by S Block
Within two days of the Spitfire hitting the Campbell and Simms houses, Frances had convened an emergency general meeting of the WI, and its members had coalesced into the same well-oiled machine that had saved Steph Farrow’s crop earlier that summer. The hall had been packed and solemn as they’d discussed what needed to be done for the survivors of what had been the worst accident the village had suffered in either war or peacetime. That all who had been buried had been pulled out just about alive had led Frances to suggest the calamitous event be henceforth dubbed ‘The Miracle of Great Paxford’. At the time it didn’t seem hyperbolic. The injuries to those trapped had included broken bones, severe concussion, substantial bruising and blood loss, and irritation of the lungs caused by substantial smoke inhalation. The WI members were tasked to relocate the Campbells by finding and furnishing a suitable, vacant property in the village as a new home that could accommodate a surgery; and with rehousing Pat and Bob. Erica recalled the masterful way Frances had enjoined the members to the task.
‘Ladies, this is a test. Yes, we can fundraise for a good cause. We can write letters to lonely soldiers, knit socks and gloves for them in cold and wet climes. We can preserve fruit until the cows come home, and we can even help local farmers to bring their cows home if they are short-handed. But the shocking event that’s happened here in our own village is a test of how we take care of our own. Because the Campbells have lost everything. Their home and every stick of furniture within it. Every cup, saucer and item of clothing. The Simms are virtually in the same boat. That the Spitfire crashed and a young pilot lost his life is a tragedy. That no one else died is a miracle. I’m calling for a second miracle now. I want nothing less than to see how quickly Great Paxford’s Women’s Institute can put these two families back on their feet. New places to live. New furnishings. Clothes. Some of it we will find in donations. Some we might have to fundraise for. Where the plane crashed was random. What happened to Erica and Pat could have happened to any one of us. They are our sisters. They do not need our sympathy. They need our support. Let us show them what that really means.’
The members broke into applause. Not the kind of applause reserved for a guest speaker. Nor the kind of outburst that follows a piece of oratory designed to elicit it. But emphatic, spontaneous, ongoing applause to reflect the commitment and motivation of those applauding. It was nothing short of Great Paxford WI’s equivalent of a call to arms. The members immediately subdivided into four small committees: a rehousing committee led by Sarah Collingborne; a re-furnishing committee led by Alison Scotlock; a re-clothing committee led by Claire Wilson; and a health and welfare committee led by Frances herself, to monitor and act upon any health and welfare needs of those caught up in the Spitfire crash, including preparing and delivering meals to those in recovery, delivering prescriptions and simply visiting victims on a regular basis to make sure they had everything they needed. As Sarah said towards the end of the meeting, ‘Medical care can help heal their bodies; we can help heal their souls.’ The members had nodded in unison.
The branch members were true to their word. Within one week a new house was sourced for the Campbells, and it was arranged for the Simms to move in with Joyce, giving Pat and Bob a place to live while it was determined if their damaged house could be made habitable, and giving Joyce company, which she missed, and; for Pat, someone to help her recover from the after-effects of the crash.
Erica looked around the surgery at all the new and unfamiliar objects and medical instruments. She coughed as a consequence of inhaling too much fuel vapour beneath the rubble, and winced with pain due to her still-healing, fractured ribs. It didn’t feel like home. Will remained in hospital so the house hadn’t yet acquired the lingering odour from his pipe. Only when his smoke was able to drift between rooms and flavour the air would it feel like their home again. Not all the sourced furniture was to her taste, but needs must. She smiled broadly and thanked the person profusely whenever a new piece was brought over. None of it matched but she didn’t care one iota. Gradually, it was becoming a home she could bring Will back to from the hospital, as soon as he could be discharged.
