by S Block
‘I’m willing to try that, certainly.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Barden. I cannot begin to tell you how much of a weight off my mind that is.’
It was the sincerest Frances had heard him sound since she had begun to telephone daily.
‘But he’s fine at the moment?’
‘He’s flourishing, Mrs Barden.’
‘Thank you. I’m so sorry to hear about your three members of staff, Dr Nelms.’
‘Many schools are suffering similarly. Each death feels like one of our walls has fallen down.’
Frances ended the call. She put down the receiver and stood looking at the telephone.
She had wanted to ask if she might have a minute or two with Noah on the telephone, but Dr Nelms had explained how disjointing it could be at a time when he was transferring some of his attachment from home to school. He assured her that she would be very pleased with how much progress Noah had made when she next saw him at half-term. As she walked away from the telephone Frances wondered if she would have made similar progress, or would she still regret sending him away?
Chapter 25
Erica watched with some trepidation as Dr Rosen examined Miriam’s new baby in the Brindsleys’ comfortably appointed front parlour. Photographs of the Brindsleys’ son, David, and of their unexpected new daughter, Vivian, and of David holding Vivian, sat proudly on the mantelpiece between two silver candlesticks. Watercolour prints of the bridge at Llangollen, and a view of Snowdonia from Betws-y-Coed, hung on adjacent walls, leaving visitors in no doubt about the origins of the Brindsley clan.
Though Dr Rosen looked dressed for the part in smart, sober clothes that suggested their wearer spent more time thinking about healthcare than fashion, Erica was matched in her concerns about her doctoring abilities by Miriam, who watched the young GP like a hawk. Erica had asked Miriam if she would help her assessment of Dr Rosen ‘in the field’ by allowing her to examine Vivian. Though she hadn’t gone into the full implications of Dr Mitchell’s prognosis on Will’s declining health, Erica had explained that Will would be unable to return to work ‘for the moment’ and she was therefore having to consider Dr Rosen as a locum.
‘Vivian’s gorgeous,’ Erica whispered to Miriam, so as not to disrupt Dr Rosen’s concentration. ‘Such a lovely temperament.’
‘We’re very blessed,’ Miriam whispered back. ‘How long is it likely to be until Will returns to the surgery?’
It was a question Erica couldn’t answer. She knew the answer was ‘never’, but she also knew that in having to give it she would reveal to Miriam what Will had asked her to keep from everyone: his cancer. This request dated back to the time when Will’s diagnosis had first come through. Then, Will had begged Erica to keep it secret to prevent it unduly affecting the lives of their daughters, Kate and Laura, until they absolutely had to be told. Within a few months, Will’s illness had become impossible to keep from the girls. Erica had returned home one afternoon to find them on either side of their father as he sat in his chair in the front room, hugging him, red-eyed and wet-faced. He had told them in her absence. He hadn’t intended to, he explained later that evening, but the moment had come upon him in a rush, and he felt he had no choice. Erica had felt a pang of anger that Will hadn’t discussed such an important moment with her first, but it passed swiftly.
After all, wasn’t it his illness to speak about, as he pleased? I have to trust his judgement. If he felt it was the right time to tell the girls, then – in his mind – it was. Perhaps, in the back of his mind, he felt it might be easier to tell them without me. To spare me having to go through the revelation a second time.
‘We’re not sure how long we’ll need someone to cover Will,’ Erica replied to Miriam’s question. ‘The full extent of his injuries is still being determined.’
At that moment, Vivian began to cry in Dr Rosen’s hands. Miriam instinctively held her own hands out to take her, but Dr Rosen kept Vivian out of reach.
‘We really don’t want to reinforce this behaviour,’ she said.
Miriam frowned.
‘What do you mean, “behaviour”?’
Erica watched with interest. This was precisely the kind of interaction between Dr Rosen and Will’s patients that she had wanted to assess.
‘Contemporary thinking recommends new mothers refrain from excessive reassurance when neonates cry for attention.’
‘She’s not “crying for attention”. She’s crying for her mother. And by the way, I’m not a “new” mother. I have a boy of seventeen.’
