Softly Grow the Poppies Page 22

  ‘Aye up, our Rose, what’s ter do? Oh, give over, Ginger, do, we can’t hear ourselves think. Now then, what’s up, my lass?’

  ‘It’s Bertha, Dolly,’ Rose panted.

  ‘She was coughing blood, Dolly,’ Rose said quietly.

  Both women became silent, looking at each other with dread.

  Then: ‘Blood, lass, nay you don’t have that with a cold.’

  ‘I know, Dolly, and then—Oh Dolly, they’re dead!’

  ‘I’ll get over there directly,’ Dolly said firmly. ‘Oo’s with her now? That lad of hers can barely stand.’

  ‘Sit down, Dolly, you’re going nowhere near her and neither are you, Nessie. I’ve an awful feeling it’s that influenza, that’s coming back with the soldiers. I was reading in the paper that—’

  Nessie made a scornful snort. ‘Nay, tekk no notice of papers, Miss Rose. They’ll say owt ter get yer ter—’

  But Rose was through the kitchen and down the hall to the little niche that housed the telephone. The two elderly women sank slowly to their chairs, for they had heard about the speed of the disease in America where their returning soldiers were spreading the illness throughout the land. They were not aware, since neither read a newspaper, that the disease was making inroads in countries all over the world, including their own.

  Dr Smith, who had been the family doctor as long as Rose could remember, answered the telephone himself. He sounded weary and for a second it occurred to Rose that he must be getting on. He had seemed old when she was a child.

  ‘Oh, Doctor, thank goodness you’re in. I’ve—’

  ‘Just walked in, my dear. It is Miss Beechworth?’

  ‘It is, but how did you know, Doctor?’

  ‘My memory is not what it was but I remember voices. Is that not strange?’ he mused as though talking to himself.

  Rose wished he would let her speak, so quite rudely and she was sorry for it, she interrupted him.

  ‘It is my laundry-maid, Doctor. She has died very suddenly. I’ve just come from her cottage and . . . well, she was coughing up blood and I—’

  ‘It sounds as though it is what they are calling Spanish flu, Miss Beechworth. I’m sorry to say it is ravaging the whole world . . .’

  Rose clung to the shelf on which the telephone stood. Why had she not known of this, for God’s sake? She had read of the flu in the newspaper but had not realised its spread was of such epidemic proportions. Where else had it settled in Liverpool and its outskirts? Were there men and women, even children, now in the same condition as Bertha and if so how long would it be before it attacked Beechworth and Summer Place?

  As the doctor rambled on, his voice calm, steady, but not comforting, she heard voices at the door that opened into the stable yard. Harry was laughing at something but as suddenly as it began, the laughter died away. Dolly was speaking, her voice trembling. Rose thanked the doctor who said he would be there as soon as he could and she replaced the receiver, turning to see Harry coming through the kitchen door into the hall.

  He looked the picture of health, his face ruddy, his eyes bright, his dark hair in a windblown tangle on his head. He wore a tweed jacket, beige breeches and knee-high riding boots. Even as her mind scurried like a hamster in a cage she had time to consider how well he looked, how handsome, then she began to babble, her words running into one another. She was bewildered and at the same time entranced by his closeness as he stood before her, strong, steady, calm. His calmness calmed her.

  ‘Rose, start again. Dolly was incomprehensible so slowly tell me what has happened. Bertha she says is—’

  ‘She’s dead, Harry,’ taking his hands as his reached out to hers, holding them in hers lest she fall. ‘There was blood . . . You know what it is, don’t you? I can tell—’

  ‘Yes, Rose, so if you would go and join the ladies in the kitchen and well . . . I would be obliged if you would speak to Charlie. He’s inclined to get the willies over even the slightest thing. I will take over here and speak to Alice wherever she is. It appears she might be needed after all.’

  ‘Do you know?’

  ‘I don’t know but she must be found and brought here. Will must be brought home and made to stay indoors though he won’t like it. Charlie will have to be watched for the moment and Dolly and Nessie are the only ones to do it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they are here all the time. Can you shout for Tom and Jossy to come to the kitchen door? You’d best get Mary but I think she can go back to Summer Place. I’ll go over and see to the other servants and—’

  He stopped speaking suddenly, staring in the direction of the strip of garden at the side of the house where two young girls were chattering and laughing together, one with an empty laundry basket on her hip.