Dr Myra Rosen appeared beside Erica. Still in her twenties, she was short, round-faced, with two eyes like blackcurrants pushed deep into her pale face, a small, naturally red mouth, dark black hair tied up in a bun, and possessed a stocky frame that could only be described as ‘crammed’ into a shapeless grey suit. She wore no make-up and no jewellery. Her eyebrows seemed almost permanently arched in mild disappointment with everything she saw, and everyone she encountered. She gave the impression that life was not currently living up to her expectations, and certainly seemed unimpressed by the second-hand medical equipment Erica had managed to beg and borrow. Erica greatly resented Dr Rosen’s barely masked disdain, but with Will incapacitated for the time being, a locum GP had been needed in very short order. Possibly even one who gave every impression of being too good for the position.
Dr Rosen had initially declined to accept Erica’s invitation for interview, but a second telegram informed Erica that she had changed her mind, owing to ‘unforeseen circumstances’ (which Erica had taken to be another job falling through). When she received Dr Rosen’s telegram to say she would be attending the interview after all, Erica had rushed round calling in favours to give the surgery the semblance of a functioning medical practice so the incoming doctor could visualise herself in situ. Frances had sent over Peter’s old desk and office chair. Other surgeries in the area had sent spare medical equipment. Erica thought it all looked convincing enough under the circumstances.
Dr Rosen’s small black eyes came to rest on the desk and chair by the window.
‘It’s all rather tired, isn’t it, Mrs Campbell?’
‘Well . . . it’s modelled on Will’s old surgery. All the furniture and equipment has been donated by patients and local colleagues.’
Dr Rosen buttoned up her jacket against a chill.
‘Does the desk need to be in front of the window like that?’
‘Dr Campbell always has his desk in front of the window.’
‘I can’t imagine patients very much enjoy sitting facing their doctor with the sun shining directly into their eyes.’
Erica’s favourable impression of Dr Rosen from her curriculum vitae was starting to evaporate.
Such impertinence. How dare you question where Will has his desk, or what his patients may or may not prefer? I should march you to the front door and push you out into the street, Oxford degree or not.
‘We’ve had no complaints.’ Erica tried to smile as she spoke, but it was a struggle to engage with this charmless young woman. She made a mental note to have another look at the applications of some of the lesser qualified applicants for the surgery’s locum position. Though none had Dr Rosen’s stellar credentials, they might possess other useful qualities, such as grace, tact and humour.
‘Are you surprised no one’s complained?’ asked Dr Rosen. ‘He’s their doctor. Venerable. Venerated. This is his surgery. Hallowed. Holy. One doesn’t go into a church and ask the vicar to move the font, even if it should be relocated.’
‘I suppose not.’
Dr Rosen looked at the desk doubtfully. Erica looked equally doubtfully at Dr Rosen.
‘It should be easy enough to move,’ the young woman said.
Touch that desk and I shall swing for you!
Erica opened her mouth to speak and closed it almost immediately.
Try and stay calm, Erica. She’s one applicant among many who will soon apply. Though no one with her experience has yet applied, their letters of application are no doubt already in the post. Patience. Put her remarks down to the arrogance of youth. Or the arrogance of Londoners. It doesn’t matter which. Our patients require a doctor brimming with confidence not arrogance. A seasoned, confident practitioner is just around the corner. I’m sure of it.
Erica told herself what she wanted to hear. But she was too honest to wholeheartedly believe it.
>
‘I’ll certainly give your suggestion some thought,’ Erica said.
‘I would if I were you,’ Dr Rosen replied. She finished looking over the rest of the surgery. ‘Are you any clearer about the precise length of the contract on offer?’
Yes. Zero days. There will be no contract for you. Goodbye.
‘I’m trying to resolve that question as we speak,’ Erica said.
‘I need to know as soon as possible.’
I’ll be writing to you as soon as you leave, don’t worry. My rejection will be brief and to the point.
‘I understand, of course,’ Erica said. ‘But the current situation is a little . . . challenging.’
Erica felt the urge to go further and grab this arrogant young doctor by the lapels and shout into her face, ‘Have you the slightest idea what we’re going through, you self-centred child?’ Instead, though with great effort, she held back.
