by S Block
But perhaps she needs a truly crushing disappointment to blast her out of Will’s shadow, and forge her own path? Currently, it really does feel as if she’s become stuck on his final words to her. Once she understands that fate and destiny mean nothing unless underpinned by adequate preparation and sustainable ambition she will have a more realistic outlook.
Erica sipped her coffee and, not for the first time where her youngest daughter was concerned, prayed everything would come good in the end – however that might be.
*
Laura too, had woken early that morning, but resisted the temptation to get out of bed, or even move an inch from the position in which she found herself when she opened her eyes. She was lying on her back, looking up at the ceiling. Her legs were outstretched under the sheet and blanket, her arms lying folded across her chest on top of the bedcover. She looked across at the piles of books she had worked through over and over during the last eight weeks and a single thought entered her head.
It’s over.
She looked down the length of her body shape, and reminded herself of the alabaster effigy of Sir Hugh Calveley, which lay in the centre of the chancel of St Mark’s. Aside from the fact that Sir Hugh had been an English knight and commander who participated in the Hundred Years’ War, Laura knew little else about him, except the local suspicion that his actual body wasn’t inside the actual tomb.
Contemplating her recent effort to gain a scholarship, Laura felt like the alabaster version of herself, lying on top of her bed. To all intents and purposes Laura felt sure that she looked like Laura Campbell, and would pass as Laura Campbell to all who knew her. Nevertheless, Laura felt somewhat hollow inside, a pale representation of herself who might prove too insubstantial to convince her examiners that she could one day become a doctor. She wondered if that’s how she came across in her examination answers too. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by the knowledge that she hadn’t worked hard enough; hadn’t learned enough knowledge; and hadn’t managed to properly tackle the paper.
It hadn’t been for the want of trying. A swift roll of her eyes around the room revealed the full, fevered extent of her revision.
Papers and cards covered with equations and symbols, immutable laws and theorems, facts and figures, names and dates of discoveries and discoverers, were affixed to every readable surface.
Small stacks of information had been inscribed on small cards, to test Laura’s recall as if she had been a ‘memory act’ at the old Chester Music Hall before it was converted into a cinema, eighteen years earlier.
Laura had thrown everything into cramming her brain with enough knowledge to achieve the result she had come to regard as the only possible path her life could take.
But it hasn’t been enough.
Laura tried to clear her head and focused on being still as alabaster. She stared at the ceiling and listened to herself breathe.
Laura turned her head to her bedside table, and the small stack of letters from well-wishers she had received in the weeks leading up to exam day. After looking at them for a moment, Laura reached across and picked them up to torture herself one last time before she threw them away. There were four. The handwriting on the first was her mother’s. She unfolded the page and re-read what Erica had written to her.
My darling Laura.
What you have set out to achieve in such a short space of time is remarkable. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone work as hard as you have over the past months. You deserve every success. All you can do now is your very best. We are both immensely proud of you.
Mum xx
Only her mother could speak for her father after his death and truly speak for each of them. Laura felt her eyes well up, as they had each time she had read the note. She sniffed back her tears and unfolded the second letter, written in a more masculine hand.
Dear Laura,
Flight training is going well, though I have had my setbacks. I desperately wanted to be a pilot but they now think I might make a better navigator. I suppose it’s down to all the driving around Cheshire I’ve been doing with the Wing Commanders! I think you will remember that I seemed to know my way around the place pretty well. I seem to be more adept than some of the other chaps at finding my way around a map, and getting from A to B by the most fuel-efficient route.
I’ve always understood and respected why you were unable to continue to see someone in the RAF who wanted to be a pilot. I was always aware how deeply affected you were by Jack’s death. I hoped it wouldn’t come between us, but wasn’t surprised when it eventually did.
Though I was deeply sad to let you go, I knew why you felt you had no choice. Who knows, perhaps when this is all over and we find ourselves still single, we might yet meet again, and see where we are?
You have always been the best girl, and I very much doubt I will find a better one. I felt the same even as I watched Bowers giving you the run-around. The way you dealt with your treatment by the RAF and the WAAF is a testament to your spirit and determination to not be cowed by other people’s judgement. Your reports from the Observation Corps are apparently the best the region receives. Always precise, accurate, and crystal clear. Who knows what the future will bring?
In the meantime, we are each compelled to pursue our own course.
I know how much this scholarship means to you, and how damned hard you have been working for it. Your father would be so, so proud. You can do it, Laura. I have every faith in you. The very best of luck.
Tom.
Laura re-read Tom’s letter several times, and felt a sharp pain of regret that she had stepped away from a relationship with such a kind and wonderful young man. During long days of revision she had missed him terribly. She lingered over his sentiment about possibly meeting up when the war was over, and in that moment tried to imagine what that might be like. She couldn’t see that far ahead.
She pulled out the third letter and opened it.
