by Maggie Hope
‘Oh, Robert, there is something wrong,’ said Karen as he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face.
‘It’s this blessed malaria,’ he muttered, and smiled weakly.
‘I didn’t last long in Africa, did I, Karen? I was only out there a year when I got it and had to come home to England.’
‘Come on, I’ll drive you home,’ said Father Donelly, putting down his half eaten teacake and rising to his feet.
‘No, I’m all right now, it was only for a moment.’
And indeed Karen was pleased to see Robert’s hands had stopped trembling and a little colour was returning to his cheeks.
‘All those years of work and preparation for nothing,’ he said with a trace of uncharacteristic bitterness. ‘All my life I was going to be a missionary but when it came to it I was knocked out by malaria.’
‘A particularly virulent strain of malaria, Robert,’ Father Donelly pointed out gently. ‘Perhaps God wanted you to work here, among your own folk, did you think of that? And if he did, who are you to go against him?’
Karen looked from one to the other. Now she knew what the similarity was between them: they were both dedicated men, dedicated to God, and it was a bond which made her feel oddly left out.
‘I must go,’ she said. ‘I have shopping to do and I must get back.’
The two men got to their feet. ‘Will I see you again?’ asked Robert.
‘I go back to Essex tomorrow.’
All three walked to the door and Karen waited with Father Donelly as Robert paid the bill.
‘Don’t forget, if you see Father Murphy, tell him he owes me a letter,’ said Sean.
‘Yes, of course,’ answered Karen. ‘But I won’t be going into Romford much when I start my new job.’ They looked at Robert as he spoke to the cashier. ‘He’s been very ill, hasn’t he?’ she went on and Father Donelly nodded.
‘Yes, he has. But he will be better now he’s come home. Of course, he can’t go back to Africa. He will have to settle for a life here.’
Robert finished paying the bill and they went out into the darkening street. The gas lamps were lit and shedding pools of light on the pavement and a raw wind was blowing down from Cockton Hill.
‘Will you write to me when you get settled?’ asked Robert. Karen nodded.
‘I will, I’ll write next week. Care of the Manse, is it?’
‘Yes.’
He took her hand and she could feel him shivering in the wind.
‘You must go, Robert, it’s bad for you to be out in this weather.’
‘Yes. Come on, old man,’ said Sean firmly. ‘I’ll drive you home.’
Karen was thankful to see that the priest’s car was parked just across the street. It was an Austin 15 with a hood so Robert would be out of the wind on his ride home. She looked after them as they started down the street towards the marketplace. Poor Robert, she thought, I hope things go right for him soon, he deserves it. Sighing, she turned back to the shops. She wanted to buy Christmas presents for Kezia’s boys; it would be a good idea to leave them with her mother to save posting from Essex. Then all she had to do was pack her small bag ready for the journey south. The train she wanted to catch left very early in the morning but she had to settle into her new home ready for work the following day.
‘I saw Robert in Newgate Street,’ she remarked to her mother as she unloaded her basket on the kitchen table.
‘Oh, yes, I heard he had had to come home, poor lad,’ said Mrs Knight. ‘He caught some foreign disease, didn’t he?’
‘Malaria. He looks as though he’s had a bad time with it too.’
Rachel gazed at her daughter shrewdly, noting her concern for the Minister’s son. ‘I used to think he was fond of you, Karen,’ she said. ‘A bit smitten, like. Pity is you didn’t marry him instead of that –’
‘Mam! Don’t talk daft,’ Karen said sharply.
‘I was only saying,’ shrugged her mother.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. Well, I’d better get on with my packing, I have an early start tomorrow.’
‘Righto, pet.’
Greenfields Military Convalescent Home was too small to accommodate the nursing staff so Karen had arranged for lodgings in the village. It was already growing dark on the day following her encounter with Robert when she set out to walk from the station. She pulled her cloak around her, shivering slightly. There might not be the cold north-easters like there were at home, she mused, but the air was still damp and chill and there were wisps of fog rising in the hollows.
