by Nancy Carson
The man seemed to come to his senses and acknowledge what was wanted of him. He set off at a run.
‘What happened?’ Moses asked as he tried to bring Lucy round.
‘Some coaches came adrift from the train that went up the line first, then rolled back down again …’
‘I wonder if some shackles broke, like they did on the way to Worcester,’ Moses replied.
Arthur turned his attention back to the man lying badly injured, whom he knew as Dickie Dempster, and began clearing the mass of debris that held him trapped, cutting his own hands. He discerned that he was still breathing and began working even faster. Dempster’s face was lacerated but still easily recognisable; his clothes were torn and even shredded in places. As Arthur cleared away more broken and splintered wood he saw thick blood oozing darkly into the fabric of the poor man’s trousers. He began to roll up a trouser leg to try to estimate the extent of his injuries. The material was warm and wet, tacky with fresh blood. But in the semi-darkness, all Arthur could see was a morass of torn flesh and fractured bone poking through it in shards.
He felt the urge to vomit, and turned away to rid himself of the awful sight. Then he remembered Lucy. She was coming round, sitting up on the gravel, but still evidently in a daze. She in turn saw Arthur and lurched anxiously towards him.
‘How d’you feel now, Lucy?’
‘Oh, Arthur … How is he? Is he still alive?’ There was panic in her voice.
‘He’s still alive, but he’s unconscious … which is just as well. His leg’s smashed to a thousand pieces, though. Like pulp. I can’t see as how they’ll be able to mend it. We need to get him to a surgeon, and quick.’
‘Is he going to be all right, d’you think?’
He looked at her with apprehension, surprised how avid her interest was in this man, who must be a stranger to her. ‘I couldn’t say, Lucy. I ain’t no doctor. But I hope to God that he is. He was good to me when I was in a spot. This is my chance to repay him.’ He could see tears of fear, hysteria and anguish in Lucy’s eyes. It began to dawn on him that maybe she knew this poor injured man after all, so he asked her.
‘Yes, I know him, Arthur.’ She gave a great sobbing sigh. ‘This is the man I fell in love with … This is the man who’s been courting me …’
‘Dempster?’ he queried with amazement. ‘Then let’s get him out quick if we’re going save him. He needs medical attention.’
‘It’s Dickie?’ Moses queried with consternation. ‘Jesus Christ! D’you reckon he’s still alive?’
‘Yes, but for how long …’
Moses knuckled down to helping as best he could, struggling to shift the splintered planks and the thousand shards of broken glass with the rest of them. Although Lucy was devastated by the fact that Dickie was seriously injured, she realised she must do something to help if they were to save him. Arthur, too, was acutely conscious of her emotional suffering, and wished to divert her mind. For once, he had no difficulty in leading a conversation with her that he hoped might succeed in distracting her from the horror, if only for a minute.
‘What brings him in the guards’ van, Lucy, when that don’t look like a uniform he’s wearing?’ He struggled with a splintered plank of wood, freed it and cast it to the side of the cutting.
‘We’d been on an excursion to Worcester,’ she answered evenly, stooping to clear more. ‘He had to do the return journey in the guards’ van, ’cause they wanted him to work. I was in the second train and got off at Brettell Lane.’
‘Count your blessings that you didn’t travel with him. Others did, by the looks of this …’ He could smell beer, but did not remark on it. ‘There’s other poor souls trapped under the rubble, look … Anyway, we’ve gotta pull him out quick. D’you want to give me a hand?’
‘Course.’
More lamps had arrived so that it was becoming easier to see the extent of the wreckage and the people trapped, some of whom were still conscious and groaning with agony beneath it.
‘What d’you think happened, Arthur?’
‘I saw exactly what happened. Me and Dorinda was walking over Moor Lane Bridge and we saw about fifteen coaches hurtling back down the track – part of the same train as we’d seen go up on the same line just a minute earlier. They must’ve broke away as they pulled into Round Oak, and just rolled back down the incline. It’s a one in seventy-five incline, this, you know Lucy.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘That it’s steep for a railway track. They ran into the engine coming the other way with a tidy force.’
