Through Glass Eyes (11 page)

Lucy and Alice were quietly pleased. Christmas Day would not be the same without him, especially as Edward could not join them. Lucy wanted to make sure it was a Christmas they would all remember.

The two families had agreed that this year they would have Christmas dinner in Pansy’s cottage. With Timmy’s help, Alice made yards of paper chains to decorate her mother’s living-room. James found a small fir tree in the woods which he potted and placed next to the piano, and, as usual, Lucy made three holly wreaths, one for each of the cottages.

As Pansy hammered a nail into her front door to hang the decoration on, a man called to her from the lane, ‘That looks right pretty, luv.’

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Pansy replied, smiling. She didn’t know the fellow but with half a dozen dead rabbits hanging from his shoulder, she assumed he was a local.

‘What about a nice hare or rabbit for dinner on Boxing Day?’ he said.

Pansy thought for a moment. She could make a rabbit stew. She was sure James and Lucy would enjoy it. ‘Are they fresh?’

‘Fresh this morning.
Shot clean through the head. No damage to the flesh. Have a look if you like.’

‘How much?’

‘A shilling apiece.
Three for half-a-crown.’

‘Can you wait a minute?’

‘I’ve got all the time in the world for you, luv!’

Pansy didn’t notice the sly wink as she hurried inside. She returned with the shilling piece. ‘I haven’t seen you in the village. Do you come from these parts?’

‘I get around,’ the man said, unhooking one of his carcasses. ‘How long have you lived here?’

‘Almost four years,’ she said.

‘And you got kids?’

‘Yes, a boy and a girl.’

‘Nice family,’ the man said, re-adjusting the load on his shoulder. ‘I’ll be back in a few days to collect the skin. Happy Christmas!’

‘Happy Christmas to you!’
Pansy echoed.

The man was whistling as he wandered down the hill towards the village.

That evening, the smell of mince tarts wafted into Lucy’s front room where James and Alice were singing the final verse of ‘Good King Wenceslas’. Sitting in the armchair by the kitchen fire, Lucy was dozing, when a noise woke her. It was a strange sound and it was coming from next door. Thinking it might be a chicken squawking with a fox at its tail, she grabbed the broom and ran into the back garden. Only when she was outside did she realize it was Pansy’s cry. Her neighbour was screaming and black smoke was billowing from her kitchen door.

‘James! Alice!’ she yelled. ‘Quick! The house is on fire!’

Chapter 10

Stanley Crowther

Within seconds of the candle toppling, the Chinese lantern ignited in a ball of fire and flames leapt up the paper decorations. With hardly a sound tongues of fire ran right and left, consuming the chains, link by link, and at the same time, scattering burning fragments on the floor and furniture. Pansy had swung at the flames with a towel but her efforts had only succeeded in fanning the blaze. By the time the others arrived, the curtains were alight.

‘Water!’ shouted James. ‘Quick, grab some buckets, bowls, anything!’

The thick smoke swirling overhead suffocated some of the blaze but when the running flame reached the corner of the room, the fire flared again. The longest chain hanging diagonally across the room seared from the wall and like a fiery dragon’s tail curled and twisted before drifting down.

‘Alice! Get out of the way!’ James screamed. Too late. The length of burning paper settled over her shoulder and slithered down her back. Within seconds her hair was alight and the back of her skirt burning like a torch.

Too shocked to scream, she tried to dash the flames out with her hands.

James pushed her to the ground, grabbed the rag-rug and rolled her in it. Lucy fought the fire as best she could, desperately knocking the other trimmings from the wall before they ignited, while Pansy ran back and forth with buckets of water to throw over the burning woodwork.

Only when the fire was finally out did the three sink to the floor, blackened, coughing and exhausted. For a while no one spoke. They had beaten the blaze before it had really got hold. The acrid smoke, the smell of singed hair and scorched cloth would fade in a few days. The ceiling beams, though charred and steaming, were strong and thick. The damage to the cottage could have been much worse. They had been lucky.

But Alice was not so fortunate. Since James had laid her on the floor she had not moved. Her hands were burned black. One side of her head was bald, her scalp red and raw. Where the fire had burned through her skirt, it had charred the skin from the back of her legs. As she lay on the floor, James knew it was serious.