The walk took longer than she had remembered from the one time she had tackled it before so that when she finally arrived at the cottage she was cold and hungry and tired and her bag felt as though it weighed twice what it had that morning when she set out from Morton Main.
Mrs Blakey, Karen’s new landlady, flung open the door even before Karen had time to lift her hand to the knocker. Her plump face wore a smile of welcome which shone out from the gloom of the unlit passage.
‘Come away in, ducky,’ she cried, ‘and welcome. My neighbour said he would look out for you at the station but he must have missed you – he’s been back for half an hour now. I was quite worried. Never mind now, sit down by the fire and thaw yourself out. I’ve got a nice chicken in the oven all ready for our first meal together. I’m sure you could do with a good meal, coming all that way?’
All the time Mrs Blakey was talking, scarcely giving Karen time to answer, she was bustling about, taking her cloak and bag and dumping them on the hall stand then leading her into a large kitchen at the back of the house, hung with brasses which gleamed in the light from the blazing fire in the grate. Karen relaxed as the heat from the fire hit her. This kitchen might be very different from the one in Chapel Street but it had the same warm, welcoming atmosphere. She could be happy here, she thought.
‘You’re very kind, Mrs Blakey.’
‘No, no, you must call me Annie,’ she cried as she lifted from the oven a golden chicken surrounded by roast potatoes.
‘Oh, it smells gorgeous,’ gasped Karen. ‘We only have chicken at Christmas at home, though my gran has a small-holding on the moor and sometimes she brings us a boiling fowl. Do you know, you remind me of my gran somehow, even though she’s small and thin.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ beamed Annie, and the tone was set for their relationship. By the end of the evening the two women were calling each other by their first names. Annie told Karen how she was running the farm on her own while her two sons were away at the war, and Karen told Annie all about her brother Joe who was in the army too.
‘Though he’s in the Australian Army,’ she explained. ‘He emigrated in 1910 and now he’s back in Europe with the ANZACs.’
Annie was such a friendly body, Karen thought happily as she took her candle up the stairs to the tiny bedroom which was to be hers for the foreseeable future. She could make a friend of Annie, the first real friend she would have made since coming to Essex.
Sinking into the soft feather bed, she was soon happily anticipating her new job. Previous spells of night duty had taught her to adapt to working at night and sleeping during the day, and she felt she would settle to it in no time. As Greenfields was just opening as a convalescent home, all the staff were in the same position as she was. It would be an interesting experience, starting from scratch.
Karen found herself furiously busy in the next few weeks as wounded and maimed men arrived at the hospital after being patched up elsewhere and pronounced on the mend. The battles were intensifying every day and more and more wounded were coming home, till the hospitals were overflowing.
‘The poor lads are coming here earlier and earlier,’ Karen confided to Annie. ‘I mean, earlier in their treatment than they did at the beginning. We could do with a few more nurses. We’re stretched to our limit.’
Annie sighed sympathetically. ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ she said. ‘It would tear me to bits, young boys hurt badly like t
hat.’
‘You would manage it if you had to,’ Karen replied as she pulled on her cloak for yet another night at Greenfields – one which was to have been her free night.
All the nurses were working longer and longer hours and Karen was no exception, often not leaving the hospital until nine or ten in the morning.
It was almost ten o’clock the following morning and she was giving the night report to Matron when there was a knock at the door. Matron sighed and glanced wryly at Karen. This was the third attempt they had had at getting through the report and each time they had been interrupted by some emergency or other.
‘Come!’ she called, and the door opened to admit Doctor Clarke and another man, a priest or minister of some sort, judging by his collar.
Doctor Clarke, a young houseman seconded from Romford, had been up since two o’clock. He wore an unbuttoned and crumpled white coat and a slightly dishevelled air. Matron stared at him in disapproval.
‘We may be busy, Doctor, but I don’t think that’s a good enough reason to let our standards slip,’ she reprimanded.
