Jack’s eyes were grey with a humorous sparkle and, when he was feeling at his best, he smiled a lot. At other times, however, he was down-hearted and filled with despair at his injuries. At such times the only person with whom he would communicate was Priscilla. He had come to depend on her a lot. She helped him to dress himself, not with the underclothes, of course, but with his outer garments when he wanted to go for a walk or sit outside in the garden. The trained nursing staff assisted with bathing, washing, or other intimate requirements, but it was Priscilla who cut up his food so that he could manage to eat it unaided with his left hand.
He was gradually learning to use his left hand more and more but letter writing was the one thing that was proving impossible. Priscilla found him one afternoon practising writing his name. He was sitting in the garden under the shade of a spreading sycamore tree, at a distance from the other groups of men, sitting in twos and threes in other parts of the garden. She knew that he wanted to be on his own. She had seen the signs of a black mood coming over him but thought that a cup of tea would not go amiss. Jack was an inveterate tea drinker.
When he saw her approaching he flung down his pencil in frustration. The pad on his lap was covered with failed attempts at writing ‘Jack Smollett’. The last few efforts were rather more legible, but even so they looked more like the scrawls of a four-year-old.
‘It’s bloody useless!’ he cried, making no attempt to moderate his language as the men usually did in the presence of their female helpers. ‘And I’m bloody useless an’ all! What use am I going to be in Civvy Street? They’ll never have me back. I was a bloody clerk, you know; a pen pusher. All I’ll be fit for is selling matches at the street corner.’
‘Now, come along, Jack,’ said Priscilla quietly. ‘This won’t do. See, I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’
He glanced up at her unsmilingly. ‘I see; the cup that cheers,’ he said a trifle bitterly. ‘Well, it’ll be a hard job to make me cheerful today, I can tell you.’
She drew up another garden chair and sat down near to him. ‘What’s brought this on?’ she asked. The day before he had been quite his cheerful self. When he was in a normal frame of mind Jack was a happy and pleasant person with a wry sense of humour.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I never know what comes over me. It’s like looking into a dark tunnel. I can’t see the light at the other end and I just feel like giving up.’
She knew better than to tell him to snap out of it, or to count his blessings, or to remind him that thousands of young men still fighting on the front line had far more to be worried about than he had. ‘It will pass,’ she said softly. ‘You know that it always does. You will be your old self again in a little while.’
She had seen him in this sort of mood before. They were of short duration and he felt annoyed and ashamed of himself afterwards. Several of the other patients suffered in the same way and needed handling with tact and sensitivity, but without too much cloying sympathy. Some helpers were better able to understand than others. Priscilla recognised his frustration. She had often felt it herself although in different circumstances. She had never suffered from deep depression, but had often felt like kicking out against the restraints of her strict upbringing. The quiet faith, however, which over the years had been instilled in her, had given her the restful personality that had a calming effect on others.
As far as Jack Smollett was concerned, he felt that he was able to confide in Priscilla more than in any of the other auxiliary helpers.
Faith Moon, the woman who was in overall charge – who had lived, and still did, in the original house – was a compassionate person. She met all the new arrivals personally and assured them that they were very welcome and would receive the very best care and attention whilst they were in the New Moon home. She made it her business to visit them all in their rooms from time to time to enquire about their welfare and to ensure that they had no real complaints. (They all groused, of course, from time to time, but Mrs Moon seemed to understand that).
In Jack’s eyes, Faith Moon was an elegant lady – ‘posh’ was the word he would use to describe her – one whom he admired greatly but of whom he was somewhat in awe. Her dignified bearing suggested an aloofness of which he was sure she was not aware, but which prevented him from confiding in her. Besides, she was always very busy. He thought she was a beautiful woman, no longer young – in her mid-fifties, he guessed – with startlingly blue eyes and hair of a glorious chestnut colour, now silvering a little at the temples. She wore it in a severe style, drawn back from her face in a loose bun. He would love to see it, he had mused, flowing over her shoulders when she was dressed, not in her formal business suit, but in a low-cut evening gown. Her husband was a lucky fellow and no mistake.