‘Did you say you were with Dorinda?’
‘Yes.’ He was pleased his side-tracking was working.
‘So where is she?’
‘I sent her back to mother’s.’
‘I ’spect she’s here to help with your father’s funeral,’ Lucy suggested.
‘She would insist on coming with me.’
‘I was sorry to hear about your father …’
Lucy stepped back and saw for the first time the mass of dark blood seeping up into Dickie’s trousers, glistening ominously by the light of the oil lamps. She shuddered. Tears stung in her eyes again, and she choked on a great sob of grief that was tearing its way out of her chest. She stooped down, the better to see her love, and was appalled when she saw his face cut and bruised, lumps of flesh gouged away horrifically from his neck, an ear torn. Terror struck her. Her beautiful Dickie with the confident, cheerful, laughing face was viciously mutilated and maimed. It was a sin. It was a dark and dreadful sin. She threw herself upon him and wailed piteously, and would not leave him until Arthur, watching silently and patiently and with an infinite fund of sympathy, tapped her on the shoulder to tell her softly that they had a trestle at last, on which they could convey him to the Whimsey.
‘He’ll be comfortable there,’ he said kindly. ‘And they’ve sent word to all the doctors in the area, so somebody will tend to him soon.’
‘Can I go with him, d’you think, Arthur?’
‘I would … if I were you.’
Chapter 19
Haden Piddock was already drinking at the Whimsey when the crash happened. As soon as word reached the inn, he and others rushed to the scene to offer what help they could. On the way, he saw his daughter walking towards him alongside two other men bearing a trestle, on which lay an injured victim. Haden’s heart rejoiced that Lucy was not a victim, aware that she had been on the same excursion train.
‘It’s Dickie,’ Lucy informed him tearfully. ‘He’s hurt bad. They’re taking him to the Whimsey. I shall stay with him, so tell Mother not to expect me back.’
‘How’s our Jane and the bab?’ he asked anxiously.
‘We all got off the train before the crash, Father. Except poor Dickie.’
‘Thank God.’ Haden inspected the injured man cursorily. He had no special regard for Dickie Dempster, actually resenting the fact that he’d beguiled his precious daughter. ‘Thank the Lord you ain’t one o’ them hurt, bab.’ He hugged Lucy tightly, half in thankfulness, half in consolation, for he was well aware how distraught she was. ‘Is there anybody else there helping?’
‘Quite a few. There’s Moses … oh, and Arthur Goodrich. Arthur’s been as good as gold. It was him who found Dickie and got him out of the rubble. He’s back here for his father’s funeral, you know.’
Haden acknowledged the fact with a sympathetic nod. ‘Get on then, my angel, and look after Dickie Dempster.’
She smiled tearfully and turned to catch up with the trestle-bearers and her injured sweetheart, calling over her shoulder, ‘I’ll see you when I see you, Father.’
At the Whimsey, they took Dickie to a bedroom reserved for travellers and gently lifted him from the trestle to install him in the bed. He was as pale as death and still unconscious.
‘There’ll be a doctor along to see him soon, my flower,’ one of the trestle-bearers kindly consoled. ‘Keep him comfortable till he comes, eh?’
Lucy nodded and th
anked the men for their help, then they left to find and convey another victim to the safety and comfort of one of the local inns. When they had gone, she loosened Dickie’s collar, carefully avoiding touching the lacerations and gouges in his neck, which were still bleeding. Some of the blood was congealing and she dabbed at it lovingly with her handkerchief. If only she could clean him up more, and see better the extent of his injuries. She picked up the oil lamp and lifted the leg of his trousers carefully to inspect the damage done. With horror she saw how his shin was smashed to a rough pulp of ground muscle, sinew, and shards of bone. His foot was set at an incongruous angle almost detached from the shin, and she heaved at the sight. She had to turn away. It was the most gruesome, grisly sight she had ever seen. Surely, nobody – not even the most skilled surgeon – could save his leg. No wonder he was unconscious; the pain would be unbearable if he were conscious.