  ‘Who the devil are those two and what the hell do they think they’re doing lolling about together as though they haven’t a care in the world?’

  Rose clutched at his arm.

  ‘It’s Mary and Elsie. Perhaps helping with the laundry.’

  ‘Mary must come back to Summer Place at once. Charlie and I haven’t been in contact with anyone connected to the . . . the sick people at Primrose Cottage.’

  ‘Arthur, her husband, was here this morning, sir,’ Dolly piped up. ‘He came to tell us she were poorly.’

  ‘Did he come inside?’

  ‘No, sir, just stood on’t doorstep.’

  ‘Then I think we can chance myself and Charlie, plus Alice when she is found, depending on where she has been, returning to Summer Place.’

  His face which had been filled with tenderness for Rose froze into a stern expression, blank of all emotion. All signs of his loving feelings for Rose had slipped away and with a brief oath he pushed past her, tearing to the back door and the corner of the house.

  ‘You two girls,’ he roared, ‘get into the house at once.’ Mary almost dropped her basket and Elsie squeaked and grabbed at the laundry-maid.

  Rose, who had followed him, said, ‘You’re frightening them, Harry.’

  ‘They need to be frightened, Rose. Now will the pair of you stop dithering and do as you’re told. Both of you wait in the kitchen until I get there. I will talk to you later. Quickly, dammit,’ as the two servants almost bumped into one another in their effort to do as they were told.

  He whirled about and ran towards the gate into the lane and as he reached where the children were playing caused pandemonium by grabbing Will and holding him under one arm with great difficulty since the child struggled fiercely, and shouted at the rest of them.

  ‘Listen to me, all of you. You are to go to your own homes and stay there until I come and speak to your parents.’

  ‘But we wasn’t doing nuffink, sir,’ one boy whined.

  ‘I didn’t say you were but you are to do as you’re told or you will be in a great deal of trouble.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the braver of the children said truculently, pulling at his brother. They were Alfie and John, Jinny and Dan Herbert’s boys.

  It did not take Harry long to sort them all out into their respective places in this crisis that had come upon them, the children’s outrage having no effect on him whatsoever. They had been having a lovely time with their game and could see no reason why they should all go home. What would they do when they got there? they asked one another sullenly but Harry was adamant. He fought Will every step of the way, threatening to box the boy’s ears if he didn’t do as he was told for bloody once.

  ‘You sweared then,’ Will shouted.

  ‘I’ll do something worse in a minute.

  ‘Have you a spare cupboard?’ he asked Dolly as he carried the yelling, struggling child into the kitchen. Somehow he must impress on him that he meant it.

  Dolly was confused and upset for she loved the little lad and the children were doing nothing wrong in her opinion, but Sir Harry was determined to show the wilful child that this – and he – were serious. She supposed he was right as it would be a disaster if any of them caught t
he dreadful disease. It seemed thousands were dying of it so it was for the best if the bairns were all kept indoors though she pitied their poor mothers.

  ‘Well, Sir Harry, there’s a small one under the stairs next to the telephone but surely—’

  ‘You hear that, boy!’ Harry roared. ‘The cupboard under the stairs.’

  Will began to cry now though he still aimed kicks at Harry. With a sigh Harry sat down, a fascinated circle round him, frightened themselves but at the same time wondering what was to come next. In a strange way the servants were quite enjoying this excitement in their dull lives. With the war over – though they were sorry for those involved in it like poor Mr Charlie who seemed to have lost his mind – it had given them something outside their tedious days to liven things up.

  Harry pulled the boy on to his knee, reluctant to do this to him but he must be made to realise the seriousness of what was happening.

  ‘Will, you know Bertha who does the laundry?’

  The boy nodded mutinously.

  ‘And her lad Sandy, who was a soldier?’

  Again Will nodded.

  ‘Sandy came home from the trenches with a terrible illness that was very contagious – catching. That means he could give it to someone else.’

  ‘His poorly leg? It has a hole in it made wiv a bullet. A nasty German. A Hun did it, Sandy ses.’ The boy nodded his head sagely is if to affirm the importance of what he was saying. ‘Has Bertha catched a bullet hole?’

