Authors: Margaret Dickinson
‘You’ll have to see Matron,’ Bridie said promptly and then grasped Eveleen’s hands. ‘Oh, Auntie Evie, Bertie Hyde’s here. You know, Mrs Hyde’s son. Does
she know he’s here? She must come to see him. He’s – he’s . . .’ She swallowed painfully, controlled her excited outburst and added, ‘Very, very ill.’
Eveleen at once realized the situation. ‘I’ll bring her back myself this afternoon, Bridie.’
Bridie hugged her aunt. ‘I knew you would. Thank you.’
There was one bed spare in the house. Sadly a patient had died in the night and it had been Bridie’s job to strip the bed and put fresh sheets on it. It was not her place to tell her aunt
that there might well be a place for Bob Porter, but as soon as the matron had given permission, Bridie helped him up the stairs and into the room he was to share with three others.
‘Could I have a word with you, Mrs Stokes?’ Dulcie asked.
‘I’ll wait in the motor, Eveleen,’ Fred murmured.
Dulcie smiled at him. ‘They’re serving elevenses in the recreation room, if you’d like to join the patients. I’m sure they’d love to see a new face.’
‘Right you are, Matron.’
As Fred left them, Dulcie drew Eveleen into her office and motioned for her to take a seat.
‘Is everything all right? It’s not about Bridie, is it?’
Dulcie smiled. ‘No, no, she’s doing really well. And on the whole all is well here. It’s just that we’re running awfully short of bandages. It sounds silly, I know, but I
hadn’t realized we would get so many post-operative cases and patients with such dreadful wounds that won’t heal. Do you think Mr Stokes might be able to help, with all his
contacts?’
Immediately into Eveleen mind’s eye came the picture of the rolls and rolls of three-inch-wide lace stored at the factory, orders that had been cancelled at the beginning of the war.
She smiled. ‘I might have the very thing for you.’ Swiftly she explained to Dulcie. ‘Would it be useful?’
‘It’d be wonderful. We’ve plenty of dressings to go on the wounds themselves, you see. It’s just the bandages to hold the dressings in place that we’re short
of.’
‘I’ll bring them this afternoon.’
‘Oh, there’s no need—’ Dulcie began and then she saw the look on Eveleen’s face and understood. ‘Ah, Bridie has told you. You’re bringing Mrs
Hyde.’
Wordlessly Eveleen nodded.
‘Luke, could we make bandages on our curtain-making machines?’
‘Bandages?’ For a moment, Luke Manning appeared nonplussed, but even as she watched him, Eveleen could see the idea begin to take shape in his mind. ‘Bandages,’ he
murmured again and then added, ‘I don’t see why not, if we had the right yarn to do it. You’d get the homeworkers to cut the fabric into strips and finish them off, would
you?’
Eveleen nodded. ‘Or the women in the inspection room. I mean to talk the idea over with Mr Stokes, of course, but I needed to know from you if we could do it first.’
‘I’ll give it a try myself, Eveleen, and show you.’ She felt him watching her, shaking his head.
‘What? What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing, lass. It’s just you. You’re a little marvel, you are. Always coming up with new ideas, to say nothing of helping Bob Porter – and after all he tried to do to
you.’
Solemnly Eveleen said, ‘He’s hurt, Luke. You could say destroyed. I mean to help him more, if I can.’
‘You mean you’d have him back here?’
She nodded. ‘I know it would mean you stepping down again, but . . .’ She was interrupted by Luke letting out a loud guffaw of laughter.
‘Don’t you worry about that. I’d be only too glad to hand back the reins to Bob. He’s welcome to ’em. I don’t reckon too much to being a manager. It’s a
lot of aggravation, if you ask me.’
‘Of course, I don’t know if he’d want to come back. He’s lost his leg, you know.’
Shocked, Luke stared at her. ‘Oh, poor bugger.’
The fact that he forgot himself enough to swear in front of her spoke volumes to Eveleen.
‘You know, I’m so very proud of you, my dear,’ Brinsley said, as they sat together in Eveleen’s office at the factory. ‘Everything you’ve
achieved. Finding new work for the factory and warehouse and even sending workers out to your uncle to keep his little place going. How are things at Flawford, by the way?’
