The Flight of Swallows (31 page)

‘I myself will help perform the operation. I’m sorry, Mrs Armstrong, but he is not doing well and it is affecting him. He seems to sink deeper into what I can only call depression as though he believes he will never get out of that bed. Something is holding him back and unless we find what it is he might . . .’

Charlotte felt the painful sinking in her chest that came so frequently now. Every morning when she woke after a restless night it attacked her, for she was beginning to believe, though she did not voice it, let alone allow it to fell her, that her husband, whom she had only just discovered, if that was not too fanciful, was fast slipping away from her. He did his best, she knew that, not to let her see his pain and despair, but she who slept at his side and spent every spare moment with him that she could, knew he was fighting something, not just infection, but the loss of his will to live, to be as he once had been, to ride, to walk, to make love to her, to play with the child he had so longed for.

‘Have you discussed it with him, Doctor? He is—’

‘He is a sensible man and he knows he is not doing as he should. I think he will take any chance there is to . . . to repair himself. I have done all I can here and quite honestly unless I get him into a properly equipped operating theatre I fear that . . .’

Charlotte felt her heart thudding in her chest and she wanted to scream at him: Do something; do something,
anything
, for this man is my life and I will have none if he dies. But instead she coolly nodded her head.

‘Very well. When will you . . .?’

‘Now that I have told you I will telephone the hospital and send for a private ambulance. He will be transferred there later today.’

‘I will come with him.’

‘Mrs Armstrong, there is no need for you to—’

She lifted her head and straightened her back and that stubborn chin of hers, which he was getting to know so well, jutted beneath her firmed lips. ‘If you imagine I will allow my husband to fight this . . . this thing on his own you do not know me, Doctor, and by God, you should do by now. I will go to him at once. Kizzie will look after everything until I, until
we
return. Thank God for her, what would I do . . .?’

The servants were all in a terrible state, for the master was much loved and, if they were honest and this time they were, so was the mistress. They had never known anyone go into hospital and it was their belief that those who did never came out again! They watched, unchecked even by Kizzie who knew how they felt, as Mr Armstrong was brought down the stairs on a stretcher, his poor thin face white and rigid with the pain of being moved until, with an oath, Doctor Chapman stopped the men who carried him and stuck a needle in his arm, muttering to himself that he should have thought of it first. At once the master went to sleep and was lifted again on the stretcher and into the waiting ambulance. The mistress went with him and, with tears of sadness, for would they ever see him again, they watched the ambulance doors close and the vehicle drive off.

20

Wallace Chapman, since his time in Africa treating Boer women who had been dispossessed of their men and their homes by the war, had become more and more interested in the complexities that often occurred during childbirth, with obstetrics and gynaecology, and though his early training at Guy’s Hospital in London had included some surgery, he did not feel able to operate on Brooke Armstrong alone. However he knew a doctor who could. Doctor Preston worked at the Clayton Hospital and was renowned for his success in the most delicate of surgery. A quick telephone call to him from King’s Meadow had ensured that Doctor Preston was available, or would be later in the afternoon, and a private room was booked for Mr Armstrong along with the up-to-date operating theatre. Doctor Chapman would assist and Charlotte felt her heart lift a little when she was told. She was sure, if Doctor Chapman recommended him, the surgeon could only be the best and the thought of the doctor, who had done so much for her and her girls, the man who took such care and felt such compassion even for street-walkers, was of great comfort to her.

She rode in the ambulance, holding Brooke’s hand, bending over him, stroking his face, trying to make sense of his words, for he was beginning to ramble. His face was skull-like and the gunmetal grey of his eyes, those that had once been like soft velvet, stared at nothing but at the same time seemed now and again to see her, to recognise her.

‘Sweetheart . . . my lovely girl . . . don’t . . .’

‘I’m here, darling. Don’t what? Tell me . . . tell me, what do you want?’

His pain was punishing her, crucifying her, his fever rising by the minute and she marvelled at this enormous thing, this love, this enchantment, that had come on her so suddenly that the very thought of this man’s death racked her, cut her to the bone with a knife that twisted cruelly and even pierced her heart. There was no doubt in her mind that if he did not live, neither would she. She might still walk about, eat, sleep, be with her baby but she would, nevertheless, be dead. A ghost haunting the earth searching for peace; no, not for peace but for oblivion.