Dr Rosen looked at Erica, her dark, characterful eyebrows rising half an inch with mild indignation.
‘I do have other offers, Mrs Campbell.’
You’re bluffing, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. No one your age would be here if they could genuinely be somewhere else.
‘I need to be able to weigh up the elements.’
‘Elements?’
‘Length of contract. Fees. Time off. Accommodation. I need to be able to compare and contrast all those with other offers under consideration in order to make the correct decision.’
‘Of course.’
Erica wanted to tell this Dr Rosen that she didn’t take kindly to being strong-armed in negotiation. Furthermore, if she continued down this track, Erica would be forced to butt heads with her, and when Erica butted heads there was generally only ever one winner, as her daughters Kate and Laura would testify. Erica fixed a smile on her face.
‘I should be in a position to tell you everything you need to know by the end of the week.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Campbell. May I have a look round the rest of the house?’
You can do a jig round it for all I care.
‘By all means.’
Dr Rosen nodded and walked out of the surgery.
Alone in the surgery, Erica felt her anger slowly subside.
You’re being overemotional, and you can’t afford to be. We need someone to take over the surgery until Will recovers, and whether you like the fact or not, this is the only properly qualified doctor who has yet applied. There may be others. Equally, there may not. You cannot let your emotions to get the better of you and cloud your judgement. Does it matter how you feel about her so long as the patients take to her? Most doctors have a personal and a professional persona. You’re seeing the personal, but she can’t surely be the same with her patients or else she’d end up in hospital herself on a regular basis. Go the extra mile, Erica. Try and see another side. Assuming she has one.
Erica thought about inviting Dr Rosen to stay for a bite of supper. Perhaps a less formal situation might give her better insight into the abrasive young doctor. But she was due to visit Will later at the hospital. Laura was doing a shift at the local Observation Post, and Erica planned to spend her time alone preparing for her visit to Will. He might become conscious, even for a minute, and she needed to be able to project that she was coping in his absence. Supper might be off the table but maybe she could persuade Dr Rosen to stay at the Black Horse tonight and spend more time with her tomorrow. At their expense, of course. More outlay, but it might be worth the investment. That is, if Dr Rosen could be persuaded.
Erica listened to Dr Rosen stomp up the stairs to look at the first floor, where she would – if she accepted the position – be living. The thought of having her under their roof made Erica shudder.
I don’t have the energy to argue over every tiny detail of what we do here. I simply need someone who will slip in, seamlessly.
Erica looked at Will’s desk. A final shaft of afternoon sunlight streamed through the window and cut across the desk and the patients’ chair. Erica glanced behind her, crossed to the chair and sat down, facing Will’s chair. The sunlight hit her full in the face, causing her to wince and turn away. The desk and chairs would have to be moved.
Chapter 14
Miriam’s bruises from the crash were starting to fade and the cuts and wounds she received were disappearing into scars. She stared into the brown eyes of her new daughter. The whites of Miriam’s eyes had filled with blood by the time she was pulled from the rubble, but they had now cleared, and she gazed down at her girl with wide eyes of clear blue and white. Vivian stared back at her mother, examining every speck and contour of Miriam’s face, as if each detail held great personal meaning for her.
‘They can call it the Miracle of Great Paxford if they want. But you’re my very own miracle,’ Miriam whispered.
She held Vivian in the crook of her left arm in the warm bathwater and gently bobbed her from side to side, then up and down. My little miracle girl. Vivian maintained eye contact as her mother moved her through the water. She frowned slightly, as if asking herself a question that only scrutinising Miriam’s face with even greater intensity could answer.
‘Now there’s lovely. My two favourite women in the world.’
Miriam glanced up and saw Bryn standing in the sitting-room doorway, leaning on a walking stick with his good arm, the other held in a white sling across the chest of his butcher’s apron. The bruising across his face was faded now, like Miriam’s, but still visible around his eyes and jaw, especially when he smiled. The doctors hadn’t been able to tell them which of Bryn’s injuries from the Spitfire crash would leave a permanent scar or impairment. It could be all or none.
