A Caring Heart

by Margaret Carr

  During his second visit the doctor said, ‘She’s gone, I’m afraid,’ as he draped the sheet carefully over the pale face and sighed.

  Isobel knew he hated to lose a patient, even a one so hopelessly lost as this one was before they had arrived.

  He laid a hand on the farmer’s shoulder then he and Isobel quietly left the room.

  Downstairs they checked that neighbours and friends had gathered to help the farmer then took their leave.

  It was a watercolour of a day with a weak sun poking from between low clouds. There was a heavy feeling in the car as they drove back to the village. Isobel was dropped off at her door and as she turned to go in a man in uniform walked up the street towards her.

  ‘Alan,’ she sighed.

  He walked up and placed an arm around her shoulders as they walked down the path to the door together. Over the following hours they talked and ate, and laughed at Churchill’s antics. They listened to music and danced around the living room as Alan showed her the latest dance steps. She teased him about girlfriends and he asked her when she was going to find a man and settle down.

  ‘Never,’ she laughed. ‘We’ll grow old together, just you, me and Churchill.’

  He grew serious then. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I want you to marry and have children so that I can come over and spoil them.’

  ‘And teach them bad habits and secret ways to annoy me! No thank you.’ She reached over to grab the passing Churchill and lift him onto her knee to hide the emotion threatening to overwhelm her.

  It was over in a flash, the few hours they’d shared, as she stood on the doorstep and watched him walk away down the street. He turned at the bus stop and waved to her before boarding the bus. She felt a cold shiver run through her as the bus pulled away and trundled off down the road.

  * * *

  Work was never far away to take her mind off personal worries, but for some reason it didn’t help over the following few days. Was it a premonition that made her feel so fearful, she wondered, and prayed that she might be wrong. Several times she found her mind drifting and had to snap back to attention when asked for help or a reply when she had not heard the question.

  She asked about Duncan Lewis whenever the opportunity arose, but he was still in a coma the doctor informed her. That made her think about Jack and she decided that she would make the effort to visit him on her next day off.

  Friday morning arrived and she was covered for the weekend. The weather was sunny but still with a nip in the air as she set out for the early bus into Rennington. From there she would catch another bus to Morpeth. The hospital was a large old house and as Isobel approached the tall iron gates that stood permanently open, an ambulance passed her and turning in through the gates continued on up the drive.

  Isobel followed, admiring the open lawns and groups of different varieties of trees. As she got closer the park-like grounds gave way to sculptured gardens. She climbed the four stone steps up to the thick oak doors.

  The doors stood open to the spring sunshine and inside the wide hall with its stone floor and wood panelled walls was a monstrous hearth, its grate filled with daffodils and greenery. A middle-aged lady sat at a desk in the corner. She looked up and smiled as Isobel approached.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I have come to visit Jack Lewis.’

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘No, should I have rung?’

  The woman smiled and shook her head. ‘That’s not necessary, we simply like to keep a list of patients’ visitors. Are you family?’

  ‘No, I’m the district nurse that was treating his father.’

  She looked up then. ‘Ah yes, how is Mr Lewis? He’s in the Royal Hospital, I understand?’

  Isobel was surprised that they were aware of Jack’s father’s condition, but, she admonished herself, of course they would be, seeing as his accident would be playing on Jack’s mind and possibly hindering his recovery. ‘No better, I’m afraid. He’s still in a coma.’

  ‘How sad,’ she said nodding her head sympathetically. ‘I shall have someone come and show you over to the west wing,’ she said, lifting up a telephone. ‘They are usually over there this time of the morning.’

  A young woman in a white uniform arrived, and after a quick word with the woman at the desk turned and asked Isobel to follow her.

  Isobel followed her through a door at the back of the hall and down a long passage. Off this passage were several doors and it was the farthest door that she opened and went through. It led into a long narrow room containing a variety of tables and chairs, bookshelves and a cupboard. The tables were scattered with newspapers and ashtrays, two men sat over an unfinished game of chess, while a third was busy trying to turn the page of a book with his elbow.