Dr Rosen stood firm, holding on to Vivian.
‘I disagree, Mrs Brindsley. Vivian is crying for nothing else but your attention.’
‘Furthermore,’ said Miriam archly, ‘Vivian isn’t “a neonate” – she’s my daughter.’
Possibly picking up on the distressed tone in her mother’s voice, Vivian started to cry louder.
‘With all due respect, Mrs Brindsley, I do understand your instinctive response is to offer reassurance to your child. But current thinking is quite firm that molly-coddling her will do neither of you any favours in the long run.’
‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, Doctor?’
Erica had never seen a patient directly challenge a doctor before, and decided it was her cue to intervene before the situation turned unpleasant.
‘Dr Rosen—’ was all she managed to utter before Miriam continued.
‘I think I know what’s best for my child, don’t you?’
Dr Rosen was considerably younger than Erica and Miriam, but what she lacked in years she made up for in a self-confidence derived from being up to date in both medical theory and practice. She looked at Miriam squarely, refusing to give ground.
‘That’s a common misconception, Mrs Brindsley. In my experience, giving birth to and keeping a child alive does not inevitably mean a new mother is in full possession of the knowledge to adequately take care of the entirety of her child’s physical and emotional well-being.’
Erica felt a sudden rush of adrenaline, knowing Dr Rosen might get away with a comment like this with some patients, but not with Miriam Brindsley – a woman the rest of the village knew could single-handedly hold off a horde of invading Nazis with a gutting knife for a solid half-hour. However, instead of lunging for Dr Rosen with a cry of outrage, as Erica anticipated, Miriam was perfectly restrained.
‘You are speaking from your experience as a doctor, Dr Rosen. I am speaking from mine as a mother.’
‘I understand what you mean, Mrs Brindsley. But I don’t subscribe to the idea that one has to have had children to appreciate what’s in their best interest.’
Despite her lack of tact, Erica could not help but be impressed by Dr Rosen’s fearlessness. She had seen Will occasionally wilt in the face of the deep ignorance of a parent concerning the treatment of their young children, and he understood all too well the preponderance of ‘traditional cures’ in rural communities for a vast range of ailments, some of which he admitted had some scientific basis, but many more of which he dismissed out of hand as ‘simply lunatic’. Here was Will’s replacement, standing up for her scientific understanding to one of the strongest women Great Paxford had to offer. Erica couldn’t help but admire her for this. Despite this, she felt Miriam was reaching the breaking point of her contained civility.
Still the young doctor persisted in going toe-to-toe with the butcher’s wife.
Have I told her Miriam is the butcher’s wife? I thought I had. Perhaps I’d better mention it again, in case Dr Rosen thinks she’s up against a wallflower, or someone who couldn’t literally skin her alive with one hand while washing a floor with the other.
‘Contemporary thinking—’
‘Is my daughter fit and healthy – yes or no?’ Miriam’s tone suggested that any negotiation between the two women was at an end.
Dr Rosen paused for a moment, finally assessing the situation.
‘Yes, Mrs Brindsley. Very healthy indeed.’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Miriam. ‘That is all the “contemporary thinking” I need to hear this morning. Good day.’
With that, Miriam took Vivian back. Dr Rosen glanced at Erica, who was looking on with some amusement, and set her jaw.
‘Mrs Brindsley—’
‘As an experienced mother to a new doctor, I said “good day”.’
Erica decided it was time to intervene.
‘Dr Rosen . . . why don’t you wait outside?’
Erica’s expression told Dr Rosen that this was less a suggestion and more an instruction. To Erica’s relief, Dr Rosen decided discretion would be the better part of valour in this instance.
‘Very well, Mrs Campbell. Good day, Mrs Brindsley.’
Dr Rosen packed her doctor’s bag and left. Erica turned to Miriam, who was now gently rocking Vivian in her arms.
‘What do you think, Mim?’ Erica asked about Dr Rosen’s performance.
‘Not fit to lace Will’s shoes.’
