She recalled that when war was declared, she hadn’t understood what had started it. She vaguely recalled something about a prince being shot, but that seemed a very flimsy reason for thousands of innocent people to be killed.
But then she hadn’t even really grasped the scale of the carnage in France, not until Martin was wounded. His wounds were mild when compared with the other soldiers in his ward, who were blinded, maimed and had missing limbs.
To address this ignorance, she now read The Times every day and borrowed books from the diverse collection in the drawing room, often asking Mrs Gladsworthy for her recommendations. But for now, the war and world events were her main interest. She had a personal interest, of course, in the battle of the Somme as Martin had been wounded there, and she was horrified to read that on just the first day of the battle 19,000 British men had died. An even longer battle had taken place at Verdun, with the Germans bleeding the French army dry.
Closer to home was the Easter Rising in Ireland, in 1916, something she’d never even heard about at the time. Although she didn’t fully understand Ireland’s wish for independence, she was impressed by Padraig Pearse, one of the founder members of the Irish Volunteers. She loved his courage and how he exclaimed at his court martial, ‘You cannot conquer Ireland. You cannot extinguish the Irish passion for freedom.’ He was holding a crucifix in his hand as he was executed.
She read about German U-boats, and how Tsar Nicholas and his family were arrested by the Bolsheviks in Russia. The menace of Zeppelin airships had been an ongoing problem since 1915, but it wasn’t until the first daylight bombing raid in London, in June of 1917, when the death toll rose to 162 deaths and hundreds injured, that people really began to feel the war was entering England.
Yet in all that she read, the most distressing thing of all to Mabel was the long lists of soldiers who had died in France. They were someone’s husband, father, brother or friend, and most were so terribly young, men like Martin who had left England thinking it would be the greatest adventure. Then there were the even greater numbers of wounded. What future would they have, with a missing limb or lost sight?
On her daily trip to the shops, across the road in The Mall, there was hardly a woman in sight who wasn’t either in full mourning or wearing a black patch on her sleeve to signify she’d lost someone close.
But as sad as it was to hear the roll call of new deaths of local men at church each Sunday, and to read in the newspaper about the conditions at the front, the poverty here in Bristol was even more disturbing, because it was right in front of her, not across the English Channel.
When she walked down to the city centre, she was confronted with it. Not the mild kind of poverty she’d known back in Hallsands – shabby clothes and a breakfast of bread and dripping – but real poverty, hunger etched on gaunt faces and dead-looking eyes. Back home, no one would let a neighbour starve if they fell on hard times; they would share what they had. But here, people wore rags and shoes that were split open and tied on to their feet with string. She had seen men hideously disfigured, presumably by shrapnel in France, and people crossing the road to avoid any contact with them. Poor women lurked in doorways, and although she knew nothing about prostitution, instinctively she knew these women were offering themselves for sale because they had no other way of surviving.
As for the children, it was terrible to see their grey, thin faces, bare feet even in the February snow, and running sores on their limbs. She asked herself, and indeed Mrs Hardy, why the government cared nothing about the plight of these children, and made no provision for the men who had been seriously injured while fighting for their country, leaving them no choice but to beg on the streets. Mrs Hardy just shrugged, she had no answers.
Seeing such sights had made Mabel realize that her former life in Devon might have been tough, yet she could be proud that there was a tradition of caring for others in the community she’d been born into. She remembered, when her father was lost at sea, how the other fishermen made a collection to help her, just as they’d helped her father years before when her mother died. There were plenty of people wanting to help Martin too when he came home from the war, but Agnes never let them through the door. The silly woman felt shell shock was something shameful, so she hid it from those who might just have been able to help heal his broken mind.
Despite her happiness in her new job and home, Mabel did get days when she fervently wished she’d stood her ground when Martin came out of hospital and refused to let him stay with his mother. Maybe if she’d taken him to their house and held him tightly in her arms at night, the security of that might have helped him.
But as spring slipped into summer, she thought less and less about her old life, and in the evenings when she had no sewing to do, she borrowed books from the drawing room and immersed herself in them. She listened to the way Mrs Hardy and Mrs Gladsworthy spoke and tried to copy them. Cook teased her about it and said not to copy her, as she’d get a Bristol accent that was far uglier than a Devon one.