  Tall windows led out onto a stone veranda whose carved balustrade overlooked a beautiful garden with gentle walkways and arbours. Water features and statuary abounded. Several other men were walking or being pushed in the gardens, some with visitors, some with just a nurse, some sitting alone perhaps waiting for their visitors, Isobel thought.

  The nurse was distracted by a group of men sitting just outside the window, as Isobel gazed around looking for Jack. She came back and taking Isobel’s arm pointed to a tall hedge beyond the water fountain. ‘The boys say he walked over that way. So if you will forgive me I am wanted elsewhere.’

  ‘Of course, thank you.’ There was fluttering in her stomach as she set out across the garden. Was she doing the right thing, coming to see him? Perhaps her visit would do more harm than good. Why had she come, she asked herself, it wasn’t as if he was her patient. She walked around the pond with the serpent fountain in its centre and crossed to the arbour gateway in the tall hedge.

  He was sitting perfectly still, staring ahead at nothing in particular. She hesitated to interrupt. Beyond the walkway was a rose garden but as yet there were no flowers. It was hard to see what attraction the place had to draw anyone up to this part of the garden, but Isobel knew that its very isolation was what would appeal to Jack.

  She stepped out from the end of the hedge and went to sit on the first bench. It felt cold through her thin skirt. She remained quiet waiting for him to break the silence. She thought he was going to completely ignore her until he asked, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to see you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I wanted to know why you decided to return here.’

  ‘That’s no business of yours.’

  ‘I know, but I feel responsible.’ She fidgeted, trying to ease the discomfort of the seat.

  He turned to look at her then. ‘Responsible, how?’

  ‘Your mother told me that it was after our last meeting that you decided to return to the hospital and I thought that something I had said had made you think that . . .’

  ‘I can’t even remember what you said, but it certainly did not influence my decision.’

  ‘I see, then why did you come back, you were making good progress.’

  ‘You mean until I killed my father!’ he snapped.

  ‘That’s rubbish.’ His guilt and pain were obvious to her and her concern was genuine. ‘Something made you freeze, OK, that’s medical, not deliberate. Are the doctors here any closer to knowing why you froze?’

  He was silent a long time. He made a constant washing motion with his hands between his knees. ‘If they had found him sooner, he would have been alive.’

  Isobel chewed her lower lip. ‘He is alive, Jack, and you don’t know how long he lay there. It could have been only a matter of minutes and I doubt it would have made much difference, it was the blow to his head that did the damage.’

  ‘They tell me it was shock that made me freeze and that it shouldn’t happen again.’

  ‘Well that’s good news, isn’t it?’

  ‘It changes nothing,’ he said.

  Isobel’s heart lay heavy in her chest. ‘When do you intend going home?’

  ‘I belong here as lon
g as they will have me.’

  ‘But why, you have a perfectly good home whether you help out on the farm or not.’

  He turned on her full of anger. ‘Because I belong here. Look around you, what do you see. Pieces of men, lots and lots of pieces of men. If you fit them all together like a jigsaw you might get one or two whole ones. Now leave me alone.’

  ‘I pray every night that my brother will return safe and well and if, heaven forbid, he should end up here some day, then I shall pray harder still that he continues to fight, as we all, are fighting this terrible war.’ She stood up and made to leave, her heart heavy with his rejection of her.

  A SOLUTION TO BOBBY’S PROBLEMS

  That evening, unable to settle, Isobel went out to The Apple, one of the two public houses in the village. Sylvia Brown, the publican’s wife, was a friend of hers and while she couldn’t stand Sylvia’s husband, the over-jolly, roving-eyed Stan, a quiet drink with Sylvia might help to put her mind back onto an even keel.

  The place was busy and Sylvia was serving behind the bar but she managed to indicate to Isobel that she should go through into the lounge. After a while Sylvia came in to join her and sat down placing a sweet sherry in front of Isobel.

