by Maggie Hope
Nick thought about it without bitterness next morning as he took the Tynedale road out of Hexham. He was feeling stronger this morning, it was a fine September day and his belly was filled. A kindly stall-holder at the market had given him a couple of stale pies and he had saved one for his breakfast. He set out along the road swinging both arms, for there was no one to see the stump. He felt behind his ear for the dog-end of cigarette which he had been saving from the night before. He’d found a penny in the street at Hexham and bought a packet of five Woodbines. But he had learned to ration cigarettes out carefully if he was lucky enough to be able to buy any.
As often happened his thoughts returned to Karen as he walked. He hadn’t managed to find her yet, but he was going to give it another try today … surely if he walked the dales long enough somebody would have heard of Sister Knight? The longer he searched unsuccessfully for her, the more his obsession with her deepened. If only he could find her, ran his muddled thoughts, everything would be all right.
A few days before Christmas, Patrick was out bringing in sheep from the low fell to the home pasture. Though the cover of snow was light, the wind was sweeping over the top, stinging his face so that he buried his chin in his muffler and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. It was so cold. He just couldn’t get used to how bitterly cold the weather was in Weardale. They had storms enough in County Clare, God knows, he thought, but this icy cold and frozen snow which came down on the high fell were something different.
He had acquired a young border collie bitch, Flossie, from Fred Bainbridge together with a few tips on how to handle her. He was trying to get into the way of using her and now he watched her, racing on ahead of him. She didn’t seem to mind the cold, she didn’t even seem to feel it. Patrick climbed higher, against the wind, until at last he could turn and get a good overall view of the fell in his search for strays. Flossie had disappeared, he realized, and he scanned the moor for her.
‘Wheeee,’ he whistled, and when this had no effect, called, ‘Flossie! Here, Flossie.’
A movement caught his eye and he turned to look. It was the bitch, she was running towards what looked like a bundle of old clothes. He hadn’t noticed it before, greyish-black it was and huddled against an outcrop of limestone, not all that much different from the outcrops on his father’s farm back home in Ireland.
He stared hard at the bundle. He must have passed it on his way up, he thought, cursing his own lack of observation, something essential on the moor as he should have learned by now. It must have been hidden by the rock, he reckoned. It puzzled him somehow. It did not look at all like one of the little black-faced ewes of the dale. It was too big. After a quick glance round for anything else unusual, he went to investigate.
Huddled close to a sheep which was still alive but caught between two stones was the figure of a lad, very still, slight and pitiful in threadbare and ragged clothes. Flossie was standing over him, wagging her tail and barking excitedly.
‘Quiet, girl,’ he said and she subsided, sitting back on the frozen ground and watching him. As Patrick knelt and turned the boy over to see his face, he gave a start of recognition. It was Nick Harvey. The stump of the boy’s right arm pointed grotesquely into the air and it was blue with cold.
He was alive, Patrick realized. As he moved him a groan escaped the boy and his eyes flickered open. But he was cold, very cold, his face icy, Patrick found as he took off his own glove and felt the skin. It was probably only the warmth from the trapped sheep which had kept him alive. Patrick laid him gently down again and freed the ewe, which, after a few faltering steps, accompanied by plaintive bleating, ran down to join the flock. But the young man was unable to walk, his strength gone. His eyes barely flickered open and closed again with no sign of recognition. Patrick had perforce to sling him over his shoulder and carry him down over the steep, rough ground and on, back to the farm. The ewes had to be left where they were for a while. Flossie danced along beside him, pleased and excited with herself.
Once on more level ground Patrick found he could manage quite well, his burden was not so heavy. What was Private Harvey doing out on the inhospitable moor in this weather, and in such poor condition? Patrick wondered about it as he neared the farm, walking slower now as his burden seemed to grow heavier, every breath he took feeling like a knife in his chest. The night when he had helped Karen and Doctor Clarke with Nick came back to him vividly. He remembered her compassion for the young and maimed soldiers, her skill and knowledge of her job. She had given it all up for him. Up until now Patrick had not thought of that, he had thought only of the sacrifices he himself had made, and suddenly he was humbled.