‘I’m going for the doctor!’ he said.

After spending three weeks in Leeds Infirmary, Alice hobbled up the path from the taxicab. James had wanted to carry her but she wouldn’t let him. Feeling helpless, he tried to chide her playfully for being independent but her forced smile couldn’t hide the pain she was suffering. Unable to bend her legs, she swung them stiffly and leaned heavily on his arm.

As she lowered herself down on the bed, he could see tears shining in her dark eyes. At times her face bore the same desolate expression he had seen on that unforgettable day when he had found her on the moors.

‘I can’t go away and leave you like this,’ James said, gently covering her with a cotton sheet.

Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘It’s your duty, James. I will be all right.’

He wanted to hold her in his arms. He wanted to touch her hands, but they were swathed in bandages. He wanted to sit beside her on the bed and stroke her hair, but he dare not in case he hurt her.

‘I love you, Alice,’ he said, realizing for the first time how much she meant to him.  ‘Damn the army! Damn the war!’ he yelled.

Alice smiled. ‘You’d better not let your mother hear you swearing like that!’

‘Promise you won’t tell?’

‘I promise.’

When James climbed the stairs to Alice’s bedroom the following morning his feet felt heavy. He had come to say goodbye. His waiting was over. Now he was going to join his regiment. But his burning desire to go had waned. Now he was angry with himself for being selfish. He regretted his eagerness to enlist more than he had regretted anything else before. It was as if the fire which had burned Alice’s hands, legs and hair had consumed his desire to fight. If only he could wait six months until she recovered, then he could leave and not feel as guilty.

Though he tried to sound positive, he knew his voice lacked conviction.

Alice listened but had little to say. She realized it was unlikely he would come home again before his company was sent to Europe. James knew it too. He would not see her until he came back from the warfront and neither of them knew when that would be.

Leaning down he kissed her cheek.

‘Take care,’ she called, as he turned away.

James wasn’t able to reply.

Alice heard his footfall on the stairs. Heard the front door creak open. Heard her mother’s muffled voice. The words, ‘Good luck!’ echoed by Timmy’s high-pitched cry. She heard the front door close, then lying alone, listening to the silence, Alice knew that James had gone.

On the chair beside the bed, Lucy’s old doll sat upright, her luminous blue eyes were fixed on the window across the room. The porcelain face was dirty, streaked with smoke from the fire, the brown tunic smeared with white ash. Alice reached out her bandaged hands. She wanted something to hold onto. But as she touched the doll it wavered and almost fell over.

 Pushing her face deep into the pillow, Alice closed her eyes and wept.

Pansy heard the cry from the lane: ‘Skins! Rabbit and hare!’

‘Just a minute,’ she replied, collecting the dried skin and taking it to the man at the front gate. When he opened his sack, Pansy dropped it in.

‘Have you got any more rabbits,’ she asked. ‘My daughter likes the stew. She’s been sick and it’s helping her get better, so I don’t mind paying.’

‘I’ll bring a couple next week. And seeing your daughter’s sick, I’ll only charge you for one.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Mr—?’

He winked. ‘Stan Crowther’s the name, but you can call me Stan.’

She hesitated for a moment. ‘Do you do odd jobs, Stan?’

‘Depends on what you have in mind?’

‘The tree out the back of the cottages lost a big bough in the wind last week. It landed on the garden wall. It needs chopping up, and the wall needs rebuilding otherwise the horses will get out.’

‘You got horses, eh?’

‘They’re my neighbours.’

‘Where’s your man? Gone to war, has he?’

‘I’m a widow,’ Pansy said.

‘Sorry to hear that. What about the missus next door?’

‘She’s on her own too. Her lad went off a few weeks ago.’

‘So you’ve got no men around,’ he said. ‘How do you manage?’

‘We’re not useless! We manage all right with most stuff. But that limb’s too heavy to shift.’

‘Heavy, you say?’

‘If you can’t do it, my neighbour says she’ll get someone from the village to do the job.’

 Rubbing the stubble on his chin, Stan Crowther stared up at the horse chestnut tree, its long bare branches extending like fingers over the roof. The tree was huge and obviously very old. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I’ll take a look next week.’

Pansy smiled. ‘Next week then.’

