Naomi said. ‘Just being able to see him will be a relief.’
‘I’m sure. But perhaps try to keep your questions to him to a minimum.’
‘We will do that.’
‘No sense being a drain on his strength.’
‘No, of course not.’
Once back out in the hallway, Kate glanced about. What little of the décor was visible beyond the paraphernalia of a hospital showed signs of a woman’s hand having been at work. The walls were painted a spring-like shade of pale lemon, the door frames and skirtings were ivory. And she guessed that beneath the heavy coverings lay floorboards of polished elm to match the elegant bannisters. What a shame that every inch of such a lovely house should now smell of carbolic – even if that was preferable to the stench of vomit and blood.
‘This way,’ Matron directed, turning to the left at the top of the stairs. Reaching the end of a short corridor she then stood aside, gesturing Naomi into the room ahead of her.
‘Ned!’ Kate heard her exclaim as she went in.
‘Please, do go on in, Mrs Channer. I’ll fetch along another chair so that you can sit down.’
Despite doing her best to raise a smile, Kate hung back. Come on, she urged herself, no matter your nerviness, you have to go in at some point. And so, drawing a breath, she forced herself across the threshold.
Once on the other side, she looked quickly about. Centred against the far wall, taking up almost all of the floor of the cramped little box-room, was a bedstead, its cream-coloured paint chipped away in places to reveal the bare iron beneath. Upon it, and beneath a blue coverlet, lay Ned, his eyes closed, his breathing barely disturbing his chest. Above the turned-back sheet, his arms lay motionless by his sides. On one of his cheeks was a series of fresh scratches, on his other a gauze bandage. With the front of his hair swept to one side he looked unusually vulnerable. And so young. And the grey tint to his complexion made him look ill. But then he was ill, she reminded herself. Mortally so, from the look of him.
What she was trying not to look at was the contraption of metal rods and fabric ties holding his feet to the top of the bedstead and, thus, his legs up at an angle from his body. Although nothing much of the device itself was evident – his legs covered by the blanket – she could think only of an instrument of torture.
On the far side of the bed, Naomi was lowering herself onto a chair. ‘Oh, Kate,’ she said softly, ‘how is it possible for him to seem so peaceful and yet, at the same time, so pitiful? I mean… look at him.’
But, for her part, Kate was finding it hard to even remain in the room. More than anything, she felt as though she shouldn’t be there – as though she was intruding upon Ned’s right to lie injured and convalescing without being ogled by visitors – even if those visitors were members of his family.
‘Here you are, Mrs Channer,’ Matron returned to say, a folding wooden chair held out in front of her. ‘There’s room enough – just – to squeeze it in along the other side of the bed there, if you’d like to.’
Looping her handbag over her arm, Kate forced her lips into a smile and, with some difficulty in the confined space, carried the chair around the end of the bed and set it down. With no choice but to then sit with her knees pressing against the iron frame of the bed, she tried – but failed – to wriggle herself comfortable.
Once Matron had left them, Naomi looked across at her. ‘I wasn’t expecting him to look so… so frail.’
It was an observation Kate shared. ‘No,’ she whispered back.
Last summer, granted a brief spell of leave, Ned had turned up at Hartland Street. And, before he had taken Naomi out to lunch, Kate had spent a few moments chatting with him. Since then, whenever his name came up, she pictured an immaculately-uniformed young pilot, bronzed by the sun and grinning broadly. By contrast, today, he looked as though every last ounce of life had been sucked from his body.
‘But what was I expecting?’ Naomi went on, once again echoing her own thoughts on his appearance. ‘He was hardly going to be in rude health, was he?’
‘No,’ she said again, wishing she could summon a few words of comfort. But how on earth did she do that when Ned could barely have looked worse had he been at death’s door?
Behind her, the lower half of the sash window stood slightly raised, and through it was coming the smell of mown grass, and the sound of house sparrows chirruping. How unjust that while Ned lay here lifeless and still, beyond this little room with its simple wooden crucifix above the bedhead, the business of the day continued precisely as on any other. If nothing else, it felt disrespectful. And wholly unfair.
With that, Ned’s fingers twitched. Startled, Kate glanced to his face; was he stirring?
Across the bed from her, Naomi was clearly wondering the same. ‘Ned?’ she whispered.
With some difficulty, Ned opened his eyes. ‘Min? Min… is that you?’
