The Soldier's Return

by Rose Meddon

  ‘As you wish. Kate, would you show Mamma up to Ned’s room?’

  But, as Kate made to step forward, Pamela Russell waved her away. ‘No need to stir yourself on my account. There is precious little danger that I shall become lost.’

  Affronted on Naomi’s behalf, Kate stepped back again. The woman’s manner was enough to make her pity Mr Russell for marrying her – and that was saying something.

  Once Pamela Russell had started up the stairs, Kate saw Aunt Diana catch hold of her niece’s arm and steer her into the drawing room. Since this usually signalled that the two of them were about to discuss something interesting, she decided to follow them in.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my coming, dear,’ Aunt Diana said. ‘But, since the frostiness between you and your mother shows no signs of thawing, I thought it for the best.’

  Watching the women take a couple of steps into the drawing room, Kate took up a position just inside the doorway.

  ‘Frostiness. That’s certainly apt.’

  ‘Where your mother is concerned, you need to understand, darling,’ Aunt Diana went on, her voice lowered. ‘Having Ned brought here, instead of Clarence Square, was something of a blow for her.’

  ‘Don’t tell me she still feels slighted?’

  ‘I’m rather afraid that she does.’

  ‘Well, I can’t help that,’ Naomi replied. ‘The only person of any consequence in all of this is Ned. And without a doubt, he is better off beyond her grasp.’

  ‘And I don’t dispute that. But perhaps, when you speak to her, try to show some consideration for her feelings – it might make for fewer upsets all round. Now, I suppose I really should go on up. Can’t have her wearying the poor boy unnecessarily. But tell me, truthfully, dear, how is he?’

  Listening to Naomi explaining the rather open-ended nature of Ned’s continuing treatment, and the generally fair prognosis for his recovery, Kate stiffened: the rice-milk pudding! Christ almighty, she’d put one to simmer and forgotten all about it! Dear God, it would be ruined.

  Mumbling an excuse, she bolted from the room and, praying that she hadn’t left it too late, tore down the stairs. Half way down, though, the smell rising up to greet her was unmistakeably that of milk catching on the bottom of a saucepan. Damnation!

  Hurtling across the kitchen, she grabbed a drying cloth. Then, racing to the range, she pulled the saucepan off the heat and onto a trivet. Crossing to the sink, she leant towards the window and pushed it wide open. Curse it! Rice-milk pudding had been the only recipe in Nurse Hammond’s notebook for which she’d been able to gather together all of the ingredients. But now, not only had she wasted the whole lot – a considerable quantity of valuable sugar included – she had probably ruined the saucepan as well. Damnation thrice over.

  Tossing the cloth onto the table, she groaned in frustration. That she wasn’t used to having something cooking away on the range so early in the morning was no excuse; she should never have allowed herself to become distracted. The only saving grace was that she hadn’t told Nurse Hammond that she was trying out one of her recipes; talk about making herself look useless.

  Staring down at the charred mess, she sighed heavily. All she could do now was clear away the evidence. And so, carrying the saucepan and the trivet through to the scullery, she set them down by the sink. There, she turned on the tap and reached to the shelf for the box of soda crystals. She would scrape out the contents and put the thing to soak. And, once Aunt Diana and Mrs Russell had left, she would do as Nurse Hammond had asked her to do in the first place and write out proper menus for the entire week. And then she would make a list of the groceries she would need. That way, she would always have the requisite ingredients to hand and wouldn’t be tempted to do things willy-nilly. Yes, if she could find her way to becoming better organized, then she might avoid similar disasters in the future. In the meantime, she would see to it that this particular failure served as a lesson: slipshod and lackadaisical just wouldn’t cut it any more. And yes, it might mean that she had to give up volunteering at St. Ursula’s for a while. But, well, so be it. In some ways, it would be a relief: one less direction for her to be pulled in. In any event, as Naomi was for ever saying, family came first. And rightly so, too.

  * * *

  ‘Heavens, Kate – that smells vile.’