‘Fine.’ Eveleen smiled. ‘I visit as often as I can, which I have to admit isn’t as often as I’d like. The women we sent have fitted in very well and my grandmother
and my uncle are well cared for now by Mrs Turner, who lives in the village. Bridie arranged all that before she left.’
‘Ah yes, Bridie.’ Brinsley smiled at the thought of the girl. ‘She’s a born nurse. You see, my dear, what I mean. Not only did you set up the home for the care of all
those soldiers, but you found little Bridie her life’s work.’
‘That was your idea too. The home, I mean. You made all the financial outlay.’
Brinsley shrugged off her praise. ‘It’s the very least I could do. Besides, it helps me to feel I’m doing my bit towards the war.’ His voice shook a little as he added,
‘Helping to keep Richard safe.’ He cleared his throat and said more strongly, ‘But it was you who made it all happen. He will be so proud of you too, when he comes
home.’
Eveleen echoed the words in her mind like a fervent prayer. When he comes home.
At Fairfield House Mrs Hyde sat by her son’s bed, holding his hand. She had spoken to Dulcie and had been told the sad truth. Her son had only days, possibly hours, to
live. In the bed opposite Field wiped his eyes and could find no words of comfort to say to the mother of his wartime companion.
Bridie’s help was more practical. She brought cups of tea, even a meal, but the woman hardly touched anything. The nurses did their best to keep the boy comfortable, but at three
o’clock in the morning, with his mother at his side and Bridie wiping his brow, Bertie died. Briefly Mrs Hyde closed her eyes and wept silent tears. Her grief, so dignified and controlled,
was more heart-rending than if she had ranted and raved. She kissed her son’s forehead and stroked his cheek and then allowed Bridie to lead her up the attic stairs to Bridie’s own
bed.
‘You lie down and rest now,’ the girl told her gently but firmly. ‘I’m on duty all night, so my bed’s not needed.’
Without arguing, Mrs Hyde lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes. ‘I shan’t sleep. I’ll just rest awhile, but I shan’t . . .’ Her voice faded and already
the woman had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Gently Bridie stroked the grey hair back from Mrs Hyde’s face and covered her with a blanket.
Downstairs, Bridie went in search of the sister on night duty to tell her of Bertie’s death. Only much, much later when she went to her now empty room to sleep during the following day,
did Bridie allow herself to shed tears for the poor young boy.
Relentlessly the war continued abroad. At times Richard’s letters to Bridie were quite jovial.
We decided that everything was too quiet and we ought to liven things up a little by annoying the enemy. The artillery began by strafing his billets, but of course he
wasn’t going to stand for this and he soon let us know it. Then one of our companies carried out a raid. While this was going on, I was on duty in the support line and the enemy started
to strafe the line sending over 5.9s three at a time. We could even see the flash of his guns and he was sending them over about every half minute. It’s the waiting for them to arrive
that’s the worst. It seems ages, though it can only be seconds. Then there’s an explosion and you wait again and each explosion seems to get nearer and nearer as he traverses from
left to right and back again. It played havoc with the support line, but somehow he missed our little spot.
By the way, you’ll never guess what we call the sixty-pounders – toffee apples!!
At home the war had its effect too. More and more women were employed in what were traditionally classed as men’s jobs. They were now a familiar sight behind shop counters, working as
railway porters, as bus and tram conductresses, postwomen and even policewomen. But most of all they nursed the sick and wounded coming home from the carnage of the Front.
Just before Christmas Richard wrote,
It’s raining every day. The trenches are knee-deep in water and caving in, so consequently there is very little shelter and we’re wet through all the time.
Luckily we can all swim!
From his letters, it seemed as if his life consisted of digging, carrying rations, and spending a few days in the trenches only to return to fatigues once more. Now he gave even Bridie very
little news of the shelling and the machine-gun fire. He seemed to concentrate only on the conditions rather than the fighting, the constant noise when under bombardment and the ever-present fear
that even the bravest must surely feel.
In late January and early February, he told them,
The cold is dreadful. Eggs and tins of milk are frozen solid and even the tea, brought up in large Thermos-type flasks and hot when poured, has ice on the surface within
three or four minutes. Today, as I was cutting up a loaf of bread, each slice sparkled like diamonds . . .