Laura,
Though we’ve only known each other for a few months I have come to understand what a clever and compassionate young woman you are. I know many young doctors who lack the qualities you have in spades, so do not entertain for one moment the thought that you could not, albeit with a tremendous amount of application, join their ranks. For you to rise out of the misery of your father’s last days in this manner has been quietly inspiring. Don’t allow anything to stand in your way. Medicine needs more women like you, so seize your chance. You have worked extraordinarily hard over the last couple of months and deserve every success. The very best of luck with your forthcoming examinations.
Best wishes, Myra Rosen.
Laura smiled.
Typical Myra. Direct, unsentimental, and practical. It’s what makes her words have so much meaning. No pretence.
Having her endorsement had meant a great deal to Laura both at the outset of her attempts to work out whether or not she should follow her father’s advice, and now, when she was poised to see if she would come good on her determination to do so.
Laura carefully folded Myra’s letter, and turned her attention to the final letter in the pile – a stiff white card, with a message in the sophisticated hand of Francis Barden.
My dear Laura,
What a truly excellent young woman you are. The only enduring tragedy of your life is that your father is not here to see how much you have grown into yourself. You have been through so much for one so young, but unlike many others, you have learned from your mistakes, and in so doing, put them behind you.
I am writing on behalf of myself and the WI of Great Paxford in wishing you the very best success in your forthcoming examinations. You are an exemplary young member of our branch, and of the Observation Corps. You succeed in everything you do, and I see no reason why your determination to attend medical college on a scholarship should be any different.
When you enter the exam hall remember that you do not enter alone. At one shoulder will sit the spirit of your father, guiding you as you make your way t
hrough the papers. At the other shoulder will be all the women from the branch giving you their support, willing you to do brilliantly well. Which we’re sure you will.
I know we have all marvelled at how much you know and what a genuinely clever young woman you are. You are destined for great things! Good luck, my dear.
All love, Frances Barden and all at the Women’s Institute of Great Paxford.
Laura was only aware of the tears streaming down her face when they slid off her cheeks onto the card. She had felt overwhelmed by all the support she was holding, and the sense that her father had been with her in the exam hall, giving her the courage to overcome her nerves.
But it’s not enough. It’s not enough. I know it. And soon everyone else will too. And then what will I do?
Chapter 38
HAVING GIVEN BIRTH to her son at the farm, and having been born on one herself, Steph had never set foot inside a hospital before. She now found herself lying on her back in a ward, intermittently looking at the ceiling and the other patients around her. The nurses and doctors attended them all like telepathic servants, bringing them what they needed without ever having to be asked.
The feeling of being helpless in an unfamiliar environment was overwhelming. At home, she could get out of bed when she wanted, and use the toilet as she pleased. In hospital, if she needed to go she was told to alert a nurse, who would then either escort her out of the ward, or make provision for her to use a bedpan. Steph felt trapped in her tightly made bed like a child in a cot who couldn’t be trusted with her own arms and hands. She hated the feeling, and struggled slowly to force her arms out from beneath the sheets and rest them on top. She was a woman of the soil. Her hands were her most vital asset and needed to be available to her at all times.
The last forty-eight hours remained something of a blur. Steph recalled returning to the farm after making it abundantly clear to Gwen Talbot that she should keep her mouth shut about her son and the German pilot, feeling satisfied that she had managed to frighten Great Paxford’s most malignant gossip into silence.
She recalled walking up the road to the farm, going inside, seeing Stan and Stanley sitting at the kitchen table looking tense, and then her son declaring that he’d signed up to join the war.
Then nothing at all until waking up in bed several hours later to find herself dozily looking into Stan’s face, with that of Dr Rosen peering at her over her husband’s shoulder. The doctor had listened to Steph’s heart and asked Steph and Stan some questions about her general well-being. She then telephoned the cottage hospital to send an ambulance to come and collect her. Steph had tried to protest, claiming that she wasn’t ill but tired, and taken by surprise by her son’s announcement.
‘If it’s something serious we need to know,’ Stan said.
‘But it isn’t, Stan,’ Steph replied, trying to calm him down and persuade him not to allow her to be taken away. ‘I just need a good night’s sleep.’
‘Last time I looked you weren’t a doctor,’ he said. ‘You’re going, whether you like it or not.’
Stan had accompanied her in the ambulance, and made sure she was settled into the ward, never letting her out of his sight. Steph looked at him as the nurses flitted around, bringing her a small jug of water and a glass. She wanted him to stop worrying on her behalf, but quickly realised it was impossible. They were told the doctor was on his way, and would arrive within the hour. The sense of urgency washed over Steph.
Not so, Stan, who tracked every movement of medical staff in and out of the ward. The hospital was an alien environment for him too, with every movement maintaining his state of alert.
While they waited for the arrival of the heart doctor, Steph and Stan discussed Stanley’s announcement that he had signed up for the army.
‘Whenever a truck or convoy went past, or the RAF flew overhead, he’d always watch. Wanting to be part of it. I could tell. Like he was drawn towards it.’
‘It’s the same with all the lads his age. You saw it in the regiment. They were the ones doing all the talking about how much they were looking forward to taking on the Germans, until some of the old boys like me told them to put a sock in it.’
‘What do we do, Stan? He can’t go.’
Stan looked at his wife, knowing this moment was due.