He glanced down at his coat and buttoned it hastily.
‘Oh, sorry, Matron. I was just leaving when I met Father Murphy on Ward 2 and thought I’d bring him in to meet you as he’s new to the place.’
The priest stepped forward as Doctor Clarke introduced him to Matron and she bowed her head in stately acknowledgement, a gesture Karen knew to be copied from the Matron of Oldchurch Hospital. The thought made her twinkle with suppressed mirth as she too was introduced to Father Murphy.
‘Father Murphy has recently come to St Michael’s. And this is Sister Knight, our Night Sister, Father.’
‘Hallo. How are you, Sister?’
His accent was musical and touched with a West of Ireland brogue, his handshake firm and cool. His calm grey eyes looked steadily into her brown ones.
Karen was answering him politely when she remembered Robert’s friend whom she had met in Bishop Auckland.
‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, ‘I believe I met a friend of yours last time I was home – a Father Donelly?’
Father Murphy was breaking into a smile and nodding when Matron’s icy tones interrupted them.
‘Sister, this is neither the time nor the place for social chit-chat. I have a busy morning ahead.’
The priest, who fortunately had his back to Matron, pulled a wry face and Karen smiled, looking anything but sorry as she made her apologies to Matron and left the room. As she walked to the front door of the old house Father Murphy was close behind her so that they happened to set off down the drive together.
‘That lady reminds me of Mother Superior at my infants’ school,’ he remarked and laughed, an infectious sound with which Karen found herself joining in.
‘Hospital matrons can be like that,’ she answered.
‘You’re going into the village?’ he asked as they came to the gates.
‘Yes, I’m lodging with Mrs Blakey.’
‘Oh, yes, I know the lady.’
They turned on to the road to the village and walked a little while in silence, but an easy silence, Karen realized with surprise. It was as though they knew each other well. She was still pondering why this was when he spoke again.
‘You were saying you had met my friend Sean – Father Donelly?’
‘Oh, yes, I met him in Auckland, he was with a doctor friend of mine. He mentioned you to me when I told him where I was going to work.’
‘But Auckland? Surely not.’
‘Yes, Bishop Auckland.’ She nodded her head then laughed. ‘Oh, I see, you thought I meant New Zealand. No, County Durham.’
‘Oh, yes, Sean is in Durham. It’s a while since I heard from him though. Not since he was out in Africa last year.’
‘Well, he says you owe him a letter, I was to tell you if I met you.’
‘And here you are, it’s a small world, as they say.’
He laughed aloud and his laugh was deep and musical. As they reached Annie’s garden gate Karen stopped and looked up at him. His grey eyes were fringed with long, black lashes. Striking eyes, she thought dreamily. He was slim and tall and the black of his clerical garb suited him.
Karen blinked. What on earth was she doing standing here talking to a priest? And worse, allowing herself to feel attracted to him? By, Da would have forty fits if knew about it.
‘And how is Father Donelly?’ the priest was saying but the smile faded from his eyes as he sensed her withdrawal. Karen was opening the gate and backing up the garden path.
‘He’s fine. Well, goodbye, Father.’
The sentence came out in a rush and Karen fairly ran round the side of the house to the kitchen door.
‘Is that you, Karen?’
Annie was bending over a frying pan on the open fire of the range and the room was filled with a strong smell of bacon. She straightened up and looked round, her brow knitting as she saw Karen’s flushed face.
‘Oh, dear, you look a bit tired and upset. Is something wrong?’
Karen shook her head and smiled reassuringly at her. ‘Nothing a good day’s sleep won’t cure, Annie,’ she declared. ‘I’m tired and hungry that’s all. Mind, that bacon smells grand, it does.’
‘Best come and eat it while it’s hot, then,’ advised Annie as she emptied the pan on to a plate and set it on the table. ‘Then up to bed with you. I put a hot bottle in so it’ll be nice and warm.’