Mrs Gladsworthy’s painful joints had become easier once the weather grew warmer, and Mabel volunteered to take her for some short walks. The first one was to the suspension bridge and back. Mabel had been over it many times since she began work in Harley Place, and marvelled that such a delicate-looking, beautiful bridge could take such heavy traffic.
She voiced that opinion to Mrs Gladsworthy as the woman clung to Mabel’s arm.
‘I’ve never before met anyone as young as you taking an interest in the engineering of bridges,’ her employer remarked with surprise.
‘I’ve become interested in architecture too,’ Mabel said with enthusiasm. ‘Clifton has so many fine houses, Georgian like yours, and Victorian ones too. Further down, in the middle of Bristol, there are other buildings far, far older.’
‘You’ve no doubt discovered that wealthy folk built houses in Clifton in the 1800s to escape the terrible smell of the docks,’ her mistress said with a little laugh.
‘Yes, I did, and so many of them were slave traders too,’ Mabel said. ‘That was a bad period of history, wasn’t it? Just as this war is too, so many men sent out to France to die. No one seems to be able to say what good will come out of it, either.’
‘You sound as if you’ve been following the Suffragettes,’ Mrs Gladsworthy said.
‘I’ve been reading about them, and what they say makes complete sense to me. Women should be allowed to vote. What stupid person thought that a woman is incapable of deciding for herself without a man to guide her? Lord knows, men expect us to be cooks, cleaners, child minders, teachers, nurses and gardeners, which proves we have exceptional abilities.’
‘But the Suffragettes are so strident,’ Mrs Gladsworthy said, pursing her lips in disapproval.
‘They’ve had to be, in order to get politicians to listen. Besides, they’ve shelved their stance on voting for now and are concentrating on encouraging women to work towards the war effort. I saw a woman driving a tram the other day. I think it’s right we should get opportunities like that.’
‘Oh, Mabel, please don’t tell me you’re going to leave us to drive a tram?’
Mabel giggled. ‘No! I’m really happy working for you, but I wouldn’t mind learning to drive a train, though.’
‘I suspect, when this war is over, women’s lives won’t be the same any more,’ Mrs Gladsworthy said thoughtfully. ‘Once you let a cat outside the house, it refuses to stay in. I think it might be the same for some women. Perhaps that is just as well. Because with so many young men being killed in France, there won’t be enough men left to become husbands and fathers.’
‘I never minded being just a wife,’ Mabel said, and suddenly a sharp memory came to her of Martin rushing up from the beach and the fishing boat, and twirling her around in his arms, because he’d missed her.
All at once it struck her that she was unlikely to experience such things ever again. She wouldn’t dare to get involved with a man for fear of having to admit she wa
s married. Or not admitting it, and then committing bigamy.
Mrs Gladsworthy put her hand on Mabel’s arm comfortingly. ‘No, I’m sure you didn’t, but someone will come along and sweep you off your feet, you’ll see. You are far too young and pretty not to marry again.’
Mabel smiled, but it was forced. Was her future really to be spent alone, for fear of someone finding out her secret?
4
November 1917
A loud noise woke Mabel with a start. She got out of bed and went to the door to listen. All was quiet. She knew she hadn’t dreamed the noise, so what was it?
She thought it could be a burglar who was now lurking somewhere, hoping that no one had heard him break in.
Creeping down the narrow attic stairs, she reached the floor where the housekeeper’s and the guest bedrooms were, then heard another sound. This time it was more like a groan, and it was coming from the floor below, where Mrs Gladsworthy had her suite of rooms.
Mabel ran down the next flight of stairs to reach Mrs Gladsworthy’s bedroom. She knocked, but then turned the knob and went straight in. In a ray of light from the landing she could see Mrs Gladsworthy on the floor in her white nightdress. Assuming she’d fallen out of bed, Mabel flicked on the light and rushed to her, to help her up.
But one look at her face was enough to know this was serious. Her face was contorted, all slack and drooping on the right side.
