The Flight of Swallows Read online

  She was interrupted in her musing by the abrupt and irritated arrival of the nurse who barely knocked on the door since she considered herself of such importance. She was horrified to find ‘mother’ snuggled down in bed with the baby, nurse’s baby, in her arms!

  ‘Mrs Armstrong, I really must protest. Baby should have been brought to the nursery half an hour ago and I was given to understand Mr Armstrong was to bring her. I’m surprised she isn’t crying for a feed right now. The wet nurse is waiting and I’d be obliged if you would—’

  ‘And I’d be obliged if you would not treat me as an imbecile, Nurse. My child is—’

  ‘My responsibility, madam,’ Nurse interrupted unwisely. ‘I was engaged, as was the wet nurse, to see to baby’s needs. Mothers must rest and—’

  ‘Poppycock!’

  ‘I beg your pardon. Mother and baby are—’

  ‘As you can see baby is asleep quite peacefully. I fed her myself, you see, from my breast which was full of milk and what a relief it was to both of us, I can tell you, so you can send the wet nurse packing and yourself as well. My husband will pay you for—’

  ‘I cannot go against the doctor’s orders, Mrs Armstrong,’ though the nurse was not at all sure she approved of Doctor Chapman, who was filled with new-fangled ideas which Nurse abhorred, but work was work and a wage was a wage. ‘Besides, it is not quite the thing for mothers such as yourself to feed their own children. You are a lady.’ Nurse, however, was not certain she agreed with that description despite the fact that Mrs Armstrong was the daughter of one gentleman and the wife of another.

  ‘Thank you, that will be all, Nurse. No, you shall not take the child. In fact I wish the cradle to be brought down here and placed by my bed. Please send someone over to the Dower House and ask Kizzie, Miss Aspin, to come at once.’

  Nurse tried to argue. She was in command when a child was born and not only baby, but ‘mother’ was in her charge. The servants were expected to run and pander to her every wish and here was this . . . this child, for Mrs Armstrong could have been no more than seventeen or eighteen and with her hair hanging about her head in the most unladylike way looked about twelve!

  ‘Madam . . .’

  But madam had had enough. ‘Please do as I say at once or must I ring the bell and get two of the men to escort you from the house?’

  ‘Well!’ Nurse flounced to the door and as she opened it a commotion could be heard coming from downstairs, the noise of many voices all speaking or crying at once.

  ‘What is it? What is that noise?’ Charlotte asked anxiously, clutching her baby to her as though whatever it was might harm her. ‘Will you go down and—’

  ‘I no longer work here, madam, so I will leave you.’

  ‘But it sounds as though—’

  ‘Nothing to do with me.’ And with another flounce Nurse disappeared, apparently on her way to the nursery to pack her bag.

  For a moment Charlotte lay rigidly in her bed then what sounded like a groan of agony floated up the stairs and before she knew it she was out of bed. Lucy was placed safely in the centre of the bed, tucked up so that she could not possibly fall and without donning her dressing gown Charlotte ran along the landing and skimmed downstairs so quickly she almost fell.

  She burst through the kitchen door where the dreadful sounds were coming from and for a moment her heart literally stopped beating. They were all there, Mrs Dickinson, Mrs Groves, the maids, wringing their hands, and strangely several of the outdoor men and, even stranger still, Jack Emmerson, Cec Eveleigh and Jeff Killen from Foxworth Farm. Robbie stood pressed up against the kitchen wall, his face like paper, his eyes wide with shock, staring at the kitchen table where Brooke Armstrong lay, his head thrown back, his hands clutching his thigh from which blood was seeping.

  Jack Emmerson, who was bending over Brooke, looked up and saw her, making nothing of her lawn nightdress and bare feet.

  ‘I did me best, ma’am, but that bugger got ’im cornered and . . . well, I’ad ter shoot ’im.’

  ‘He’s been shot,’ she managed to whisper, looking at Brooke who surely should not be screaming on the kitchen table.

  ‘Not Mr Armstrong, ma’am. The bloody bull, but not before it gored Mr Armstrong.’ Jack’s face was anguished.

  ‘The . . . the doctor?’

  ‘On his way, ma’am, but . . . well . . .’ He seemed to be telling her something dreadful and Charlotte contemplated her life without Brooke in it. It was unimaginable, unbearable, for she loved him so.

  18

  Jack Emmerson was nearly in tears and he was not, as his wife could confirm, a man who showed his feelings.