He came to the track and paused for a moment to get his breath back, drawing deep, painful gulps of air into his lungs. He leaned Nick against the boundary wall and had a good look at him. The boy was pitifully thin and only semi-conscious but it was the hectic flush on his cheeks which worried Patrick the most. There was no time to lose in getting him indoors. Whistling Flossie to heel, he hoisted Nick on to his shoulder again and strode out for home.
‘Goodness to gracious, what on earth have you got there?’ Gran was startled into asking as Patrick brushed past her in the doorway to the kitchen and went straight to the settee. He laid Nick down on the cushions and pulled the settee closer to the fire. Gran had followed him in, still holding the bucket filled with a bran mash she had been taking to the horses.
She quickly sized up the situation, though, and wasting no more words began to strip the sodden clothes off Nick, sending Patrick for blankets to wrap him in. She set milk to warm in the small iron pan, then raised Nick with one arm and tried to get him to take some. This did not prove so difficult for as soon as he realized what it was, he grabbed the cup with his good left hand and drank thirstily.
‘Poor lad,’ said Gran. ‘Was he out on the fell, Patrick? It’s a wonder he’s alive. As it is he looks set for pneumonia. You’ll have to go for the doctor. Go on, you can leave the sheep till later.’
‘Where’s Karen? Can you manage him on your own? Will I go and find her first?’
‘No, no. She’s just gone down the ghyll for some holly and tree ivy. She won’t be long, it’s nearly time for Brian’s feed so she’s sure to be back soon. Hadaway with you, I’ll manage fine.’
With a quick glance at his son, who was sleeping peacefully in his cradle by the fire, Patrick went out and caught Jess to ride her into Stanhope for the doctor.
‘I’m back, Gran. Did the bairn wake up?’ Karen called through from the scullery. ‘I’ve got a nice bit of berried holly, plenty of berries on it this year.’ She poked her head around the door when Gran didn’t answer immediately, her expression enquiring.
‘Gran? Who’s that?’
‘He’s a tramp. A poor lad Patrick found on the fell. And just as well he did, he wouldn’t have lasted much longer in this weather. Patrick’s gone into Stanhope for Doctor Oliver.’ Gran turned from her task of washing Nick. With the heat from the range the smell from the lad was getting to be overpowering.
‘Nick!’
Horrified, Karen stared at the prone figure in disbelief.
‘You know him?’
‘He was a patient of mine, Gran. He was in the hospital in Essex where I was during the war. What on earth is he doing here? Oh, it’s my fault, I’m sure it is, he was looking for me.’ Karen was stricken with remorse. ‘He was looking for me, Kezia told me he was, said he had been to Morton Main. And I was too much taken up with my own affairs to think about it any more.’ Karen came closer and looked down at Nick. His eyes were closed now, his breathing harsh and laboured. She became business-like at once.
‘What do you think, Gran?’
‘Underfeeding and the cold, I should think. Maybe pneumonia.’ Gran stood back and let Karen examine him. She felt his head. It was burning hot in sharp contrast to his frozen hand. As she touched him his eyes opened and he saw her.
‘Sister,’ he breathed, looking directly at her, his g
aze clearing. He smiled fleetingly, rational for a moment, before lapsing into delirium, babbling on.
‘I think we’d better keep him here on the settee, for the present at least. It is the warmest place in the house. His pulse is weak but not too erratic.’ Karen tucked the wrist she was holding back under the blankets.
‘Well, we’ll see what Doctor Oliver has to say. Patrick shouldn’t be long. Meanwhile we can only keep him warm.’ She stood up and moved over to the cradle, pushing a tendril of hair away from her face, A tiny fist was beginning to wave in the air accompanied by hungry cries. Brian was getting impatient for his meal.
Patrick was back with the doctor quite soon. He was in luck that he had found him at home and not on a visit to an outlying farm. The thick-set little man hurried into the kitchen and went straight over to the patient with only a brief nod to Gran and Karen. Without more ado he set about his examination. After a few minutes he replaced the blankets carefully over Nick and rose to his feet.