William Moon had little to do with the home. They saw him returning from work now and again, in his motor-car or sometimes on a bicycle. Jack had heard that he was a local undertaker, although the fact was hardly ever mentioned. Handy, though, if such a service should be required. But this was a convalescent home, not a hospital. Patients did not die; they were cared for until such time as they were fit to be sent home, or, in many cases, sent back to take up their duties as a soldier again.
Jack liked all the auxiliary helpers. They were very pleasant and friendly young women, all related to the Moon family in some way, he understood. He had learnt that Hetty Lucas – married to a photographer who was now away fighting somewhere in France – had had a similar job to his own. Recognising a familiar accent, she had told him that she had been born and brought up in Northumberland, not very far from his own home town. She had worked as a clerk in the office of one of the collieries; not the one, however, where Jack had been employed before he joined the army. Yes, he had quite a lot in common with Hetty, and the slight Geordie accent she still retained had struck a chord with him.
It was Priscilla, however, to whom Jack had felt himself drawn. Not in any romantic way, of course. He had a lady friend, Doris, whom he planned to marry as soon as they let him go home. He had wanted to tie the knot before he went away, but Doris had said it would be better to wait. Neither of them were overly sentimental but he knew that Doris was the right woman for him.
Priscilla, though, had become his mainstay, his rock, during the weeks he had been convalescing. She was a quiet person, reticent with strangers, but it seemed to Jack that with him she had been able to overcome her innate shyness. She had performed the tasks she undertook for him silently at first, but he could sense her compassion and her understanding of his plight and gradually they had started to converse. He recognised a personality in some ways not unlike his own. Their situations were similar. Priscilla, like himself, had been brought up by elderly parents and her own wishes and dreams – if she had ever had any – had been suppressed over the years.
He glanced at her now as she sat next to him. Her deep brown eyes, her best feature, were full of understanding and a desire to help, though not pity; she knew that Jack, and others like him, hated to be pitied.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘The black dog’s got a real hold on me today. A lovely day an’ all, but I can’t appreciate it somehow when I’m like this.’
It certainly was a lovely summer’s day, the sky a brilliant blue with just a few feathery clouds. The scent of the roses from the nearby bed was carried on the gentle breeze, which prevented the sun’s rays from feeling too hot for comfort.
‘As I’ve said, Jack, this will pass,’ Priscilla told him. ‘And don’t worry about your writing. It’ll come in time, I feel sure. You’re managing to do everything else pretty well with your left hand, aren’t you? I can see myself how difficult it is to write left-handed. I’ve tried it, just as an experiment, and your efforts are considerably better than mine.’
‘I’m not going to be much damned use as a clerk, though, am I? My father fought tooth and nail to make sure I got that job, or one like it. He was determined I shouldn’t have to go down the mine like he d
id.’ Priscilla had heard this story before, but she knew that Jack needed to talk. It was fortunate that he was able to talk to her so easily and it was a way of helping him to get rid of the ‘black dog’, as he called his fits of depression. He was a good conversationalist and she hoped that she would be able to steer him away from his problems to talk of other matters.
‘Yes, they did all they could for me, my mam and my da. Made me work hard at school; I passed the scholarship exam and was able to go to the High School till I was sixteen. A lot of my mates had been down the pit for several years by that time. I still tried to keep in touch with ’em, but it was never the same. I was one of the toffs, you see, in their eyes. Didn’t get my hands dirty and wasn’t in any real danger. Aye, I’ve heard of several of ’em killed in pit falls… Tragic it was, but I daresay they’re a good deal safer there now than they would be over in France. A lot of ’em weren’t forced to join the army, you know, ’cause it’s reckoned they’re doing a vital job down the pit.’ Jack paused for breath before going on.