  ‘Jeanie’s standing in for me,’ she explained to Isobel’s anxious enquiry. ‘Rough day?’

  Isobel nodded. ‘Rough few days.’

  ‘I heard about Duncan and poor Hazel Heron.’

  Isobel sipped at her drink. ‘It’s Alan I’m worried about, Syl,’ she said, replacing her glass on the table and twisting it around by the stem.

  ‘Why Alan, what’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing really,’ she looked up smiling. ‘It’s just his usual chat was different this time. More serious, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Well that’s natural isn’t it, under the circumstances. He’s doing a dangerous job and there is only the two of you. He’s bound to be worrying about you should anything happen to him.’

  ‘I know, but today I went to visit another man, a pilot like Alan, but bombers. His injuries are severe but it’s the way he has died inside his head that bothers me.’

  ‘A friend?’ Sylvia asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘A patient?’

  Isobel shook her head impatiently. ‘No, well yes sort of, he’s the son of a patient.’

  ‘Why?’

  Isobel looked up at her friend, a small frown between her brows. ‘Why, what?’

  ‘Why especially this man?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Her friend leant across the table and placed a hand over Isobel’s. ‘How often have you told me that you cannot afford to let personal feelings interfere with your work and yet here you are and for some reason you have mixed your concern for Alan and this man together and it is causing you distress. So who is he and what does he mean to you?’

  Isobel stared at her friend for several minutes then slowly began to shake her head in denial. ‘It’s not personal, Syl, it’s just such a waste and I know I could never allow that to happen to Alan.’

  Sylvia took a drink from her glass and avoided her companion’s gaze. They continued to chat about other things until Isobel stood up to go.

  Her heart was still heavy as she entered the cottage on her return and she missed Churchill’s disapproving gaze as he waited expectantly for his welcome. When it didn’t come he stalked past her with his tail in the air and took occupancy of the most comfortable chair by the fire.

  It had eased her worries just talking to Sylvia even if her friend’s misunderstanding of the situation had rattled her somewhat. But Sylvia had her own worries and Isobel had been reluctant to burden her further. There was a hand written message on the living room table that read: The Babby’s bad. Can you come. Jonny. With a sigh she reached for her bag.

  * * *

  It was midnight by the time she returned to the cottage once more. Heavy eyed and weary she failed to notice the shadow that passed beyond the kitchen window. Mr Churchill was out doing whatever it was cats did at night.

  Dropping her bag on the table she sat down in the nearest chair and eased her hot swollen feet from the restrictions of her shoes, biting her lip as she pressed them to the cold floor.

  A shuffling sound had her raise her head. ‘Churchill?’

  Silence. She toyed with the idea of whether or not to fetch a basin of water to steep her feet in.

  A small thud and she cast a concerned glance at the back door. On the point of getting up her breath caught in her throat as she watched the sneck slowly begin to rise.

  Seconds later Bobby Dunn fell through the doorway and collapsed on the floor.

  The jacket sleeve of his left arm was soaked in blood. Isobel moved swiftly into the living room and taking hold of a large armchair pushed it through into the kitchen where she placed it close to Bobby with its back to the wall. Now she heaved and pulled the half conscious man into the chair.

  Taking a pair of scissors from her bag she proceeded to cut away the sleeve of his jacket, not without a little mild protest from her patient.

  ‘What on earth happened to you, Bobby?’

  ‘Cut m’ self,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I can see that, but what were you doing . . . oh my lord,’ she said as she revealed the large gash on his lower arm that had avoided the main blood vessel by a mere hair’s breadth.

  He started to cry, from weakness and shock, she realised as she got to work. Half-an-hour later, stitched and bandaged, he rested peacefully in the armchair wrapped in a blanket after two mugs of hot sweet tea. She decided he would in all probability sleep until morning so leaving him where he was she climbed wearily up to her own bed.

