Until We Meet Again (18 page)

‘I never thought it would happen again,’ said Karl. ‘There was a spate of attacks like this at the beginning of the war. I remember when the lads who were reservists in the German army were called up, it was their families that suffered. Bricks through their windows and paint daubed all over. And then there were some lads who refused to serve in the British army because their parents were German. I recall there was a butcher called Hoffman who suffered just like we’ve done. Of course a name such as Hoffman is like a red rag to a bull. That’s why we changed ours when the war started.’

‘Have you had any dinner, Mother?’ asked Sophie. She was watching her father munching away at a second digestive biscuit as though he was starving.

‘No, I’m afraid we haven’t, dear,’ said Martha. ‘We couldn’t face it after what had happened. A cup of tea was all we wanted, but I reckon we’re all feeling pretty hungry by now. And I’ve not
forgotten that I’m supposed to be making you two lasses your tea… Oh dear!’

‘Stop fretting, Mother,’ said Sophie. ‘I tell you what we’ll do…’ She started to collect up the tea things and put them on the tray. ‘We’ll get our backs into it and clear up this mess. It shouldn’t take long with four of us at it. You stay where you are, Father, and leave it to the women. And then Tilly and I’ll go along to the fish and chip shop down the road, so you won’t have to bother cooking. Is that a good idea or what?’

‘An excellent idea,’ agreed Martha.

It was an outwardly cheerful little group who sat around the kitchen table some two hours later enjoying the crispy battered fish and golden chips, with mushy peas and stacks of bread and butter. The worst of the debris had been cleared away. They had even been able to salvage some of the links of sausages and the joints of meat that had escaped damage. These would have to remain in the refrigerator for what might be several days, until the window was replaced and the shop was ready to open again.

Mr Ashton had invested in a large refrigerator – one of the first to come on the market in Britain – just before the start of the war. Paradoxically, it was a German model, made in Nuremberg. Germany was a world leader in such manufacturing, but
in the current situation it would be considered unpatriotic to buy anything that had been made there.

‘Well, what the eye doesn’t see…’ Karl remarked as he stored away the food that would be all right to eat. ‘Nobody needs to know we’ve got a German model. Do you know, there have even been cases of dachshund dogs being attacked in the street, and no one is supposed to listen to the music of Wagner anymore. I don’t know! We’re living in a crazy sort of world at the moment.’

Their good spirits as they ate their meal were a little forced. They all feared that there might be a long way to go before this bitter conflict came to an end. The wrecking of folks’ possessions was only a part of it. They knew that far worse things were happening on the battlefields of Europe and further afield. Atrocities that they couldn’t begin to imagine.

Sophie was in a thoughtful mood when they arrived back at the hospital. Tilly realised that her friend had been far more shaken than she had let on at what had happened to her parents’ shop. The next morning she told Tilly that she was thinking of volunteering to continue her nursing career overseas.

‘You mean…in France?’ asked Tilly.

‘Yes, or Belgium; wherever they send us. They’re
crying out for nurses over there. Why don’t you come with me, Tilly?’

But Tilly was not sure that it would be the right move. She felt that she was doing a good job where she was, in Bradford. And her mother was still hoping that she might return to Scarborough. She knew that Sophie was enraged at the vandalism at her parents’ home and understood that she wanted to strike out in a different direction, to be seen to be doing all she could to help in the fight against the Germans. The former Sophie Ascher was now more British that the British.

But Tilly, although she might not show it, was out of her mind with worry about her fiancé and her brother. She was unable, at the moment, to think realistically about anything else.

Chapter Seventeen

A
t the New Moon Convalescent Home all the staff were trying their best to keep cheerful, for the sake of the men in their charge. But almost all the nurses and auxiliary helpers were desperately worried about their loved ones, some of whom would have been involved in the recent battle on the Somme. So far there had been no news of any of them.

Hetty and Maddy did not think that their husbands would have been caught up in that particular conflict, but there were skirmishes elsewhere and news was sometimes slow in filtering back to England. Jessie, too, was anxious for Arthur, who was now in charge of a fleet of ambulances. Although he had assured her that the enemy allowed them to carry out their rescue work without hindrance, shielded by the sign of the red
cross, she knew they must still be in danger from exploding shells as they drove their vehicles back and forth.

Faith was possibly the one who was the most concerned at the moment, about her beloved younger son Tommy, whom she guessed would have been actively involved in the fighting, and about Samuel, although she had not heard from him lately and was not sure of his whereabouts. And there was Dominic, too, who would not be too far away from Tommy if they had anything to do with it. She knew how worried her daughter must be feeling. Poor Tilly, and poor Dominic, to be so much in love at such a time.

