A Nurse's Duty (18 page)

Patrick’s thoughts shifted to his old home. It too had a stone-flagged floor and white-washed walls with a picture of the Holy Family on one wall and the Irish nationalist Robert Emmet on the other. And the black-bellied pot hanging over the turf fire and the two wooden chairs standing before the fire and the bench along the wall by the door. The dresser on the other wall with its rows
of
many-coloured Delft, his mother’s prize possessions, and the high bed in the corner – too high to sit upon during the day. And he thought of his mother, sitting there knitting by the light of the fire, her old-fashioned red petticoat tucked round her legs for warmth. But not his father. He would be down at Delaney’s bar with his cronies and Daniel too; Daniel was getting more like their father every day that came.

Restlessly, Patrick turned over in bed. He did not want to think about his mother or her piety and unshakeable faith in God.

‘There is no God,’ he said softly to himself.

Is there not? something within him answered ironically. ‘Then why were you down on your knees so long tonight?’

He remembered the words of Private O’Donnel. The soldier was so bitter, and with reason some would think. Patrick turned on his back, feeling detached from the argument raging in his head.

‘What was it decided you to become a priest?’ Karen had asked.

My mother, he should have replied. But that was not fair and not even true. He had believed, had wanted to be a priest, had wanted to minister to the people. He was the clever one in the family and worked hard to get to the seminary, eager to give his life to Christ and the Holy Catholic Church.

I was fooled into believing, the voice inside him said. Just like the soldiers. I didn’t know God didn’t exist. There is nothing so bad as the desertion of a Being which was not there in the first place.

Suddenly, Patrick jumped out of bed and fell to his knees. He was shocked to the core by what he had been thinking. Surely the devil was working in him tonight? He would pray for forgiveness for the rest of the night.

Chapter Ten

KAREN AND NICK
Harvey stood by the door of the ward where Father Murphy was celebrating Mass. They had helped some of the patients to get there and now Karen was standing by in case she was needed. At least, that was the reason she gave herself. The door was ajar and she could see Patrick in his robes, as remote and mysterious to her as the Latin of the Mass. Yet on the wards he was so human, so sensitive to the feelings of the men, especially those whose minds were affected by shell-shock.

She watched Patrick as he offered the sacraments, heard him murmuring something and the answering ‘Amen’. He was so absorbed in it, she thought, struck by the resemblance of the service to the one she was used to in her own church. She stood watching and trying to listen, making no effort to analyse her feelings.

‘It’s ending now,’ said Nick. He stood quietly by her side, waiting to be told what to do next.

Patrick came to the door and saw them there. For a brief second, he looked disturbed, vulnerable in some way, but then his calm mask came down.

‘Morning, Sister,’ he said as he reached the doorway. ‘Morning, Nick, how are you today?’

‘I’m grand, Father,’ answered Nick. ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘A happy Christmas to you too. And you, Sister. I thought you would be at your own church?’

Karen blushed, feeling something of an intruder, remembering how strange Patrick had seemed to her during the service.

‘I’ll be there this evening, Father. Six o’clock.’

She had a sudden vision of other Christmases and going to Chapel with Da and the others. Da, the local preacher, so different from Patrick and yet in some ways so like. What would her father think of her if he knew how she was feeling right now? She took a step backwards, distancing herself.

Patrick’s grey eyes were puzzled as he sensed her change of mood but men from the other wards were coming out now and he moved to help get the wheelchairs through the door. There was a buzz of conversation and he joined in, chatting with the men, asking after their families or when they were going home. But his conversation was slightly mechanical, his thoughts still with Karen. The soldiers sensed it and soon moved on.

Looking back, he saw her still standing there, watching him. She blushed like a child caught doing something naughty and rushed into busyness, talking brightly to the men as she seized hold of a wheelchair.

‘I can take one, Sister, I can. I’m fine, man, I can do it,’ insisted Nick, eager to help.

‘Oh, thank you, Private.’ Karen gave him a brilliant smile, glad that he should claim her attention. Anyway, she told herself, she had to be careful not to put him off; Nick was so easily snubbed. And when he was snubbed his nervous twitch would reappear. His attachment to her seemed to help his fragile mental stability.