‘He never asks about what’s going on here, does he?’ Eveleen remarked, as once again she and Bridie exchanged their most recent letters, sitting together in the library at
Fairfield House to read them. ‘I send him long, newsy letters about everything that’s happening here. About the factory and – oh, everything. But all he seems to want to talk
about is how his feet are.’
‘It’s understandable,’ Bridie murmured. ‘We’ve got patients here with trench foot. It’s horrible.’
Towards the end of March, Richard came home again on leave. He had changed again. This time he did not sit, lost in thought. The apathetic look in his eyes had been replaced by
a cold and heartless attitude. He visited the factory, striding through the machine shop and then the warehouse, climbing to each floor. He found fault with everything. The girls working in the
inspection room were too young. They were idle and their work was not up to standard. The women working in the machine shops were spending too much time chattering and not helping the twisthands
properly.
‘The place is untidy, too. Get someone to clean it up,’ he barked at Eveleen.
‘How could you?’ she demanded when they returned home. ‘You humiliated me in front of the workers. How do you expect me to earn their respect if they hear you talking to me
like that?’
Richard, his eyes steely, shrugged his shoulders. ‘I only spoke the truth. If you don’t keep a tight rein on the running of things, it’ll get out of hand. The youngsters will
take advantage of leniency. It’s human nature. They’re not to blame – you are. You should never have antagonized Bob Porter. At least he knew how to run the factory.’
Eveleen bit her lip, unsure how to handle this man, who seemed to have changed from the loving, caring husband she knew into an unfeeling stranger. She went to him, put her hands on his chest
and, standing on tiptoe, kissed his mouth.
‘I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better. Your father’s much better these days. Perhaps I can persuade him to come to the factory more often.’
‘It shouldn’t be necessary. You should be able to handle it. We’ve given you the authority,’ he reminded her harshly. ‘You’re a director now.’
Later, as they sat together after dinner, she tried to confide in him about buying Fairfield House. ‘Your father agreed. He thought it was an excellent idea.’
‘It is,’ Richard said. He gave her a tight smile. ‘And you got your revenge at last on young Dunsmore, I take it.’ There was sarcasm in his tone, something she had never
heard from her husband before.
Eveleen felt the colour rising in her face. He had seen straight through her motives, as she had feared he would. ‘I feel badly about that now. Especially since he said I was forcing him
to enlist.’
‘I shouldn’t let that worry you,’ Richard said with callous nonchalance. ‘It was high time he did his bit. He’d have been called up sooner or later
anyway.’
His words, which should have brought her some measure of comfort, did not.
Later, in bed, there was no problem of impotency this time, but he took her roughly, selfishly, with no tenderness, leaving Eveleen sleepless far into the night and shedding silent tears into
her pillow.
On 6 April, just after Richard had returned to France, the news came that America had entered the war.
‘Now we’ll show ’em,’ Josh beamed. ‘Now we’ve got them on our side, we can’t lose. It’ll all be over soon now, mi duck.’
But it was not until June that the first American troops stepped onto French soil to be given a heroes’ welcome.
At the end of July came Passchendaele and the newspapers were once more full of daily reports of the carnage and loss of life.
And now there were no more letters from Richard.
‘I don’t think he’s there,’ Eveleen told Bridie. ‘But unless he writes I’ve no idea where he is. He – he could have been moved,’ she whispered.
‘He could be there.’
They stared at each other, neither knowing what to say to give comfort to the other.
There was nothing they could say.
Towards the end of August the matron sent for Bridie. Fearing the worst, the girl hurried to her office and only relaxed when she realized the news was not about her uncle.
‘We have a new patient arriving tomorrow and I want you to take special care of him. He’s a bit of a mystery.’ Dulcie looked down at the sheet of paper in front of her.
‘He’s lost his memory and no-one else seems to know who he is. The authorities have tried to piece together what might have happened. He was picked up off the south coast and at first
it was thought he could be a spy. He’s been in hospital: under guard, I might add. But now they seem fairly satisfied that he must be a survivor from a British ship that was sunk in the
Channel about the time he was found. His uniform – if he’d had one – was ruined by sea water and there was no identification on him.’ She smiled up at Bridie. ‘But his
accent, they say, is pure Lincolnshire. A very difficult one for a foreign spy to impersonate.’