‘I wouldn’t be much use down there neither, would I?’ He shrugged. ‘I’d managed to work my way up pretty well in the office. I was well on the way to being one of the under-managers. But now, well, I dunno… I don’t think I’ll be much use for owt.’ His local accent had become rather more pronounced, as it did at times, but he no longer sounded quite so pessimistic. He even managed a wry smile at Priscilla as he looked at her for corroboration or, more likely, for a word of encouragement.
‘There will be a niche for you somewhere, Jack,’ she replied. ‘It sounds as though you were well thought of at that colliery. They’ll welcome you back with open arms. Just take one day at a time; you’re improving in all sorts of ways. Never mind about trying to write any more just now. How about you composing a letter in your head and I’ll write it down for you? To your mother and father, perhaps, or…your lady friend?’ She mentioned the latter rather tentatively.
‘Yes, mebbe I will,’ he said. ‘That’s happen another reason why I’m feeling a bit low. I haven’t had many visitors, not like some of the chaps; only our Mary and her husband. I don’t expect my mam and da to make the journey. They’re both in their seventies now and Mam’s bad on her legs. Like I told you, they had me late on in life. An afterthought, I reckon,’ he grinned. ‘Happen a bit of a mistake, eh? But they’ve always done their best for me, bless ’em. I thought our Ernest might have come to see me, mind – that’s my elder brother – but I daresay he’s always too busy.’
‘He isn’t in the army then?’ enquired Priscilla.
‘Oh no, he’s getting on for fifty, is Ernie. He didn’t go down the pit neither. He was a grocery lad, then he married the boss’s daughter. Aye, he and his wife, Miriam, they’ve got a thriving little grocery shop now. Inherited it from her parents. But like I say, they’re always too busy. Doris though…’ He grew contemplative. ‘I thought she’d’ve been here before now. And she’s not written lately neither. Yes, I’ll drop her a line, make sure she’s all right, although it’s her turn to write really.’
‘Maybe she’s busy as well,’ said Priscilla although it was her opinion that the young woman should certainly have made the effort to visit long before now. ‘What does she do? I should imagine she goes out to work, doesn’t she?’
‘Sort of,’ replied Jack. ‘She works for her parents. They have an ironmonger’s shop on the High Street in Hexham, and she’s worked there ever since she left school. Their right-hand man – well, woman – is Doris. They couldn’t manage without her. I reckon that’s why she and I haven’t got wed. She’s always at their beck and call. But I shall put my foot down when I get away from here. I shall insist that we name the day and get on with the arrangements. Church or chapel – or register office, even, if she doesn’t want a big fuss. I don’t care as long as we get wed. She’s church, y’see, and I’m chapel, which has caused a bit of an argument in the past, but there’s nothing that can’t be sorted out, I’m sure.’
Priscilla noticed that he had become rather more animated whilst talking about his lady love… or whatever she was. It sounded to her as though this Doris didn’t deserve a good man like Jack. But that’s really none of my business, she thought regretfully. Her, Priscilla’s, job was to make life a little more comfortable for Jack whilst he was in the care of the New Moon home. She sighed inwardly.
‘Pass me your notepad, Jack,’ she said, ‘and let’s see if we can compose a nice letter to Doris. I’ve got my own fountain pen.’ It was clipped to the pocket of the green tunic that she and all the other auxiliary workers wore to distinguish them from the blue uniforms of the nursing staff. She wrote the address at the top of the page, and the date. ‘Now…“Dear Doris,”’ she said. ‘Is that right?’
‘No…you’d best put “My Dear Doris,”’ said Jack. ‘That sounds a bit more romantic, like, doesn’t it? Although I’m not a sentimental sort of chap, you know.’
So Priscilla inscribed at his dictation, with a few stops and starts. ‘It’s a lovely day and I’m sitting in the garden and thinking about you,’ he began. ‘My good friend, Priscilla, is writing this for me. I’m afraid I can’t write with my left hand yet, but I’m persevering…’
He went on to tell about the scent of the roses, now in full bloom in the garden, and of how he had come to love the town of Scarborough; the fresh sea air, the fishing boats in the harbour, and the woodland paths leading down to the sea. Priscilla found his descriptions quite poetic and they struck a chord with her, too. Her thoughts about her hometown were just the same, although she was inclined to take its beauties for granted. She hadn’t realised that Jack had seen so much of the town. The men were allowed to go out – the home was not a prison – but it was preferred that they should go out in twos and not on their own.