  ‘No, lad. Sandy, as well as his poorly leg, brought home an illness called influenza.’

  ‘Oh yes, the girls skip to it. A little bird, I fink.’ Scornfully: ‘Girls are daft the things they do, Alfie ses so,’ looking round at the servants as though to let them know that what Alfie said was gospel!

  ‘Maybe they are, Will, but this illness, influenza, is making people poorly all over the country. They are dying from it. Sandy had it and sadly he gave it to Bertha.’

  ‘That was naughty, Harry.’

  ‘He didn’t mean to, Will, but, well, he gave it to Bertha and . . . and . . . well . . .’ Harry looked about him helplessly as though asking for strength to tell this small and innocent child the tragedy of Bertha and Sandy. Will’s first brush with death close to home.

  He sighed and hugged the boy to him. This was Charlie’s son, Harry’s nephew and Rose turned away to hide her tears

  ‘Poor Sandy and Bertha have both died, Will.’

  Will looked astounded then burst into noisy tears, falling against his uncle’s chest, then scrambled from his knee and ran to Dolly. She caught him to her and held him against that deep comforting bosom where the child had so many times found consolation. She petted him and soothed him and the others watched, most in tears. What next? their sad faces asked.

  Just when the war was done with and families were reunited this killing disease came along and it looked as though it would sweep all their hopes for peace at last into thin air.

  18

  The young man almost stumbled as he dragged himself along Lark Hill Lane. He came to a pair of impressive wrought-iron gates set in the stone wall that evidently surrounded what must be a house of some splendour. The gates were firmly closed.

  He put out a hand and clung to one of them. For several minutes he stood there, then, putting the small suitcase he was carrying on the ground, he leaned on them in what appeared to be total exhaustion. They were double gates and as he held on to the left one it opened as though it had not been firmly secured. He almost fell as the gate swung open. God in heaven, was it a sign? he thought wearily. He had been tramping for weeks up and down long, gravelled drives such as this one and had been turned away menacingly. Well, could you blame folk with this hellish influenza decimating the population? But this one seemed to be inviting him in. He had decided only this morning that he could take no more. He would find a dry ditch, lie down and let his weary body and soul go where they would.

  There were two men, one elderly, the other no more than a lad. They talked quietly together as they worked side by side with their hoes, moving along a bed in which spring flowers were beginning to peep through the soil, skirting the roots of broad oak trees. They did not notice him as they had their backs to the gates but the dog did. A large, golden retriever that began to bark. Not threateningly but in a friendly way. The weary man had had a retriever once in the sweetness of the past, dead now, he supposed, as was his past.

  At once the men turned and took several steps towards him, accompanied by the dog which wagged its tail. They held their hoes as though they were weapons and then, as an afterthought, inched backwards warily.

  ‘Now then, lad,’ the older man said sharply, but not unkindly. ‘We don’t want no ’awkers ’ere.’ Tom eyed the intruder’s khaki overcoat which was threadbare and stained. This was not the first ex-soldier who had come begging in this ‘land fit for heroes’ as one politician had called it, wrongly, it seemed.

  ‘Forgive me,’ a cultured voice whispered. ‘I’m begging for one thing only and that’s work. I’ll do anything. Any odd dirty job nobody else wants. It’s been four months since I was discharged and I’m – oh, I’m sorry, it’s this influenza thing, isn’t it? People are afraid and it’s not surprising. I don’t think I carry it.’ He swayed and Jossy would have darted forward, being a kind lad, but Tom held him firmly by the arm.

  ‘We’ve ’ad two died of it an’ want no more. Miss Rose ses ter let no one in.’ Tom was thinking of poor Bertha and her son Sandy from Primrose Cottage. Arthur, husband of one and father of the other, grieved all alone since his two other lads had been killed in the trenches. Miss Rose and Sir Harry had been most insistent since then that no one was to come on to either estate until the epidemic was over. But sweet Jesus, this poor chap, presumably a discharged officer, looked to be at the end of his tether, and as though to prove it, he dropped his battered suitcase and with a whispered moan fell unconscious to the grass.

  Tom and Jossy looked at him in astonishment, then at each other not knowing what to do. For humanity’s sake could they just leave him there in a heap of dusty khaki, his face almost the same colour as his overcoat?