She hovered by the side of the stretcher that carried her love, her life, her heart to the room where he was lifted gently on to a high bed. A nurse in a starched uniform tried physically to remove her when she refused to leave, but she fought her silently until Doctor Chapman shook his head.

‘Leave her, Nurse.’

‘But, Doctor, I cannot allow her to hang over my patient,’ who was muttering and clutching for something which proved, to her amazement, to be his wife’s hand, when he calmed somewhat.

Doctor Preston was younger than Doctor Chapman, brisk, quick, wasting no time in having his patient stripped down to a short gown and then removing the dressings that covered Brooke’s wound.

‘Yes,’ was all he said, beckoning to the nurse who pushed past Charlotte, standing no nonsense now and with force but gentleness Doctor Chapman took her by the shoulders.

‘Remove this lady, if you please,’ Doctor Preston told him.

‘She is his wife, Charlie.’

‘I don’t care if she is Queen Alexandra herself, she must leave and this patient must be taken at once to the operating theatre. ‘See to it, Nurse.’

‘Yes, Doctor.’

‘I’ll be there in five minutes, so look sharp.’

‘Please . . . please, Doctor, may I not come?’ Charlotte began and it was then he turned and really looked at her, his face softening.

‘No, madam, I’m afraid you can’t.’

‘But I love him so and . . .’

‘Do you want to hinder me in my effort to save your husband’s life, Mrs . . . er?’

‘Armstrong,’ Doctor Chapman told him.

‘Mrs Armstrong, an operating theatre is no place for anyone except those who are working there.’ He put out a hand and placed it on her arm. ‘I will save him for you, really I will. Now go and wait in the waiting room and when I have finished I will come and tell you exactly what I have done and what
you
are to do to bring him back to health.’

It took two hours to open the wound in Brooke’s thigh and to drain the abscess that had formed and would have spread its poison – in fact had already begun – to the rest of his body if not treated. With a drainage tube still protruding from the restitched wound he was wheeled back to his room where his wife waited. There were several cold cups of tea standing on the table to the side of his bed and again the nurse had physically to restrain what she saw as his hysterical wife from throwing herself across the patient.

‘Charlotte,’ a stern voice almost shouted in her ear and a strong hand dragged her quite literally to the far corner of the room.

‘Get off me, you fool,’ she hissed. Her face was like putty. She was totally, utterly disorientated. She fought him like a demon and it was not until a porter appeared to help Doctor Chapman and the nurse, that she could be dragged from the room. He slapped her across the face, much to the nurse’s satisfaction – who had never loved a man nor had a man love her – and slowly she came out of her demented state. Her eyes cleared and the tears that streamed from them slowly stopped.

‘I’m sorry. Please, please forgive me,’ turning to the nurse. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I promise to behave. I’ll sit down here’ – indicating a row of chairs against the wall – ‘and bother no one, but please . . . please, Doctor Chapman, tell me that my husband will recover, that the operation was a success; that you . . . that the doctor who performed it has removed whatever . . .’

Waving away the nurse and the porter who were both inclined to hang about to make sure the patient’s wife did not overcome Doctor Chapman and rush back into the patient’s bedroom where a nurse could be seen bending over his bed, Wallace Chapman sat beside Charlotte, holding her hand though he was not aware of it. He felt a great wave of sympathy wash over him for this plucky woman who was doing what most women of her class avoided in horror, that is to care for others less fortunate than herself. She had worked hard to house, feed and find work for the six girls who had washed up at the Dower House, fighting her husband all the way. Like all gentlemen of his class he had objected strongly to what she did but she had stood firm and given five young women a fresh start in life, even putting the sixth in the nursery to care for her own child. She had given birth to her own daughter and then seen her husband badly injured. She was still not recovered from the birth of that child and the consequent loss of blood and her dedicated nursing of her terribly injured husband whom she appeared to love to distraction was to be admired, which was a pathetic description of her feelings for him.

‘Charlotte – I may call you Charlotte, mayn’t I – Brooke is in good hands. There was an abscess which has been drained. Charlie Preston is the best surgeon I have ever known. Like me he was in Africa working with the wounded and . . . well, he has done his very best. Now you must go home and get some rest.’

She leaped to her feet. ‘Oh no!’ She was horrified. ‘I cannot leave him. I shall stay here until he is . . . until he can . . .’