  He was still asleep when she came down the following morning. Moving into the kitchen she put the kettle on to boil and scrambled two eggs in a pan when she heard him moving about in the other room.

  ‘My arm aches,’ he complained, coming up behind her.

  ‘You’re lucky you have one,’ she replied, ‘the bathroom’s in there,’ she said, pointing to the opposite end of the kitchen.

  He stumbled off to the bathroom and a few minutes later there was the most horrific crash. Isobel, raising her eyes heavenward, hurried over to the door and knocked. ‘Bobby, are you all right in there? What was that noise?’

  ‘Nothing, thing fell off the wall, that’s all.’

  Isobel groaned. What was she going to do with him, she couldn’t let him go back up into the woods on his own or that arm would be septic in no time. Yet she couldn’t keep him here, someone was bound to find out, then he would be whisked back off to the workhouse.

  She should turn him in for his own good, it was her duty, she told herself over and over, yet somehow she knew there had to be another answer.

  She left Bobby back in the armchair with Churchill, who had surprised her by taking to the old man, on his lap and listening to the wireless.

  * * *

  It was when she decided to visit Joyce Lewis that the idea gradually began to take shape.

  ‘I’m sorry there is still no word about Duncan.’

  The woman gave her a weak smile and Isobel could have sworn that Joyce Lewis looked thinner than ever.

  ‘How are things working out on the farm? Are your neighbours still helping with the heavy work?’

  They were sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. ‘Everyone has been very kind, but the lad has gone now and Ned is doing what he can, but I’m thinking of leaving and moving into town to be near Duncan.’

  ‘Has there been no word from Jack?’

  ‘No, nothing, I get lonely in this big house with no-one to look after. It’s not the same working all hours and no-one to share it with.’

  ‘I’m surprised the War Office hasn’t sent you some help.’

  With a shrug of her thin shoulders she pulled open the table drawer. It was stuffed with envelopes and papers. ‘I never was one for the bookwork you see. Duncan did all that. I kept thinking he would be home soon and co
uld sort it out then.’

  ‘Look, do you think you could sort this lot if you had more help with the farm work?’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to eventually.’

  Isobel laid her hand over the other woman’s hand and smiled. ‘I have a favour to ask, that might be helpful. I know that help is hard to find at the moment with all the men away fighting. But I have someone in desperate need of being taken care of. He’s a big strong fellow and I’m sure he could be a help around the place when he recovers. I understand you wouldn’t want him in the house, but I’m sure he would be perfectly comfortable in the barn. If you could feed him and keep an eye on him for me I would be very grateful.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  Isobel chewed her lips, then closing her eyes, took the bull by the horns and said, ‘It’s Bobby Dunn.’

  ‘Where’s he from?’

  Isobel stared across the table unwilling to believe that Mrs Lewis hadn’t heard of Bobby. He’s a tramp who’s been living rough. He had an accident and is hurt. He’s all right now, but I don’t want him returning to his old life until his wound is healed properly.’

  ‘Well he’d be welcome if he won’t mind giving me a hand now and again when he can.’

  ‘He’s a bit slow so you might have to tell him what you want him to do.’

  ‘That’s all right, Nurse. There’s more than him a bit slow around here.’

  Isobel couldn’t believe her good fortune as she continued on her rounds. If she could only impress on Bobby that there was to be no drinking and he was to do everything Mrs Lewis told him and in return he would be well looked after.

  ‘Don’t want to be looked after, can look after m’self.’ Bobby ambled over to the sink, turned on the tap and holding his hand beneath the running water slurped it up into his mouth.

  ‘Mrs Lewis is in real need of help, Bobby. She says you can stay in her nice warm barn and she makes suet puddings and caraway cake. You’ll like looking after the animals, won’t you?’ Isobel was near to tears of frustration. Bobby was being more difficult than she had ever imagined. If he didn’t take to this idea then he would just go off back up onto the moors.