The younger nurses, also, had boyfriends and brothers who were involved, although it was doubtful about the Matron Ada Steele and Sister Florence Bartlett. They were both guarded about their private lives. It was possible that Matron might have sons in the army. Faith suspected that she enjoyed a happy married life and cast off her austere image when she was away from the nursing home. They knew little about her husband. She rarely spoke of him, nor had she told anyone what he did for a living. He had come to meet her once, and Faith had been surprised to see a jolly looking red-faced man of ample girth who had brought a smile of
welcome to his wife’s usually severe features.

Sister Florence Bartlett was unmarried and of an indeterminate age. Her colleagues estimated that she must be in her mid-thirties. She was a very self-possessed woman, not given to idle chatter or the exchange of confidences. She was excellent at her job, living up well to the example of her namesake. She had once told Faith, in a rare moment of amity, that her mother, herself a dedicated nurse, had called her Florence in the hope that she would follow the same career; which she had done without question. It seemed doubtful that she had ever had a young man or shown an interest in anything other than her nursing career, to which she was clearly devoted.

The one person at the home who could be said to be wholly contented – apart, possibly from Florence Bartlett – was Priscilla Fortescue. She would have said that she was happy – happier than she had ever been in her life – except that it seemed wrong to be happy in the face of such grim news from the battlefronts. She was concerned, of course, about her cousin, Dominic. She had been fond of him ever since he was a little boy and he had always gone out of his way to be friendly towards her. And her heart went out to Tilly, whom she knew must be worried sick about her fiancé. She had warmed to Tilly as soon as she had
met her, and when she had met Tilly’s family as well she had discovered that they were all just as friendly and welcoming. Priscilla had never found it all that easy to make friends and that was one of the reasons she was so contented at the New Moon home. She had more friends there than she could ever have imagined.

Another reason was that she loved the work she was doing and the feeling that she was contributing to the war effort. Some of the patients were still in quite a bad way, even though they were convalescing. They were being moved on from the hospitals more quickly now because of the increase in wounded soldiers arriving back in Britain. At the moment they had their full quota, several of them with wounds that needed daily dressing, among them amputees, learning to walk with crutches or to adjust to washing, dressing and eating with only one hand.

One such man was Jack Smollett; and it was possibly because of Jack and the friendship that was gradually developing between the two of them that Priscilla had reason to be so pleased with her lot. Not that she would admit this to anyone, scarcely even to herself. Besides, she knew it was a foolish thought and one that she knew she must try not to encourage. Jack seemed to enjoy her company, but more than that, of course, he needed
her assistance in all manner of things.

One of Priscilla’s chief attributes was that she was a good listener. She had always listened, preferring to do so rather than talk about herself. People knew that she would hear their tales and worries without interruption and in absolute secrecy; and sometimes, surprisingly, she was able to offer a quiet word of comfort or advice. So it had been with the clients at the estate agency, who had often confided in the serious-looking young woman, recognising her air of concern and knowing that their confidences would go no further. And so it was now with the patients at the nursing home. What many of them needed was a listening ear, especially if their families and friends were not able to visit very often, and it soon became known that Priscilla excelled at this.

Another thing she enjoyed was letter writing, not that she had ever had many friends with whom she could correspond. A school friend had married and gone to live in the Midlands several years ago and Priscilla still wrote to her every month or so. Eleanor had been the closest friend she had ever had, and it had left a big gap in Priscilla’s life when she had gone away. She rather suspected that if she did not write so frequently then the communication might dwindle, but she still continued. Then there was a French pen friend,
Adele, whom she had acquired in a reciprocal scheme when she had been at her private school. It was a good way of keeping up her prowess in the French language, although the letters from Lille had dropped off recently. And now she wrote to her cousin, Dominic. She had asked Tilly if she would mind if she did so, and Tilly hadn’t minded at all. He had only replied once, rather sketchily, but she knew it was a comfort to receive letters from home.

The postman was a regular visitor to the New Moon home, bringing letters from the families and friends, wives and girlfriends of the men who were staying there. Most of the men convalescing there were northerners, if not from Yorkshire, then from the nearby counties of Lancashire, Cheshire, Durham or Northumberland. Visitors were welcomed at any time, although it was preferred if they came in an afternoon and gave notice of their intention to visit. And, of course, there were the letters, a vital link with home, and essential for keeping up the morale of the patients.

Most of the men were able to reply to their correspondence themselves, although there were a few who needed help. There were four patients at that time who had lost arms or hands, right arms at that; and the one who had lost his left
arm was, unfortunately, left-handed. There was also a young private, eighteen years of age, who was suffering from shellshock and bad attacks of the shakes, which often occurred when he tried to hold a pen in his hand. All these men were pleased to have the assistance of the auxiliary workers – Hetty, Maddy, Jessie or Priscilla – with their letter writing, although the words written down were pretty much the thoughts and emotions of the men themselves.