  It was one morning later that same week and, glancing across to where Naomi had arrived to stand in the doorway, Kate merely raised her eyebrows. With the greater part of her attention directed to the stock-pot, the contents of which had been bubbling away on the range for some time now, she couldn’t afford to stop and chat. Instead, fanning with her hand at the steam billowing up from it, she withdrew a ladleful of the liquid, peered at its colour and, with a shrug of her shoulders, emptied it back into the pot. It was a reasonably close match to the description in Nurse Hammond’s instructions.

  Heaving the chicken carcass from the pan and lowering it onto a large plate, she stared down at it. ‘Vile or not, I can do nothing about it,’ she replied to Naomi’s observation. ‘I’m making clear chicken soup. And Nurse Hammond’s recipe requires that the stock be prepared to a very particular method. And anyway, if your bones had been simmering for five hours, you’d probably smell vile, too. You can always push the window wider if you don’t like it.’ Or go back upstairs and leave me to it, being the reply she would have preferred to have given. Instead, she concentrated on fishing about for the little muslin bag that today, contained not only the requisite herbs – as was her usual custom – but also, in accordance with Nurse Hammond’s detailed notes, four ounces of mild onions, previously softened in a little lard. They went into the bag, rather than into the pan with everything else; the recipe decreed, in order that they not unduly colour the finished result.

  ‘Now it’s done boiling,’ she said, fully aware that she sounded tetchy, ‘I’ve got to sieve all six quarts of the stuff. Not just the once, mind, as would suffice for us ordinary mortals, but three of four times “until the stock is crystal-clear and of a pale amber colour”. Saints alive,’ she muttered, standing back and mopping her forehead with a corner of her apron. ‘It’s only stock, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Careful,’ Naomi quipped. ‘Don’t let Nurse Hammond hear you disparaging her culinary bible.’

  When, from the corner of her eye, Kate spotted that Naomi was grinning, she let out a despairing sigh. ‘Did you come down for anything in particular?’ she called as Naomi made to head away.

  ‘I did,’ came the reply. ‘But, since you’re busy, it can wait for now.’

  For now? Reaching for the tamis sieve, Kate rested it across the top of her largest bowl and shook her head in dismay. Did Naomi know something she didn’t: was she, by some stroke of good fortune, destined to be less busy later on? Was there to be some respite from chasing her own tail? Only, it seemed highly unlikely, because, as soon as she had finished straining this stock and seen to all of the clearing up, she had that pile of smalls to get hung out on the washing line, and then the laundered towels to put through the mangle and put out before it was too late in the day for them to dry. And then she had all of the vegetables to prepare for luncheon.

  Wearily, she sighed. In the two weeks since Ned had arrived at Hartland Street, Kate felt as though her workload had trebled. If she wasn’t boiling some or other part of an animal to produce a nourishing meal for him, then she was baking a cake for his visitors or clearing up after they’d been. And if it wasn’t the preparation of food keeping her occupied, then she was taking the smoothing iron to a larger than usual pile of laundry. Or mopping the floors again. Or cleaning the bathroom and the lavatory – something she now felt duty-bound to do each and every day, not only on account of Nurse Hammond having a sixth sense for dirt, but also because of the continual trail of visitors, who called – often with little or no warning – to see Ned.

  Last week, at Naomi’s insistence, she had also somehow fitted in two afternoons at St. Ursula’s but, for the first time
ever, she’d had to force herself to go there. Indeed, on the second afternoon, the prospect of returning home to prepare three different dishes for supper – there being no way on earth to persuade Esme to eat liver and onions – had made her irritable and snappy, and seemingly unable to fill in one single form of application without making a mess of it.

  Her distractedness hadn’t escaped Marjorie Randolph’s notice either, since, after a while, she had suggested – in her perfectly polite and serene way – that she put away her things and go home. ‘I fear, my dear, that today your mind is elsewhere.’ Had been her actual observation.

  As if the sheer volume of work itself wasn’t bad enough, this morning, she was also repeatedly beset by interruptions.

  ‘There’s Dundee cake left in the tin, they’ll have to make do with that,’ she said when Naomi returned later to remind her that at three o’clock, two officers from the RFC were coming to see Ned and check on his recovery. ‘On the shelf above the sink in the scullery,’ she answered Nurse Hammond when she arrived to request some blueing powder not ten minutes later. And, ‘No, lovey, sorry,’ she said, when, barely five minutes after that, Esme appeared, clutching two of her dolls. ‘I can’t make new capes for them at the moment. Why not go and ask your mamma to help you?’