  ‘Bloody bugger just went mad. Well, us knew ’e were a bad sod, didn’t us, Dicky?’ Dick Boyle nodded his head. ‘But ’e could smell t’cow, tha’ see. Us, me an’ Mr Armstrong, ’ad a pole each, fastened to a ring in ’is nose.’ He turned as though he must explain the procedure to the silent, white-faced, horrified group of servants. ‘A bull, specially a bad-tempered beast like this ’un needed two men ter ’old him. Some’ow . . .’ He bent his head and Dick Boyle put a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘Some’ow Mr Armstrong lost ’is end so there were only me ter ’old ’im. Sweet Jesus, ’e were strong. I ’adn’t a bloody chance . . . ’e ’ad ’im down – master – an’ I thought ’e’s a gonner . . .’

  Charlotte whimpered deep down in her throat.

  ‘Oh, missis, I’m that sorry, but master weren’t used ter . . . anyroad, my chap – I shoulda let ’im – well, ’e got shotgun off byre wall; us allus keeps it there in case. Good Christ, ’e moved fast, did Francie, an’ bloody thing went down like a ton o’ bricks; not on top o’ Mr Armstrong, thank the good Lord but not afore ’e ’ad ’is ’orn in ’is thigh. My missis put a sheet – one of ’er best just off th’airer in’t kitchen – ter try an’ . . . but blood, it won’t stop.’

  ‘Where the dickens is everybody?’ a voice shouted from the yard. ‘Stop that, William, larking about like a schoolboy.’

  ‘I am a schoolboy.’

  ‘Pity about the snow though. I thought the lanes would be clear but Magic couldn’t cope and even Max wasn’t up to it.’

  ‘I say, where the hell are Percy and Arch? Do we have to unsaddle the horses ourselves? I don’t know if I can remember what Percy told me. Let’s leave them for a minute, chaps, and go and beg a hot drink and something to eat from Mrs Groves . . .’

  They burst into the kitchen, four big, handsome, rowdy boys, cheeks glowing, eyes sparkling, full of themselves in the confidence they had acquired since they had left their father’s house. John was first through the door, stopping in mid-sentence so that those behind him all crashed into his back.

  ‘Watch out, you fool,’ Henry protested, but the scene that met their eyes appalled them and they fell silent. But their entrance had broken the nightmare spell those in the kitchen were under. Mrs Dickinson and Mrs Groves, Nellie, Connie, Tess, even Rosie blubbering as usual until a look from Mrs Groves silenced her. Mr Johnson, who knew he should be directing his staff since he was butler and they were in his charge but the truth was, never having been in this position before, he simply didn’t know what to do.

  ‘Jesus . . .’ whispered Henry, then, as he spoke, the servants all began to bustle about doing they knew not what, just anything that might help the poor master in his agony. The gate they had brought him home on was still on the kitchen table and him on it. Blood from the gaping wound in his thigh was beginning to drip on the floor and Jack Emmerson turned his face to the wall in despair, evidently blaming himself for what he believed would be his landlord’s death. Mr Armstrong wasn’t used to farming methods, to bulls enclosed in small yards because of their meanness. He should have insisted on Dicky or one of his own cowmen to hold the sod. He would never forgive himself.

  Again the back door was flung open. This time it was Doctor Chapman who took one look round then bellowed, ‘Everybody out except you two’ – pointing to Mrs Groves and Mrs Dickinson – ‘
and what the hell are you doing out of bed, Mrs Armstrong?’ Kizzie was behind him and within seconds the kitchen had emptied, the outside men to the yard – not too far – and the women to the housekeeper’s parlour so as to be handy if needed.

  ‘Where’s the baby?’ was all Kizzie said.

  ‘In my bed,’ Charlotte croaked, edging closer to Brooke despite the doctor’s words and at once Kizzie called for Nellie and despatched her to check on the infant. It seemed no one trusted the nurse! She and the doctor then bent over the now – thankfully – unconscious man on the table. They had watched in fascinated wonder as Doctor Chapman had inserted a needle into the master’s arm and at once he was quiet. What a marvel this doctor was, for he seemed to know all there was to know about the latest medical techniques.

  ‘Fetch back four men,’ the doctor ordered and there was a scuffle on the doorstep on who they were to be. Percy, Arch, Henry, since he was a big strong lad, and Adam, the handyman, inched over to the doctor.