On the whole they were circumspect in expressing themselves, although Hetty confided to the other young women on one occasion that the sentiments conveyed by Sergeant Simon Gallagher to his wife had brought a blush to her cheek. The young man himself, however, a model patient who spent a good deal of his time reading poetry and novels, had seemed not the slightest bit embarrassed.

‘That’s not been my experience,’ Maddy told her with a smile. ‘Alan and Jimmy were very tongue-tied when they came to showing their feelings. I tried to help them out a bit. “Just tell her you love her,” I said. They’re Yorkshiremen, of course; not noted for showing emotion. Simon, though, he’s not from Yorkshire, is he?’ Most of the men liked to be called by their Christian names, although there were sometimes the odd one or two who
preferred to be addressed as Captain or Lieutenant or whatever.

‘No, Simon’s from Cheshire, I believe,’ Hetty answered. ‘Somewhere on the Wirral; rather posh, don’t you know? He didn’t bat an eyelid but I could feel myself getting redder and redder. I shall be interested to see the young lady who thrills him so much when she comes to visit him.’

‘Yes, well, Yorkshiremen are rather more reserved,’ said Maddy. ‘I can’t imagine my Freddie would write in that vein if somebody else was putting the words down for him. As it is, though, he expresses himself…quite nicely,’ she added with a grin.

The others laughed in relief. So long as the letters kept coming from overseas they knew that their husbands were safe, or at least they had been at the time of writing.

Priscilla did not say anything. She had no one of importance out there, except for Dominic, but she was putting her own skill at letter writing to good use. She, more so than the others, had helped in this way just lately, as it was becoming known that it was something she enjoyed doing.

Jack Smollett was rather older than a lot of the men. He was thirty-two and had reached the rank of sergeant before a shell had shattered his right arm. He had spent quite a while in a field
hospital where his arm had been amputated at the elbow, then in a hospital near the south coast of England before being transferred to Scarborough to convalesce before going home, invalided out of the army. He was regarded by the majority of the patients as one of the lucky ones. Sure enough he had lost an arm, and that was rotten luck, but it was enough to ensure that he would not be sent back to fight out the rest of the war…and possibly not come back at all. These thoughts were not always spoken out loud, but they were at the back of everyone’s mind, patients and staff alike.

Jack’s home was in Hexham, in Northumberland. Priscilla had learnt that he had parents there, a much older brother and sister, but no wife. He did, however, have a lady friend of long standing whose name was Doris. In the July of 1916 he had been at the convalescent home for four weeks, but so far only his sister and her husband had been down to visit him. His wound had healed well, and there was the probability, in the future, that he might be fitted with an artificial limb. He was, however, not considered well enough to be sent home yet. He had been at the Front almost since the start of the war and had seen far more than his fair share of the action. An earlier encounter with an exploding shell had burnt his left cheek and he would always have the scar. The continual
exposure to the artillery fire over eighteen months had resulted in shell shock, not as severely as some of the men had suffered, but enough to paralyse him at times, and he also suffered quite frequently from bouts of depression.

He was not very tall and of a thickset build, and the scar on his cheek did not mar too much his rugged good looks. The skin was puckered and his left eye pulled down a little. It was noticeable, but not so bad when compared with the facial wounds that some other men had suffered. They were, alas, becoming quite commonplace, and civilian men and women were finding it not quite so embarrassing or distressing now when coming face to face with such an injury. It was better to look the person in the eye rather than to look away or pretend not to notice the wound.

Jack’s eyes were grey with a humorous sparkle and, when he was feeling at his best, he smiled a lot. At other times, however, he was down-hearted and filled with despair at his injuries. At such times the only person with whom he would communicate was Priscilla. He had come to depend on her a lot. She helped him to dress himself, not with the underclothes, of course, but with his outer garments when he wanted to go for a walk or sit outside in the garden. The trained nursing staff assisted with bathing, washing, or
other intimate requirements, but it was Priscilla who cut up his food so that he could manage to eat it unaided with his left hand.

He was gradually learning to use his left hand more and more but letter writing was the one thing that was proving impossible. Priscilla found him one afternoon practising writing his name. He was sitting in the garden under the shade of a spreading sycamore tree, at a distance from the other groups of men, sitting in twos and threes in other parts of the garden. She knew that he wanted to be on his own. She had seen the signs of a black mood coming over him but thought that a cup of tea would not go amiss. Jack was an inveterate tea drinker.

When he saw her approaching he flung down his pencil in frustration. The pad on his lap was covered with failed attempts at writing ‘Jack Smollett’. The last few efforts were rather more legible, but even so they looked more like the scrawls of a four-year-old.

‘It’s bloody useless!’ he cried, making no attempt to moderate his language as the men usually did in the presence of their female helpers. ‘And I’m bloody useless an’ all! What use am I going to be in Civvy Street? They’ll never have me back. I was a bloody clerk, you know; a pen pusher. All I’ll be fit for is selling matches at the street corner.’