‘There is some congestion there. And of course he is in very poor physical shape. He’ll need careful nursing if we are to avoid pneumonia.’ Doctor Oliver turned his keen gaze on Karen. ‘Who is he?
Do you know him? I can arrange to have him taken down to the cottage hospital, if you like?’
‘No, Doctor, not unless you think it is absolutely necessary. I think he has had enough of hospitals. I do know him, I nursed him when he lost his arm in the war. He has no family. I don’t know what he was doing wandering around on the fell, I thought he was in Durham City. That’s where he came from originally. He was supposed to be still having treatment for shell-shock.’
‘Well, if you give me his full name and rank in the army, I’ll try to get hold of his records. Then we’ll see what we can do. It’s shameful to see someone who has served his country in a war coming to this.’ Doctor Oliver paused and gazed quizzically at her. ‘If you are sure you want to look after him, of course it would be the ideal solution for him. But are you sure? Have you thought of what it will entail? He will have to be poulticed six-hourly and watched around the clock.’
‘Thank you, Doctor, I’m sure I can manage.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you a sedative for him in case you need it. I must say you look fit and well, both you and the baby.’
Doctor Oliver bent over the cradle, casting a critical eye over Brian. Karen picked him up and held him against her shoulder, the better to show him to the doctor. Brian blinked sleepily, a bubble of milk escaping the corner of his mouth. His cheeks were rosy with sleep.
‘So long as you can manage. Don’t worry, I won’t send you a bill for him anyway.’ Doctor Oliver smiled. ‘Baby certainly looks the picture of health.’ He drew on his thick leather gloves and turned for the door, nodding to Patrick and Gran courteously. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow, weather permitting. I have to visit old Mrs Tyndal down the lonnen so I can easily call in. Well, a very goodnight to you all.’ With a little wave, he went out to his trap.
Patrick was anxious. ‘Do you think you can manage?’ he asked Karen after the doctor had gone. ‘Where will we put him? It’s no good putting him upstairs, it’s too cold, and anyway the spare room hasn’t been prepared. I don’t want you to do too much, Karen, he would be better in a hospital.’
‘Of course we can manage,’ Gran cut in. ‘We can leave him there on the settee for tonight and you can put the camp bed up in the front room as soon as the doctor says it’s all right to move him. I can help. Karen won’t have to do it all.’
Gran looked thoughtful. ‘You know, when my father was alive we always had a tramp for Christmas dinner, no matter how hard up we were. They got exactly the same to eat as we did though when they were particularly smelly they had to eat in the barn. They expected that, though. But I thought it was a bit hard when I was a bairn.’ She looked at Nick who had obviously brought back the old days to her. ‘Aye, well, better be getting on,’ she said, going upstairs for more blankets.
The three of them took it in turns to sit with Nick that first night though Patrick insisted that Gran should do no more than a couple of hours. At intervals when he was awake they tried to get him to eat a little of Gran’s nourishing broth and each time he was able to take a little more.
Next morning when Karen came down to relieve Patrick so that he could go out to see to the stock she found the patient much improved. He was awake, sitting propped up on the cushions, and Patrick was dozing in the rocking chair.
Poor Patrick. She would have to wake him soon but she would give him a little while longer, she decided. Nick was looking at her with wondering eyes and she smiled at him.
It is you, Sister,’ he blurted out. ‘I thought I had been dreaming.’
‘Oh, it’s me all right,’ she laughed, ‘but how on earth did you find me? No, don’t answer that, save your strength. I’m going to change your poultice now and then I want you to take some gruel. It’s nice and milky. We’ll save the explanations for when you are better.’
Karen took the linseed poultice out of the oven where it was keeping hot and set about applying it to her patient’s chest over a layer of flannel. She put another layer of flannel over the poultice to help retain heat and finally helped Nick put on a clean nightshirt of Patrick’s.