Erica couldn’t disagree more, and knew Will would concur. Dr Rosen might have shown a lack of finesse in her handling of Miriam, but in standing behind her medical training and up-to-date reading she had performed the duty the village would come to expect from her. She wasn’t in medicine to be liked, but to help people. That was her priority. In time, the village would grow to like her for that.
Erica found Dr Rosen waiting for her in the high street, watching villagers stroll by, enjoying the winter sunshine.
‘I thought you handled that very well, Myra,’ said Erica.
‘Are they all like her?’ she asked.
‘In what way, exactly?’
‘Argumentative. Stuck in the past. Unwilling to engage with the latest developments.’
Erica smiled.
‘This is a small, rural community. Most of the people walking past us now were born on their own kitchen tables, by methods passed down the generations.’
‘Parochial, you mean.’
‘No, Dr Rosen,’ Erica reasoned patiently, ‘I don’t mean parochial. They have developed their ways in the absence of anything else. But that doesn’t mean they are resolutely stuck in the past. In my experience, most can be convinced by calm explanation about what is now understood.’
‘She wasn’t.’
‘Then perhaps you need to learn to be more persuasive. They are good people. The salt of the earth.’
Erica looked at Dr Rosen to see what effect her words might be having. As she considered what Erica said, Dr Rosen’s expression softened. Her black eyes blinked a little more, the nostrils of her sharp nose flared a little, as if trying to take in more air with which to help calm herself down. The tension in her jaw relaxed. Her whole mien seemed less austere, and a little more open. Erica wanted Dr Rosen to like their patients because she wanted her to stay and run the surgery, and how would she do that if she didn’t like the people she was going to be treating? Yet any appearance of desperation on Erica’s part would undermine her negotiating position.
‘You just have to get to know them,’ Erica said.
The young woman smiled. ‘And they need to get to know me.’
Erica smiled with relief.
Yes! She understands!
‘Precisely,’ Erica said, barely able to contain her delight.
‘I’m not the easiest person in the world,’ Dr Rosen continued. ‘My father has called me “quite impossible” on many occasions. But he knows I always mean well, even if it doesn’t always come out in quite the way it should. Creating a caring persona is something I need to learn.’
‘And in time it won’t be a persona at all. It will simply be you.’
At that moment, the low drone of the village air-raid siren began to pierce the morning air. Erica looked up at the sky with irritation.
Laura said they weren’t expecting any raids during daylight.
As if by rote, people started to leave shops and houses and hurry without running in the direction of the large communal shelter the WI had created in Frances Barden’s cellar earlier in the year. Even those with their own small shelters preferred to go to the communal one if they could. Not only because the Barden shelter was deep underground and therefore harder to destroy from above. At a visceral level, people simply felt more reassured sitting through danger in the company of others.
‘This way . . . ’ Erica said, threading her arm through Dr Rosen’s, and leading her away. ‘This will be the perfect opportunity to get to know them . . . ’
Chapter 26
With the support of the WI, Frances Barden had successfully campaigned to turn her cellar into a communal air-raid shelter for the village after it became clear to everyone that what appeared to be the most suitable venue, the village church, was in fact the least suitable by far.
At the time, an intense rivalry had been raging between Frances and Joyce Cameron for control of the WI. This played out in several ways, but came to a head over the most suitable position in the village for the communal shelter.
Frances had been concerned Joyce would undermine the idea of a communal shelter at the Barden house just to retain an edge in the race to become Chair. She set out to test Joyce’s plan by contacting the local RAF station at Tabley Wood for their ‘official’ judgement on a potential shelter in the church crypt.
To Frances’s intense satisfaction, Tabley Wood reported back that the church was in fact the very worst location. It seemed that to German bombers flying over, the church’s architecture presented the building as ‘a bloody great cross to aim at, and therefore the worst place imaginable for civilians to shelter en masse’. In one blunt but devastating sentence the church and Joyce’s credibility were dismissed.
Frances won both the day and the Chair of the WI.
Now, rather than the location of the Barden house being a handicap, it was recognised as a distinct advantage. Being on the very outskirts of Great Paxford meant it would fall on the periphery of any bomb sight a German bombardier might have placed over the village, should the order to release the bomb load come prior to hightailing it back to Germany. Consequently, if a bomb were to hit the Barden house it would likely be by mistake and not design, though they’d had one close call already.
