Softly Grow the Poppies (27 page)

A quiver of apprehension darted though her. No, not apprehension, that was too strong a word, more . . . unease. Why was Mary hanging out washing on Beechworth’s washing line? Where was Bertha who was usually so dependable? She had been laundress at Beechworth since she was a girl of twelve and had married Arthur who worked as head keeper at Weatherly House. Bertha had given birth to three boys: two had never come back from the war into which they had so gladly flung themselves. Only Sandy had been returned to them. Jimmy and Arnold were lying together in Flanders Fields. They had joined Lord Derby’s Pals’ Battalion and were killed on the same day.

Bertha, like all the wives, mothers and sweethearts, had aged overnight. She had pulled herself together though she had grieved badly for her two handsome boys, and got on with life, giving thanks for the survival of her one remaining lamb.

Rose fairly ran back to the kitchen where Nessie and Dolly were comforting themselves with a brew. It brought you round a treat did a brew, or so the two women said. They sat in silence, for though Master Will was a handful he brough a bit of life to the place and somehow they missed his lively presence.

Dolly made an effort to rise from her chair by the fire, saying as she did so, ‘Come and sit thee down, my lass, and have a cuppa. There’s one left in the pot. It’s fresh made—’

‘Why is Mary hanging out the washing?’ Rose asked abruptly, cutting off Dolly’s words, startling the two women.

‘Good ’eavens, our Rose. Is that all? We thought it were something life-threatening the way you dashed in. Bertha’s not well, nor her lad so Mrs Philips from Summer Place offered Mary. Miss Alice is helping out in the kitchen, muckin’ in as she always does. “I’ve done harder jobs than this in France,” she ses. “I won’t tell you of some of the messes I’ve cleaned up in . . .” Well, you know what she’s like. She ses she’s nowt else ter do so—’

‘What about Will?’

‘Oh, he’s off with Sir Harry and Mr Charlie. Sir Harry puts him up in front of him on his horse and t’lad’s made up. Honest ter God, our Rose, yer’d think he were runnin’ the estate with Sir Harry and Mr Charlie giving him a hand.’ She looked somewhat troubled, taking a sip of tea before continuing. She didn’t like the expression on their Miss Rose’s face if truth be told and neither did Nessie. ‘What else could we do, our Rosie?’ Dolly asked the pacing figure of the young woman she had known from birth. ‘Me an’ Nessie can’t manage him, chuck. He’s that wilful so Sir Harry, bless him, took him off with them. He’s a rare one is Sir Harry. Wounded in France, his pa dead leaving him to manage the place, his brother not right in the ’ead and on top of that there’s that little monkey ter bring up. Eeh, I don’t know, it’s enough to be the end of anyone and this – I could swear, really I could – but this war’s caused a deal of trouble, I can tell you. Servants not knowing where they should be, never mind what they should be doing. Me an’ Nessie can’t keep on chopping and changing between Beechworth and Summer Place like the young ’uns do. It’s like it was when they was both hospitals when war was on, everyone where they was needed—’

‘Yes, yes, Dolly,’ Rose interrupted, for once Dolly got going it was hard to stop her, ‘but I don’t like the idea of Bertha over there by herself at Primrose Cottage.’

‘She’s got Sandy,’ Nessie put in.

‘He’s no help to her, Nessie. He can barely get about let alone care for his sick mother. What’s wrong with her anyway? I’ve never known her to be ill.’

‘Arthur said she had flu. He was on his way to work and couldn’t stop. There’s a lot of it about, he ses. The housekeeper, now what were her name, Nessie? Mrs Gibbs? No, it were Mrs Gilly, that’s it.’

‘For God’s sake, what does it matter what her name is? Flu, you say?’

‘That’s what Arthur said.’

Both women watched her intently.

‘D’you think one of us should go over there and see what’s what? Arthur didn’t say much but yer know what men’re like. As long as their grub’s on’t table, they’ve gorrer pipe ter smoke and their
Echo
ter read they don’t notice owt else.’

‘My Tom’s not like that,’ Nessie protested indignantly.

‘Now I’m not sayin’ he is, Nessie, but . . . well, I’ve never ’ad an ’usband but I remember my old dad, that was before I were put in the orphanage—Nay, what’s up, chuck?’ as Rose flung herself out of the kitchen, leaving the door swinging violently, then ran down the wide hallway, out of the front door and down the short path that ran from the house straight to a gate in the high stone wall. Beyond it were four cottages all belonging to Beechworth, in the first of which Bertha and Arthur Longton had brought up their three sturdy sons. She stopped suddenly at the wrought-iron seat beneath the dining room window, then slowly lowered herself on to it. Was she panicking over nothing much? The last four years had left her, as it had all women with men on the Western Front, with a tendency to fret over the slightest thing. Perhaps this with Bertha
was
just a cold but would Bertha, stalwart Bertha, stay at home for something as slight as a cold? She recalled reading, without a great deal of interest, the piece in
The Times
about returning soldiers and the cautious comment on how many of them, weakened by their ordeal, had caught colds so easily and these colds were turning to influenza. It said that of all the Americans – which was why it had not concerned her – who went to France, half of them died not from their wounds, but from this dreadful sickness called influenza. Peace was here, the war was over, so an illness such as this had not seemed worth worrying about, but now that it might have struck someone she knew and was fond of, it was suddenly of some importance. She felt shame because it was the Americans who had helped to bring the horror of the war to an end.