  Such was her morning that, when Naomi returned at ten o’clock to sit at the table and drink her mid-morning coffee, it was as much as Kate could do not to snap at her.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Naomi enquired, fastening the lid back on the biscuit barrel. ‘Only, forgive me for saying this but you don’t seem terribly happy this morning.’

  On the point of opening her mouth, Kate paused, careful not to look up and meet Naomi’s enquiring look. ‘I’m fine,’ she lied.

  ‘Are you certain?’

  Gritting her teeth, she again waited a moment before answering. ‘Certain. Though I do have a lot to be getting on with.’

  ‘I know how you feel,’ Naomi answered, moving to rinse her coffee cup and saucer under the tap before setting them down in the sink. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a minute to spare just lately, does there?’

  Clearly, the woman had missed the irony of her own observation. A minute to spare? A minute would be a luxury; she didn’t have a second. ‘Not a single minute, no.’

  ‘Oh, and on that note, would you be able to keep an eye on Esme for a moment? Garrett’s have sent a card to say that my pearls are ready for collection – you remember, I took them there when the clasp broke. They’ve very kindly re-strung them as well, and I should like to go and get them back. I do hate being without them. They’re by far my favourite string.’

  In despair, Kate pressed her fingertips into her temples and moved them around in circles. ‘Why not,’ she said. ‘Bring her down with a jigsaw or summat and she can sit at the table. It’s not like I won’t be here anyway.’

  ‘Excellent. Then I’ll go up and get ready. They’re only in Burlington Arcade, so I shouldn’t be gone long.’

  Unsurprisingly, once Naomi had departed for the jeweller’s, Esme quickly tired of sitting at the table.

  ‘Why don’t you finish your jigsaw, lovey?’ Kate tried reasoning with her when she climbed down from her chair and started trailing about the kitchen.

  ‘Finish.’

  She glanced to the dozen pieces spread about the table. ‘I don’t think you have.’

  ‘Want to help.’

  Mindful of all that she still had to do, Kate gave a weary shake of her head. ‘Well, it’s real kind of you to offer, lovey, but you’re not big enough yet.’ Hoping that would be an end to it, she went through to the far end of the scullery and wheeled out the mangle. Positioning a bowl on the floor underneath it to catch the water, she turned the screw to close the rollers. At least today, her load shouldn’t take too long – assuming she ever managed to make a start. ‘No, leave it there,’ she warned, spotting that Esme was reaching towards the bowl.

  ‘Want to help.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ she said, picking out the top-most item from the pail of towels and feeding the end of it through the rollers. Lowering her voice, she muttered, ‘Unlike your mother.’

  When she then started to turn the handle, from beneath the mangle came the sound of giggling. ‘Wet!’

  Retrieving the squeezed towel, she folded it loosely and dropped it into the basket on the bench behind her. ‘Please don’t get in the water, lovey.’

  Trundling a second towel through the rollers, she once again heard laughter.

  ‘Wet!’

  Sighing heavily, she stopped winding, went around to the other side of the mangle, and lifted Esme from the floor. Setting her back down a few feet away, she stared down at the front of the child’s dress; unmissable on the front was damp patch the size of a dinner plate.

  ‘Esme,’ she scolded. The child stared up at her. ‘I told you not to get in the water. Now look what you’ve done. Your mamma won’t be happy.’

  In truth, she didn’t particularly care whether Naomi was happy or not – it was only a wet dress and would dry soon enough – it was more that Esme had disobeyed her. Naomi indulged the child, that was the problem; half the time, when Esme did something mischievous, Naomi merely laughed. All of which made her, Kate, seem like an ogre for raising her voice when the child did something wrong.

  ‘Wet,’ Esme said again, pressing her hand on the damp patch.

  ‘Yes. And that’s because you disobeyed me. So, wet you’ll have to stay.’

  ‘Want to help,’ Esme started up again the moment Kate leant across for the next towel.