  ‘Now then, lads. You must lift Mr Armstrong off the gate which the ladies and I will remove then hold him steady and flat while one of the women, you’ – addressing Mrs Dickinson who had not been spoken to like that since she was a ‘tweenie’ forty years ago – ‘I want a large clean sheet on the table and you men must place Mr Armstrong back on to it. Pass me my bag, Kizzie, thank you, and get Mrs Armstrong a chair or put her to bed.’

  ‘I’m not leaving here until my husband has been . . . has been . . .’ She didn’t know how to finish the sentence but her face was set in rigid lines of determination and so was her jaw, which told them they would have to carry her out kicking and screaming if needs be. She was glad of the kitchen chair though, which she hitched to the head of the table while the four men lifted their master as gently as though he were made of porcelain on to the snowy sheet Mrs Dickinson had spread.

  Without a word they left reluctantly.

  ‘Now I must cut Mr Armstrong’s clothing from him. Hold him, Kizzie, while I administer the anaesthetic.’

  ‘But he’s already unconscious, Doctor.’

  ‘I know, but he might come to. Thank God for the doctors who helped to bring anaesthesia to the human race. It makes our work so much easier and God bless Joseph Lister,’ he told those in the kitchen who wondered who the dickens he was talking about. Mr Johnson, feeling inadequate, stood by the back door ready to shout for help should it be needed.

  ‘Very well. Scissors please, Kizzie.’ And to the horror of the two women, who despite the ‘Mrs’ had never married nor even seen a naked man before, the doctor cut every bit of clothing from their master’s body.

  ‘Burn them,’ he told them and to tell the truth they didn’t want to touch them for they were so dirty, much of the ‘dirt’ appearing to be animal dung but you could not argue with a doctor who was attending to what appeared to be a dying man, could you? The doctor had anaesthetised the master, then, satisfied, he began his work.

  ‘A warm blanket, if you please, madam,’ he growled over his shoulder, ‘to cover the upper part of the patient’s torso which, thank God, appears to be uninjured. Now then, plenty of hot water and then to the wound.’

  At the top of Brooke’s thigh just below where his manhood nestled – now shrunk to the size of a man’s thumb and almost hidden in the thicket of his pubic hair – there was a gaping, bloody hole through which a splinter of bone pointed to the ceiling. Charlotte moaned and stood up, longing to do something to help this man who was, and had been though she had not realised it, the centre of her universe. She had hated him, made love with him, fought with him, borne his child and quite simply would die if he did.

  But her senses were reeling. She knew she had been torn during the birth and that Doctor Chapman had sewn her up but something had given way on her mad dash downstairs. The patch of blood on the chair confirmed it so she hurriedly sat down again, for she wanted nothing to distract the doctor from the work he was doing.

  ‘Thank God it missed the femoral artery,’ she heard him mutter to himself. With Kizzie’s help he took three hours to clean the wound, replace the splinter of bone to its correct position, using first one instrument, then another, repairing torn muscles, sewing this flap of skin to another and though the patient, which was what the doctor was calling him now, would bear a dreadful scar for the rest of his life – which might be short – stopped the flow of blood. He had done the best he could. Infection was what he feared, for a farmyard and the bull’s horns were far from clean and then there was the fear that the muck he had found which he – and Joseph Lister – had done their best to clean, might turn the wound gangrenous!

  On the opposite side to where the doctor and Kizzie were working Brooke’s flaccid hand dropped off the table and Charlotte held it, kissed it, willing him to survive, to come back to her, to open his eyes and smile that whimsical smile that was peculiarly his. To be the strong and gentle man she knew him to be. She brushed back his tumble of hair and was rewarded by a slight lift at the corner of his mouth as though he had heard her thoughts and was doing his best to smile, knowing she was there.

  They were all watching the doctor and Kizzie, both wearing what had once been servants’ vast, gleaming white aprons covering them from neckline to ankle. They were not so pristine now with blood and other nasty matter adhering to them. The doctor was attempting to protect the stitched wound with a spotlessly clean makeshift bandage torn from a freshly laundered sheet. It was an awkward place to bandage and they were all bending forward, holding their breath as the doctor’s clever fingers did their work.

  They recoiled when, without a sound, their young mistress slipped from her chair and fell to the kitchen floor. On the chair where she had crouched was a pool of blood!

  The doctor’s voice was crisp. ‘Get someone to carry Mrs Armstrong . . . yes, yes, any of the men, to carry her to her bed. I’ll be there directly. You’ – pointing at Mrs Dickinson and Mrs Groves, neither was sure but they both jumped forward – ‘go with her and pack her tightly between her legs with towels; yes, you’re women and should know where I mean . . . the birth canal.’