From somewhere she could hear the squeals of children playing and dogs barked, evidently involved in the children’s game. Could she hear Will’s voice among them? What was he doing? He was supposed to be with Harry and Charlie. Had they become exasperated with the noisy, self-willed child and left him with the other children in the lane? She wouldn’t be surprised. He was enough to irritate the most patient!

With a sudden surge of panic she strode through the gate into the lane, crossing it to the row of cottages where some of the people who worked for her lived. Bertha’s cottage, the first one, was strangely silent so without knocking she opened the door and walked in. The room into which she stepped was a kitchen-cum-parlour, usually as neat and clean as a new pin, but now somewhat cluttered. The remains of a breakfast, Arthur’s she supposed, was still on the table which was without a tablecloth, something on which Bertha was particularly insistent. She had standards, did Bertha, and they were sadly lacking here.

It was a mild day but certainly not mild enough to be without a fire. There had been one, for the remains smouldered in the grate, but it had gone out and nobody had re-lit it. Sprawled in a fireside chair was Bertha’s son, Sandy, his wounded leg and his bare foot propped on a stool. Lying by his side, his nose on his paws, was the family dog, called, for some reason, Tuppence, so it was not Tuppence who was making such a row in the lane.

With a start Sandy became aware of her and did his best to sit up. The dog rose to his feet, and turned round but made the mistake of putting his nose on Sandy’s leg, the one with the deep, half-healed wound. Sandy shouted with pain. At the noise Bertha’s voice called out weakly from above.

‘Sandy, lad, what’s ter do? Is tha’ dad home, Sandy?’

‘No, it’s me, Bertha. Rose Beechworth. I’ve come to see—’

‘Oh, thank God, Miss Rose. Did my Arthur call in ter tell yer?’

‘No, Bertha. I suppose he was in such a hurry to get to work. He told Dolly you had a cold, though . . .’ She didn’t know how to complete the sentence, because Arthur’s employer, Alice’s father, was known for a hard master and had been known to sack a man for being two minutes late for work. Arthur Longton would be afraid of losing his job, especially with work so hard to come by.

‘Can I come up, Bertha?’ she asked. ‘We’ve been quite worried about you. Mary’s managing but she hasn’t your touch.’

‘Miss Beechworth, me mam’s in a bad way,’ Sandy mumbled, his voice hoarse.
And so are you
, Rose thought but didn’t say so.

‘Stay just where you are, Sandy. I’ll go up and see your mother.’

‘She’s badly, miss, an’ I’m no use to her; come to that, to anyone. Me legs . . .’

Rose raced up the stairs, leaving poor Sandy to his rambling. There was a narrow landing with two doors leading off it and with a swift look round she found Bertha struggling as her son had done to rise. She was feebly pushing back the bedclothes with the obvious intention of climbing from the rumpled bed but in a second Rose was beside her, pushing her back on to her pillows. Bertha was struggling to breathe and as she did so in her desperate effort to clear her airways, blood-tinged froth gushed from her nose and mouth.

Frantically Rose looked about her as though help might be standing at her elbow but there was no one. Downstairs poor Sandy was fastened to his chair and could not run for help. But someone must. Could these two sick and wounded people, people she had known since childhood be left by themselves? The agonising answer was ‘they must’.

But there were other women in the row of cottages, wives of the men who worked on her land and she could not help but wonder why they were not here helping Bertha in her hour of need.
All
the neighbours helped one another.

She knocked on the door of the cottage next to Bertha’s. It was opened by a small, neat woman wearing a pinny. She had obviously been baking, for her hands and arms up to the elbow were dusted with flour. When she saw Rose she almost curtsied but Rose put out a hand and took hers, flour and all.

‘Oh, Mrs . . . I’m sorry I don’t know your name.’

‘Mrs Wainwright, miss.’ She was clearly puzzled but very polite since Miss Beechworth was her landlady and had allowed her and her children to stay on when . . . when . . .

‘Can I ’elp thi?’ Her heart had sunk for a minute when she had seen who was at her door. Her Arnold had been killed at Ypres, leaving her with four children below the age of ten and ever since Arnie had gone she had been worried to death Miss Beechworth might turn her out. Had she changed her mind? Did she need the cottage for a new family? Mind you, Effie Wainwright had worked hard and she had been proud to work up at the hospital so ’appen the mistress might look kindly on Effie and the bairns and let them stay on as she had promised. Her face was pale with apprehension.

‘Mrs Wainwright, might I ask a favour of you, a great favour?’

‘A favour, Miss Rose?’ Effie’s voice quavered.

‘You know Bertha Longton, I take it?’

‘Oh aye, miss, her and me’s good neighbours but—’

‘She’s not a bit well, Mrs Wainwright, and what with poor Sandy unable as yet to get about I wonder if you would sit with her while I fetch the doctor and make further arrangements for her care.’

‘Eeh, Miss Rose, o’ course I will an’ right gladly. I didn’t know or I’d’ve bin round there. Bairns are up lane playin’ wi’ Jinny Herbert’s lads’ – so that was where all the noise was coming from – ‘but you go on. I’ll see ter Bertha. She were right good ter me when my hubby were killed so just let me get this pie in’t th’oven an’ I’ll be on me way.’

But when Mrs Wainright returned with Rose, they found it was too late to help Bertha and Sandy.

Dolly and Nessie nearly jumped out of their skins when Rose shot into the kitchen like a bullet from a gun. Not that either of them had seen a bullet let alone one being fired. Ginger, who had been dozing by the fire leaped up and began to bark furiously.

‘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?