‘Careful now, you go first,’ she said to him, and he negotiated the first wheelchair into the lift which the military authorities had had installed by the side of the staircase. She did not look back so did not see the yearning in Patrick’s eyes as his priestly mask slipped momentarily.

When Karen left the hospital at twelve o’clock, the atmosphere she left behind her was bright for a change. The men were laughing and whistling carol tunes and singing popular songs. They were completely different from her usual view of them.
Because
it was daylight, she supposed; nighttime was depressing for both patients and staff.

Walking the short distance to the cottage the magic was still with her. The day was cold but sunny and she felt quite light-hearted in spite of her lack of sleep. She was humming the tune of ‘Oh, come, all ye faithful’ as she let herself in the door of the cottage. There was a lot of post on the hall table, she saw with happy anticipation. A letter and parcel from home, and a card from Joe.

‘That you, Karen?’ called Annie from the kitchen.

‘No, it’s Father Christmas.’

Karen smiled at her friend as Annie came into the hall. There was plenty to smile about, she thought. Warmth permeated the house and a delicious smell wafted in from the kitchen. Annie had made a special Christmas lunch, sacrificing a goose.

‘Happy Christmas, Karen,’ she cried as she handed over a loosely wrapped parcel and kissed Karen heartily on the cheek.

‘There. I suppose you know what it is? I’ve been on with it for weeks.’

‘No, I can’t think what it can be,’ said Karen with a grin, for it had to be the dusty pink jumper which Annie had been knitting and which was whisked out of sight whenever she came in. ‘Thanks, Annie. Wait a minute and I’ll get you your present, it’s upstairs.’

Karen ran upstairs and retrieved the leatherbound writing case with its lavender-scented paper and envelopes which she had bought for Annie the last time she was in Littlemarsh. Quickly, she changed into a plain skirt and top and put the pink jumper on top.

‘It’s lovely, Annie, a perfect fit, isn’t it? It must have taken you ages to do,’ she enthused. ‘And here you are, here’s your Christmas present. Now you can write to the boys as often as you want and the smell of lavender will remind them of home.’

‘Oh, isn’t it grand!’ Annie beamed. ‘Won’t they think I’ve gone all posh? They’re used to getting letters on that cheap paper I buy from the village shop.’

‘I don’t suppose they care, so long as they get a letter,’ said Karen.

Their lunch was happily festive and crowned with the glory of Annie’s plum pudding and brandy sauce. The kitchen was warm from the oven and Karen began to feel pleasantly full and sleepy.

‘I’ll go up now, Annie,’ she yawned. ‘Thanks for a lovely meal. You’ve made Christmas a happy time for me even though I’m away from home.’

‘I’d have been on my own if it wasn’t for you,’ Annie pointed out. ‘It’s no good being on your own at Christmas time, is it? But you go up, lovey. I’ve put an extra hot brick in the bed. I won’t call you till six, then? Give you a little extra time?’

‘Oh, yes, thanks.’ Karen looked at the marble clock on the dresser. Two o’clock already. Well, she’d leave her post until the evening and Annie could share in the excitement of opening the parcel.

As she laid her head on the pillow, Karen fell asleep immediately, a deep, dreamless sleep, waking more refreshed than she had been for quite a time even though she’d only had four hours in bed. She lay for a few minutes, revelling in the cosy warmth before she remembered her letters and parcel and jumped out of bed.

It was a damp, dark evening when Karen went back downstairs but in the kitchen the lamp was alight and the fire bright and hot. Annie was sitting at the table, re-reading the embroidered cards from her boys in France.

‘Oh, they are lovely,’ said Karen. ‘Such delicate work too, especially that one with the French flag entwined with the Union Jack.’

‘Yes.’ Annie got to her feet and replaced the cards in their place of honour on the mantelpiece. ‘I’ll get the tea now, shall I?’

‘Please,’ Karen answered absently. She was eagerly trying to open her parcel, obviously the work of Kezia, it was tied up so thoroughly. At last she undid the last knot to reveal a thick, soft shawl. It was just like the one Kezia crocheted every year for the Chapel sale of work, always the same pattern and always the same shade of serviceable grey. But it was soft and warm and typically useful. Wrapped in the shawl was an embroidered text framed in oak.

‘Oh, that’s pretty,’ exclaimed Annie. It was the painstaking work of Karen’s mother, ‘God is Love’ with entwined forget-me-nots.