‘Hold on,’ Mabel said. ‘I’ll get Mrs Hardy.’
It took only a moment or two to leap up the stairs to the next floor, and a couple more strides to wake the housekeeper. Mrs Hardy rushed out of her room with a net over her hair, wearing a grey dressing gown. Mabel explained what had happened as they went down the stairs, and how she’d found their mistress on the floor.
Mrs Hardy blanched when she saw Mrs Gladsworthy. ‘Put a coat on and run to number ten, that’s where Dr Preston lives,’ she told Mabel. ‘I don’t think we’d better move her, but I’ll cover her with the eiderdown.’
Mabel ran down the remaining flight of stairs two at a time, her heart thumping, grabbed Mrs Hardy’s coat from her office and rushed out the door in her bare feet.
‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered as she hopped from foot to foot on the doctor’s cold doorstep. She saw a light come on upstairs and finally she heard footsteps coming down the stairs.
‘Could Dr Preston come quickly to Mrs Gladsworthy, at number six?’ Mabel stammered out to the woman who opened the door in her dressing gown. ‘She fell out of bed, but we think it’s something serious, her face has fallen on one side.’
‘I’ll tell him straight away. You go back before you freeze,’ the woman said. ‘Leave the front door open, he knows his way to her bedroom.’
Mabel did as she was told. As she got up to the bedroom, she saw Mrs Hardy was crying as she knelt beside her mistress.
‘She doesn’t know me, she can’t speak, and her pulse is so weak its almost not there,’ she sobbed out. ‘I think she’s had a stroke.’
Mabel tried to comfort Mrs Hardy and asked if there was something she could do. The older woman didn’t answer, she was so immersed in her grief, so Mabel stirred up the fire and put some more coal on it, as it was icy cold in the bedroom.
The doctor came up the stairs just a few minutes later, a coat over his pyjamas. He knelt on the floor beside Mrs Gladsworthy and first listened to her heart, then examined her arms and legs. He sat back on his heels and looked at Mabel and the housekeeper.
‘She’s had a huge stroke, and I’m deeply sorry to have to say this, but I doubt she’ll come back from it. If you could help me get her into her bed, that would be kind.’
Mrs Hardy began to cry again, and Mabel went to help the doctor.
‘Isn’t there something we can do?’ she asked him, as she tucked the covers round her mistress. ‘What about getting her to hospital?’
‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ he replied. ‘Even at the hospital they could do nothing but make her comfortable. She’s had a couple of little strokes in the past, and recovered fully. But this one is so bad, it would be kinder if she did die tonight, as she is paralysed from her neck down. I think you should contact her brother.’
After the doctor had left, Mabel went down to the kitchen and made Mrs Hardy and herself a cup of tea. When she got back to the mistress’s room, the housekeeper was sitting with her head in her hands.
‘I’m dreading speaking to her brother,’ she said, looking up at Mabel with her eyes full of tears. ‘I’ve only met him once, at Mr Gladsworthy’s funeral, and he’s a very unpleasant man.’
They drank their tea in silence; they were too sad for any words. They remained there for the rest of the night, Mrs Hardy on the chaise longue and Mabel in an armchair. But just as it was growing light, a faint rattling sound woke them. They moved quickly to the bed, only to see their mistress had just slipped away.
They embraced and cried. Mabel might only have been employed by Mrs Gladsworthy for a little less than a full year, but she had grown fond of her because she was so undemanding and caring towards her staff. For Mrs Hardy, who had worked for the Gladsworthys for over twenty years and had no family of her own, her mistress was everything. Her ‘Mrs’ title was a customary mark of respect for spinster housekeepers.
‘I’ll get dressed and go back for the doctor, to tell him,’ Mabel said, realizing that the housekeeper was too upset to give any instructions. ‘Then we’ll have a cup of tea, and you can telephone her brother. I’ll stay with you.’
Mrs Hardy clung on to Mabel’s hand. ‘I’m afraid, Mabel. What if he dismisses us?’