  Charlotte’s brother John and Ned were through the door from the yard as a shout went up, exploding into the kitchen which they described later as looking like a charnel house since the doctor was not concerned where his bloody swabs fell. They were both white with shock but under the doctor’s instructions they gently lifted the senseless woman and followed by the cook and the housekeeper carried her from the kitchen, up the stairs and into her bedroom. They laid her on the tumbled bed from which she had recently leaped and hurriedly backed out of the room, getting in the way of the two women but glad to be out of it.

  ‘Lift her nightie, Grace,’ Mrs Groves murmured, ‘there’s towels in the drawer . . . aye, that’s right, now. Oh, dear God, quick as you like, she’s bleeding to death; there, that’s it, pack them in, open her legs wider. Oh, sweet Jesus . . . there, that’s it.’ And as the blood soaked one towel they thrust in another, praying the doctor would not be long, for not only would they lose their master but their mistress as well.

  Wallace Chapman looked as though he’d been at work in the slaughter house when, satisfied with both of his patients, he allowed a cup of tea to be pressed into his hand and sat to drink it. Brooke Armstrong still lay unconscious on the kitchen table but his colour was better and the ghastly wound was holding, he thought, since no more blood seeped from him, and the new mother’s birth wound, which he had stitched the day before, had been closed again. The servants stood around in postures of white-faced shock, slack-faced with the horror of it all, Rosie weeping, and could you blame her they all said, one or two of the maids doing the same. Hot, strong tea was passed round and little by little they pulled themselves together, the outside men hanging around the back kitchen door waiting for news and up in the nursery Nellie rocked the fractious baby wondering when somebody would come and tell her what to do. She had been an only child and had worked at King’s Meadow since she was twelve a
nd so knew absolutely nothing about babies. She was delighted when a timid knock at the door sounded, but the head that cautiously peeped round it was not one she knew.

  ‘I come ter ’elp. Kizzie sent me.’ It was one of them trollops from the Dower House but Nellie didn’t care if it was old Mother Carey herself if only someone would give her a hand. Tell her to scrub a floor or scour out an oven and though it was not her job she’d do it willingly but she was lost when it came to babies, especially when she didn’t know what was happening downstairs.

  ‘Haven’t I brung some baby milk so—’

  ‘Thank God . . . er . . . I don’t know what tha’ name is . . .’

  ‘Aisling. I’ve not one o’ me own but I know what ter do.’ Her Irish brogue was so thick Nellie had a job to understand her but she managed to decipher it.

  ‘Thanks, lass. I’ll be off then. Is there any news o’t master?’

  ‘To be sure, ’e’s doin’ nicely an’ so’s missis.’

  Nellie stopped at the door, her face dropping. ‘Missis?’

  ‘Wasn’t she bleedin’ something terrible, poor thing, to be sure, but it’s seen to an’—’

  But Nellie was out of the room and down the stairs like a bullet from a gun while Aisling looked down into the petulant face of the new baby, then, sitting in the comfortable chair by the fire, cradled her expertly before thrusting the teat into the rosy mouth. For a moment Miss Lucy Jean Armstrong wasn’t sure whether she liked the teat but in her baby wisdom must have decided it was better than nothing, so began to suck contentedly on it.

  ‘Now aren’t you as lovely as the day?’ Aisling murmured, not knowing that at last she had found her proper place in this strange household.

  Brooke Armstrong slowly came back to consciousness drifting a little, his eyes cloudy and then clearing a bit, seeing nothing much at first but then with a great sigh of relief recognised the canopy of the bed he shared with Charlotte. So he wasn’t dead then, or if he was some benign being had kindly placed him in his own room. He was flat on his back and felt so weak he could barely turn his head, wondering what the hell was the matter with him. Why was he trussed up like a mummy from the museum? He did his best to move but then was devoured by a pain so excruciating he screamed, though for some reason no sound emerged from his mouth and surely he would have heard it, wouldn’t he? It splayed up from his penis through his belly and chest and was so agonising even his bloody teeth hurt. His leg was on fire and his foot twitched and again he cried out or thought he did and this time someone heard, for a soft hand cupped his cheek and soft lips rested on his and a gentle voice murmured words of comfort. Something pricked his arm and he thought he heard Doctor Chapman’s voice, then, sighing thankfully, he fell away into a dark and comforting hole where nothing hurt but he would like to have had another chance of those lips, by God!