‘Supper won’t be long,’ she said. ‘Soon as I’ve bathed her and put her down.’
‘No hurry, love. We’re just cleaning down.’
Miriam turned back to Vivian and beamed at her.
‘How is she?’ Bryn asked.
‘Still perfect.’ She turned and looked at Bryn. ‘We’re going to survive this war, Bryn. This family. The Brindsleys. You, me, Vivian and David. All of us. I know it.’
‘Let’s hope so . . .’
‘No “hope” to it. I know.’
‘What makes you so certain?’
‘Her. The fact she survived all that. The fact we survived with her, to take care of her.’
‘Just.’
‘Doesn’t matter. We came through it. It’s God, providence, fate – whatever you want to call it. We were all meant to survive.’
‘We were certainly very fortunate.’
Miriam looked at Bryn.
‘You’re not listening, Bryn. “Fortunate” doesn’t come into it. It was meant. Just as David returning from the sea was meant.’
In Miriam’s determination to see only ‘good omens’ around her family, that her son had returned with terrible burns from a fire on his ship as it went down was forgotten. To be more accurate, it was omitted from the narrative she was starting to protectively spin around them. That David was alive and home was all that mattered.
Bryn looked at his wife and daughter for a moment.
‘What are you saying, Mim? That we’ve been . . . picked out?’
‘Why not?’
‘For special treatment?’ Bryn tried to hide his scepticism but knew he hadn’t entirely succeeded.
‘If you like.’
‘But why us?’
‘I don’t know.’
Bryn looked at Miriam and his brand-new daughter and found it difficult to disagree that they had indeed been exceptionally, perhaps even extraordinarily, fortunate. But hadn’t the Campbells and Joyce Cameron also survived? Bryn knew his wife well enough not to push the point now. This would be better discussed in bed, with the light out, holding on to one another.
Bryn looked at Mim bathing their glistening baby daughter. He recalled the complete darkness in which he had been buried beneath the Campbell house, wishing then, above all else, that he could have been holding on to his wi
fe. But she had been in the surgery when the plane struck, giving birth to their precious daughter, while he had been in the hall, anxiously waiting. And as he’d lay pinned beneath a slab of masonry, he’d begun to feel that Miriam might as well have been at the other end of the earth. He had fallen unconscious by the time the rescuers had managed to open small shafts of light onto the entombed casualties, and eventually drag them out one by one. Bryn had heard many times that each person was pulled out to cheers and applause from the entire village, who had gathered to watch, with collective bated breath.
Miriam didn’t notice Bryn slip out of the room. She was too busy looking down at the pristine infant, pulled from the rubble of the Campbells’ house without a graze. Vivian softly gurgled.
‘I know a miracle when I see one, don’t I?’ Miriam said gently. ‘I saw it with David. And I’m looking at another one now, aren’t I, my love?’
Vivian looked back at her mother with a serious, steadfast gaze that brought tears to Miriam’s eyes.
‘We’ve been blessed. I know it.’
Chapter 15
By late October, three weeks after the Spitfire had crashed into the Campbell house, the trees had dropped all but the most resolute of their foliage, and by late afternoon the Farrow tractor spewed up a brown spray of dead leaves as it chugged home along the narrow lane. Bone-tired from her day in the field, Steph Farrow held on to the steering wheel, slouched against her sixteen-year-old son, Little Stan, and basked in the waning warmth of the white autumn sun. Steph struggled to keep her eyes open, and more or less steered from memory, relying on the tractor’s wheels bumping against the verge to correct their course. This was her favourite time of day, when her mind was too fuzzy with fatigue to think about anything more demanding than a bath, supper, then collapsing in front of a warm fire to work through what they had to do tomorrow, and finally, spending a few moments thinking of her husband, Stanley, away with his regiment, preparing to fight.