‘Yes! Oh, Ned…’ When he tried to raise his head from the pillow to look around, Naomi grasped his hand. ‘Try not to move,’ she urged. ‘Try to lay still.’
‘What… time is it?’ he wanted to know.
Naomi glanced to her wristwatch. ‘Almost midday.’
‘Ah…’
‘Tell me, how do you feel?
‘…groggy…’
‘I think that’s to be expected. Matron said they’re giving you morphine.’
‘And is that… Kate?’
Dumbly, Kate nodded.
‘Yes,’ Naomi answered for her. ‘We’ve travelled down together.’
‘To Dover,’ he said, as though trying to make sense of his circumstances.
‘Yes. You’re in a hospital called Mount Eden—’
‘I remember.’
‘You do? Well, that’s good.’
‘Had to ditch… in a field—’
‘Yes, they told us.’
‘—engine cut out. Fuel line… I suppose. Bit of a skirmish earlier. Took fire.’
‘Please, Ned, just rest,’ Naomi urged her brother.
Across the bed, Kate sat with her heart racing. His condition was considerably worse than she had hoped.
‘Aimed for a… haystack. Fell short.’ With that, his lips seemed to soften as though trying to smile. ‘Managed… to miss… the poor chap’s barn, though.’
‘Ned, please, why don’t you—’
‘I say,’ he began, struggling once again to lift his head from the pillow. ‘Have you seen Rowley?’
In response to Naomi’s puzzled frown, Kate shrugged.
‘Rowley?’
‘Ellis. Ellis Rowley-King. Rowley.’
‘Shush. Stay still.’
‘My photographer. We’d been… artillery spotting. When we had difficulties… I told him… I told him… once we get close to the ground… jump for it. Did he? Did he jump clear?’
Again, Naomi frowned. ‘Um… I’m afraid I’ve heard no mention of him.’
Struggling in the confined space, Kate got to her feet. ‘Perhaps Matron would know,’ she said, careful to keep her voice soft. ‘I’ll go an’ see if I can find her and ask.’ If nothing else, leaving the room would allow brother and sister some privacy.
‘Kate’s Devon accent,’ she heard Ned say as she went out through the door. ‘Nice to hear.’
Surprised to feel herself flushing, Kate went along the corridor and quickly down the stairs, where she stood for a moment to draw several long breaths. How was it possible that Ned Russell still had the power to make her blush? All that nonsense… all that business between them… was fo
ur years ago. Granted, she’d barely seen him in that time, what with him joining the RFC, but honestly, surely by now she should have got over her embarrassment – recovered from the mortification of what happened. Everyone else, Ned included, had forgotten it.
Feeling a little less flustered, she peered beyond the open door to Matron’s room and, seeing her seated behind her desk, tapped lightly.
‘Mrs Channer, how may I help you?’
‘Lieutenant Russell is asking after the photographer who was with him in his aeroplane,’ she said. ‘Mr Rowley-King, he called him.’
‘Lieutenant Russell is awake?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I mean Matron.’
‘That’s good. But I’m afraid I know nothing of his colleague. Where he was taken for treatment would have depended upon his condition. There’s a surgical ward at Belle Vue – although that’s really only for minor injuries. And I happen to know that in any event, they’re full to bursting. You could do worse than speak to that young woman from the VAD – the one who called here about your brother. I daresay she has the means to find out where he is.’
Despite nodding her understanding, Kate was disappointed. She’d been hoping to go back to Ned with some news – anything, really, to set his mind at rest. But, having drawn a blank, all she could do was report Matron’s suggestion that Naomi speak to Cousin Elizabeth.
‘And the doctor,’ she thought to say. ‘You said earlier you would tell him we’re here.’
‘Doctor Chilton, yes, and I have. I’m sure he’ll send me to fetch you shortly.’
Not much later, the doctor did indeed send Matron to collect them.
‘Your brother,’ he said, once they were seated with him in another of the downstairs rooms, ‘was fortunate – fortunate that his aircraft came down over England and that, quite by chance, he was taken directly to a hospital with an orthopaedic surgeon who has become something of a specialist in fractures of the leg.’ Sitting alongside Naomi, Kate listened intently and, when Dr Chilton looked between their faces, she nodded her understanding. ‘Had he sustained his injuries in, say, Belgium or France, then in order to save his life, it is likely that both of his legs would have been amputated.’