‘What did you say his name was?’ Lucy asked.

‘Stanley Crowther.
He’s the man who brings the rabbits. I got two more this morning. Alice likes rabbit stew.’

Lucy stood at Pansy’s kitchen window regarding the man working in the meadow just beyond the back wall.  As she watched, he leaned the axe handle against his thigh, arched his back and glanced up at the tree. In the chill of the morning Lucy wasn’t sure if it was moist breath or tobacco smoke blowing from his mouth.

‘He’s not doing enough to warm himself up!’ she said cynically. As she spoke, Crowther spat on his palm, grasped the axe handle and swung it above his head bringing it down hard on the bough. After a dozen strokes he stopped, lifted his cap and wiped his sleeve across his brow.

‘And where does this Stanley come from?’ Lucy asked.

‘The other side of the moors.’

‘How does he get here? Surely not on that old bicycle?’

‘I don’t know,’ Pansy said, not lifting her head from her ironing. ‘He’s doing a good job, don’t you think?’

Lucy frowned. ‘How much did he say he would charge?’

‘He didn’t, but he said it wouldn’t be much.’

Shaking her head, Lucy wandered out into the back garden. The chickens, expecting some scraps, squawked. On hearing the noise, the sheep, grazing in the meadow, trotted towards the garden gate. Lucy looked at the small flock. Last season’s lambs had grown well, they were almost the size of the old ewes.

Stanley Crowther had heard the hens and was looking in Lucy’s direction but he didn’t acknowledge her. Leaning down he swung the axe again. This time she heard the timber crack.

What was it about this man that irritated her? There was something about him she did not like. It was a feeling she’d experienced before. She shivered. It was cold outside.

The trees on the far hill were bare but in a few weeks it would be spring and their branches would meld in a haze of fresh green. She thought of James. Wondered if his regiment had reached the Continent. Wondered where he was and if Europe was already warmer and greener than England? She wondered what the countryside of France was like. If the flowers were blooming in the meadows. It was hard to comprehend a war fought on fields bursting with the fragrance of spring.

‘Aunt Lucy!’ Alice’s voice startled her. ‘You look worried, Aunty.’

‘I was thinking of James.’

‘I think of him all the time,’ Alice murmured.

Lucy smiled sadly. ‘Let’s go inside, dear. The wind is cold.’

‘Will you help me with my bandages? Ma says you’re a good nurse.’

Lucy nodded and followed Alice inside.

Pale morning light fell across the girl’s hands as she rested them on the table. Lucy unwrapped the lengths of linen with care. When the final turn was unwound, Alice held out her hands and screwed her face. ‘They look like a pair of hen’s feet! Don’t they?’

Turning them over, Lucy sighed. ‘They need fresh air and exercise!’

Alice’s laugh was half-hearted.

‘I’m serious, girl!’ she said, running her fingers across the coils of twisted skin puckering the once soft palms. ‘I’m no expert but I think you must leave the bandages off. If you don’t start using your fingers soon you’ll never use them again.’

Alice looked at her claw-like hands. They were stiff as dried clay. The yellow brown scars across her palms which reached right around her wrists looked as ugly as the one running down her neck, only partly covered by her short hair.

‘I want to be a nurse,’ Alice announced suddenly. ‘I want to help the men who’ve been burned in the war.’ She looked into Lucy’s eyes. ‘I won’t be able to do it if I can’t use my hands, will I?’

Lucy brushed the hair from the girl’s face and smiled sympathetically.

‘Will I, Aunty? Tell me honestly.’

‘I believe nursing isn’t easy.’ She paused. ‘The girls who do it have strong hands and agile fingers.’

‘But it’s what I want to do!’

Lucy rolled up the strips of cloth. ‘No more bandages! I’ve some white gloves upstairs, you can wear those. But you must keep away from the rose bushes and out of the hen house. You don’t want them to get infected and go bad.’

‘But what can I do to make my fingers work again?’

Lucy thought for a moment. ‘Stretch your hands and wiggle your fingers, and when they start to work, play the piano for me. I have missed hearing your tunes.’

That evening Lucy sat beside the fire and reread the first three letters James had written some time ago. All three had been posted in England within a period of six weeks. She smiled as she opened the first one. It was etched with youthful enthusiasm.