She stroked his face lovingly and imagined him as another Moses Cartwright, getting about on a crutch but not allowing himself to be hindered greatly by the handicap. If he ended up like Moses she could put up with that. But would Dickie face the challenge of such a handicap with the same spirit that Moses had? He might end up helpless, unwilling or unable to fight it. It wouldn’t make any difference though; she loved him enough, she would help him and look after him. With only one leg he would need her. He would depend on her like never before, and she would be so good to him, so utterly reliable. Things might not be so bad. Jane had married a one-legged man, and loved him as much as when he had two.
Always, however, she had envisaged being married to Dickie as a fit man, with all his faculties intact. The possibility of him being crippled had never before entered her head. Anyway, she was carrying his child and her child needed its father.
It occurred to Lucy, as she sat thinking, her eyes never leaving Dickie as she searched for signs of consciousness, how fate and events not only change our values and our perceptions irrevocably, but how quickly they can do it. She had privately scoffed when Jane had announced that she was going to marry Moses, because he was no longer perfect, because he was minus one limb. It was beyond her comprehension how anybody could commit themselves to somebody who was not whole. Indeed, she could not understand how anybody could be satisfied with a man who was not entirely perfect to behold in every way, even down to the evenness of his teeth or the set of his shoulders. Dickie had been perfect … but not anymore. Not after this. Yet what did it matter? He would still be the same person, the same delightful character, with or without his right leg, whether his face and neck were scarred for life or not. How could she stop loving him, just because he did not look the same?
Then Dickie stirred.
She peered intently into his eyes, hovering over him like a guardian angel. ‘Dickie, my love,’ she whispered. ‘Can you hear me? Can you see me?’
He rewarded her with a faint smile, muttered something unintelligible, then drifted off into unconsciousness again. Tears clouded her vision once more and she wiped them away with the backs of her hands. Weeping would do no good. Weeping would not make him better.
‘Dickie, if only I could bear the pain for you I would,’ she breathed, touching his hand. ‘I just want you to get well, and I’ll help you do it. I’ll look after you, I’ll make you well again. When the doctor has seen you I’ll ask if I can have you taken to our house. You can have my bed till you’re better, and I’ll sleep on the settle downstairs. I promise I’ll look after you.’
She heard a renewed commotion on the landing and went to the door to investigate, lest it was somebody seeking her. More victims of the crash were being brought in. Three bodies were put into a room opposite.
‘Are they hurt bad?’ she asked the men who carried them.
‘They’m dead,’ one of them answered. ‘And more to come.’
‘How many dead?’
‘There’s nigh on a dozen been pulled out so far,’ the other man replied. ‘Some of ’em have bin took to the Crown in Brettell Lane, others to the Swan in Moor Street, along with other poor sods what am injured but surviving.’
‘Isn’t it tragic?’ Lucy commented ruefully. ‘All that needless loss of life, all that suffering.’
‘Aye, and there’ll be plenty more yet, believe me,’ the first man said. ‘Lord knows what the death toll will be. But we shall know soon enough. Already they’ve started clearing the lines so the trains can start running again. And would you believe it, there’s even some damned harpies been looting the pockets o’ them poor devils lying hurt. I’d have ’em shot.’
‘What about doctors?’ Lucy enquired. ‘I’m waiting for a doctor to come to see Mr Dempster here.’
‘I’ve heard as they’ve telegraphed Dudley and even Worcester for doctors – and Lord knows where else. Already Dr Walker has showed up with his assistant.’
‘I wish he’d come here.’
‘Somebody’ll be here as soon as they can be, my flower, rest assured.’
It was approaching midnight when a doctor finally arrived carrying his bag of mysterious instruments and potions, tired and distressed at the extent of the carnage and the injuries he’d had to deal with already. He examined Dickie, looking at his mangled leg with extreme concern and an ominous shaking of the head.