‘How can we stop him? How can we stop any of ’em? It’s their time.’
‘To get killed?’
‘To prove himself. To his mates and the country.’
‘Don’t give me that “for the country” bollocks.’
‘Most of them feel it. Why not ours?’
Steph looked at Stan and felt her heart flutter. ‘This is my fault,’ she said.
‘How is it possibly your fault, you daft cow?’ Stan asked softly. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid.’
‘I should’ve turned down the interviews for the paper and the wireless. It’s gone to his head. Thinks he’s a hero. He’s not. I saw him, remember. Running across the field for his life.’
‘I think you’ve got him wrong, love,’ Stan replied. ‘I saw the look on his face the morning the BBC man came up the road. I think this is because of that. He was ashamed when you told me who chased who across the field. I’d never seen that look on his face before. Stuck with me. I think this is his way of dealing with it. Putting right what he feels about himself.’
‘Then it’s my fault for telling you the truth,’ Steph said, ‘making him feel that way. I should’ve said nothing.’
‘But like you said,’ Stan pressed his point. ‘Truth will out. And it’s best it does, one way or another.’
‘Even if it means I’ve sent our son to war? To be killed? What if he’s killed, Stan? What if he’s killed?’
‘If the shame wasn’t already inside him nothing you could have said would’ve made a difference. He may not show it but he felt it. And now he’s doing something about it.’
*
The conversation was an echo of a similar conversation Stanley was having with Isobel at the farmhouse, as Isobel tried to reassure Stanley that he wasn’t responsible for his mother’s collapse. Her success was limited, but she persisted.
‘You saw what she was like at harvest,’ she said. ‘Laid up for days because she’d worked herself into the ground. She wasn’t good then.’
‘But she got better,’ Stanley protested. ‘She came back to work.’
‘But perhaps it weakened her. Left her vulnerable for another episode of some kind.’
‘The doc said her heart might be wrong.’
‘Whatever’s wrong,’ Isobel said, as reassuringly as possible, ‘the hospital will sort it out. It’s not your fault.’
*
When the specialist finally arrived, he asked Stan to wait outside the ward while he gave Steph a thorough examination. Once again, Steph tried to protest against the fuss that was being made of her. The doctor had encountered the reaction from many who lived on the land. They generally disliked any external intervention in their lives.
He reassured Steph he would make sure she wasn’t kept in hospital any longer than necessary, concluded his examination, and left the ward to speak with Stan. Steph watched him leave.
I was taken by surprise by Stanley’s announcement, that’s all. Not the first mother who’s had a wobble when her son’s said the same as Stanley said to me. Won’t be the last.
She lay her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes against images of Stanley fighting in a battle against the Germans that appeared to her one after the other like in a slideshow. Stanley behind a wall, shooting his rifle. Stanley running for cover from artillery attack. Stanley in a trench looking scared. Stanley lying slumped over a wall, dead with half his face blown away. Steph screwed her eyes as tightly as she could.
I had to shoot the pilot so Stanley could live. So he has to live, otherwise the pilot died for nothing.
The moment the doctor came out of the ward Stan jumped up from the chair he’d been sitting on for the past twenty min
utes, and approached.
‘How is she?’ he said, before the doctor had a chance to speak.
‘I’m afraid Dr Rosen was correct in her diagnosis, Mr Farrow. Your wife is showing every sign of right ventricular strain.’
Stan looked at the medic. From the doctor’s expression Stan wasn’t encouraged. But he had no real idea what ‘right ventricular strain’ meant or entailed for the future. Dr Rosen had explained it to him at the farm, but as soon as Stan heard her say she wanted to get Steph to hospital at the earliest opportunity he had barely registered much else.
‘It’s a strain?’ Stan asked. ‘Like a muscle strain?’
‘Well,’ said the doctor patiently, ‘the heart is, of course, a muscle. But it’s rather unique and doesn’t repair itself in the way other muscles do. In fact . . .’ continued the doctor, choosing his words as carefully as he could, ‘. . . if damaged, it doesn’t have the capacity for regeneration that other muscles do.’
Stan tried to digest the information he was now being spoon-fed. ‘Her heart’s damaged?’
The doctor nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. The right ventricle sends de-oxygenated blood to the lungs for it to be re-oxygenated and re-distributed around the body. If the ventricle becomes damaged, its capacity to pump blood to the lungs diminishes, leaving the patient at risk. Your wife’s right ventricle is showing definite signs of damage, Mr Farrow.’
‘Is that why she fainted?’ asked Stan, trying to piece together what he was now being told with what had recently happened.
‘The notes sent by your doctor indicated she fainted after being told that her son had joined up. A not uncommon experience in my recent experience. A shock like that can have an immediate effect on the nervous system, and cause blood pressure to suddenly drop. Fainting is the result. So no, Mr Farrow, she didn’t faint because of the ventricular strain. However, what your doctor picked up when she examined your wife at home, and what I can confirm to you now, is that the right ventricle of your wife’s heart has sustained some damage. When we perform an X-ray procedure I am confident it will confirm this.’