  Reaching for the handle, Kate dropped her arm back to her side. At this rate, she was never going to get the job done. And it was no good taking Esme up to Ned and asking him to read her a story, because she’d have to keep going back up to check that she was behaving. Why Naomi had felt it necessary to go and collect her pearls this morning, she couldn’t fathom. It wasn’t as though she needed that particular string – not when she had so many others.

  ‘Come on then,’ she said, seeing little option but to relent. ‘I’ll fetch a stool and you can wind the handle.’ After all, she thought, returning with the low step she used to reach things from the top shelves, at an age not much older than Esme was now, she herself had begun helping in the scullery at Woodicombe. And it hadn’t done her any harm.

  ‘Help.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, lovey, you’re going to help me with the mangling.’

  With Esme now standing on the step, Kate fed the edge of a tea cloth between the rollers. Then, reaching for Esme’s hand, she placed it on the wheel and, with her own over the top of it, turned the handle. Seeing the expression on the little girl’s face, she allowed herself a smile. To be fair, the child was never properly naughty; like most children of her age she was just prone to fits of wilfulness. She was also naturally curious, a quality that struck her as worthy of being encouraged rather than crushed.

  From the little step, Esme craned to look under the mangle. ‘Water!’ she exclaimed, pointing with her free hand.

  Selecting another towel, Kate fed it through the rollers and listened to Esme giggling; only a child could find something amusing in mangling clothes.

  ‘Mrs Channer? May I bother you for a moment?’

  Hearing Nurse Hammond calling to her from the kitchen, she let go of Esme’s hand. ‘Stay there,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back dreckly.’

  ‘Sorry, dear,’ Nurse Hammond said when she went through to see her, ‘but is there a reliable chemist nearby? Only, I need some more—’

  The scream that rang out from the scullery stopped Nurse Hammond mid-sentence and sent Kate lurching back across the room. What the devil…? It was Nurse Hammond who spotted that Esme’s fingers had become trapped in the mangle.

  Darting across to support the little girl’s arm, the nurse shouted instructions. ‘Release the rollers. Quickly!’

  Frantically, Kate opened the screw and then watched as Nurse Hammond eased Esme�
�s fingers away from the mangle, laid them flat upon the palm of her own hand, and peered down at them.

  ‘Are they…?’ In her state of panic, Kate couldn’t bring herself to finish her question.

  ‘Do you have any ice?’

  She spun about, her first thought being probably not. But then, remembering the meat box, she lunged towards it, threw open the lid and hunted about inside. Just as she had expected, there was scarcely any there. Scooping up what there was, she carried it back to the scullery. ‘This is all we have.’

  ‘That will suffice. Pack it in a clean cloth, quick as you can.’

  When she returned with the ice, wrapped as directed, Nurse Hammond gently pressed the fingers of Esme’s hand onto the parcel and, seemingly from the shock of it, Esme broke off from sobbing to let out an ear-piercing howl.

  Unable to stop shaking, Kate stared down at the little fingers. Just a few moments ago they had been plump and pink and perfect, but now they were purple and red and badly swollen. ‘Are they b-broken?’ she forced herself to ask.

  ‘I won’t be able to tell for a moment,’ Nurse Hammond replied, folding the end of the cold cloth over the top of Esme’s fingers. ‘Right now, it would be unwise to distress the child further by trying to examine them. Of greatest importance is to get the swelling under control, which we do by keeping them on the ice. In a while, we’ll move her upstairs to a sofa where she can be made comfortable. Then, once she’s calmer, I’ll try to determine whether any damage has been done.’ Feeling sick, and with her heart beating fit to burst from her chest, Kate nodded. ‘And then we will need a proper cold compress that can remain in place for an hour or so. After that, if one or more of her fingers is broken, I will apply splints and bandage them together to prevent her trying to use them.’

  If one or more of her fingers is broken? Oh, dear Lord, what had she allowed to happen? Broken fingers? Naomi would be furious. No, she would be beyond furious – far beyond it.

  ‘But… they’ll be all right… eventually?’ She sought to reassure herself, the mention of splints bringing to her mind a picture of Ned. He had splints – and traction – and yet despite all of that, the doctors still couldn’t say whether he would ever walk unaided again. What if Esme grew up without the proper use of her fingers? Feeling suddenly faint, she doubled over and stared down at the tiled floor. What had she allowed to happen?