Chapter Seven
THERE WAS A letter from France. It had to be from Joe. Joe, who had travelled halfway across the world with the ANZACs, and escaped unscathed from Gallipoli, thank God.
‘There’s a surprise for you.’ Annie was beaming with pleasure as she saw the effect the letter had on Karen. ‘Oh, aren’t you going to open it?’ she added in surprise as Karen put it by her plate.
‘Later,’ she said and Annie had to be content with that.
Karen ate her pie and drank the hot sweet tea as she listened to the inconsequential chatter of her landlady. Annie was inclined to be garrulous but then, reflected Karen, she had been on her own for a year or so now. The letter was propped before Karen’s plate, a treat to be enjoyed later in the privacy of her room.
The anticipated pleasure of reading the letter kept a half-smile playing around her mouth while the blazing fire in the grate lent colour to her cheeks and glinting highlights to her dark, waving hair, for once hanging loosely on her shoulders without the restrictions of her cap.
Annie had been a little disappointed when she took the letter up to her room in the afternoon and Karen was aware of it but she really wanted to read it in private. She would tell Annie anything interesting in it later. She heard the back door close after the landlady as she went about her evening chores. There were the hens to lock up in case a fox got in and one or two other things to do before she could settle down before the fire for the evening.
Karen flung herself on the bed and slit open the envelope. Eagerly she began reading, then with a muffled exclamation pulled the candle on her bedside table closer to make sure she had read aright.
‘Dear Kerry,’ Joe began, and Karen knew straight away that he had good news for her. He was the only one who ever called her Kerry, and then only when he had something good to tell her. Da frowned on the use of pet names. Karen grinned to herself and turned over on to her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows with the letter on the pillow.
I am coming back to England for a spot of leave so by the time you get this I’ll probably already be in London. If you can manage to get the time off to meet me I will be in Liverpool Street Station at six o’clock Saturday the twelth. I have to see you. If you can’t make it I will travel down to Greenfields on Sunday morning.
I have very important news!
Don’t be alarmed. I won’t tell you now, though. It will be better when I see you.
What news could be so urgent and yet not urgent enough to tell her in a letter? The question teased her mind all the time she was completing her
preparations for going on duty. Donning a clean apron and ‘Sister Dora’ cap, she thought about it. After all, it couldn’t be bad news. Joe was in England and apparently uninjured. He must be all right, else why would he say he was here for a spot of leave? And hadn’t he said it was good news?
Disappointing Annie even more, Karen called goodbye and slipped out of the house. Wrapping her cloak closely around her, she walked briskly up the lane. Roll on Saturday and the prospect of a lovely reunion with her brother. Tomorrow it was, only one more night to work. It was her night off anyway, she didn’t have to ask for it off. She wondered if she should ask for Sunday, though. It might be possible.
The night air was damp and cold and creeping wisps of fog began to obscure the old house even as she walked up the drive to the front door. She could hear the muffled roar of the river as it flowed by the edge of the steeply sloping lawns in its rush to the sea. It was swollen with recent rain as was often the case.
Thankfully, Karen let herself into the hall which was warmed by a smouldering log fire. Shedding her cloak at the hall stand, she glanced briefly in the mirror hanging over the great stone mantel before going to Matron’s office to take the report.
Matron was sitting at her desk and Karen saw with a sinking heart that she was juggling with the names on the off-duty list. She sat straight in her chair and favoured Karen with a slight smile of greeting.
‘Oh, there you are, Sister. I trust you slept well?’
‘Yes, thank you, Matron,’ Karen replied, deciding to get her request in quickly while her superior was in a good mood. ‘Er … I was wondering, would it be possible for me to have Sunday off besides Saturday? My brother is home from France and –’
‘Impossible, Sister.’
Karen’s hopes of a weekend with her brother were dashed immediately. What was more, the affability with which Matron had greeted her was completely gone. Her tone was frigid now.
‘As it happens, I was going to ask you if you wouldn’t mind working tomorrow night, Sister? You know we are woefully short of staff.’