‘To hang over your bed,’ Mam had written on the note.

There was a letter from Da, too, in the copperplate hand he had learned at the Wesleyan School.

‘He has a lovely hand,’ commented Annie, who was still watching over Karen’s shoulder.

‘Yes. He left school when he was nine, too, that was when he went down the pit. The boys had to in those days, the family needed the money. But he went to the Sunday School at Chapel, of course, and tried to carry on with ordinary schooling besides the religious teaching.’

‘It must have been hard.’ Annie filled the teapot and placed it on the table before bringing a plate of buttered scones from the larder.

‘I’ll pour the tea, shall I?’

Karen nodded absently as she opened Da’s letter.

Dear Karen,

Your mother and I keep fairly well, thanks be to God. I hope you are well too, working hard for those poor lads and going to Chapel regular. We trust this evil war will be over
soon
and then maybe you will come home to us. May the Lord bless you and keep you safe until we meet again.

Your loving father,

Thomas Knight

‘All well at home, I trust?’ Annie leaned over the table to offer the plate of buttered scones to Karen who looked up, half smiling.

‘What? Oh, yes, everything’s fine.’ Dear Da, she mused, so brief and to the point yet somehow the letter was satisfying in the way it showed his love for her. She took a buttered scone and bit into it as she picked up Joe’s card which had a picture of a group of soldiers before the ruin of a bombed-out building.

‘How’d you like to live here? Merry Christmas and God bless you, Joe.’

Well, like father like son, she thought.

Turning over the other letter, she frowned. Gran’s handwriting looked shaky somehow, not her usual firm hand. Karen opened it and saw a single sheet. The letter was skimpy, not like one of Gran’s usual rambling, unpunctuated missives. Karen searched for a clue as to what was wrong but Gran simply wished her a happy Christmas and gave a few items of news concerning friends and neighbours. But then, Gran wouldn’t give any bad news in a letter.

‘Something wrong?’ asked Annie.

‘No, I don’t think so. It’s just that Gran doesn’t sound quite herself, somehow.’

‘Well, she is getting on,’ said Annie. She knew all about Karen’s family, taking as she did a keen interest in all their doings.

‘She usually writes such long letters though.’

‘Maybe she was busy,’ suggested Annie.

‘I suppose so.’ Karen gathered up her post. ‘I have to be on my way now or I’ll be late.’

Sighing, she dressed for work and let herself out of the front door, calling a soft ‘goodnight’ to Annie as she went. Gran was
very
much on her mind as she walked up the lane to Greenfields.

Gran was running the small-holding on her own now apart from some help from the neighbours. Alf had long since joined the army, Karen remembered. Gran didn’t keep many animals, but she had a stint on the moor which allowed her to run a few sheep. The living was meagre but it was a living, and of course she would have her pension.

She must be seventy, Karen thought with mild surprise. Gran was strong and hardy, a capable woman. Karen had always had the notion that she would go on for ever. She thought of the times Gran had come down to Morton Main when Mam was ill, shedding her shawl and bonnet as she came in and rolling up her sleeves at once. And the huge dinners she would make out of a scrag end of mutton, or sometimes a meat pudding boiled in the iron pan for hours, ready for when Da came in from the pit.

‘It’s probably nothing,’ Karen said aloud as she turned into the drive of the hospital. Gran could just have been tired when she wrote the letter. Or maybe it was just Karen herself, reading too much into things. She forgot her grandmother as she let herself into the hall and saw Patrick standing before the fire.

‘Good evening, Father,’ she said, suddenly aware that her nose and cheeks were red with the cold and tendrils of hair had escaped from her cap yet again and were dangling over her face. She went to the mirror and pinned them back with nervous, darting movements. Once again she felt that strange twist of emotion which he inspired in her, and it made her feel awkward and clumsy.

‘Have you been here all day, Father? I mean, you were here most of last night …’

Her voice trailed off as she saw his unsmiling face through the mirror.

‘Good evening, Sister,’ he said formally, and she thought how distant he looked and tired, too. His grey eyes were sunk in dark shadows. ‘No,’ he continued, ‘I came in about half an hour ago to
see
Private O’Donnel. Poor man, he likes to hear a voice from home.’