‘Sit down, Charlotte. No one is forcing you to go home but remember you have a baby.’

‘There are women to look after her. Kizzie will—’

‘Kizzie is here.’ And from the far end of the corridor Kizzie approached, walking steadfastly towards them. ‘She is come to take you home. You have a telephone and I promise that you may—’

That stubborn jut of her jaw and the flame of determined colour in her cheeks told them they were to have trouble with this woman who, it seemed, cared for no one except the man who lay so quietly in his bed.

‘I am staying here.’

Kizzie, practical, capable and far-sighted, reached them and her kind face and soft eyes told Charlotte that she knew exactly what she felt though she herself had never known love between man and woman. But she loved Charlotte and she held Brooke Armstrong in a deep affection. She took Charlotte’s hands and sat her down, then knelt at her feet.

‘Lass, tha’ll be no good to tha’ ’usband if tha’ fall ill thissen. When ’e is able ter come ’ome, ’e will, an’ I promise thi’ an’ me’ll nurse ’im with the ’elp of the nurse Doctor Chapman will recommend—’

‘That other nurse for the baby was no good,’ Charlotte shouted, turning heads along the corridor, doing her best to pull away from Kizzie, but Kizzie wasn’t having it.

‘That’s true but us managed. This ’un will be looked over by thi’ an’ me an’ if we don’t like ’er tha’ shall say so. Now, get on tha’ feet, say goodbye ter’t master though ’e still be asleep an’ come wi’ me.’

‘Oh, Kizzie, I can’t just leave him. I love him so . . . I only liked him at first but really it was love and I didn’t know it and now, when it might be too late, I find I . . .’ She was babbling and Wallace Chapman knew she was near to the end and that if she wasn’t got home and into bed with Kizzie to watch over her she would collapse.

‘I know, chuck, I know,’ Kizzie soothed, ‘but tha’ll tell ’im thassen soon.’

They got her home and put her to bed and she slept for twenty-four hours under the influence of the sedative the doctor had added to her cup of tea. She didn’t even wake when her husband was carried in on a stretcher and placed in the bed next to her. She had insisted on sleeping in the truckle bed, saying Brooke would need their bed when he came home. When she woke there was a woman in a nurse’s uniform, a properly trained nurse from the hospital who had consented to look after Mr Armstrong and Mrs Armstrong if it was needed, bending over him and he was smiling at her and Charlotte felt a massive wave of jealousy wash over her, since she should have been the first to receive that smile.

‘Brooke, darling . . .’ She leaped from her bed in the flimsy nightdress Kizzie had put her in, considerably startling Nurse Chambers, herself a spinster lady who wore sensible nightdresses and had never seen such an article in her life. She was ready to throw herself down next to him and bugger the nurse, but Nurse Chambers was in charge and Charlotte was soon to learn it.

‘Please don’t touch my patient, madam,’ she said in an icy voice, ‘unless you wish for a relapse. Doctor Preston, who, by the way, will be here soon to examine Mr Armstrong, has been extremely obliging to allow Mr Armstrong to come home but . . . well, I am a thoroughly competent nurse and would have been caring for him in hospital. Doctor Chapman convinced him that Miss Aspin was sensible and so, unless you try to interfere, he may be nursed at home, otherwise he will go straight back to—’

‘Now you just listen to me, Nurse, this is my husband who is . . . much loved and he—’

‘Charlotte, my love, be a good girl and shut up,’ a weak voice said from the bed. ‘I am home, with you, and perhaps the nurse will allow us . . . a gentle kiss and if you are very, very good, to hold hands . . .’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Now, my darling, you will shock the nurse with your bloodys so go away and allow me to rest.’

‘Thank you, Mr Armstrong,’ the nurse said, smiling at her patient who winked at her, and Charlotte sat back on her little bed and did as she was told.

She caused another ruction when she learned that the bloody nurse was to sleep in the
truckle bed
next to Brooke, but after her bath and change of clothes and a large bowl of Mrs Groves’s hearty vegetable soup and after Doctor Preston had lectured her sternly and threatened to take her husband back to the Clayton she reluctantly gave in and agreed to sleep in Brooke’s dressing room, though she was often to be found prowling about outside the bedroom door. Nurse Chambers allowed her to visit,
visit
her own husband once a day when
she
gave her permission.