‘Now why would he do that?’ Mabel said soothingly. ‘You are running ahead of yourself, for now we just have to telephone him. We need to contact the vicar at Christchurch too, she’ll want to be buried with her husband. But it’s up to her brother to decide who else must be informed and to make other arrangements, though we can offer to do some of it for him.’
‘You are such a level-headed girl.’ Mrs Hardy wiped her wet eyes with a handkerchief. ‘You are right, of course. Go and get dressed, and I will too. I’ll meet you down in the kitchen. Cook will be in soon.’
Two hours later, Mabel was in the kitchen with Cook and the housekeeper.
The doctor had been back to issue a death certificate, and Mrs Hardy had spoken to her employer’s brother.
‘Mr Bedford was quite pleasant – he even seemed upset at his sister dying,’ she said to Mrs Tweed, sounding rather surprised. ‘I can’t believe he’s left it to me to arrange things with the undertaker, though. When I said that he needed to choose her coffin, he said he trusted me to pick the right one.’
Mabel had been beside Mrs Hardy during this telephone conversation, and Mr Bedford had spoken so loudly that she heard every word he said. In her opinion, though, he had just been too shocked to be unpleasant; there was something about his loud voice that told her he was a bully who had a low opinion of women.
‘Have another slice of fruit cake.’ Mrs Tweed pushed the cake closer to them. ‘I always think tea and cake make everything better. Did he say when he was coming down? I’ll have to plan a menu. The last time he was here, he complained that the meat was tough, and the vegetables overcooked. They weren’t, of course, he just likes to be difficult.’
‘He said he would come the day after tomorrow, but he said to choose the hymns and ask the vicar if the funeral can be this coming Friday. I wanted to say that’s a bit soon to organize everything and let people know, but I didn’t dare. Including today, that’s only four days.’
‘How will we know how many people will come back here for refreshments?’ Mrs Tweed asked, looking panicked. ‘And if I’ve got to wait for him to arrive to ask what he wants, and for how many people, that only gives me Thursday to prepare everything.’
‘With luck, the undertakers won’t be able to do it till next week,’ Mrs Hardy said. ‘Will you come with me, Mabel? I’m really not up to it on my own.’
The funeral
was arranged for Friday afternoon at Christchurch, and the undertaker said he would be sending one of his staff round to lay out the body later that afternoon. Once Mrs Gladsworthy had been placed in her coffin, he recommended it should be placed on trestles in a room of their choice on the ground floor. He said he would see to ordering flowers, not just for the hearse but for the room where the coffin was to be placed. As they were so close to the church, everyone could walk to and from the funeral.
Mr Bedford had agreed to place an obituary in The Times and told Mrs Hardy to let other people know. It seemed that was all he intended to do. He had even changed his mind about his arrival and said it would now be on Thursday evening; Mrs Hardy was to make up beds for himself, his wife and their three daughters.
‘Well, at least you won’t have him interfering with your arrangements,’ Mabel said to the other two very anxious women. ‘He’ll be the one who will look bad if anything goes wrong, not you two.’
Many of Mrs Gladsworthy’s neighbours and friends didn’t have telephones, so Mabel – who had neater handwriting than Cook or the housekeeper – was charged with the job of writing on black-edged cards, informing them of her funeral. Then she hand-delivered them.
On Friday morning, the day of the funeral, Mabel got up an hour early, despite having been up extremely late the previous evening, waiting on Mr Bedford and his family. Mrs Bedford was a weak, whey-faced woman who deferred to her husband constantly, and the three daughters – Constance, Faith and Emily, twenty, eighteen and fifteen – simpered and giggled inappropriately. They were also very rude, prying into cupboards and drawers as if it was their own home. All three of them wanted the single room, and the younger sisters sulked when their mother said Constance, the eldest, should have it. Anyone would’ve thought there was something unattractive about the other, spacious bedroom with twin beds.
Mr Bedford was as unlike his sister as it was possible to be. Short, stout, dark-haired and with a moustache so thick it looked fake. He was also bombastic and very loud. ‘Soup!’ he exclaimed, as dinner was brought into the dining room. ‘One only serves soup at luncheon!’
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