  ‘What shall us do, Tom?’ whispered Jossy. ‘We can’t just leave poor bugger, but he might have the influenza.’

  ‘Run fer Miss Rose, lad, an’ look sharp. I’ll stand guard,’ as though the prone figure were a dangerous animal.

  ‘Aye,’ Jossy replied thankfully. Dropping his hoe, he sped up the sloping lawn and round to the back of the house, for even in this emergency he wouldn’t have dreamed of using the front door even if it was quicker. As he ran into the stable yard Fred, the groom and stable lad looked over the half door of the stable in bewilderment.

  ‘What’s up, Jossy?’ And as he spoke Miss Alice – they could not get used to calling her Mrs Summer – came from the kitchen wiping her hands on a cloth.

  ‘Yes, what’s all the fuss about, Jossy?’ she asked absently.

  At once Jossy turned to her, relieved to have someone of authority in charge. ‘Eeh, thank God, Miss Alice . . .’

  ‘What is the matter, Jossy?’

  ‘There’s a man, soldier I reckon, been trampin’ the streets I . . . well, ’e’s fallen down on’t lawn. Tom’s with ’im but neither on us wants ter touch ’im on account o’ this influenza an’ Miss Rose an’ Sir Harry said . . . Well, we just can’t leave ’im there, poor sod – beg pardon, Miss Alice – he looks right poorly.’

  Alice took hold of his arm. ‘It’s all right, Jossy, just calm down. I’ll come and have a look at him and—’

  ‘Eeh, no, Miss Alice, what if he’s got the influenza thing? Yer mun’t touch him. ’Appen if us leaves him he’ll wake up an’ be on his way. Me an’ Tom’ll watch him.’ Jossy was mortified. He didn’t know what he expected anyone to do when he raced up to the house but he certainly was not inclined to allow delicate Miss Alice to come into contact with the poor chap who Tom was guarding with his very life if necessary. ‘P’raps it’d be bett
er if Sir Harry or even Mr Charlie’ – though what help he thought the poor brother of Sir Harry could manage was a mystery. But certainly not Miss Alice, pretty, dainty Miss Alice, who, if he had known it, had attended to more horrifying crises than he would ever encounter in her years on the battlefields of France. He didn’t know what he had been thinking about as he chased after her down the lawn where it seemed she was to examine the chap.

  ‘Nay, Miss Alice,’ he panted, ‘don’t you go touchin’ him.’

  ‘And what are we to do with him, Jossy? Leave him here to perish?’ Alice rolled the man on to his back, felt his forehead, lifted his eyelids, put her ear to his chest, opened his mouth and peered inside, while Tom and Jossy watched helplessly. Then at last she stood up.

  ‘This poor man does not have influenza, men. He is starving and exhausted. You can lift him and carry him to the house. We’ll find a bed for him and I will nurse him. I had plenty of experience during the war.’

  The men exchanged glances but Miss Alice had been at the front so they gingerly lifted the unconscious man. One at his feet and one at his shoulders. Tom shook his head compassionately. ‘He don’t weigh much, Miss Alice, poor lad.’

  ‘Follow me, Tom,’ she ordered. ‘I’ll bring his suitcase.’ When she looked inside it she was not surprised to find dusters, brushes, scrubbing soap which he had apparently been hoping to sell. He was one of the ‘heroes’ of the land and the battles he had fought to protect it.

  They carried him through the stable yard, watched by Fred, and into the kitchen where Dolly, Nessie and the others backed away as though the young man Tom and Jossy carried were a leper.

  ‘It’s all right, ladies,’ Alice said serenely. ‘He hasn’t got influenza. He’s an ex-soldier I should imagine who can’t find work and is quite literally starving to death, which I’m sure Dolly and Nessie will soon put right with a bowl of Nessie’s soup. Tom and Jossy will put him in a bath and I’m sure Sir Harry or Mr Charlie can find something for him to wear. Then he shall be put in a spare bed where he can rest. Now, don’t all stand gaping at him. See, he’s coming round so perhaps soup first then between them Dolly and Nessie will have him on the road to recovery. Poor boy, he offered his life to his country and look what it’s done for him.’