During the first few air raids, villagers had huddled together in terrified silence in the Barden shelter. The shelter was fairly large and had been made comfortable with furnishings and lights. People could sit or lie down if necessary. Books and magazines were available for adults to pass the time, toys and games for children. A wireless stood in the corner for occupants to listen to news or music programmes on the Home Service. For an air-raid shelter it was surprisingly comfortable, if not cosy. Though no one forgot what it was, nor why they were there.
In time, since no bombs fell on the village, terror had gradually turned to fear, and then to irritation, and then to habit. The realisation set in that Great Paxford was not top of Goering’s list of targets, and that German bombing raids had simply become yet another potentially life-threatening fact of life they must accommodate alongside road accidents, or illness. Even the two bombs that had managed to find Great Paxford hadn’t inflicted human casualties – one had hit a small, vacant house that was due to be demolished anyway; the other had landed in the Bardens’ garden without managing to explode. It had been disarmed by Czech officer Captain Marek Novotny and two of his men. No bombs had caused as much damage or injury as the Spitfire that had crashed into the Campbell house.
The jolt these two bombs caused to the villagers’ insouciance dissipated relatively quickly, as the war became focused on the Battle of Britain in the south and east, which had begun in earnest that summer. Though it took place several hundred miles away over the Channel and southern England, the villagers of Great Paxford knew their own well-being was dependent on its outcome. They listened avidly to news reports on the wireless, and watched cinema newsreels of dogfights between German and British planes with hearts in mouths. The Germans’ aim was to compel the British to sue
for peace by imposing a blockade on goods and provisions coming by sea. The WI’s Herculean efforts in preserving fruit the previous summer had been crucial to ensuring there were plenty of calories available to Great Paxford’s population over the winter of 1939. If the German blockade failed, it was strongly rumoured that Hitler would seek to invade and occupy the United Kingdom with what everyone believed were superior forces. To many, it felt as if England had fallen between a rock and a hard place, with little chance of escaping intact.
With the fighting raging in the south, air raids over Great Paxford decreased for several months. Many villagers came to view the hours they were obliged to spend in the Bardens’ shelter as an opportunity to catch up with folk they hadn’t seen for a while. The atmosphere below ground was no longer framed with terror, but gossipy chatter and games and laughter and music.
And so it was when Teresa came down the staircase with her schoolchildren, settled them, and found a place on a bench next to Alison, who was looking intently at Frances, who was seated opposite, talking with her sister, Sarah.
With Teresa now moved out of Alison’s cottage, Alison had many solitary hours in which to brood over her treatment by Frances since the closure of the factory. Alison had an analytical, unsentimental way of approaching life, and had come to the conclusion that Frances had treated her terribly unfairly. In her mind, Frances had wrongly laid all blame for her factory’s closure at Alison’s feet, without allowing Alison to defend herself against such a damning judgement.
After all, wasn’t it Frances who in the immediate aftermath of Peter’s sudden death had wanted to try to helm the factory to see if she had an aptitude for business, and keep its operation true to Peter’s ambitions? Wasn’t it Frances who enlisted Alison’s help as a close and trusted friend and – as a bookkeeper – someone with a professional understanding of financial matters?
The reality was that both women had found themselves considerably out of their depth. That they each knew this, and viewed it as part of the challenge they were embarking on together, did not immunise the factory against potential exploitation and corruption. Within a few weeks of Frances taking the reins a pair of crooked Liverpudlians – the Lyons brothers – appeared as new suppliers of parachute silk. Even then, Frances might have escaped disaster but for a corrupt factory manager, and a police detective who wished to exploit the situation. Alison rued the day she had allowed herself to be talked into ‘doing the right thing’ for her country by assisting with the investigation. Sensing an opportunity to bring to book a pair of known criminals, the police persuaded Alison to convince Frances to bring the brothers in as the factory’s new supplier. Alison was deeply reluctant to do it, but the police were insistent that she do as requested, offering her the reassurance – erroneous as it turned out – that the factory would not suffer in the long term.