Patrick had woken during this exchange and was sitting watching her deft movements as she made Nick comfortable. He saw the worshipful expression in Nick’s eyes whenever he looked at Karen and he was disturbed. A tiny flicker of jealousy stirred within him. Then, with a rueful smile, he changed into his work garb and went out to see to the animals. He had no right to resent Nick, none at all, he told himself. If Karen realized it she would never understand, but would think him a fool.
It was a cold, crisp morning so he brought in more wood and coal to replenish the fire and went down to the spring for water for the house. The man who travelled the dale to kill and dress the pigs was coming today so plenty of water would be needed.
The pig designated for slaughter was the very one which had caused the upset on that summer’s day which now seemed so long ago, before he came to the farm. His tail was still bent from his encounter with the gander. Patrick had heard the story often from Karen and Gran and thought about it now as he filled the set-pot in the yard and raked and laid the fire beneath it, ready to light directly after breakfast, deliberately trying not to think of Nick and his devotion to Karen.
‘Howay in now, breakfast is on the table,’ she called from the back door, shivering in the cold air as she pulled her shawl around her shoulders before going thankfully back inside. Patrick followed closely. They settled down to their usual bacon and eggs, though Nick had a coddled egg which he managed very well. Afterwards Karen sat on the rocker before the fire with Brian, drawing her shawl modestly over her breast as a screen when she began to feed the baby.
Nick lay quietly, quite unable to believe his luck, still unsure of the reality of it all. If this was a dream he had no intention of waking up. The horrors of his days and nights spent on the open fell at the mercy of the bitter wind and driving snow were still vivid in his mind.
By the time Christmas finally arrived, he was well enough to sit up in the chair by the fire for most of the day. He knew this was entirely due to the nursing care he got from Karen, with the help of Gran and Patrick, and he worshipped them for it. Doctor Oliver had not yet received his records from Durham but was content to let him stay at the farm where his health, both mental and physical, was improving every day.
Just as well, Karen opined, for the alternative was depressing. ‘Without loving care he would probably end up in an institution,’ she commented to Patrick. ‘Winterton Mental Hospital, very likely.’
How could I have been jealous of the poor boy? Patrick asked himself, feeling guilty, especially when Nick told how he had lived on handouts all the way from Hexham. ‘I’ll write to Durham and see he gets his pension,’ Patrick said to Karen. ‘It’s not much but he has a right to it.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘A GOOD MORNING to you, Jack,’ said Patrick. ‘And a Merry Christmas to you and yours.’ He had got into the habit of walking up the lane to meet the postman and glancing through the letters before taking them into the house.
‘Merry Christmas,’ Jack echoed. ‘A better one than last year, eh? Thanks be to God that the war is over. There’ll be no more bad news coming from France, eh? Let’s hope that was the last war. What is it they say now? The war to end all wars. May 1919 be the start of better times.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Patrick. ‘Are you coming in for a bite of something now, a drink maybe?’
‘Not today, thanks, I want to get home. The wife’s got a grand dinner waiting and I promised I’d be back by twelve. You know what it’s like though, always a lot of cards on Christmas Day.’
He handed over the post and went on his way. There were ten cards for Low Rigg Farm and Patrick took them in with him when he went in for breakfast. Karen was stuffing the goose ready for the oven and the atmosphere in the kitchen was warm and cheerful. The fresh spicy smell of Gran’s ginger parkin and sweet mincemeat pies permeated the room. Nick was sitting with one foot on the cradle, rocking gently and crooning softly to the baby. His face expressed his adoration of Brian. Already he was showing some benefit from his new life. His eyes were calmer and the fear which had long lurked in them had vanished.
‘The wind’s getting up,’ said Patrick as he sat down at the table. ‘There’ll surely be a gale tonight.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Karen frowned. ‘I hope it isn’t too bad. We said we would go to the concert and supper at Chapel tonight.’ She noted the swift look of disapproval on Patrick’s face and continued quickly, ‘That is, if you will look after Brian? We are getting a lift with Fred Bainbridge. Nick will be here, of course.’
‘I’ll see to the babby,’ he said, ever eager to help.