‘Has he regained consciousness at all?’ the doctor asked Lucy.
‘He opened his eyes just for a second or two and smiled at me.’
The doctor looked at his assistant woefully. He turned to Lucy again. ‘Are you this man’s wife?’
‘I’m engaged to be married to him,’ she replied, exaggerating the truth.
The doctor spoke very quietly and very solemnly to Lucy, explaining what he had to do, then asked her to leave the room. He would call her back when it was expedient to do so.
‘Will I be able to have him taken to my home when you’ve treated him?’ she enquired.
‘Maybe in a few days. But for now, he must stay here. For now he must not be moved.’
She left with fresh tears in her eyes.
Dickie Dempster’s smashed leg was amputated above the knee that very night, during which time he did not regain consciousness. Lucy returned to the room when the surgery was finished and his stump had been dressed. She wept for the man she loved and what he would have to endure from that moment on, merely from a psychological point of view, never mind the physical pain. Why had her world and his suddenly been turned upside-down when there had been so much to look forward to, so much to live for? What had either of them done to be so radically and cruelly punished?
As she sat on the chair at the side of the bed weeping, she bent forward, laid her head on the pillow alongside Dickie’s, and cried herself to sleep.
The next day revealed the extent of the carnage. Eleven dead were extracted from the wreckage. Another passenger died a few hours later. Several more were so severely injured that their recovery was in doubt, and only time would determine whether they lived or died. In addition, a hundred people had been attended to by the doctors, and all bar two or three were expected to recover fully. Mercifully, only one child out of all the Sunday schools present, a girl of twelve, suffered any injury, and that only slight.
When Lucy awoke, it took a second or two to assimilate what had happened. She was in a strange room … Dickie was with her … Dickie … So the nightmare was real after all … She looked at him for signs of life. He was still unconscious and as pale as death, but he was breathing. Outside on the landing she heard signs of activity and went to the door. Mrs Elwell, the landlord’s wife, was heading downstairs.
‘Mrs Elwell …’
Mrs Elwell stopped and turned around. ‘Lucy,’ she answered gently. ‘How is he?’
‘Still breathing, Mrs Elwell, but there’s little sign of anything else.’
‘You’ve been here all night with the poor lad, in’t yer? Can I get you some breakfast, a mug of tea or something?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Just gone seven.’
&nb
sp; ‘Have you got time to sit with Dickie for a few minutes while I go home? I could do with a swill and cleaning my teeth. My mother could do me some breakfast, save you the bother. You must’ve had a hard night of it as well.’
‘I have, but I got nobody hurt, Lucy, like you have. You go on home and spruce yourself up, and I’ll pop in every five minutes or so and keep my eye on him for you.’
‘Oh, thank you, Mrs Elwell. I won’t be more than half an hour.’
So Lucy returned home. Briefly she told her mother about Dickie’s amputation while she washed and changed her clothes. She drank a mug of tea and ate a piece of buttered toast done in front of the fire, before hurrying back to the Whimsey.
‘I’ve been to see him a few times, Lucy,’ Mrs Elwell reported, ‘but there’s no sign of him coming round yet.’
‘Think I should try to wake him?’ Lucy asked.
‘Why don’t you just try talking to him and see if that brings him round?’
Lucy ran upstairs to the room where Dickie lay and sat at his bedside once more. She felt his forehead and thought he seemed feverish.
‘Dickie,’ she whispered. ‘Dickie, can you hear me?… There’s so much I want to tell you, and now would be a perfect time if only I thought you could hear me … D’you remember the very first time we saw each other? I fell for you straight away, you know, and I knew from that moment that we’d always be together … that I’d marry you. Well, I’m going to marry you when you get better and we’re going to start a family right away … So please get well, my love … Please … I don’t mind how long I have to wait. I’ll wait for ever if need be, only please, please get better. I’ll look after you well and make sure you do get better …’
Somebody tapped on the door.
‘Come in …’ The door opened. ‘Arthur!’