‘I miss you, Doris,’ he went on, ‘and I wish you would come to see me. I know you are busy, but please try. Some of the other fellows’ girlfriends, or wives, come every week or so…
‘I don’t know what else to say now,’ Jack said to Priscilla. ‘I think that’s about all I can tell her.’ He hadn’t mentioned that he had been feeling low and despairing about the future, which could mean that he was beginning to come out of his black mood.
‘Aren’t you going to tell her that you love her?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Oh…I reckon she knows that,’ said Jack. ‘Just put… Hope to see you soon… Lots of love from Jack.’
She put the letter in an envelope and stuck on a stamp. ‘I’ll post it for you straightaway,’ she told him. ‘She should get it tomorrow or the day after.’
‘Thanks, Priscilla,’ said Jack, with a grin that was much more like his normal self. ‘Do you know, I do believe it’s lifting… I’m starting to feel better.’ He sniffed the air. ‘And there’s a good smell coming from somewhere. What’s for tea, do you know?’
Priscilla smiled. ‘No, not really. But it smells as though Mrs Baker’s living up to her name and doing a spot of baking. An apple pie for dessert, that’s my guess.’
‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ smiled Jack. ‘Thanks again, Priscilla… You don’t know how much you’ve helped me.’ He reached out his left hand towards her. She took hold of it, giving it a gentle squeeze. It was the first time she had had that sort of intimate contact with him. There had been the necessary touching when she was helping him, but that was a different thing altogether.
‘That’s good, Jack,’ she said. ‘I’m pleased you’re feeling a bit brighter. Cheerio for now. I’ll go and post your letter…’
She hurried away, blinking her eyes to banish the threatening tears. She walked down the driveway and along the road to the postbox on the corner. She tried to hope, for Jack’s sake, that the elusive Doris would put in an appearance soon. As far as she was concerned, she tried once again to tell herself not to be such a stupid fool.
Within the week there was a reply from Doris. ‘She’s all right; she’s just been very busy,’ Jack told her. ‘And she’s
coming to see me. She’ll be here on Saturday. That’s great, isn’t it?’
‘I’m very pleased for you, Jack,’ said Priscilla quietly, noting the elation in his voice and his shining eyes.
On the previous day, though, there had been a visitor for Faith Moon. Faith could tell as soon as she set eyes on Joseph Fraser that he was coming with bad news.
Chapter Eighteen
It was the worst possible news. Joseph Fraser told Faith that he and his wife had received a telegram stating that their son, Dominic, had been killed in action.
She stared at him aghast and unbelieving as he lowered himself into the chair on the opposite side of her desk. His face was grey and drawn; he seemed to have aged ten years since she had last seen him.
‘Oh…Joseph, I’m so terribly sorry,’ she breathed. She had always addressed him as Mr Fraser but this was no time for formalities and the name came automatically from her lips. Besides, they were to have been relations by marriage… Her thoughts flew to her daughter. Poor, poor Tilly; she had loved him so much.
‘There couldn’t be…any mistake?’ she asked. ‘It didn’t say, “Missing, presumed…”’
He shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid not. It seemed definite enough. “Killed in action”; that’s what it said. My poor Mabel’s out of her mind. I don’t think she’s taken it in yet…’
‘When did you hear?’
‘Yesterday, late on. Of course we haven’t slept, hardly at all. I’ve made her a cup of tea and left her in bed. But she’ll be up before long; Mabel’s not one to lie in bed. I’d best get back to her soon, but I had to come and let you know. There’s your poor lass, you see. She won’t have been told. We’re his next of kin, of course.’
Until We Meet Again Page 20
